The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (31 page)

Holmes was never comfortable in the company of women. There is no evidence that he spent any social time with Watson and his wife after their marriage except for the very occasional call forced upon him by business. Only once did Holmes meet a woman whom he believed was his intellectual equal, and that was Irene Adler, whose case is recounted in “A Scandal in Bohemia”.

It was after this case that Watson became closely involved with Holmes again, suggesting that either the gloss of his marriage had started to dull, or that Mary Morstan was remarkably understanding. For a period Holmes was involved in a number of small cases many of which he felt were important but lacked interest. Some were clearly bizarre. He refers to the Dundas separation case in which the husband had developed the habit of hurling his false teeth at his wife after every meal. None of these cases appear to have been written up, either because Watson was not around or Holmes rapidly lost interest in them. All that is, except one, “The Adventure of the Fallen Star”. This began as one of those minor cases, which Holmes almost overlooked when he became wrapped up in “A Case of Identity”, but soon after events unravelled themselves which presented Holmes a singularly unusual case. Its facts were unearthed by Simon Clark.

“My dear fellow, you are puzzled; admit it,” demanded Sherlock Holmes, as we sat side-by-side in the four-wheeler being briskly driven through the maelstrom of foot, hoof and wheel that is the Strand on a Friday noon.

“Indeed I am, Holmes.” I held up the stone, no larger than a grape, that he’d not two moments before handed to me. “You pass me a little pebble and ask me what I make of it.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I confess I make nothing of it.” I smiled and shook my head. “Nothing at all.”

“Ha! That’s because although you look, you do not observe. Remember, Watson: detail, detail, detail.”

“It has, I take it, a bearing on a case you are currently investigating?”

“Only partly. But he’s a curious fellow, isn’t he?”

“The stone?”

“Yes, the stone, lying there in the palm of your gloved hand.” Holmes, in a playful mood, gave a devil of grin. “Come on, play the game, Watson. Read the stone. See its appearance, the markings upon its surface. Feel its weight. Gauge its constitution. If it pleases you, describe to me any clairvoyant vibration that may emanate from its stony heart.”

“You are teasing me, Holmes.”

“I am. Yes.”

I raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Forgive me please, Doctor; I am teasing you, for the case I have taken is, if I’m not mistaken, nothing more than a tease, a practical joke, a whimsical prank.”

“Then I am all in the dark.”

“Ha! But soon all will be clear as day.”

“What possessed you to accept such a case?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t have glanced at it twice. However, I am acquainted with the gentleman involved.”

“A friend?”

“Ah, I would describe you as my sole friend, Watson. This gentleman, although I have never yet met him in person, was of considerable service in the past when he furnished me with invaluable information on the constitution of certain metals, which enabled me to lay to rest the matter of the golden bullet murders in King’s Lynne. In short, I owe him one small favour. By Jove! Look at that, London becomes busier by the day. Within a decade the city will become so congested the only sure transport will be by Shanks’s pony!”

“Then at least our slow passage northwards to Hampstead will give you sufficient time to tell me the facts of the case before we reach the home of your client.”

“Indeed it will. First, Watson, the stone! Pray focus your attention upon it. Read it as if it were the page from a book.” With that my friend placed the tips of his long fingers together, closed his eyes; only the slight wrinkling of his forehead beneath the brim of his shiny top hat betraying he would listen closely to my every word.

I listed everything of significance I could discern from the stone. “Weight: let me see. An ounce, perhaps. Size: no larger than a grape. Shape: pear shaped. Colour: um, silvery. Odour: none. Appearance: smooth as glass; subjected to intense heat, I would surmise.”

“Where is it from?” asked Holmes without opening his eyes.

“A furnace I should suppose, before that I dare not say.”

“Ha!” Holmes opened his penetrating eyes.

“You know where the stone originated?”

“Indeed. It came from the depths of the universe. The scorched appearance of the stone was caused by its headlong rush through our world’s atmosphere. The speed being so great that the very air rubbing against the surface produced such tremendous temperatures those surfaces did in fact melt, hence the ablated base of the stone.”

“Good Lord, then it is an aerolite?”

