The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (13 page)

“Someone who wished to implicate Sebastian Wyke, naturally. Someone who saw in the argument between father and son a possible motive for murder and a means of diverting suspicion.”

“But the only other person present during that argument was...”

There was a knock at the door at that instant and Holmes leapt to his feet to answer it. He threw open the door with a flourish and ushered in the visitor. “Come in, Dr. Lomax. We should very much value your assistance.”

“If I can be of service, Mr. Holmes, I am eager to help.”

“Pray, sit in this chair before the inspector, then.” Holmes indicated one of the chairs at the desk and guided Lomax into it. “Now, the best way for you to assist us, Dr. Lomax, is to explain to us why it was that you murdered Edmund Wyke.”

The doctor made a move to rise from the chair in protest but Holmes had his grip on the man's shoulder and any attempt to move from the chair was futile. “Do not be noisy, Dr. Lomax. You have no chance at all.”

For a moment or two, Lomax considered his options, but he must have seen that the three of us were not about to allow him to escape. The snared rat glowered at my companion. “What right do you have to accuse me?”

“I suspected you from the first, my dear doctor,” declared Sherlock Holmes. “I stated at the outset of this case that any apparently impossible crime has a solution somewhere. It is my experience that the solutions to such mysteries are invariably very simple. The answer to this particular problem lay in your own statement of your conduct, Doctor. You told us that when the door was broken down, Sebastian ran to his father and stated that he had been murdered.”

“Yes, I recall saying that.”

“Very good. Then you will also remember saying that it was at that moment that you walked over to the body.”

“I see no importance in either remark.”

“Very likely not. But the significance of those comments struck me at once. I was forced to ask myself why you remained at the bedroom door when you had previously appointed yourself commander of the situation outside. What was the reason behind your sudden passivity? It was surely natural that you would approach the body with Sebastian, especially in your capacity as a medical man.”

The sneer on the man's face intensified. “And what conclusion did you draw, Mr. Holmes?”

My friend smiled but there was no humour in it. “All in good time. My next consideration was the key in the door. You had stated that you, and only you, looked through the key hole before the door was forced.”

“So I did.”

“And do you maintain that position?”

Lomax nodded. “I do.”

“And there is the point. The fact that only you looked through the keyhole means that we only have your word for it that the key was in the lock at all. In fact, it was not, because it was in your pocket. You were admitted to the bedroom by Wyke, where you murdered him, took the key from the door, and locked it behind you. The following morning, when the alarm was raised, you made sure that you were the man who was in control of the situation. It was imperative that it be you who checked the lock and no one else. You declared that the key was in the lock and no one had any reason to doubt your word. When the door was forced, everybody but you rushed into the room and attention was focused on Wyke's body. Thus, no one noticed you drop the key on the inner side of the door at the approximate place it would have fallen, had it been in the lock when the door was broken down. You had to remain close by the door in order to drop the key, of course, which is why you held back whilst everyone else entered the chamber and why you did not approach the corpse immediately.”

Lestrade had listened to this exchange with increasing interest. Now, he leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “Is this true, Dr. Lomax? I should warn you that what you say may be used against you.”

“I see no reason to deny it,” replied the prisoner. “Perhaps Mr. Holmes can explain why I did what I did.”

Sherlock Holmes reached into his pocket and drew out the two threatening verses which had been the commencement of this dark investigation. “I would not have known your motive were it not for these. You wanted Wyke to know that vengeance had come upon him. Whether he knew from where or whether he interpreted these messages as you intended, we shall never know.”

“I will always know. The look on his face showed he had glimpsed the truth behind those poems,” said Lomax.

“What is the truth?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the verses. “There is a hidden message in those two poems of death. In the first, you will note that the end of the second line and the beginning of the third line form a name. So too do the end of the fourth line and the beginning of the fifth line. The same pattern in the second verse also spells a name. The message is completed by the final word of each poem. Read concurrently, you will see amid these verses the messages ‘Finlay Meade innocent' and ‘Vincent Usher guilty'.”

Lomax raved in the air. “And guilty he was, the villain!”

