Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Page 23

  And with that, Holmes turned his attention back to his newspaper, and his boiled eggs. I intended to write up the case for publication, but no matter how I tried I could not forget my vision of Miss Williams’ dying moments, nor turn it into something suitable for an audience of my peers. But now, as the third decade of what I still consider the new century beckons, it seems a foolish delicacy on my part to remain silent and rob my friend of his success...

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stuart Douglas has worked in a toy shop, a zoo, a chocolate factory and on a farm, and now runs Obverse Books. Should he ever manage to appear in Doctor Who he will, therefore, have fulfilled all of his childhood ambitions.

  THE TRAGIC AFFAIR OF THE MARTIAN AMBASSADOR

  BY ERIC BROWN

  There commenced in the spring of 1915 one of the most fascinating cases that my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, has had the fortune to investigate since the arrival on our planet of the Martians ten years ago.

  We were relaxing in our rooms that morning, having recently solved the enigma that came to be known as “The Mysterious Affair of the Rosebury Diamonds”. I was scanning The Times and my friend, as was his wont of late, was poring over one of a dozen tomes he had purchased from a bookseller on Charing Cross Road.

  In 1906, shortly after the establishment of the Martian presence in London and other capitals around the world, my friend took it upon himself to learn the predominant language of the Red Planet. Almost a decade later, thanks to his diligence and exceptional powers of memory, he was practically fluent in that notoriously complex tongue. As a reward he had bought himself a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Martiannica.

  Now I set aside my paper and glanced across at Holmes. He had taken a break from his studies and was filling his pipe.

  “What are you reading about now, Holmes?” I enquired.

  He flicked a hand at the open page. “A volume on the biological history of the Martian race,” said he. “Fascinating. Did you know, Watson, that the gestation cycle of a pregnant Martian female is a little over three Terran years?”

  “I must admit my ignorance in that area,” said I.

  “And were you aware, moreover... Hullo, and what’s this?” he said, glancing across at the window.

  The spring sunlight had been occluded suddenly, as if by a storm cloud, and as we strode across the room and stared out we beheld the reason. A Martian tripod, fully a hundred feet high, stood in the street outside.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Holmes commented, for a platform was descending from the underbelly of the cowled vehicle and riding upon it was a Martian.

  Now, for all that the Martians occupy our planet in their hundreds of thousands, it is not an everyday occurrence that one of their number is seen, as it were, in the flesh. Their singular three-legged transportation devices might ubiquitously prowl the capital from Richmond to East Ham, and from Barnet to Croydon, but the creatures themselves show a distinct inclination towards privacy.

  Not, however, this individual—for it stepped from the platform and trundled on its many puckered tentacles across the road and on to the pavement.

  Holmes rubbed his hands together in delight. “Why, I do believe, Watson, that the Martian is making a beeline towards 221b!”

  Indeed, the alien was hauling itself up the steps towards our front door. We repaired to our respective chairs and made ourselves ready for the audience. I was, I have no hesitation in admitting, more than a little excited at the prospect of the imminent meeting.

  A minute later Mrs Hudson, appearing unaccustomedly flustered, burst into the room. “Oh, Mr Holmes!” she cried. “Would you credit it, but there’s one of those ’orrible Martian creatures downstairs, and it said it wants to see you promptly!”

  My friend smiled. “Then if you would kindly show the fellow up, Mrs Hudson.”

  “And leave its dreadful slime all over my new carpets?”

  “I will personally pay for their cleaning. Now, I rather think that time is of the essence.”

  With an indrawn breath, Mrs Hudson departed.

  Evidently our extra-planetary visitor, for all its many tentacles — or perhaps because of them — found the ascent of the staircase something of a trial, for it was a good five minutes before Mrs Hudson flung open the door and stood aside as the Martian shuffled into the room.

  We rose to our feet, as the occasion seemed to demand, and I stared in fascination at our visitor.

  We are all aware, from the many illustrations provided by our national dailies, of the appearance of the beings from the Red Planet. Now, however prepared I might have been, the sight of the creature in such close proximity provoked in me the contradictory emotions of fascination and repulsion, for the Martian was truly a hideous specimen of its kind.

  It stood perhaps five feet tall, its shorter lower half consisting of six writhing tentacles most easily described as octopoid. Its larger upper section, or torso, however, bore no relation to that of any terrestrial creature, and this perhaps accounted for my horror.

  Set into the oily brown skin of its torso was a quivering, v-shaped mouth and two vast, cloudy eyes. Strapped around its mid-section was a belt, fastened to which was a small black box.

  However uncomely its appearance, it was nothing beside the revulsion I experienced as the creature’s peculiar body odour wafted my way — a scent that combined the stench of putrid carrion with the sweet reek of rotting fruit.

  Holmes, maintaining an enviable savoir-faire in the face of the noisome aroma, gestured the alien to a chaise longue, the only piece of furniture in the room able to contain its broad bulk.

  The Martian sat down, arranging its several limbs across the brocade in a manner at once business-like yet prim. As we watched, the peculiar v-shaped mouth quivered and a series of rapid burbles, and not a few belches, filled the air.