“Spot on, Watson. Yes, an aerolite, more commonly known as a shooting star or meteorite. Above us, in the heavens, are countless millions of stone fragments, whirling silently through the cold depths of space. Occasionally one falls to Earth. One might look up on a clear night and see the fiery trail one of these fragments makes. Only rarely do they reach the surface of the Earth.”

I looked at our stony visitor from the heavens with more interest. “Then it’s valuable?”

“Pooh, pooh, not in the least. A few shillings.”

“But you say it has a bearing on the case?”

“Again I can only repeat partly. I brought it along as an introduction to the facts. This stone itself, I purchased along with a trunkful of other mineral samples many years ago.” He took the stone from me, held it between the finger and thumb of his gloved hand, his face in profile to me, his striking aquiline features just inches from the stone as his heavy-lidded eyes gazed dreamily upon it. “Imagine though, Watson if you will. This slight chip of stone, so insignificant in appearance, has drifted between the stars for many millions of years. By chance it struck this world, where it whistled groundward in a fiery streak of light. Imagine if the stone were large enough for you and I to ride upon it as it flew high above continents and oceans. At night the lights of our great cities would shine like the dust of diamonds sprinkled upon black velvet. In those cities people live their lives – real people, Doctor! – not mere ciphers. There, sons of kings and paupers might lay awake at night vexed by worries, fears, jealousies. And in those cities housing million upon million of human souls there are enough men and women intent on crimes great and small to dizzy even the greatest statistician. Imagine if you will, Watson, our world revolving beneath you, like a classroom globe. And with every tick of the watch there are a thousand thefts; with every tock of the clock a dozen murders. Ha!” He tossed the stone into the air, deftly caught it in the palm of his hand, then slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. “So, Watson, why am I sitting here in a carriage, on this day in flaming June, sizzling like a Dover sole upon its griddle, engaged on such a trifling matter?”

“The acquaintance? A favour you mentioned?”

“Of course. The case is so slight we should have the solution long before we take afternoon tea, but this gentlemen is much troubled by the case. Inordinately so. And I dare say that you, being a medical man, are consulted by a great number of people with many a cough, coryza and pimple who, clearly to you, are not particularly ill but seek reassurance from a man with the power to allay their worries.”

“Ah, this case …”

“Oh forgive me, Watson, please. You must know the facts. My acquaintance, by correspondence only, is one Professor Charles Hardcastle of Hampstead. He wrote to me a few days ago beseeching me to call on him as he feared his house was being periodically entered by an individual who, in the words of the professor, ‘intends to visit an iniquitous injury upon the household.’ ”

“Then you are looking for a common burglar?”

“Perhaps.”

“So it is a matter for the police?”

“Perhaps not.”

“But something was stolen?”

“Stolen? No. Borrowed.”

“Borrowed?”

“Barely, the facts are these, Watson. Professor Charles Hardcastle lives in a large house in Hampstead. It stands, he tells me, in expansive grounds. Living with him in the house are his wife and son, whom is ten years of age. Also residing there are the domestic staff. The professor specializes in metallurgical sciences and has long since being interested in aerolites which are often composed of metals such as iron and nickel. These are of particular significance to him because they are not of this Earth and he hopes to discover within them metals with singular properties. The man is forty years of age, modest, hard-working, financially secure and not given to any outrageous vices. Last Monday the professor worked late into the night in his laboratory, which is housed in a purpose-built annex that adjoins his home; there he conducted certain chemical tests on aerolites. The aerolites are locked in glass-fronted cabinets. The largest stone, which is no larger than a plum, occupies pride of place in the centre of one of these cabinets. At ten to midnight, with his experiment complete, he retired to bed, locking the stones into their cabinets, then carefully locking the door of the laboratory behind him. The laboratory can be accessed from the rear courtyard through twin stout doors which are bolted from within, and through a door which leads directly into the main house. Have you followed me so far?”

“It is very clear.”

“If you remember Monday’s was a hot, dry night. Professor Hardcastle, mindful of his wife’s concerns that he doesn’t neglect his stomach, took a little supper of milk and biscuits. Then he made his way to bed. Only then did he remember he’d left his pince-nez spectacles in the laboratory, and as he is quite short-sighted he returned to the laboratory to retrieve them. He unlocked the door that leads from the house to the laboratory and entered. As he picked the pince-nez from the bench he noticed that one of his glass-fronted cases lay open. And upon placing the pince-nez on his nose he immediately saw that the largest aerolite had been taken.

