Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Page 3

  “Exactly!” Burton exclaimed. “So, Holmes, reveal all! What really happened in this room?”

  Sherlock Holmes unfolded his arms and shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  Burton, Lestrade and I gaped at him and chorused, “What?”

  “I don’t know. I’m baffled. The position of Bendyshe’s body is certainly inconsistent with the picture Lestrade has painted, but I can find no explanation for it. Perhaps, when he was struck, he was clinging to his attacker, who backed away, dragging him forward as he fell, but I’ve found no evidence to support that supposition. I’m sorry, Sir Richard, but, on this occasion, I must give Lestrade his due. What he thinks happened is probably what happened.”

  Lestrade clapped his hands together and said, “Finally!”

  I saw Burton stagger slightly and, in three rapid strides, rushed to his side and caught him by the elbow. “Enough!” I snapped. “You are in no condition for this, sir. Back to bed, at once. Come!”

  The explorer was a big man—in his younger days, he must have been as strong as an ox—but as I guided him slowly back into the bedchamber, with my left hand still gripping his elbow and my right arm about his waist, he seemed to deflate and wither.

  I kicked the door shut behind us and whispered, “I don’t know what Holmes is playing at, but I don’t believe a word of it. He’s up to something, of that you can be sure!”

  “Bismillah!” Burton croaked, as I helped him out of his gown. “Don’t let him give up on me, Watson. If he can’t recover the manuscript, I might as well die this very night. You have no idea what it means to me.”

  I helped him to lie back on the bed, and felt his pulse. It was fluttering wildly. He was struggling for air.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “Don’t speak. Lie still and try to regulate your breathing. I’m going to give you a sedative.”

  His fingers closed around my wrist. “No! No drugs. The only thing that’ll save me now is chapter twenty-one. My translation will be the crown of my life, Watson! The crown!”

  I frowned. “But it’s—it’s pornography, Sir Richard!”

  A hoarse chuckle escaped him. It turned into an outburst of coughing. I used my handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow and waited for the fit to pass.

  “No one understands,” he wheezed. “What is illegal and shocking in 1888 was once the very basis of Plato’s philosophy. What we decry as unnatural and immoral today was considered the noblest form of affection yesterday. Time changes everything, Watson. Everything! And if we refuse to record that which we disapprove of now, then the future will be erected upon foundations so riddled with holes, omissions and misapprehensions that the entire edifice of civilisation might come tumbling down. Dispassionate knowledge! It is—it is—essential!”

  A tremor shook him. He moaned and his eyes began to slip up into his head.

  “Holmes!” I bellowed. “My bag! For the love of God, bring my bag!”

  Seconds later, the door burst open and Sherlock Holmes raced in and handed me my medical kit. Working as rapidly as I could, I loaded a syringe with a solution of morphine and injected it into Burton’s arm. Almost immediately, I observed his muscles relaxing, his breathing became less laboured, and, when I placed my stethoscope to his chest, I found that his heart was beating regularly, though with the slight “echo” I’ve often heard moments after a patient has experienced a heart attack.

  “Unconscious,” I said. “It was a close call but he’ll live. For how long I can’t say. What’s your game, Holmes?”

  “Later!” the detective replied in a brusque tone. “When you shouted, I sent Lestrade to fetch back Lady Burton. They’ll be here momentarily. We must take this opportunity while we have it.” He crossed to a large Saratoga trunk in the corner of the room, bent over it, and applied his magnifying lens to its lock. “Scratches!” he muttered. “Ha! It gives every appearance of having been picked.” He lifted the lid to reveal books and papers within. “It was from here that chapter twenty-one was removed, but the marks around the lock are an attempted deception. It was opened in the normal manner, with a key.”

  “Deception by whom?” I asked.

  He straightened. “Have you not seen through the duplicity yet, Watson?”

  “Duplicity? No, I can’t say I have. Why did you claim defeat?”

  We heard the suite door open and feet crossing the carpet.

  “Hush!” Holmes hissed.

