THE IRREGULAR CASEBOOK OF SHERLOCK HOLMES (5 page)

‘In any case,’ said Holmes. ‘It is the strangest conclusion to an investigation that I can remember. In fact, there can be no question of a fee. The interest of this case has been payment enough. But if you wish me to name a price, I will take this phial.’

‘Of course, Mr Holmes. It is of no use to me. I prefer to leave the hour of my demise in the hands of the good God who made me. But surely you do not intend . . .?’

‘No, doctor. I merely wish to extract a sample for chemical tests.’

‘And if you find a composition unknown to science?’

‘Then—then the temptation will constitute an interesting test of character. By the way, doctor, when the time comes to publish the list of Dee’s books . . .’

‘No detail of this episode shall ever appear in print, Mr Holmes, unless it be as fiction. When the time comes, I will exercise editorial discretion.’

It was the day of Christmas Eve, on which Dr James was to attend the carol service in the Chapel. After a much-needed breakfast, we packed our things. Later in the morning James was called away, and returned to tell us that Biggs had been found, but that the carol service would go ahead as planned.

Since the blizzard had curtailed train services, we were forced to wait until late in the afternoon, when at last we set off, stopping on the way to say our goodbyes at the Chapel. The snow was still falling in heavy flakes, but they came slow and straight out of a still sky. As we drew near the Chapel, Dr James approached in his surplice, looking every inch the scholar dignitary.

‘Gentlemen,’ he called, ‘I’m so glad I had the chance to give you these. Seasonal gifts—tokens of my gratitude. For you, Mr Holmes, a copy of one of my latest catalogues,
The Manuscripts of Jesus College,
which I have inscribed. I think it is rather nicely “got up”, don’t you? And for you, Dr Watson, nothing so grand, I’m afraid. just the Christmas issue of the
Pall Mall
magazine, but I’ve written some words of thanks on the cover. It contains one of my little efforts at fiction entitled “Lost Hearts”. A poor thing, but not, I promise you, quite as sentimental as it sounds! And now I really must go. Are you sure you cannot come in for the service? Later there will be dinner in Hall, and I generally have a few friends over for talk and drinks. I usually tell the latest of my tales.’

‘Alas,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘We cannot. Even at this season there is work to be done. In the great City, Evil never sleeps.’

We shook hands, and James made his way into the Chapel. We stood a while, looking into that great space, now starred with a hundred points of flame. Columns of figures filed in from various points of the Chapel, a faint hum sounded, and the soft voices of the boys struck up ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. The whole scene seemed the very embodiment of Christmas.

Holmes touched my shoulder. ‘Are you ready, Watson?’

As I stood there, a sudden desire took me to go in and listen to that beautiful music, to enjoy a hearty dinner, then accompany Dr James to his rooms, there to exchange tales over drinks by the fire. In short, to keep Christmas in the good old-fashioned way. It was an unworthy thought. Turning up my collar against the snow, I straightened my back and said, ‘Yes, Holmes, I’m ready.’

Many years have passed since that day, but on the shelves at Baker Street there still stands a now brittle copy of the
Pall Mall
magazine, and a well-thumbed volume: reminders of a singular adventure, and of two—or should I say three?—very remarkable men.

The Shadow of the Wolf

IT WAS NOT AT ALL UNCOMMON, upon arriving at 221B Baker Street, to hear the strains of Sherlock Holmes’s violin. Often he would be playing some melancholy air to suit his dark mood: at times the ear might be assailed by the atonal sawing that often accompanied some profound introspection; less often by the endless repetition of some complex phrase as an aid to the analysis of its structure. I was, however, surprised to hear, on arriving at his rooms one day, a jig or reel that leapt and sang for very joy.

I found Holmes cross-legged in an armchair, violin bow poised, a contented smile playing about his thin lips. Indeed so contented was the smile, that for an instant an unpleasant possibility suggested itself to me. Holmes stopped playing just long enough to shake his head and say, as if in answer to my unspoken question, ‘No, Watson, I have not returned to my old ways and sought “surcease from sorrow” in the seven per cent solution!’

‘Then it must be the Arnot case,’ I offered. ‘You have solved it!’

‘Oh that. Yes, it is solved. It was the sundial, Watson! They had turned it.’

‘Of course! So when the old man sat in the garden and noted the hour in his diary, he wrote down his murderer’s alibi!’

‘And signed his own death warrant.’

