Associates of Sherlock Holmes Page 11

  “We are all ears,” Holmes replied.

  The inspector unfastened the satchel and withdrew a thick cardboard envelope. From this he took six large photographs and laid them on the table.

  “Now, gentlemen,” he said, wheezing slightly. “Tell me what you make of these.”

  The images were of a corpse, the same one in each but viewed from a different angle and distance, to take in not only the form but also the situation in which it was lying. It was male, judging by the clothes, but the body itself had been denuded of all the soft tissue. There remained only a few shreds of matter and wisps of hair clinging to the bones.

  Holmes descended upon the photographs, his face inches from the nearest as he scrutinised it with his magnifying glass.

  “It’s the body of a man in the final stages of decay,” I said. “Although after exposure to the elements, it’s impossible to adequately gauge the time of death.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes said. “This is all that remains after the wildlife and water have done their work.”

  “Water?” I queried.

  “He is lying in a reed bed, yet the earth around him is dry and cracked. This area was once marshland but has recently been drained for agricultural use?”

  “You’re not wrong there, Mr Holmes. It is a small fenland, just south of the Thames, near Mortlake. The farmer was clearing it when he discovered the body.”

  “I cannot discern any broken bones nor trauma to the skull. Of course there may well have been foul play, but the march of time has trampled over a good deal of the evidence.”

  “That it has, Mr Holmes,” replied Baynes. “However, the fellow’s pocket watch and wallet were found upon his person.”

  “So we can rule out robbery,” I added.

  “Ah, Watson,” Holmes sighed, “there are more reasons to murder a man than merely for the contents of his pockets. But tell me, Inspector, is it now customary for the Surrey Constabulary to photograph crime scenes such as this? If so, it shows great foresight, as it has only recently become common practice here in London.”

  “Sadly not. But, given the delicate condition of the body, I recruited a local photographer to record any evidence in situ before moving it compromised the remains.”

  “Ha! Splendid!” Holmes exclaimed. “I have said it before and will say so again, your talents are wasted in your little corner, Inspector.”

  “You are very generous, Mr Holmes.”

  “That’s as maybe,” replied Holmes, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “But perhaps you might tell us the real reason for your visit so that we might end this charade?”

  Baynes’s genial manner faltered for a moment. “You are quite right: I have not been fair in this matter, but it was not meant with any trickery or malice in mind.” He took a second, smaller envelope from the satchel. Inside was a delicate sheet of tea-coloured paper.

  “I simply wished to glean your reading of the situation without it first being coloured by what I have here.”

  The document was rippled and brittle, rather like a dried leaf. It had been wet at some point, causing whatever had been written on it to bleed almost beyond recognition. The printed heading though was unmistakable.

  “This is headed notepaper from the British Museum?”

  “That it is, Doctor. Now do you see anything else?”

  I studied the abstraction of smears but was able to discern only a vague swirl or loop of the occasional letter. It took me a minute or so to see past the chaos and interpret these enigmatic hieroglyphics.

  “Good lord, it’s an address! It says ‘221B Baker Street’!”

  “And that’s not all,” Baynes added. “I have been able to decipher a number of other words and a name, a Professor Mori –”

  “Moriarty!” I exclaimed.

  “No, Watson, it is not he. Nor is it wise to jump to conclusions however accommodating the evidence.” Holmes stood, staring at the letter as he contemplated the connection.

  “The name is Professor Mortimer Shawcross, the associate head of the department of Anglo-Saxon history at the British Museum and the previous resident of 221B. Almost fifteen years ago now, he suffered a sudden and violent breakdown and has been a resident at The Briars, a private asylum, ever since.”

  “You’ve beaten me to it, Mr Holmes.” Baynes chuckled. “Thanks to this letter I traced the fellow in the field back to the museum where he was identified as one Peter Allenby, a student and assistant of the professor. They were working on an archaeological excavation in the spring of 1881, not far from where the body was found in fact.”

