The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

“Just one thing’s
bad, though. Somebody tried to burn a book in my lovely fire. It must have been
when I was off getting more wood. I found it when I came back, and I pulled it
out of the fire, and stamped on it I did. See, here it is.”

Timmy showed us
the book. There was no mistaking it.

“It’s the diary
that we found on the body in the limepits.”

“Precisely,
Watson. Now I begin to see daylight.”

“People shouldn’t
burn books,” Timmy said angrily, “books are nice, like birds and bonfires. They
are nice to be near. Oh, you must still be cold. I’ll get more twigs to burn, I
will.”

Timmy quickly
ran to fetch more wood, leaving Holmes and I to contemplate the day’s events.

“Now, that we’re
alone, Holmes, I can see why we were attacked tonight. The murderer knew that
we were going to the caves and was afraid that his devilish plot wouldn’t stand
up under your scrutiny, so he watched us. When we discovered the body and sent
Whitnell off to fetch the police, he knew he had to get rid of us.”

“And who do you
think that somebody is, old fellow?”

“That’s easy.
There’s only one person strong enough to knock us both unconscious and shift
our bodies. The dead Sir George’s brother, Harry Clavering.”

“I think not,
Watson. Didn’t you observe as we entered the caves that pickaxes and
wheelbarrows were much in evidence?”

“Yes, they were,
of course.”

“Strength was
not required, under the circumstances. Placing us in a wheelbarrow would be an
easy method to transport us to the pit. We were extremely vulnerable in the
darkness. Any man with a modicum of cunning could have disposed of us, or, any
woman, for that matter.”

“Holmes,” I said
in surprise, “you’re not suggesting that Lady Clavering is the guilty party?”

“Holmes! Watson!”
came Professor Whitnell’s voice from a distance as he and two policeman came
running up, “thank heavens, you’re safe. I’ve had the police with me for the
last hour, but we couldn’t find you. You weren’t where I left you.”

“True. Whitnell,”
Holmes said, “I want you and the police to take me to Lady Clavering’s house at
once. After that, I wish to lodge information and make a charge of assault, and
possibly a charge of murder!”

Holmes and I
were taken straight away to Lady Clavering’s where we were first given hot tea
and some blankets to warm us. Harry Clavering stood before us, his arm around
Lady Clavering. Professor Whitnell sat before us, deep concern showing on his
face over the condition we were in. Holmes sat Lady Clavering down and told her
the entire story of the discovery of the body in the limepits, trying to break
the news of Sir George’s death as gently as possible.

“That, unfortunately,
is the story of how we found your husband’s body.”

“This is
horrible, Mr. Holmes, horrible.”

“But who in
thunder could have planned such a devilish plot!” said Harry Clavering.

“Why did the
murderer attack you and Watson?”

“There, my dear
Whitnell, you have the key to the murderer’s identity. The man who so cunningly
conceived and executed the murder of Sir George could never have bungled the
job of disposing of Watson and myself, unless he had meant to bungle it!”

“You mean he
didn’t mean to kill us?”

“Exactly,
Watson! He merely wished us out of the way while the incriminating evidence was
removed.”

“You mean the
diary,” I added.

“Of course I do.
You will recall we found it partially burned in Timmy’s bonfire.”

“Then it was
Timmy who—”

“No, no, my dear
Watson,” Holmes said, cutting me short. “Surely it’s obvious one person, and
only one, knew that the diary was the key to the murderer’s identity. The man
who was present when we discovered it and detected the fraud!”

“Great Scott,
you mean Professor Whitnell!” I said in total disbelief. Everyone in the room
stood in rigid shock as Holmes looked at Evan Whitnell with steely eyes.

“Whitnell, you?
You murdered my brother?” Harry Clavering yelled in shaking anger.

“Evan,” Lady
Clavering gasped, tears in her eyes, “no, it isn’t true.”

Professor
Whitnell sank back in his chair, pain written across his face. It was over, and
he understood. There was no fight in him, just a beaten man. He looked at each
one in turn, then heaved a great sigh; almost a sigh of relief that his play
acting was over.

“I did it,” he
said quietly, “because I love you, Helena. All these years there has been
nothing in my life that meant anything, but you. I thought that if George were
out of the way I could make you care for me. Then, when I realized you loved
Harry, I was mad with jealousy. And so I planned to conceal George’s body
forever. It was a clever plan. You said so yourself, Holmes. If it hadn’t been
for you, it would have worked.”

“Yes, it was
diabolically clever, Evan, but I’m afraid that no amount of cleverness now can
prevent you from paying for your crime. I am truly sorry, old friend.
Constable, you have your man. Our work is done.”