“There had been a forced entry?”

Holmes shook his head. “The door he had entered by was locked. So were the twin doors to the courtyard: locked and securely bolted. The windows all locked, too.”

“An oversight then. He left the door to the house unlocked?”

“He’s most particular to ensure it is locked. The laboratory contains many poisons and powerful acids. He states quite clearly in his letters it is his great fear that his son might find his way into the laboratory and injure himself playing with test-tubes and so forth. Therefore, he’s most scrupulous in keeping the door locked.”

“So that is the mystery?” I said.

He sighed, disappointed. “A very slight one, I’m afraid.”

“That an intruder stole an aerolite, shooting star, call it what you will? And that he left no clue as to his entry?”

“But there the mystery thickens.”

“Yes, you remarked the object wasn’t stolen, merely borrowed?”

“Correct. The stone vanished on the Monday night between Professor Hardcastle locking the laboratory then returning to it to retrieve his pince-nez which, he gauges, to be an interval of forty minutes.”

“When did the stone reappear?”

“It reappeared on the Wednesday morning on the son’s bedside table.”

I looked at Holmes in surprise then chortled. “Then it is a childish prank. The son took the stone. Carelessly he allowed it to be discovered.”

Holmes smiled. “We shall see.”

The carriage left the overheated chaos of central London behind. The air became fresher, although the carriage slower, as it climbed the steep hills toward Hampstead. The canyons of town houses and commercial premises gave way to the widely spaced villas and the great expanse of Heath that rolled away beneath a clear blue sky. The clip and clop of the horse became less frequent, too, as it toiled up that particularly steep lane that soars upward beside the prominent elevation of The Spaniard’s Inn. Not more than a hundred yards beyond the inn Holmes directed the cabbie to make a sharp right turn into a driveway leading to a large redbrick villa. A single-storey annex of fresher red brick abutted one flank of the house.

The moment the four-wheeler entered the driveway the garden bushes parted and a man leapt from them. He roared with the ferocity of a lion. In his hand he carried a bunch of twigs which he shook at us with extraordinary ferocity.

“It is time!” bellowed the man.
“It is time!“

I recoiled in shock. “Good heavens, the man is going to attack us.”

He shouted repeatedly, “It is time! Dear God! It is time!”

“Take care, Holmes,” I said as my friend ordered the driver to halt while simultaneously throwing open the door of the carriage. “The man is clearly dangerous.”

“On the contrary, Watson. You’d rarely find highwaymen and footpads dressed in carpet slippers and well pressed trousers. This must be Professor Hardcastle. Oh. My good man, do be careful.”

Professor Hardcastle ran forward, stumbling as he did so to his knees. He was panting. A look of such horror in his face that it aroused my immediate pity.

The man gasped, his face a vivid red beneath his blond hair. “It is time. It is time …”

He struggled unsteadily to his feet and held out his trembling hand. Clutched in his fingers were the fresh green sprigs of some plant. “Mr Holmes … it is Mr Holmes, isn’t it … of course, it must.” He struggled to master his breathing. Then more calmly he fixed us with a glittering gaze. “You see?” he said, looking from one to the other. “It’s time.” He repeated the sentence in a whisper, “It is time.”

Holmes glanced at the plant, then to me. “Ah, I see. The professor is referring to
thyme.
He holds sprigs of the herb, thyme. And clearly he’s had a dreadful shock. If you would be so good to lend a hand, Watson, we’ll get the gentleman to his home, where perhaps brandy should help his poor nerves.”

The brandy did indeed soothe the man’s nerves. Once he’d dressed in a manner he deemed fully respectable, and we were seated in the morning room, he told Sherlock Holmes and I his story. At least he endeavoured to, for he was still in a state of shock. His hand trembled terribly. “Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. Dear sirs, I must apologize for my extraordinary behaviour earlier … but I’ve never experienced such a shock to my senses before … I was at my wit’s end. I thought my only hope was to seize the scoundrel and strangle the life out him there and then in the garden. Oh! Mercy! But if only that were not impossible …
impossible!
”