The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (28 page)

“It’s a lie, Mister Holmes, spawned by my daughter who has hated me since childhood, and who sees a means whereby to inherit Winchcombe Hall before her time.”

“It is no lie, Squire Morgan, although certainly your own daughter had good reason to hate you. What better, you thought, than to have your wife die in a locked room, and the accusation of death by poisoning dispelled by feeding the remnants of her last meal to the dogs which showed not the slightest ill-effect.”

“You can prove nothing, Mr Sherlock Holmes!”

“Indeed, I can.” These were the moments which Sherlock Holmes enjoyed most, revealing his observations and deductions only when they were finalized beyond all possible doubt. “Your fascination for medieval herbs and potions led you to discover a means by which unsuspecting victims were poisoned five centuries or more ago. In the days of parchment and inflexible leaves, often readers wetted a finger to turn the pages. Your own wife had developed that same habit, and the idea occurred to you that if you adhered strychnine to the top right-hand corner of the pages of whatever book she happened to be reading at the time, then it was almost certain that the poison would be conveyed to her mouth. And so it was.”

“Prove it!” Morgan growled but his tone now had an uncertainty in it. “You’re guessing, bluffing.”

“No.” Sherlock Holmes shook his head, the smile still lingering on his lips. “Indeed, I can prove, beyond all doubt, that it was yourself who adhered strychnine to the pages of the book with moistened flour, rendering it virtually invisible against the whiteness of the paper. Having discovered which book your wife was reading, you carried out your filthy plan. Remnants of the strychnine would not, in itself, be enough to convict you. However, a small quantity of Burma cheroot ash was dislodged and showered on to the page in question whilst you were applying the poison. Some traces remain and I note, Squire Morgan, that you have a liking for that particular variety of strong cheroot. I am somewhat of an expert on the subject of tobacco ash, and I am able, at a glance, to differentiate between the various types.”

Royston Morgan’s previously florid features were now deathly pale. He was shaking, not from rage this time, but from fear because his dastardly deed had been exposed and he would undoubtedly go to the gallows. Cowardice prevailed, but my own concern was that his shaking finger might pull upon the trigger of his shotgun, or that he might blast us all in a desperate attempt to conceal his crime.

Fortunately, that was not to be. In one swift but ungainly movement, he turned, stumbled from the library, and the three of us stood listening to his shambling footsteps going back through the hall. We heard the outer door slam behind him.

I drew my revolver, and would have hastened after him, but Sherlock Holmes stayed me with an upraised hand.

“Let him go, Watson,” said he.

For some moments I was bewildered for it was not in my companion’s nature to allow a cold-blooded murderer to escape. I felt Gloria Morgan’s hand upon my arm and I let her lean against me for surely the poor girl had suffered more than enough.

It was as we stood there, not knowing what Holmes intended, that we heard the simultaneous double blast of a shotgun from outside. We looked at one another, finally understanding, as the echoes rolled across the wintry landscape, slowly dying away.

“It is best that way,” Sherlock Holmes demonstrated a rare tenderness in his nature as he squeezed Gloria Morgan’s hand. “Nothing is to be gained by bringing the matter to the attention of the authorities. Your mother is now at peace, and her murderer has fittingly paid for his crime with his life. Far better, Miss Morgan, that you make a new life for yourself, unsoiled by a scandal that would follow you for the rest of your days.”

Only now, with the passing of time, has Sherlock Holmes agreed to my request to record the facts concerning the case of Morgan the Poisoner, as he refers to it in his own files. I read in the
Daily Telegraph
, some months ago, that Miss Gloria Morgan, formerly of Winchcombe Hall in Hampshire, had married a wealthy mine owner from South Africa, and had subsequently emigrated to that country. Perhaps there she will find happiness at last, and be able to cast off those dark events of that cruel winter of ‘88.