  Dr Baker, Algernon Swinburne and Lady Burton rushed in, the latter crying out “Dick!” and throwing herself down beside her husband.

  “He suffered a mild heart attack,” I told her. “I treated him with morphine. It has stabilised him but he must sleep and avoid any further distress.”

  Baker mumbled a thank you and set about examining his patient.

  Sherlock Holmes moved over to stand beside Lady Burton and placed a hand gently upon her shoulder. “Madam,” he said. “I must ask something of you.”

  She raised her face to him. Tears streamed down her plump cheeks. “What is it, Mr Holmes?”

  “I wish you to call upon me at 221b Baker Street tomorrow at ten in the morning. It is of the utmost importance.”

  “I can’t leave my husband.”

  Holmes looked at me. I said, “The crisis has passed, Lady Burton. I wouldn’t allow you to leave Sir Richard’s side were I not positive that you could afford to do so. The drug will keep him asleep and out of danger while you visit Baker Street.”

  Swinburne put in, “I shall remain with him while you are gone, Isabel.”

  “But—”

  Holmes cut her off. “I must insist upon it.”

  She nodded. “Very well. Ten o’clock.”

  “Good. Then Watson and I will bid you farewell. Get some sleep, dear lady. You must be exhausted. Mr Swinburne, may I speak with you in the other room for a moment?”

  The little man nodded and followed us out. Inspector Lestrade was standing at the suite entrance talking quietly with the two constables. Holmes led Swinburne to the corner farthest from the policemen and the bedroom. He whispered, “Watson and I will take our leave now. This entire matter will be resolved tomorrow and chapter twenty-one will be returned.”

  Swinburne gasped. “What? What? What? You’ve solved the case? Will Avery swing for it?”

  “Can you call on me at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

  The poet nodded eagerly.

  Holmes added, “Keep the appointment secret, please. Tell no one. Not even the Burtons.”

  We left suite 106 just as a police coroner arrived to remove the body of Thomas Bendyshe.

  “You can’t win ’em all, Holmes!” Lestrade called after us.

  “Well done, Lestrade,” Holmes responded cheerily. “It’ll certainly raise your stock at the Yard if you find the murderer!” Under his breath, he added, “Not that you will, you insufferable dolt!”

  “Explain!” I demanded. “I’m completely in the dark!”

  “Tomorrow,” he replied, and I could get nothing more from him.

  Mr McGarrigle had one of the hotel’s four-wheelers carry us home. By the time we arrived, it was half past three and I could barely keep my eyes open. I went straight to bed, fell asleep, and was shaken awake, it seemed, after just five minutes.

  “Blast it, Holmes, can’t it wait until morning?” I mumbled.

  “It is morning,” he said. “Lady Burton is due here in forty minutes.”

  I opened an eye and looked him up and down. “Those are the same clothes you wore last night. Have you not been to bed?”

  “I’ll sleep when the manuscript is back in Sir Richard’s hands. Rouse yourself! Out of your nest!”

  I heaved a sigh, opened my other eye, and sat up. “All right! All right! I’ll be down presently.”

  I washed, shaved and dressed, and entered the consulting room just as the doorbell jangled. Holmes was standing before the fireplace with his hands behind his back.

  We heard Mrs Hudson asc
ending the stairs. She knocked and poked her head around the door. “There’s a Lady Isabel Burton to see you, Mr Holmes.”

  “Good show! Send her up, Mrs Hudson!”

  Moments later, our visitor stepped in. She appeared tired but much recovered after last night’s anxieties, and, in the light of day, I saw she’d once been a tall and handsome woman, though old age had now taken its toll.

  Holmes greeted her and waved her to an armchair.

  I asked, “How is your husband this morning, Lady Burton?”

  “He has not awoken,” she answered, “but Dr Baker assures me his slumber is natural and is the best thing for him.”

  “Quite so,” I agreed.

  Holmes indicated that I should settle into the other armchair, and, after I had done so, he strode into the middle of the room and turned to face us.

  “I wonder, Lady Burton, if there is anything you wish to tell me.”