Holmes turned to me. “You will recall, Watson, that I asked Mrs. Wyke whether she had ever heard the name of Violet Usher. Mrs. Usher was the wife of Vincent Usher, a cruel and violent blackguard. When he discovered that his wife was seeing a man by the name of Finlay Meade behind his back, Usher went berserk. In a violent rage fuelled by jealousy, he beat the woman to death. He escaped justice by placing the blame on her lover, Meade. After the trial, Usher disappeared and was never heard of again. No doubt fearful that his crime would overtake him, he changed his name to Wyke, as we now know, and began a new life as a different person. “

Lestrade nodded his comprehension. “I remember the case, Mr. Holmes. The evidence against Meade was conclusive. There was never any suspicion that it was fabricated and the verdict was obvious.”

Holmes's cold eyes were on Lomax. “It was a cruel miscarriage of justice. It must have struck you as a poetic justice when Sebastian and his father argued, Lomax. What more fitting revenge than to kill the villain and put the blame on his son, just as Wyke had done to Meade.”

Lomax nodded sombrely. “It was a temptation I could not resist. My mother's maiden name was Meade. Finlay was her brother. I never knew my parents, Mr. Holmes, but my uncle was a great influence in my life. His death was a crushing blow to me and I could never believe the charges against him. For years, I dreamed of seeking out the truth about what really happened. My researches led me nowhere, however, and my frustrations began to pollute my mind.

“I had not known Usher, but his name was with me every day of my life. When I met Edmund Wyke in Egypt, I could have no way of knowing that the man who had taken my dear uncle from me was gradually becoming one of my best friends. The irony punishes me even now. Naturally, Wyke was unaware of my identity, and there was no reason for either of us to think what a cruel twist of fate our friendship was.

“One day, I met an old family acquaintance quite by chance. I had not seen him for many years and I barely recognized him at first, but as he spoke I began to remember him as a friend of both Usher and my uncle. His name was Harry Coombes, and what he told me shook me to my core. He said that he had witnessed the attack on Violet Usher and he knew that Finlay was innocent. Naturally, I asked him why he had not gone to the police at the time, but he had set sail for the new world soon after the murder and was not in the country for the trial. Besides, he said, he knew what Vincent Usher was capable of and he dared not cross him, even to save another's life.

“This was shattering news to me, as you can imagine, but Coombes had still more to tell me. He had seen me in Wyke's company on a number of occasions, and he had assumed I was unaware of who my friend was. He could not understand why I would be in close company with a man who had so wronged me otherwise. You can appreciate what a devastating blow it was to me to learn that my dear friend was my sworn enemy. It was only when he showed me a likeness of Usher that I was forced to accept it. My soul cried out for justice and my mind raged at the cruelty of truth.

“I urged Coombes to come with me to the police but he refused. At last, I convinced him but, again, fate was against me for the old man died that very night. It is easy to suspect foul play in those circumstances, but it was not. His life had been long and his heart gave out, unburdened at last from the weight it had borne all those years.

“Of course, now I had no proof of Usher's guilt and Finlay's innocence, but my thirst for justice had not been quenched either. I cannot say what made me do it. Perhaps it was the years of frustration and anger poisoning my mind, or perhaps it was that my faith in justice had long ago evaporated. Whatever the cause, I would have vengeance for Finlay Meade, but the law would only fail him again whereas my own breed of revenge surely would not. I wanted him to know that death was upon him. I did not want to be a dagger in the shadows. I wanted to be cruel justice revealed, shining brightly in the sun. Those messages were my advertisement of death. If Wyke, or Usher as he was, saw through them, then he would know why his end was close. If he did not, I cared little, for I would know what those portents of death represented, but I know that he did see through them.”

Holmes had listened to this statement with a keen interest. Now, he paced around the room with a troubled expression on his gaunt face.

“I have been known to empathize with criminals before now,” said he. “There are times when I have battled with my conscience at the conclusion of a case. I fear I cannot do so now. Your vision is blurred so much by this private retribution of yours that you fail to see that your plan to murder the guilty and incriminate the innocent makes you no better and no different to Usher himself. That is why I cannot show you any mercy.”

Lomax looked up at his with eyes of granite. “I ask for none of your mercy, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I neither want nor need it. I go to my death with my own conscience salved. I am ready, inspector, for whatever punishment your frail system of justice sees fit to bestow upon me.”