  “Mr Holmes, Mr Watson —” the tinny translation issued from a grille in the black box seconds later, “I am Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee, deputy ambassador to the British Empire, and I have come today to request your investigational services.”

  Holmes leaned forward, evidently excited, and it was a temptation beyond his powers of resistance to reply to the deputy ambassador in its own tongue. My friend gave vent to a horrible series of eructations which surely taxed the elasticity of his larynx.

  The Martian flung several of its tentacles into the air and replied excitedly, “But you have mastered our language as no other Earthling yet, Mr Holmes!”

  My friend laughed. “We should proceed, for the sake of my friend Mr Watson, in English.” He turned to me and said, “I asked, Watson, as to the nature of the investigation.”

  Presently the creature replied, “I am afraid that it should remain undisclosed until you have agreed to accompany me to the ambassador’s residence, where I will furnish you with all the relevant details.”

  Holmes harrumphed, not taken by such a stipulation. His curiosity, however, was piqued. He said to me, “This can be no little matter, Watson, if the ambassador himself requires our presence.” To the Martian he said, “Very well, Mr Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee. Shall we hasten to the embassy?”

  “We will avail ourselves of my tripod,” said the Martian.

  Holmes jumped to his feet. “The game’s afoot, Watson,” said he, and reached for his cape.

  * * *

  To stride the boroughs of London as if on the shoulders of a giant!

  We sat ensconced in comfortable armchairs in the hooded cockpit of the tripod and goggled in amazement at the business of London passing to and fro far below. Tiny cars powered by the latest Martian technology beetled along like trilobites, and in the air the first of the flying machines, owned by intrepid—and wealthy—Earthmen buzzed about like insects.

  The ride was over all too soon. What seemed like minutes later, we were deposited outside the Martian embassy in Grosvenor Square and ushered up the steps by the deputy ambassador. In due course we entered the sitting room of the penthouse suite and paused beside
a polished timber door.

  Without further ado Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee said, “I made the discovery this morning, Mr Holmes. Beyond the door is the ambassador’s bedroom, and it is my habit to enter at eight, once the ambassador has risen, to apprise him of the day’s agenda.”

  Holmes fixed the deputy with an eagle eye. “And this morning?”

  Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee reached a tentacle towards the door and turned the handle. The door swung open, and the Martian stood aside and gestured for us to enter.

  Holmes stepped forth with alacrity, and a little more hesitantly I followed.

  We were in a bedchamber dominated by a large double bed, upon which reposed the bulk of the Martian ambassador.

  I did not require a doctorate in Martian medicine to ascertain that the ambassador was quite dead.

  * * *

  “Stabbed,” Holmes opined, “by a sharp implement in the centre of its torso — the area in the Martian body where the major pulmonary organ is located.”

  Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee shuffled back and forth beside the bed, obviously in a state of great agitation or grief. “We have summoned our finest investigational team from Mars,” it said, “but it will be several weeks before they arrive on Earth. Also upon that ship is the ambassador’s life-mate, come to retrieve her partner’s corpse for burial in the sands of our home planet.”

  I stood over the bed and gazed down at the dead Martian. Added to its usual odour was the obnoxious stench of escaped bodily fluids. I withdrew a handkerchief and covered my mouth and nose.

  Ichor, sulphurous yellow and viscid, had leaked from the wound in its torso and pooled in the sheets around its bulk. Its vast eyes were open, and stared blindly at the ceiling. Its v-shaped mouth likewise gaped, as if emitting a final, painful cry.

  Beside the bed was a small table upon which lay several envelopes, each one slit neatly open.

  “At what time did you last see the ambassador?” Holmes asked.

  The Martian replied, “At eleven last night, when he retired.”

  “And you say the door was locked?”

  “From the inside, by the ambassador.”

  “Was he in the habit of locking his bedroom door?”

  “The ambassador valued his privacy.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “I take it you had a spare key?”

  “That is so. And I fetched it when the ambassador failed to respond to my summons at eight.”

  “And the key, deputy ambassador—is it kept in a place from where others might easily take it?”

  “It is kept in an unlocked drawer in the bureau,” it replied, gesturing to the adjacent sitting room with a quivering tentacle.

  “How many members of staff would have access to the key?”

  “Just four: two of my own people, and the two humans who work in the embassy.”

  “If you would kindly summon them forthwith for questioning, I would be most grateful.”

  The Martian shuffled from the room. Seconds later Holmes declared, “Hullo, what’s this?”

  In three strides he had crossed to the window, which stood open six inches. He lifted it further and peered out. I joined him; the drop to the gravelled forecourt below was in excess of forty feet, and no convenient drainpipe, wisteria or the like, clad the wall to provide suitable access.

  Holmes stood back and contemplated the wall below the windowsill.

  I saw what attracted his attention—a gouge in the wallpaper four inches beneath the sill, and an abrasion on the paint of the woodwork itself.

  “But what could it be?” I asked.

  “If the ambassador was in the habit of keeping his window open at night, and an intruder armed with a grapple and rope... You catch my line of reasoning, Watson? Then again, there might be an entirely innocent explanation for the marks.”