The Vanishing of the Atkinsons

Eric Brown

It is more than likely that 1888 was also the year of “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, perhaps Holmes’s most famous case, and not a decade later as popularly recorded. Holmes was initially unable to venture to Dartmoor, and sent Watson in his stead. Holmes claimed he was involved in a blackmail case, which may be true, but it is also likely that he was being consulted over the Jack the Ripper murders. There have been many attempts to account for Holmes’s involvement in that investigation, all of them, I believe, apocryphal. It is my belief that Holmes rapidly solved those murders to his own satisfaction and left Scotland Yard to bring the investigation to a conclusion, so that he could throw himself fully into the Baskerville problem.

Also at the time was the case of “The Sign of Four” in which Watson met and fell in love with Mary Morstan. They were married soon after, at the close of 1888. Watson moved out of the Baker Street apartments and also set himself up in a practice in Paddington. For a while Holmes continued his investigations on his own and it was not until March 1889 that the two were reunited in “A Scandal in Bohemia”.

Watson only later came to learn of some of the cases that Holmes investigated on his own. Amongst them was the tragedy of the Atkinson brothers. Although Watson later wrote this up he never sought its publication. Some years ago a copy of this came to my attention and my colleague, Eric Brown, has made it suitable for publication.

I had not seen my friend Sherlock Holmes for some months, pressure of work on both our parts curtailing the niceties of social intercourse, and it was quite by chance that he happened to be in his chambers when I called upon him that evening.

“Watson!” Holmes declared as Mrs Hudson showed me into the room. “Take a seat, my friend. I trust the winter is not too inclement for you?”

I warmed my hands before the fire, and then accommodated myself in the proffered armchair. I made some comment or other to the effect that the winters were becoming even colder of late, which set my friend on the course of a lengthy speculation upon the subject of world meteorology, climatology, and allied topics.

I helped myself to a brandy and settled in for the evening.

By and by my friend recounted examples of severe weather he had encountered upon his many and diverse travels. My interest quickened; it is the one regret of our friendship that Holmes rarely sees fit to avail me of the incidents that befell him during his sojourn to points east during the period I have termed, in my accounts of my friend’s illustrious career, the Great Hiatus.

That night he was vague in the details of his travels, but at one point he did say: “Of course I had experience of the monsoon when I travelled from Tibet, south to Ceylon to revisit an old friend – ”

I leaned forward, pouncing upon his use of the word “revisit”. “Why, Holmes, do you mean to say that you visited the island before ‘94?”

My friend realized his mistake at once, and gestured with feigned unconcern. “A trifling affair at Trincomalee in ‘88 – ”

“You actually worked on a case out there?” I expostulated. “But why haven’t you mentioned this before?”

“An affair of little account and even less interest, Watson. And anyway, I was sworn to utmost secrecy by the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company. As I was saying, concerning the nature of the monsoon rains …”

Whereupon the affair at Trincomalee was dismissed by my friend in his desire to expound upon the subject of the Asiatic rains.

Towards midnight I took my leave and, during the course of the next few weeks, went about my business with hardly a thought for that evening’s exchange.

I had quite forgotten about the affair when, one month later, I called upon my friend and found him at home. He showed me to the fire and urged to help myself to a snifter of brandy.

At length he gestured with a long, languid hand to a letter lying open on the table beside his chair.

“Do you recall that upon your last visit I mentioned a small affair at Trincomalee, Ceylon, and the injunction placed upon my mentioning the case by the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company?”

I sat up, quite excited. “Of course,” said I. “But what of it?”

“It appears that the injunction no longer pertains, Watson,” Holmes said casually. “Three weeks ago I received a letter from my friend out there, informing me that the Company has fallen upon bad times and gone bankrupt – and so the last obstacle to my telling of the tale is no more.”

He proceeded to fill his pipe with tobacco from the battered slipper he kept wedged down the side of his armchair. Soon we were enveloped in a pungent blue fug; I took a sip of brandy and made myself an audience, as I had on many an occasion before, to my friend’s oratorical skills.

“You recall the extraordinary case of the
Gloria Scott,
wherein I was called to the aid of my university friend, Victor Trevor?”