A terrible
stillness seemed to engulf the room. No one spoke, for no one had need to say
anything more. The police took their man, and I watched, saddened at heart by
this turn of events, as Holmes stood by the window watching his old friend
being taken away. It was almost night and, with the kind invitation of Lady
Clavering to stay till morning to recuperate from our experiences, we retired
in silence.

The next morning
found us once again walking along the cliffs in fine fettle.

“Some rest I’d
gotten you into, aye, Holmes?”

“Dear Watson,
you should know by now that it doesn’t take much to invigorate me and return me
to my old self,” he said quietly.

As he spoke, my
eyes scanned the horizon, observing the birds, the land, and enjoying the fresh
and breezy air.

“Holmes, look
there on the point. Timmy’s bonfire is still burning away.”

“Yes,” Holmes
said contemplatively, “Timmy’s a simple fellow, with simple tastes.”

“Why are you so
gloomy this fine morning? You solved the case brilliantly.”

“My dear fellow,
my faith in human nature has been sadly shaken. Evan Whitnell was a good
friend, and an old one. It’s hard to be instrumental in sending him to the
gallows.”

“I understand,
Holmes,” I said, “but you must admit he richly deserved it.”

“Yes, yes, I
know he did, that’s quite true, but it’s depressing just the same.”

Holmes and I
walked on in silence. He took his pipe from his inverness and was about to
light it, but he stopped, slowly placing it back in his pocket. It was a time
for quiet, for Holmes had to face his pain alone, even though I was there at
his side. We stopped and Holmes looked out over the cliffs in a mood of intense
contemplation. I walked some distance away, leaving him to his thoughts. In a
few moments, he turned to me.

“Come on,
Watson, let’s continue our walk home across the downs.”

“I heard Sir
Harry offering you a fee this morning. Did you take it?”

“No I didn’t,
but I did accept his offer of an acre of land on the downs over there near the
abbey ruins. You can see them silhouetted against the sky.”

“An acre of land? What on
earth would you do with that?”

“Well, Watson,
when I retire, and I shall retire some day, I’ve often thought of bee farming.
This would be a heavenly spot for such a venture.”

“I can’t imagine
you as a bee keeper.”

“Why not? After
a life spent unraveling the tangled affairs of human beings, it would be
soothing in the twilight of one’s days to study the exact and predictable
behavior of bees. Singing masons, building roofs of gold. Ah well, my dear
Watson, one day perhaps. Perhaps.”

Return to table of
contents

I have mentioned, in my various stories
about my good friend Sherlock Holmes, that he was most proficient at makeup and
has, at various times, done some acting in solving a case, such as in A SCANDAL
IN BOHEMIA. Holmes makes little reference to those times when he has donned
makeup and assumed a role in order to gain access to someplace or someone he
would otherwise be unable to contact. One such case, where his actual acting on
stage played an important part in solving a mystery, began on a winter’s night
in 1896. Holmes and I had gone to a theatre in the east end of London to see a
performance of the famous old English melodrama called
“Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.”
Todd was a murderer of voracious appetite who placed his victims in
a specially constructed barber’s chair, cut their throats and then pressed a
lever that would swing the chair over and decamp the unfortunate victim into a
horrible cellar beneath his shop. We had taken a private box and were watching
one of the closing scenes with Holmes leaning forward in his chair following
the action on the stage with obvious delight, I beside him equally engrossed.
An actor by the name of Mark Humphries was playing the part of Sweeney Todd,
and it was evident to me he was playing the role up to the hilt and enjoying it
immensely. With long strides he would cross the stage, brandishing his arms
about as he talked, making every move and gesture a bold action. I felt it
highly overdone, but amusingly interesting.

As the curtain
lowered, the audience rose as one and cheered. I turned to Holmes, laughing as
I did so, and saw a deep smile of amusement on his face.

“Upon my soul,
Holmes, that fellow Mark Humphries is the most florid actor I’ve ever seen on a
stage.”

“I find him
enchanting, Watson. It seems to me he’s really caught the flavor of this ‘murderous
monsterpiece.’ After all, a restrained performance of the barber Sweeney Todd
would be unthinkable.”

“Perhaps you’re
right,” I said, “but I must say his makeup seems rather overdone. No barber
would wear such an enormous beard. It would be impractical. Most likely to get
in the customer’s faces. By the way, Holmes, I noticed from the program that
Mark Humphries as well as being the principal actor is also the owner of the
company.”

“Yes,” Holmes
said as he leaned back and lit his pipe, “the current trend towards the
actor/manager is a very healthy sign, I think.”