It is not necessary to prolong my narrative by telling how we explained the true facts of her husband's death to Mrs. Wyke. Nor do I need to dwell on the details of the release of Sebastian Wyke and his reconciliation with his mother. How we told them of Edmund Wyke's dark past is a matter which I feel must remain private, for I cannot help but think that mother and son have suffered enough for the old man's sins. Justice did not fail them, however, and Dr. James Lomax was sent to his death in accordance with his crime. When I read the announcement in the newspaper to Sherlock Holmes, he turned his face towards the fire and shook his head.

“Our system of justice is a fair and honourable one, my dear Watson,” said he. “But it is not infallible. If it were, it would not be the law of mere men such as us. Instead, it would be the unfailing Court of a far greater power than ours.”

Lord Garnett's Skulls

by J.R. Campbell

At the urgent command of the cab's occupant, the horse skidded to a stop in the busy London street. A familiar voice called my name in an impatient tone I had learned to endure. My morning walk interrupted, I turned to see my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, holding the cab door open and beckoning me to join him. It was, as Holmes correctly anticipated, an invitation my somewhat latent sense of adventure compelled me to accept. My well-intentioned schedule for the day forgotten, I leapt aboard the cab and fell into my seat as the driver urged his horse onwards.

“Holmes?”

Recognising the intent of my barely uttered question, Holmes explained the urgency of our trip. “We are bound for Lord Garnett's.”

“Young Cambers' case?” I asked, remembering the youthful, thin-faced Detective Constable who had visited Baker Street last evening. Cambers had struck me as rather slight for the rough and tumble of police work, and every thought, every emotion, experienced by the earnest young detective seemed to parade across the thin, handsome features of his open face. Perhaps it was simply the contrast to Holmes's aquiline but often stoic face which misinformed my first impression of the Detective Constable, for it soon emerged that young Cambers had already made quite a name for himself. He'd solved a difficult and gruesome matter in Bedford and, as a result, Scotland Yard offered him an opportunity to practise his trade in London. Having caught the attention of his superiors, the young man was anxious to advance his career - however, a difficult theft blocked his upward path. Having heard his new colleagues at the Yard speaking of the Baker Street consulting detective, Cambers ventured forth to request Holmes's insight into a rather macabre theft from Lord Garnett's London stately home.

“Apparently there has been a new and disturbing development,” Holmes informed me. “How much of Cambers' investigation do you recall?”

“To be honest Holmes, I did not consider the matter important,” I admitted. “Certainly the nature of the theft was unusual but, really, it seemed of no great consequence. I understand Cambers' desire to impress his Lordship - he is an ambitious young man - but I'm surprised to see you in such a hurry over so trifling a matter.”

Holmes, amused by some private thought, looked out the window. Turning to me, he said, “Indulge me.”

“Very well.” I proceeded to recite the facts of the case. Lord Garnett had recently returned from an inspection of his North Borneo holdings and, fancying himself a man of science, hosted a dinner party to which several prominent patrons and scientists had been invited. The highlight of the evening was the unveiling of artifacts Lord Garnett had brought back from the steamy, far-off jungle. Specifically, a net containing four smoke-blackened skulls collected from a Borneo long-house, trophies of that distant land's savage headhunters. Apparently, Lord Garnett intended to author a paper concerning the display and could not resist the opportunity to announce his upcoming publication to those who would envy such an achievement. The following day, Lord Garnett locked the drawing room containing the bones, assuring the grisly artifacts were safe from those who might covet his gruesome souvenirs. When Lord Garnett returned four days later and unlocked the drawing room, he discovered his net of skulls missing.

“According to Cambers, the room had not been tampered with,” I completed my recitation. “The doors had been locked and the windows securely fastened from the inside.”

“Quite true,” Holmes agreed. “It was, after all, for that very reason Cambers sought my assistance.”

“Yes,” I admitted. “So why are we rushing to Lord Garnett's? You provided Cambers a written list of questions to ask, and you seemed quite confident it was all the detective would need to solve the matter.”

“This morning I received a message from Cambers,” Holmes explained. “It seems another of the skulls in Lord Garnett's possession was taken.”

“Another one? Good heavens! How many skulls did Lord Garnett bring back from the jungle?”