‘Then who was it, Holmes? Which one of the brothers?’

‘Both of them, Watson. By their clever ruse, each implicated the other, for the sundial was far too heavy for one to have moved it alone. However, you are wrong in supposing that to be the reason for my good mood. Read this, Watson; it arrived a little while ago.’

He held out a telegram speared on the end of his bow. I took it and read:

Mr Sherlock Holmes. Come at once if you can. One man dead. Others will die. Werewolf responsible. Freya Sturleson. Tarn Lodge.

I noted that the telegram had been despatched from Crowford in the county of Yorkshire.

Holmes, who had been watching keenly for my reaction, said innocently, ‘It has the charm of brevity, has it not? If you look in the index lying beside me, you will see what we are up against.’

I did so, and read, ‘“The change of man or woman into wolf, either through magical means, or judgement of the gods.” But Holmes, this is foolishness.’

‘Read on Watson.’

‘“A form of madness, Lycanthropy, Kuanthropy, or Boanthropy, depending on whether the victim thinks themselves transformed into wolf, dog or cow.”’

‘Now be so good as to read this.’

He handed me one of the sensational journals to which he devoted such close attention.

‘Let me see—“Tarn Lodge slaying—horrible death of young man—found with throat and face terribly torn—police have no clues as to culprit’s means of escape. Window open, but no prints on the snow outside.” Holmes, the telegram——’

‘Was sent from Tarn Lodge. You see, Watson, there has undoubtedly been a crime, and a very interesting one at that. I rather think this case satisfies my requirement of an outré and macabre element in full. Do you think your practice could spare you for a few days?’

‘I do

‘Splendid; then let us consult our
Bradshaw.
We must brave the wild north country.’

Tarn Lodge proved to be a sombre Jacobean pile standing in extensive grounds. That winter was a particularly harsh one, and the forbidding look of the house was not mitigated by the bleak, snowlocked landscape or the now-frozen expanse of tree-encircled water which gave the house its name. The sky was clear, but the country lay under an unbroken carpet of white, the trees plumed and swathed with snow.

The door was opened by a steely eyed old butler who seemed to expect us. He ushered us with barely a word into a chilly hall, dominated by a statue of a jackal-headed deity of Egypt carved in black basalt. Following him down a long, stone-flagged passageway we came to a door which he threw open, gesturing us to enter.

I was expecting to enter a room, so I was amazed to find myself in a vast conservatory, its walls of misty glass offering fragmented views of the snowy landscape. Inside, the atmosphere was that of a steamy jungle, suffocatingly hot and humid. All around us stood giant ferns, bamboo trees, and palms all hung with creepers, vines, and orchids.

Through this steamy atmosphere vividly coloured birds and butterflies fluttered. The woman who stepped forward to greet us was more colourful and exotic still. She wore some long flowing garment such as I had sometimes seen worn by devotees in Indian temples. Her black hair was suffered to fall in a wild mass of curls about her face and shoulders, and many strings of beads hung about her neck, along with a heavy pendant of bronze. Her whole appearance should have looked unseemly for a Western woman, but she was magnificent, her features calm and very dignified under their mantle of dark tresses. When she spoke, however, her voice was grim and clearly offered no welcome.

‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, I presume? I am Mrs Sturleson.’

‘Good day, Mrs Sturleson,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘I perceive that you are a Tantrika, and have visited Tibet at some time.’

The woman gasped, but quickly regained her composure and said, ‘How clever of you Mr Holmes! Let me guess—the pendant.’

‘—which is peculiar to the sect of that area, and whose significance you clearly understand judging by the colour of the cord on which you wear it. Forgive me for saying so, Mrs Sturleson, but you are clearly not pleased to see us, from which I conclude that it was not you who summoned us.’

‘That is correct. My stepdaughter sent the telegram. I do not approve of her action.’

‘There has been a murder——’

‘My step-son will reincarnate to fulfil his destiny with or without Your assistance, Mr Holmes.’

I could not keep silent at this.

‘His death does not seem to have upset you unduly.’

‘Upset? He has gone on to a higher plane, that is all.’

‘This is a magnificent collection of plants,’ observed Holmes. ‘Is your interest professional?’

‘My father was a botanist, and I was born in India. I spent much of my childhood travelling with him through the Himalayas as he collected plants for his work. It was during that time that I learned of the philosophy and medicine that have enriched my life.

