The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (2 page)

Fortunately, that's us.

—M
ARVIN
K
AYE
New York City
May 1997

^*
The year that Watson's literary agent, Arthur Conan Doyle, died.

^*
Copyedited by contributors who, for legal purposes, we have “credited” with bylines.—MK

BY
H
ENRY
S
LESAR

O
n certain days, my friend Sherlock Holmes would invariably wear a scowl, which further lengthened his saturnine face. These were the days when
The Strand
magazine appeared, its garish cover boasting of yet another “Sherlock Holmes Adventure.” As the author of these chronicles I received the brunt of his displeasure, yet it troubled me less and less as I became aware that Holmes wasn't entirely displeased by this celebration of his deductive powers. He would scold me about an excess of melodrama; he would carp about the syntax of the words I put into his mouth; yet by the end of the day, the scowl was erased, and a certain mellowness overtook him. To be perfectly candid, I believe he enjoyed reading
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
almost as much as he enjoyed living them.

However, as I have noted before, there were cases which
Holmes forbade me to dramatize for reasons that were usually quite apparent. He would not give grist to the London gossip mills. He would not have reputations ruined, families victimized, and more often than anyone knew, royal titles debased. But this last cause of reticence is not the reason why I have never published the shocking story of Lord Rufus Darlington. It is simply because no charges were ever brought against the man for his horrific actions, and Holmes forbade any accusations which had never been confirmed in a court of law.

Whether this tale reaches the general public is questionable, since I have stipulated that if any surviving member of the Darlington family can prove slander by its publication it is to be returned to the vault where it will reside until the next century.
^*
History has a way of making harmless fable of even the most heinous crimes, but writing as I do now, only days after the Darlington case was resolved, I can scarcely believe that such horror can ever be transformed or forgiven.

Of course, I cannot conceive what the laws of slander may be like in that distant time. I hope they will still protect the weak and innocent. I also hope, fervently, that the laws of the coming years will afford more protection to married women against the brutality of their husbands, cruelty far too easily shrugged off in the age in which we live. In such a time, the Darlington affair might never have happened.

One aspect of the case which made it unlike any other was the part played by Inspector Lestrade, surely one of the most misunderstood figures in the Sherlock Holmes gallery. It is astonishing how many admirers of The Great Detective have relegated poor Lestrade to the role of the hapless professional constantly forced to defer to a gifted amateur who bested him at every turn. In fact, Holmes admired and respected Lestrade, and cherished his friendship, but outside of their professional encounters these two devotees of Justice rarely spent time together. The exception was that bitterly cold day in late January, 1895, when the Inspector, hearing that Holmes was confined to our flat due to a bronchial condition, decided to pay a social call.

As a physician, let me declare that Sherlock Holmes was the worst possible patient. The words “bed rest” were anathema to him. All medicines were “quack nostrums,” all medical advisories were “incantations.” His remedy for all ills was self-prescribed: the seven and a half percent cocaine solution which gave him a false sense of well-being. That was why Lestrade was surprised to enter our quarters that snowy evening and find Sherlock Holmes by the fireplace, sucking at his empty meerschaum (tobacco tasted foul in his present state), and giving all the appearance of a healthy man ready to enjoy the company of his peer.

They conversed for a good hour, managing to ignore every contribution I attempted to make. I began to feel a bit nettled, and drank more brandy-and-splash than I was accustomed to having, even on a holiday occasion. I was just beginning to doze off in my chair when the Inspector revealed that he had more than one reason for his visit. He wasn't seeking advice on a case; the crime on his mind had been swiftly and easily solved one year before.

“One year to the day,” he sighed, lighting a cigar. “A cold night like this one. But perhaps you don't recall it, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't a case to challenge your skills.”

Holmes merely nodded, watching Lestrade with narrowed eyes, waiting for him to speak the name that seemed to float between them like the smoke from his cheroot. For some reason, I felt obliged to supply it.

“Carlton Paige,” I said, clearing my throat. “Strange, isn't it? Such a commotion then. Now, hardly anyone recalls the case.”

“Except,” Holmes said pointedly, “Mrs. Paige.”

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “I'm sure Mrs. Paige is not very happy tonight. On the anniversary of that terrible event.”

“How can she be?” I snorted. “In Bristol Prison for Women? Confined for life?”

“No,” Lestrade said quietly. “She is no longer there. She has been transferred.”

But when I asked him where, the Inspector ignored my question, and looked at Holmes.

“Do you remember the protesters?” he asked. “When she was first incarcerated? Did they really expect us to free a murderer on ‘moral' grounds?”

“Still, she had them,” I said, feeling perverse. “Carlton Paige was a vicious wife-beater! He drove that poor women to the limit of her endurance. And when she reached that limit—she shot him!”

Holmes smiled thinly. “I've often heard you claim to be at the end of your patience with someone or other, Watson. Did you decide to shoot them through the heart?”

“This was different,” I said stiffly. “It was impulsive. The woman had been brutalized for years, and that night, she snapped!”

“Yes,” Holmes said, winking at Lestrade. “She snapped a trigger. Of a gun she had ‘impulsively' purchased several days before.”

“Well, I'll say this much for Mrs. Paige,” the Inspector said. “She didn't deny her crime, didn't try to justify it. Called the police herself, and gave us a full confession on the spot. Took her punishment like—”

“Like a man?” Holmes smiled.

“I can't help but feel compassion for her,” Lestrade admitted gloomily. “Especially now that she's gone mad.”