We said no more,
but relaxed, looking down at the audience as they slowly moved towards the
exits. We would soon be joining them when the crowd had thinned out a bit.
There was a knock at the door leading to our box, and Holmes and I turned just
as a gentleman entered.

“Excuse me, but
is one of you gentlemen Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I was asked to
give you this note.”

“Now who on
earth knows that you’re at the theatre, Holmes?”

“We’ll soon find
out,” he replied, opening the small envelope that contained the note, “well,
this note is from Mark Humphries, our actor/manager. It says ‘Dear Mr. Holmes,
I recognize you in your box. Please come to my dressing room as soon as you
can. My sanity, and even the safety of London perhaps, depends on your
compliance!’ ”

Holmes and I
looked at each other with curiosity.

‘“My sanity and the
safety of London?’ I wonder what on earth he means, Holmes?”

“That, my dear
fellow, we can only discover by going backstage to meet him.” Holmes rose,
gathering together his walking stick, gloves and top hat. I did likewise as we
casually made our way through the few remaining members of the audience until
we had stepped onto the stage, crossed behind the curtain, and down the side of
the theatre to the backstage entrance. Standing at the stage door was a man
almost as tall as Holmes, dressed not in workman’s clothes, but that of a well
to do gentlemen. It was he that approached us as we reached the stage door.

“Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?” he said.

“Yes?” my friend
returned.

“My name is
Lindsay. Derrick Lindsay. I’m the business manager of this theatre. Mr. Humphries
asked me to meet you at the stage door and take you to his dressing room.”

“Very kind of
you. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”

Mr. Lindsay
acknowledged my presence and gestured for us to follow him. As we walked down a
long corridor, actors and actresses in various appearances of disarray came
running back and forth as they went about their chores of changing into street
clothes and removing their makeup. I was deeply fascinated by all this while
Holmes simply took it in his stride.

“Excuse me asking,
Mr. Lindsay,” Holmes said, “but surely you must be related to that
distinguished actor of some years back, Litton Lindsay.”

“He was my
father, Mr. Holmes.”

“Ah, indeed. The
resemblance is extraordinary,” Holmes mused.

“With such a
heritage, Mr. Lindsay, you must love the theatre,” I added.

“It’ll probably
sound like heresy,” laughed Mr. Lindsay, “But I hate it. However, it is the
only thing I was trained for, and there’s good money to be made in it,
sometimes. And money’s the thing I both like and want. Mr. Holmes, I do hope
you will be able to help Mark Humphries. He certainly needs it. Now Mark’s wife
and I think . . . There’s Mrs. Humphries now. Maria!”

A most beautiful
woman turned and approached us. She walked with great dignity and it was quite
easy to see she was very cultured in her ways. I remembered seeing her in the
play tonight. Mr. Lindsay introduced us to Maria who immediately approached
Holmes with a look of deep concern on her face.

“Mr. Holmes, I’m
so grateful that you’re going to see Mark. He’s in such a dreadful state. There
have been times lately when Mr. Lindsay and I have been afraid he’s going out
of
his mind. Haven’t we, Derrick?”

“Indeed we have.
We’re both deeply worried about him.”

“In that case, I
hope I can be of service. Which is his dressing room?”

“Number One,
next door to mine,” said an anxious Mrs. Humphries. “Derrick, I think it would
be better if Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson go in alone. I’m sure Mark will speak
more freely if we are not in the room.”

“A very good
idea, Mrs. Humphries,” Holmes said, “we’ll see you later on.” We turned and
went to the end of the corridor, where Holmes knocked, and a voice yelled
through
for
us
to come in. We did so and I was quite shocked, for the man seated before us at
the dressing table was in total turmoil. Half his makeup was off, giving him a
twisted look with the grease paint smeared diagonally across his face. I looked
closely at the one eye he had cleaned and could see it was not only twitching,
but seemed bloodshot, which is usually caused by lack
of
sleep. Add to that his bulk and nervous
nature and the man looked like a beaten creature whose eyes darted strangely
from his dressing table to Holmes.

“Sherlock
Holmes, thank Heaven you’re here. Please close the door,” he said as he continued
to remove the evening’s makeup.

“Mr. Humphries,
this is Dr. Watson, my colleague, and a man I trust implicitly.”

“Watson. Yes, I
know of you, also. Sit down, won’t you? You’re wondering why I asked you to
come back and see me, of course.”

“Naturally, sir,”
Holmes said, seating himself across from Mr. Humphries while I sat to one side.

“Well, I won’t
beat about the bush and waste your time. I’ll come straight to the point. I’m
going mad! I know it sounds fantastic, but it’s true. I’ve often heard of actors
beginning to live their parts off the stage. The same parts they play on the
stage. Well, it’s happening to me. I’m turning into another Sweeney Todd!”