  I examined the wall more closely, and when I turned from the window Holmes was tucking something into his breast pocket, which he had presumably taken from the bedside table. There was an expression on his face which I have beheld many times before: the aquiline glint in his eye that betokened the fact that he had garnered what he considered to be a significant clue.

  Before I could question him, however, the deputy ambassador returned.

  “The staff are gathered and await you next door, Mr Holmes,” it said.

  * * *

  “And you have been in the employ of the embassy for how long?” Holmes asked.

  “Three years this May,” replied the gentleman by the name of Herbert, a sallow man in his late forties with expressive, melancholy eyes and a straggling moustache. In a singular recapitulation of the physiology of his employers, Herbert had short legs and a stocky, barrel-like torso.

  “And your position in the embassy?”

  “I work as a... you might call it a scientific advisor to the ambassador and his staff. I liaise between the Martian scientists and engineers who visit our world with their wonders, and their opposite numbers on Earth.” He spoke in an odd, high-pitched voice, with not a little trace of cockney in the vowels.

  “And you trained at...?”

  “The Royal College of Science, under none other than the great Professor Huxley himself.”

  Holmes smiled. “For a man of humble origins, Herbert, you have acquitted yourself remarkably well.”

  “Not too badly, if I say so myself — for the son of a draper,” Herbert said.

  My friend cleared his throat. “Now, to the matter at hand. In your time working in the embassy, have you had reason to notice any enmity being directed towards the ambassador?”

  Herbert shook his head. “None whatsoever, sir. The ambassador is — was — well liked, by both Martians and humans. He was a wise and generous employer. I cannot imagine who might have done this.”

  “Are you aware of the political factions that exist amongst the Martians? We well know that there was political strife, not to say animosity, between certain nations before their arrival here.”

  The scientific liaison officer shook his head. “I know of certain political differences between the Martians, yes, but I was not aware that such differences existed between the ambassador and his staff, or any other Martians who had dealings with him on Earth.”

  “Very well. Now... we come to the business of what happened last night. Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee last saw the ambassador at eleven o’clock, at which time the ambassador repaired to his bedchamber and locked the door. It is my estimation that the ambassador died at some time between eleven and six or seven this morning... though I admit I am not an expert on matters of Martian pathology. Now, where were you between these hours?”

  “I have a room in the basement of the embassy, sir. I retired at nine, where I wrote for two hours before going to bed.”

  “You keep a diary?”

  Herbert smiled. “I write fiction,” he said. “Though nothing of what I write finds favour with publishers’ current tastes. Too fantastical,” he finished.

  Holmes murmured his condolences. “Perhaps what is needed in these fantastic times is a little more social realism,” said he, then returned to the matter at hand. “And you rose at...?”

  “Eight, as usual. It was then that Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee summoned me with the alarming news.”

  Holmes nodded sagely, regarding his long fingers splayed on the table-top before him, then looked up at Herbert. “And I take it that you know where the spare key to the ambassador’s bedchamber is kept?”

  “Yes, sir. In the bureau in this very room.”

  “To which you have access?”

  Herbert nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “That will be all, Mr Wells. Will you be kind enough to send in Miss West?”

  * * *

  Herbert opened the communicating door to be met in the threshold by a vision of striking loveliness, a woman I guessed to be in her midtwenties, raven-haired, pale-skinned and serious. I noted that I was not alone in observing what passed between them: Holmes watched the couple as they gripped each other’s hands and u
ttered what might have been reassuring words, before Miss West smiled bravely and strode with exceptional deportment into the room.

  She seated herself at the table. “Mr Holmes, Mr Watson; it is an honour indeed to meet at last such illustrious upholders of the judiciary. I have followed your exploits with considerable interest, gentlemen.”

  Holmes smiled thinly. “In which case you will have no objections to aiding our enquiries?”

  The slightest frown marred, for a second, the perfection of her alabaster forehead. “Of course not, Mr Holmes.”

  The interview that followed was the swiftest I have ever seen my friend conduct. It seemed barely two minutes from when Miss West entered the room to the time she swept out.

  “If you could inform me of the position you hold in the embassy, Miss West, and the duration you have been here?”

  She regarded Holmes with a level gaze, her vast brown eyes unwavering. “I am — was — employed as the private secretary to Yerkell-Jheer-Carral, the late Martian ambassador, and I have held the position for a little over six months.”

  “And your duties entailed?”

  Was it my imagination, or did I see a flare of anger in those serene chestnut eyes? “What do you expect the duties of a private secretary to be, Mr Holmes? I arranged the ambassador’s itinerary, dealt with his correspondence, interviews and the like.”

  “Would you say that, over the months you have held the post, you have come to know the ambassador?”

  She frowned as she contemplated the question. “I am not sure that one is able to come to know, with any certitude, the person of an extra-planetary being.”

  “But did he seem, in your dealings with him, a fair employer?”

  She shrugged expressively “I had no... complaints.”

  “And between the hours of eleven last night and seven this morning, you were on the premises of the embassy?”

  “I have an apartment nearby, but last night I was working late. It was after midnight when I left my office and made my way home.”

  “And when was the last time you set eyes on Mr Yerkell-Jheer-Carral?”