“Good Lord!” I said. “Do you mean she's lost her mind?”

“The place to which she was transferred is the Institute for the Criminal Insane. I learned of it only recently. But when her symptoms were described to me, my first thought was—wouldn't Mr. Sherlock Holmes find that fascinating!”

The empty pipe came out of Holmes's mouth and his eyes brightened. “For what reason, Inspector?”

“Well, you like strange stories, Mr. Holmes, and here's one for your notebook. Mrs. Paige is suffering from the delusion that her real name is Emma Jane Darlington. Better known as Lady Darlington.”

“Is that really so strange?” I said. “How many Napoleons and Lord Nelsons are in Bedlam this very minute?”

“But you miss the point, Watson,” Holmes said. “One can understand a madman believing himself to be a famous personage, even a god. But why this rather obscure wife of a relatively obscure patrician?”

“I can tell you that,” Lestrade said. “She
looks
like the woman.”

“You mean there's a physical resemblance?”

“How would she know?” I asked. “Being behind bars for the past twelve months?”

“Because of the Rotogravure,” the Inspector said. He pulled a folded newspaper clipping out of his pocket, revealing that his interest in this matter ran deep. He handed it to Holmes, and I was forced to look over his shoulder.

“It's a wedding photo,” Holmes said.

“Of course,” I replied. “Now I remember. This Lord Darlington was something of a roue, but he finally decided to marry. Probably because his father was threatening him with disinheritance if he didn't settle down, produce an heir or two!” I chuckled, but my companions didn't seem amused. I took the clipping from Holmes's hand and studied the sweet, simple face of the bride. The clipping was dated October 1.

“It caused a bit of a stir, this marriage,” Lestrade said. “Not that I follow the gossip columns. Mainly because the bride's father is a tea and coffee importer. Hardly blue blood.”

“Lovely girl just the same,” I said in her defence.

“Yes,” Holmes said, “And Mrs. Paige saw this lovely girl in the newspaper, noted the resemblance, and decided that
she
was the happy bride.”

“Exactly,” Lestrade said gravely. “And that's when the trouble began. She started shrieking night and day that her husband, Lord
Darlington, had betrayed her. That he had put her into this prison in order to continue his abandoned life. She begged and pleaded with her guards to help her, to call her family, her friends, even Darlington himself. She was uncontrollable, Mr. Holmes, totally and completely insane.”

“How terrible,” I said. “But of course, the woman found her life unbearable. Therefore, she invented a new one.”

“Bravo,” Holmes said, smiling at me without irony for a change. “Dr. Watson has diagnosed the case with accuracy. Don't you agree, Inspector?”

“Yes,” Lestrade said grudgingly. “It has to be the truth.” He pulled a large repeater out of his watch pocket and shook his head. “Almost midnight,” he said. “I suppose I should be on my way home.”

“One more to toast the new year,” I said, pouring him a largish brandy. He took it readily enough, lifted it in the air, and we all wished ourselves a Happy 1895. His glass was almost empty when he said, “But I didn't tell you about Lord Darlington's visit to the Institute.”

Once again, Holmes brightened.

“Are you saying that Lord Darlington actually visited this woman?”

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “Somehow, the story of Mrs. Paige's delusion reached his ear, and he got in touch with one of the physicians in charge. He wondered if perhaps the woman might be helped by a personal visit from Darlington and his wife.”

“A reasonable notion,” I said. “If she was rational enough to believe her own eyes . . .”

“A very kind offer,” Holmes said, his mouth twisting cynically. “But not one would expect from a man of Darlington's reputation. He was hardly an altruistic type.”

“It was his wife's idea, I believe. She convinced him that it would be an act of charity. They went to see her together, but with unfortunate consequences. Not only did they fail to convince her, but Mrs. Paige took revenge on the institution by trying to burn it down!”

“Good Lord!” I said.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Holmes said, his gaze as intense as an eagle's.

“The details are still a bit cloudy. When the couple arrived, the Institute directors naturally wanted to protect their safety, and assigned a guard to supervise their meeting. Mrs. Paige objected violently; she would only talk to the Darlingtons alone. Rufus Darlington convinced them to allow this departure from precedent. He was confident he could handle any situation.”

I glanced at the wedding photograph again. “He looks capable enough. Rather gigantic physically.”

“A collegiate boxing champion,” Lestrade grunted. “Obviously, he had little to fear from the madwoman. But he was wrong. While they were alone in Mrs. Paige's room, he made the mistake of lighting his pipe. She suddenly seized his matches, and quickly set her mattress on fire. By the time they obtained help, the whole room was ablaze!”

“Yes,” I said. “I recall some small news story about that.”

“It wasn't worthy of large headlines,” Lestrade said. “But it did have a tragic consequence. Mrs. Paige was badly burned on most of her upper body. And worst of all, the visit failed to rid her of her delusion. If anything, her condition worsened.”

Holmes had not said a word for the last few minutes. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing shallowly. I had a moment of alarm, knowing his medical condition. I touched him on the shoulder, but when he opened his eyes they were mere slits.

“I think Mr. Holmes should be in bed,” I told the Inspector sternly. “He has not been well for the past three days, and I'm afraid this visit has tired him to the point of exhaustion.”

Lestrade rose quickly. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I had no idea . . .”

“Of course not,” I said. “Because Mr. Holmes was indulging in one of his favorite pastimes—pretending to be someone else. In this case, a person in good health!”