  “And shortly afterwards Shawcross had his breakdown and Allenby disappeared.”

  “It would seem so,” the inspector replied. “It was reported that the professor was arrested for indiscriminately attacking a number of people.”

  “What on Earth happened?” I asked.

  “He ran riot in the street late one night, brandishing the still quite deadly remains of a Viking sword,” Holmes replied. “He killed three people and injured five more before he was apprehended.”

  “Do you think he murdered Peter Allenby?”

  “It’s doubtful,” said Baynes. “The professor had returned to Baker Street and left Allenby in charge of the dig site for a few days. Then one day the boy was just gone.”

  “Closely followed by Professor Shawcross’s mental collapse. I doubt very much that it was a coincidence,” remarked Holmes.

  “Holmes, how long have you known about this?” I asked.

  “Since our mutual acquaintance Stamford first informed me that these rooms had become available. He knew some might find it ghoulish to take them on but that I was not so disposed,” he replied.

  “However, it would have been churlish to simply accept them sight unseen, plus having read of the professor’s story in the newspaper I confess to a degree of professional curiosity.”

  “You knew!” I exclaimed. “You knew all of this right from the very start? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it didn’t seem relevant.” Holmes seemed genuinely bemused. “Besides, I was aware that your battle scars were more than just physical. I did not wish to burden you further.”

  “How considerate!” I snapped. “And of course it had nothing to do with not wishing to scare me off from sharing the cost of the rooms with you?”

  “It was… a consideration,” said Holmes, a faint sheepishness creeping into his tone.

  “And Mrs Hudson?”

  “I counselled her to say nothing to you either, to spare your nerves. She was most sympathetic.”

  “I see.” I felt angry, embarrassed and indignant, but I knew these feelings would achieve little, the injury having been inflicted over a decade earlier.

  “What is to be done now?” I said. “With regards the case of the late Peter Allenby, I mean.”

  “There is only one course of action as far as I can see,” remarked Holmes. “We must go and pay Professor Shawcross a visit.”

  * * *

  Located between the cathedral city of Hereford and the village of Stretton Sugwas, just north of the River Wye, The Briars was formerly a country manor house now converted into a mental institution catering for patients whose families were of no small wealth and status. The ancient wall encircling the grounds, a sturdy bastion from the days of the Civil War, had been substantially strengthened and topped with iron spikes. At the main gate, the guards, while being smartly uniformed, would not have looked out of place at a Shoreditch bareknuckle bout.

  Upon reaching the entrance, the director, an anxious-looking American by the name of Dr East, was waiting for us. Short, slightly built, with a shock of sandy-coloured hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses, he gave the impression of a small mammal, ever-conscious of the lethal swoop of a hawk.

  “Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he enquired in a soft, clipped tone.

  “I am he,” declared Holmes, stepping down from the cab. “And this is my colleague Dr Watson and the inestimable Inspector Baynes.
”

  “Yes,” said East, somewhat disdainfully. “Your brother’s telegram said to expect you. I am not comfortable with this,” he continued. “Not at all! The families of our residents expect the utmost discretion and that does not include detectives, consulting or otherwise, being let loose in these halls.”

  “You may have no fear of that, Doctor,” said Baynes, his cold making his voice course and rattling. “We are not seeking to roam unfettered. We only wish a few words with Professor Shawcross and we’ll be on our way.”

  We began to make our way up the steps when East purposefully put himself between us and the building.

  “About that,” East continued. “You are aware that given his condition, whatever the professor might disclose, it cannot in any way, shape or form be construed as an admission of guilt or used as evidence of any kind?”

  “Yes, of course!” exclaimed Holmes and, pointing his cane forwards like a divining rod, marched boldly inside the building. “Your secrets are safe with us.”

  East scurried after him. “This way, gentlemen,” said the flustered physician, leading us down a wide, wood-panelled corridor.

  I quickly stepped into pace alongside Holmes. “I didn’t know Mycroft sent a telegram?”