“I most certainly do,” I said. It had been one of the cases I had written up during Holmes’s long absence from these shores.

“For many years,” he said, “I lost contact with Trevor. At length I heard through a mutual friend that he had set sail for Ceylon, with the idea of managing a tea plantation or some such. Whatever, I heard no more … No more, that is, until the year of ‘88, when I received a letter from my old friend, couched in such terms that made it obvious he was in need of my assistance. Indeed, he almost begged my presence on that far away island, and even went so far as to include a return ticket on a cutter of the East India Line and promise of payment for my troubles upon my arrival. He went on to outline the details of a case that had baffled himself and his employers, the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company, for a good three months.”

“Those details I found curious enough, and the pleas of my friend sufficient to warrant a trip to those tropical latitudes. You probably never missed me, my dear Watson, being too occupied with other things at the time: it was shortly after your marriage that I put my affairs in order, packed my bags and set sail aboard the
Eastern Empress.
For the duration of the voyage I absorbed myself in the analysis of the details of the case presented to me in Trevor’s somewhat hasty missive.”

“The brothers Atkinson, Bruce and William, were neighbours of Victor Trevor in Ceylon. They had left England some ten years before, and set sail for the Far East with the intention of making their fortunes. For a decade they worked for the Royal Ceylonese Tea Company at various locations around the island, for the last two years managing an estate of some one hundred native workers near Trincomalee. They were by all accounts gentlemen of upstanding and personable character, well liked by both the Ceylonese and the expatriate community of fellow planters and other businessmen. My friend Victor Trevor was a regular social visitor to the plantation; in his own words the brothers were the salt of the earth”. They never married – a situation not uncommon among those of their chosen vocation – and lived for their work. They had no enemies.”

“Their disappearance was as sudden as it was mysterious. It occurred presumably in the early hours of 1 February: suffice to say, they were seen by their house-boy prior to turning in the night before, but in the morning they were gone. They did not appear for breakfast at six, nor show up to do their rounds of the plantation at seven. Their absence was reported to the Colonial Police at Trincomalee at nine o’clock that morning, and it was not until noon that my friend Trevor heard of their disappearance. He headed over to the plantation and arrived minutes before a Sergeant from the police. Together they searched the house, and found nothing to suggest anything amiss other than a broken gas lamp and an overturned table in the lounge room. The investigating officer suggested that these were suspicious, indicative of a struggle and foul play, but Trevor noted that the table had been positioned near an open window through which the wind disturbed a heavy curtain. It was conceivable that the wind had caused the damage.”

“They searched the plantation, and even the neighbouring country, but found nothing and no one. They questioned the under-managers and local workers, who reported nothing suspicious or noteworthy. From that day, 1 February 1887, to the day Trevor penned the letter, the brothers Atkinson had neither been seen nor heard. It was as if they left the house that morning and vanished from the face of the earth.”

“Of course, Trevor’s account was selective and inconclusive – there was much that I wished to know of the affairs of the brothers before I might begin to give an opinion on the case. By the time the
Eastern Empress
docked at the port of Jaffna I was eager to set about my investigations.”

“Victor Trevor met me on the quay, and we drove south in his trap to Trincomalee. The passage of time had done little to take the shine off the youth of my university friend, and for the duration of the journey we exchanged information concerning our exploits during the intervening years. I was to stay at the Atkinson’s plantation itself, which Trevor was overseeing in the absence of the brothers. It was late by the time we arrived, and I had little time to question my friend as to the details of the case before he suggested that we turn in and discuss the reason for my presence in the morning.”

“The miracle of dawn in those climes, Watson! I was up early the following morning to witness the rapid transformation from night to day from my verandah. One minute the land was clothed in darkness, the next a golden sunlight exposed the deep shadows of the valleys and the bright green expanse of the tea bushes. My friend was already risen, and we partook breakfast – excellent kippers and poached eggs – around the vast oak table of the dining room.”

“I see the brothers Atkinson were fond of a game of cards,” I observed, gesturing to the table-top. “Bridge, if I am not mistaken.”