“Are you
suggesting, sir, that you are a potential murderer?” Holmes asked pointedly.

“Yes, I am!”

“What reason do
you have for holding that belief?” Holmes continued.

“Reason! Listen
to this,” Mark Humphries said visibly shaking, “three times in the past week I’ve
wakened in the morning to find my boots covered with mud, and my razor stained
with blood!”

“Great Scott!” I
exclaimed under my breath. Holmes leaned forward, pressing on with his
questions.

“You’ve had no
recollection of any untoward events during the night?”

“None.”

“Have you ever
been addicted to the unfortunate habit of sleep walking?” I asked.

“Not to my
knowledge, doctor. And if I had been, surely my wife would have told me about
it.”

“Your wife . . .
yes,” Holmes said contemplatively. “Where do you live, Mr. Humphries?”

“We have a flat
here above the theatre.”

“Mr. Humphries,
you say that on three separate occasions on waking in the morning, you have
found a bloodstained razor and mud covered boots. Can you show us this proof?”

“No, no I can’t.
I was always so frightened my wife would see them, that I cleaned them before
she had the opportunity of finding them.”

“That’s a great
pity, sir,” I said. “They would have been very valuable clues in a case like
this.”

“I couldn’t risk
my wife seeing evidence like that, doctor,” Humphries said frantically. “She’d
know the truth; that at nighttime, while she’s asleep, some devilish, hidden
urge has overcome me. An urge that causes me to prowl the streets of London,
razor in hand, looking for a victim. Mr. Holmes, you’ve got to help me. I’m
certain that, without knowing it, I’ve been committing murder. And if you don’t
help me, I’ll go on and on!”

The man was
beside himself, trembling in a totally distraught state, his nerves on edge,
his very being shattered.

“Mr. Humphries,
please,” Holmes snapped, “try to calm yourself. I’ll undertake the case. It’s a
very unique assignment. In effect, Watson, I’m being engaged by a possible
murderer to prove him guilty! Now, Mr. Humphries, compose yourself enough that
your wife will suspect nothing of what you and I have spoken. In the meantime,
I have some preliminary work to do on your case before I fling myself full
force into your problem. I will contact you shortly.”

Holmes and I
excused ourselves and left the room. Outside we saw no sign of Mrs. Humphries
nor Derrick Lindsay.

“All the better
for us, Watson,” was Holmes’ comment. “I don’t want them to know a thing yet.
Come on old chap, we’re off to Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard?
Whatever for?”

“You’ll see when
we get there.”

Outside the
theatre we caught a cab and made our way to Scotland Yard, Holmes seated comfortably
across from me, his lit pipe smoking away like some chimney on fire. I could
see he was in deep concentration, no doubt on the case at hand. Between the
theatre and Scotland Yard, I mused to myself, Holmes would probably have called
it a “one pipeful” time of concentration.

And I was
correct, for Holmes had just finished his pipe as we stood waiting for
Inspector Gregson to finish checking on what Holmes had asked of him.

“Well, Mr.
Holmes,” Inspector Gregson said, returning from his careful look through
Scotland Yard’s files, “I’ve finished going through all the records.”

“What have you
found?” Holmes asked.

“In the last two
months we haven’t had one case of an unsolved killing with a razor, sir.”

“Any mysterious
disappearances, Inspector?” I asked.

“Bless your
heart, doctor,” chuckled Gregson, “there’s never a day passes without one or
two of them. Here’s a list of them, Mr. Holmes, if it’s any use to you.”

“Thank you. Come
on, Watson, in the morning we can go back to the theatre and set our friend’s
mind at rest. I’m much obliged to you, Gregson.”

“Glad to be of
service, Mr. Holmes.”

We returned to
Baker Street where Mrs. Hudson, rather annoyed and disgruntled, set up a hasty
late dinner for us before we called it a day. As I expected, Holmes was
glancing over various newspaper clippings from the past months looking for some
evidence to contradict Inspector Gregson’s findings while I prepared for bed.

The next day
brought us once again before Mark Humphries in his dressing room. Holmes begged
the man to relax as he seated himself.

“We examined the
homicide records at Scotland Yard after leaving you last night, Mr. Humphries.
There have been no unsolved razor murders in London during the past fortnight.”

“And therefore,”
I added, “you may rest easy on that score, sir.”

“But it proves
nothing. Remember that in the play Sweeney Todd’s victims are never found
either.”

“Yes, thanks to
a singularly horrible ingenuity in disposing of them. But this is
real
life, Mr. Humphries.”

“Then how do you
account for the bloodied razors and the mud soaked boots?” Humphries said
disdainfully.