“It's worse than you know, Watson,” Holmes assured me. “This particular skull was still in use by Lord Garnett's son.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “You mean the boy was kidnapped?”

“It is too early to make that assessment,” Holmes insisted. “All we know for certain is that the boy disappeared sometime last night. Cambers returned to Lord Garnett's residence early this morning with the intention of putting answers to my list of questions. He was present when the child's absence was discovered.”

“Well, Cambers seems a talented detective,” I offered my opinion.

“You think so?” Holmes asked.

“You said he'd done well with that matter back in - where was it? - Bedford?” I reminded Holmes. “He seems quite an ambitious fellow.”

“In my experience, the mere presence of ambition is not indicative of talent,” Holmes argued. “I should also point out that crimes occurring in Bedford are markedly different than the crimes of London.”

“Surely crime is crime, wherever it happens,” I suggested, earning a long-suffering look from my friend.

“Not so, Watson,” Holmes argued. “Regrettably, we do not have time to debate the point. There is Lord Garnett's. Ah, and here comes your rising star.” Holmes leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, added, “I will admit this detective shows some promise.”

“Oh?” I said, somewhat surprised.

“He knows enough to call for me,” Holmes explained.

Cambers waited anxiously as the cabbie brought his horse to a stop. Detective Cambers' open face was twisted into an expression of calamity. His eyes darted to and fro, reminding me of a frightened rabbit. Holmes dismissed the cabbie and turned to the Scotland Yard man.

“You've completed a search of the grounds?”

“I have Mr. Holmes,” Cambers answered. “We've found nothing, nothing at all. I was just on my way in to inform Lord Garnett.”

“How many constables are with you?” Holmes asked.

“Four,” Cambers reported. “They're good men.”

“And my list?” Holmes asked pointedly. “Have you managed to gain the answers I instructed you to seek?”

Cambers looked surprised by the question, but, seeing Holmes's unfaltering expression, the young man grimaced and confessed, “I'd just begun, Mr. Holmes, when the kidnapping - “

“Kidnapping?” Holmes interrupted the Scotland Yard detective. “Has that been determined?”

“Well,” Cambers prevaricated. “The boy is only seven years of age. It seems unlikely he'd just wander off alone in the night.”

“Seems unlikely?” Holmes shook his head. “I trust we're able to do better than that, Mr. Cambers.”

The young detective's expression rearranged itself into a guarded look. “Of course, Mr. Holmes, any help you can provide will be appreciated.”

Holmes nodded, indifferent to whether his assistance would be appreciated or not. “How many of my questions were you able to answer before abandoning them?”

“I'd been speaking to the chief cook, Mr. Holmes,” Cambers explained. “She'd just completed the questions on your list when the alarm went up. As you might imagine, Lady Garnett is hysterical. Her physician has visited, and I believe her Ladyship has been sedated.”

“Have you the cook's answers?” Holmes asked.

Cambers dug in his pocket and removed the sheet of questions Holmes had written out for him the previous evening, and another sheet of paper, presumably from the chief cook.

“Very well.” Holmes examined the cook's list. “And the other question you were to ask her?”

“She says she had no idea as to the nature of his Lordship's stolen foreign treasure,” Cambers said.

“Was that the phrase she used?” Holmes asked. “Foreign treasure?”

“I think it was, yes,” Cambers answered. Shuffling his feet impatiently, he added, “I should really report to Lord Garnett. He's most insistent that he be kept informed.”

“You must proceed as you think best,” Holmes declared. “Watson and I shall make some inquiries of our own. I assume the head butler waits inside?”

“I believe so,” Cambers said without conviction.

“Then we shall gather answers for your neglected list.” Holmes gestured for the Detective Constable to lead the way into the house.

“If you discover anything - “

“I will keep you informed,” Holmes assured the detective. We hurried up the stairs and into Lord Garnett's grand house. Detective Cambers, anxious to make his report, waved us towards the kitchens where the household staff might be found before hurrying away in search of Lord Garnett. In short order, Holmes was questioning the head butler, a white-haired elderly gentleman with a timid but impeccable appearance.

“I wish you to write a list naming everyone who visited this house during the two days before Lord Garnett's dinner party,” Holmes requested.