  “He didn’t,” he replied, flashing a quick smile. “But I dare say he would’ve done if I’d asked. Sometimes the mere mention of his name is enough to open doors.”

  I stifled a burst of laughter, prompting East to cast me a scowl over this shoulder.

  “Holmes,” I began, “I’m sorry about what happened earlier. Whether rightly or wrongly, I took offence at an ages-old incident without taking into consideration how much richer my life has been for knowing you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Holmes replied. “After all, I’ve done considerably worse things to you and we have still remained civil.”

  “Such as?”

  “Letting you think I’d died and returning out of the blue some years later?”

  “There is that.”

  We followed Dr East down one corridor after another, passing several stern-faced members of staff clad in spotless white uniforms. I noticed a brief flicker of curiosity as they caught sight of us. It appeared that visitors were not a common occurrence.

  East asked us to wait as he went to speak to an attendant leaving one of the rooms. There was a sign baring Professor Shawcross’s name on the door.

  “This is a house of secrets and no mistake,” said Baynes. “And that young fellow is the keeper of the keys.”

  “You suspect something is askance, Inspector?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on, but I have heard of more than one case where an elderly or infirm relative has been committed in order to free up an inheritance. A place like this with its locks and whispers could well facilitate such a practice.”

  Dr East returned to us, smiling. I did not take that as a good sign.

  “My apologies, gentlemen, but Professor Shawcross has been given his medication a little early today. I afraid he won’t be in a fit condition to answer any questions.”

  Holmes gave the doctor a thin, humourless smile. “That is indeed inconvenient. Tell me, Doctor, how long is it before the medication takes full effect?”

  “Ten… perhaps fifteen minutes given he’s just eaten.” East replied with some caution.

  “And it was administered when?”

  “No more than five minutes ago.”

  I could sense East’s growing agitation.

  “Then we may proceed as planned. We need only five minutes of his time and we shall be on our way.” Holmes walked briskly past the bemused attendant. “Come gentlemen, tempus fugit.”

  He ushered me and Baynes inside before turning to block East’s admission.

  “I really should be in attendance…”

  “There’s no need. We would hate to be a drain upon your time, and Dr Watson is a most eminent physician. If we encounter any problems, you and your staff are just on the other side of this door.”

  Holmes stepped inside.

  “I shall be sure to tell my brother of your most obliging cooperation. I’m certain he will be interested to know how well this institution is being managed.”

  Holmes shut the door and permitted himself a short sigh of relief. “That will have given him something to think about,” he remarked. “If the good inspector is correct, the last thing Dr East will want is the authorities taking an interest in this place. Now, we have little time and much to do!”

  The room was cordoned off down one side by steel bars running floor to ceiling. Beyond this artificial annex there was what appeared to be a very compact yet comfortable bachelor’s apartment.

  On our side was a desk bearing a pair of white enamel surgical dishes. One contained the remains of a snapped glass vial and a spent syringe while the other had several more but unopened. I picked up the broken vial.

  “Holmes, we may have less time than you imagine. This is a potent sedative. It has even been proscribed in some hospitals for its potentially deleterious effects. They clearly intended to have the professor too incapacitated to speak to us.”

  “Thank you, Watson. Nevertheless, we must do what we can.”

  “Hello? Can I help you?” Professor Shawcross, who had been reading in an armchair, rose to greet us. He was easily six feet tall and broad across the shoulders. He’d possibly been an athlete in his youth, a rower perhaps? His hair was thinning but close cut at the sides and back. His cheeks were heavily pock-marked, suggesting a brush with the measles or chicken-pox.

  “Professor Shawcross, my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr Watson and Inspector Baynes of the Surry Constabulary.”

  “Surrey…” Shawcross interceded. “You’ve found Peter?”

  “Yes, sir, two days ago,” replied Baynes. “We found his body just outside Mortlake.”