  “In regard to what, Mr Holmes?” she asked.

  “Why, in regard to the events of yesterday evening, of course. What else?”

  She started to pick nervously at the edge of her shawl. “I rather thought it would be you telling me something about it, sir.”

  “If you wish it, I can do so.”

  Puzzled, I began, “Holmes—”

  He whipped up a hand with the palm facing me and snapped, “Not now, Watson!”

  Lady Burton looked at him quizzically. “Well then?”

  “Well then,” Holmes said. “Since only chapter twenty-one of the Arabian manuscript was stolen, it’s safe to proceed on the premise that it was removed by someone who knew exactly what they wanted and exactly where it could be found. To reach it, that person had only to do as Inspector Lestrade suggested: ascend the exterior staircase, climb in through the window, cross to the door on their left, enter the bedchamber, and open the trunk.”

  “Edward Avery,” Lady Burton muttered. “We did not inform Inspector Lestrade of our suspicions, Mr Holmes, as we thought it better that you approach the bookseller.”

  Ignoring her statement, Holmes went on. “The assumption is that, just as the thief entered, Thomas Bendyshe came into the room through the connecting door, which would be to the intruder’s right, immediately spotted him, attempted to apprehend him, and was struck a killing blow to the forehead. But why, then, Lady Burton, did Bendyshe not fall backwards? And why was he at the other end of the room?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Holmes.”

  “It is because there was no intruder, Edward Avery or otherwise.”

  “If there was no burglar,” I protested, “how can the manuscript have gone missing, and who killed Bendyshe?”

  “I shall answer the last question first, Watson. No one killed Thomas Bendyshe. He died of natural causes, almost certainly a heart attack. When he fell, he struck his head on the corner of the hearth. You yourself noted the lack of blood. He didn’t bleed because his heart had stopped before he even hit the floor.”

  “But his body wasn’t by the fireplace!”

  “There were carpet fibres caught up in his watch chain. The only way they could have got there is if his body was dragged across the room. Also, the corner of the hearth was conspicuously cleaner than the rest. It had been wiped down.”

  “By whom?” I asked.

  “That, Watson, is the question. The metal staircase provides the answer. Observe.”

  Holmes turned to his left and held his arms out, angled downward, with his fingers and thumbs curled as if gripping a rail. He marched up and down on the spot, and, while giving this peculiar performance, said, “When one descends a staircase of that sort, one’s hands do not grip the rails to either side tightly, but simply slide along them, to aid balance.” He turned to face the right, raised his arms higher, and mimicked the movements of a person ascending. “But when going up, the hands grip tightly, and one pulls hard in order to relieve some of the effort required by the legs.”

  He stopped his mimicry and looked at us. Lady Burton and I returned his gaze blankly. He sighed. “The bolts, Watson! As Mr McGarrigle noted, they were loose in the brickwork. If someone had climbed those metal stairs, the action of their hands would have put great pressure on the bolts and brick dust would have been dislodged around them, from the top section of the staircase in particular, due to the effect of leverage. If, on the other hand, a person had only descended, there would be a lesser amount of dust and it would be more evenly distributed from the topmost to the bottommost bolts. As, indeed, it was.”

  Holmes fixed his penetrating eyes upon Lady Burton. “Furthermore, there was a thin film of soot on the stairs, deposited there, no doubt, by our London peasoupers. What say you, madam?”

  She said nothing, but her face went white to the lips.

  “It had been disturbed,” Holmes went on. “And I noticed that the hem of the dress you were wearing last night was stained with the stuff. Had you gone up the staircase, the stain would have been at the front. It was at the back. Hence, you only went down.”

  Lady Burton burst into tears.

  Holmes waited patiently. I looked from him to our guest and back again. Slowly, a fog of confusion cleared from my mind, and I realised what had happened.

  “You were trying to protect your husband’s reputation!” I exclaimed.

  She nodded, and sobbed, “I was the first to return to the hotel that night. Mr McGarrigle was engaged with his staff and did not notice me enter.” She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped the tears from her face. “I’d been back less than ten minutes before there came a knock at the door. It was poor Thomas. He was suffering from chest pains and had come looking for Dr Baker.”