‘As you see, I have been able to recreate the conditions of certain Himalayan Regions. Many of the alpine plants can be propagated outdoors in northern climate, but those whose home is found on the bitter heights of the Tibetan mountains must spend part of their time in specially prepared ice houses if they are to develop naturally. Each thing is adapted to its place.’

‘I should like very much to see some of these mountain dwelling plants,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘I have myself spent some time in the Himalayas.’

‘As it was said,’ replied Mrs Sturleson. ‘“As the dew is dried up by the morning sun so are the sins of men dried up by the sight of the Himalayas.”’

‘The
Skanda Purana, I
think,’ Holmes rejoined.

This seemed to please her.

‘I would be delighted to show you my plants, Mr Holmes, but I fear they would not make a very interesting spectacle at the moment. Some weeks ago a disease which I have not been able to identify killed off many of the high mountain dwelling plants. All my
Mecanopsis Horridula
, and the related species, are dead.’

‘Are you engaged in scientific study of the plants?’ I asked.

‘Not exactly, doctor. I distil various tinctures and lotions from my plants. At least I did until so many of them were killed.’

She sounded so crestfallen that I did not pursue the matter. If Holmes had a higher opinion of herbal medicine than I, he did not express it, but simply said, ‘I too have experimented a little with the distillation of certain substances. Before we leave I must see the equipment you use.’

Mrs Sturleson looked disturbed by Holmes’s request.

‘If you wish to, I suppose. Now I expect you would like to speak to my stepdaughter. Goodbye, gentlemen.’

As we left for the healthier atmosphere of the house I whispered, ‘She seems unwilling to let you know too much about her concoctions.’

‘Perhaps, Watson, perhaps. Still, we must resist the temptation to theorise from too few facts. Time will tell.’

Freya Sturleson, who awaited us in the hall, was a woman of a very different stamp. She was much younger; a fresh northern beauty with golden hair and ruddy cheeks, and she was dressed in mourning. She was obviously struggling against deep distress.

‘Mr Holmes, and Dr Watson, I am so relieved to see you. It was I who summoned you.’

‘A most tantalising missive,’ said Holmes. ‘The murdered man was your brother, I take it?’

She bowed her head at this, then nodded and straightened her back. ‘Yes, it was John, and I was the one who found him.’

‘You are very couragous’ I interjected. ‘If this is too upsetting——’

But she would have none of it.

‘No, I will not rest until this is solved. It was for this reason that I called on you. I must be strong for John’s sake. Come, I will show you the room where—where it happened.’

She led us to a room whose windows looked out to the frozen tarn. Blood stains on the carpet left no doubt where the terrible event had occurred. Holmes was suddenly the hunter, stalking round the walls, crouching over the terrible stains, gauging their distance from the window. Miss Sturleson left the room, and returned with the butler.

‘Dodds found the body. Tell them all you know, Dodds.’

‘Were the windows open?’ asked Holmes.

‘They were sir. A cold wind blowin’ in and master John just lyin’ there covered with blood.’

‘Quite so—the report said no prints were found outside.’

‘There’d been no fresh snow that night, and it did not snow for a day after. You could have seen where a sparrow had walked. It were clear and untrodden all the way to the Tarn.’

‘No wildlife at all then. That is most instructive. And outside the other windows?’

‘The same sir. Not a mark in the snow.’

Thank you, Dodds. Your assistance has been invaluable.’

Turning to Miss Sturleson, Holmes asked, ‘I take it the house was thoroughly searched?’

‘Very thoroughly, I assure you. We ordered an immediate examination of every room.’

‘So, now I must ask you why you believe the culprit to be a werewolf.’

She smiled grimly and replied, ‘Because I have seen it, Mr Holmes.’

I have rarely seen Sherlock Holmes as stunned as he was at that moment. Then his expression changed to one that mingled intense interest and pleasure.

‘Come, sit down and tell me what you saw, in as much detail as you can. Leave out nothing.’

‘It happened the night before we found poor John. I was out walking in the grounds with my pet dog, when it began to growl and ran off into the bushes. Then there was a cry of pain, and when I looked, poor Loki was dead. Dead and horribly torn, just as my dear brother John was torn. I only glimpsed the monster that did this, but it moved on its back legs, yet crouched over, and it gave me the impression that its top half was that of a wolf. I may as well tell you, Mr Holmes, that I believe it to be the astral body of my stepmother in wolf form.’