“Of course, sir,” the butler replied. “Anything to assist the young master's return.”

“You are aware of the other matter?” Holmes asked the butler.

“The theft?” The butler shook his head. “I'm afraid his Lordship has not seen fit to inform me of it.”

“Even so, you know of it. Surely the police spoke to you? Asked you if you'd seen anything suspicious?”

“No, sir, they did not.” The butler's formal demeanour and neutral expression still managed to quietly express his disapproval.

Holmes scowled in a manner that, to my eyes, seemed somewhat theatrical. The detective complained, “I was hoping you could tell me what was stolen.”

“Well, sir.” The butler looked left and right before leaning forward and conspiratorially lowering his voice. “I believe it was some object he brought back from his Borneo holdings. Although I don't know the item's exact nature, I did see the trunk in which it arrived. If you care to examine the trunk, I believe it is still in the drawing room.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said. “The drawing room is down this hallway?”

“By the stairs, sir,” the butler agreed.

“Once you've completed your list, please bring it to us there.”

The drawing room fitted Cambers' description perfectly. A large, elegant space filled with an assortment of seats scattered around a small fireplace. Two doors opened to the interior of the room and four large windows looked outside. Holmes inspected the lock on the door through which we entered.

“Well, Watson,” Holmes mused as he examined the door. “Does it seem strange to you that neither the chief cook nor the butler are aware of the nature of Lord Garnett's stolen items?”

“It is a large home,” I reasoned. “Likely the kitchen staff does not normally have access to the drawing room.”

“And the butler?” Holmes asked, shifting his attention to the first of the windows.

Frowning, I considered the problem. “No doubt a busy man - “

“No doubt,” Holmes agreed, moving to the next window. “However, that explains nothing. If the head of staff was not aware of the skulls' presence, it follows that none of the staff knew of them.”

“Can you be certain of that?” I asked.

“Gossip, Watson, is as much a force of nature as sunlight or sea tides,” Holmes explained. “If any of the staff had seen the skulls, they would have spoken of it and, once uttered, word surely would have reached the ears of one of the household chiefs. Imagine if I placed a skull on my mantle in Baker Street. How long do you think it would be before Mrs. Hudson informed you of the addition?”

Chuckling, I conceded the point. “But what does it mean, Holmes?”

“Only that Detective Cambers has been shockingly misled as to the nature of the thefts. He believes a net of skulls has been taken, when in fact a mysterious foreign treasure has gone missing.” Holmes finished his examination of the last window and turned his attention to the remaining door. I moved to follow when something outside the window caught my eye. A branch of one of the rose bushes had been recently broken, a few dark threads were tangled in its thorns, and at the edge of the garden a partial footprint was visible in the soft soil.

“Well-spotted, Watson,” Holmes commented as he examined the door. I continued to look out the window.

“You saw it too.” It wasn't a question, I knew Holmes's methods too well to believe he had missed such evidence. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because it is meaningless,” Holmes declared. “It has nothing to do with the theft of the skulls or the missing child. As I'm sure you'll agree, the matter of the missing boy is too urgent to allow us to loiter over such trivia. However else he was misled, Cambers was correct when he stated the doors and windows had not been tampered with. Meaning the thief had a key or found another way in and out this room.”

Turning his attention upward, Holmes surveyed the high ceilings. “Now Watson, never having visited a Borneo long-house, I must confess to a degree of uncertainty regarding how best to display a net full of skulls. However I suspect that hook in the ceiling would serve, don't you agree?”

“It seems secure enough,” I answered.

“And it is a recent addition. You can see a hand print where the workman braced himself as he put it in. And yet-” Holmes turned around, his eager eyes searching for something by the fireplace. “Ah! There it is!” Striding over to the small fireplace, Holmes recovered a long, slender pole with a metal catch on the end. Holding the pole aloft, he retraced his steps to the ceiling hook. The pole easily reached the hook, leaving no doubt it had been constructed for just that purpose.

“And here is the trunk the butler mentioned,” Holmes observed, resting the pole between the mantle and a green trunk lying open on the floor. Holmes bent to examine the trunk with his lens. For a moment Holmes was silent. Then he stood suddenly upright with an alarmed expression on his normally reserved features.