  I interjected, “But why did he go to the door of your suite rather than entering through the connecting door?”

  “He’s known Dick and me for many years,” she replied, “but is not well acquainted with our physician. He wasn’t aware that I was back, and did not want to burst in upon a man who was a virtual stranger to him.”

  “And he collapsed in front of you,” Holmes said.

  She sniffed and more tears fell. “He suddenly clutched his chest and dropped like a stone. As you say, his head impacted against the hearth, but I’m convinced he died instantly, even before his knees gave way. I rushed to him, found him to be dead, and was about to ring for the hotel manager when—when—”

  Another fit of weeping interrupted her discourse. When I moved to comfort her, Holmes made a terse gesture to stop me. We waited, and after a couple of minutes, she started to speak again, though her voice rasped with emotion.

  “You must understand,” she said, “there has been a stain on my husband’s character since he was a very young man. He spent his childhood on the continent, and has, in consequence, been regarded by many as somehow un-English. This prejudice increased when he worked for Sir Charles Napier in India and was sent to investigate certain establishments of bad repute. His report was rather too detailed, and when it fell into the wrong hands, it was employed by those jealous of his accomplishments to cast a shadow over him. He has been forced to work long and hard to prove the suspicions unfounded, and has taken risks and endured hardships that would have killed lesser men. And now, just as he’s achieved widespread acclaim for his translation of A Thousand Nights and a Night, this — this — this awful chapter twenty-one! I cannot allow him to be remembered for such a monstrosity. It would eclipse everything good he has ever done!”

  Holmes said, “So you saw your chance, dragged Bendyshe away from the fireplace — which you then wiped — took the manuscript, climbed out of the window, descended the metal stairs, and reentered the hotel through the main doors, making sure to be seen by Mr McGarrigle.”

  “Yes. I am an old woman, but love for my husband gave me strength enough for all of that.”

  “Did it not occur to you that by staging the burglary you could have sent an innocent man to the scaffold?”

  “Edward Avery? He is not an innocent man, Mr Holmes. He is pocketing
money that should go to Richard. Besides, I knew there’d be nothing but circumstantial evidence to implicate him. His name might have been ruined—which he deserves—but it would have gone no further.”

  Sherlock Holmes paced over to the window and looked down at Baker Street. He took his pipe from his pocket and tapped its stem against his chin. “I understand your motives, Lady Burton, but I cannot agree with them. Sir Richard’s achievements will be remembered not because he followed the mob, or did as he was told, or allowed others to make decisions for him, but because he acted independently and used his own judgement. If he believes that chapter twenty-one of The Perfumed Garden will contribute to mankind’s knowledge and understanding, then I cannot doubt him, and neither should you.”

  “He regards it as his final project,” I added. “He told me it is his most important work. Do you really intend to deprive him of it?”

  She buried her face in her hands. “He will be vilified.”

  “Perhaps so,” Holmes murmured. “But he knows the risk and he chooses it. Obviously, he’s prepared to sacrifice his reputation in the short term in order to contribute certain insights to future generations, who might find them less shocking than we do.”

  The detective turned away from the window and faced Lady Burton. “I’m afraid I cannot permit your interference. You will tell me where chapter twenty-one is hidden and I will see to it that the material is returned to Sir Richard. Your part in its disappearance will not be mentioned. Not, that is, unless you refuse me.”

  Isabel Burton looked at me, as if expecting my support. There was such anguish in her expression, and she possessed such obvious devotion to her spouse, that, for a moment, I was tempted to throw my lot in with her, but then I remembered what Burton had said: If he can’t recover the manuscript, I might as well die this very night!

  “You acted with noble intentions,” I said. “But I must agree with my friend. Sir Richard is infirm, but his mind is as sound as a bell, and if he—who has achieved so much—believes the chapter should be translated and published, then it probably should.”

  Holmes said, “Where is the manuscript, Lady Burton?”