  “I didn’t kill him, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Baynes. “It’s looking more like an accidental death. That area can be marshy and treacherous, especially at night. The ground may seem firm enough but it’s easy to put a foot wrong. He wouldn’t be the first poor soul to lose his life in such circumstances.”

  Shawcross fixed the inspector with an intense stare. “I said I did not kill him, but that does not mean it was an accident. He played the tune and paid the piper… with his life. As we all must in our turn.”

  “And the piper is?” enquired Holmes.

  “Why, death, of course.” Shawcross blinked and looked around perplexed, as if rousing from a fugue state. “Please excuse me. My medicine is taking its toll. I’m afraid I will shortly be of scant use. What is it you wish to know?”

  “Everything. Omit nothing, no matter how trivial,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, of course, it would be my pleasure,” replied Shawcross, lowering himself into the armchair again. “So, where to begin?”

  “Perhaps with the excavation?” prompted Holmes.

  “Quite so. As you may or may not know, I was formerly Associate Head of the department of Anglo-Saxon history at the British Museum. In March of 1881, I and several of my associates commenced an archaeological dig close to the village of Mortlake. You see, in the ninth century, England was sorely afflicted by attacks from Scandinavian Vikings. Surrey’s inland position saw it go largely unmolested until a large invasion force of Danes, some ten thousand strong, made their way up the Thames. They had already sacked Canterbury, then London, and defeated King Beorhtwulf of Mercia in battle. The West Saxon army led by King Aethelwulf rose to meet them, but the odds did not bode well. This was a hardened, battle-seasoned foe they faced.”

  “And what happened?” asked Baynes, obviously intrigued.

  “The Danes were defeated at the Battle of Aclea. Routed, slaughtered. Thousands of the fiercest warriors the world had ever seen.”

  “How’s that possible?” I asked.

  “Perhaps a combination of tactics and knowledge of the terrain?” said Holmes.

  “Or
something else?” added Shawcross. “Legend has it that before the battle King Aethelwulf sought the council of a tribe of cunning women. Witches, shamans, call them what you will. Their arcane practices were being scoured from the land by the one true god, but the King offered them amnesty if they would aide him in his darkest hour. And aid him they did. They summoned the angel of death itself to walk in the vanguard, playing a pipe whittled from the bones of the first human. The King’s men were bade to avert their faces and stopper their ears so as not to see or hear it.”

  I was watching Shawcross closely now. His face was beaded with sweat. Despite the sedative’s soporific effect, the professor showed no signs of succumbing. Quite the opposite in fact.

  “It’s said the Danes gave the piper no mind at first, but when its tune reached them, they froze, rigid with terror. When they then set eyes upon the darkness of the angel’s form, it swallowed their gaze and showed them the yawning chasm of eternity that existed after life. There was no Heaven, no Valhalla. There was nothing but the endless void, where a second would last an eternity. Some of them ran, mad. Others remained in shock, even as the king’s men fell upon them, butchering them all. That is how the day was won.”

  “But it’s a story, surely?” I said. “Perhaps with a grain of truth at its core, but a story nevertheless.”

  “I thought so too,” Shawcross replied. “That is why I began the dig at the site of King Aethelwulf’s muster camp. It was a disappointing dig, yielding nothing of great note. Coins, combs and brooch pins, plenty of broken pottery and several untouched jars of wheat and rye grain.”

  “So you returned to London and left Peter Allenby at the site?” said Holmes.

  “I had business at the museum. I was only back a day or two when Peter’s telegram arrived.”

  “He’d found something?”

  “He found it – the piper’s flute! It had been wrapped in doe skin and buried deep inside one of the grain jars. I was all set to return when a parcel arrived the next morning. It was the flute itself; Peter had sent it to me.”

  “That’s not customary, is it?” Holmes asked.

  “Not at all, but he knew how anxious I would be to see it. I imagine he thought he was helping. I telegraphed him to say it had arrived, but, well, events took another turn as I’m sure you’re aware.”