Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Sir Maurice,” replied Holmes. “I am hopeful you can assist us with a rather delicate matter. It falls within your area of… specialist expertise.” He teased out the last two words, as if more comfortable with the euphemism than explaining himself outright. “I know we can rely on your discretion.”

  “Of course,” said Newbury. “I’m more than happy to help in any way that I can. But first, I have an important question.”

  “Go ahead,” said Holmes, with the merest hint of a frown.

  “Excellent!” said Newbury, clapping his hands together abruptly. “How do you take your tea?”

  * * *

  “So, what of Miss Hobbes? I hope she is well?”

  We were gathered around Newbury’s desk in the adjoining room, each brandishing a steaming teacup. Holmes, to my surprise, had accepted Newbury’s offer of tea, and Newbury had set to work at the stove, boiling up a pot of water. It was a primitive thing, clearly decades old, but Newbury handled it like an old expert. This was evidently a ritual he cared profoundly for, and as we watched, he warmed the pot and measured out the leaves from a battered old caddy.

  “She is quite well, Dr. Watson,” replied Newbury. “I’ll be sure to pass on your regards. I fear she’s currently engaged in an undertaking for the Secret Service Bureau, otherwise I know she would have been delighted to see you.” He looked plaintively at the empty desk across the room. I could see that it pained him to consider his friend – well, I wasn’t sure exactly what she was to him, but he evidently cared deeply for her – out there somewhere, probably engaged in an initiative to influence the outcome of the war. Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been less than dangerous work, given the political situation. I wished her well, wherever she was.

  Holmes set his teacup down upon on the surface of the desk, indicating that it was time to address the real reason for our visit.

  He took the manila folder from his inside pocket and handed it to Newbury. “Inside this folder, Sir Maurice, you will find a series of photographs. They are of an unusual nature. I have so far been unable to ascertain their purpose, and, thus, who might have taken them.”

  Newbury opened the folder and extracted the sheaf of photographs. He spread them out on the desk, looking at them each in turn. Upside down – for I was sitting across the other side of the desk from Newbury – they appeared even more disconcerting than they had before. As he laid them out in sequence, it looked as if the central figure of Grange was surrounded by a ghostly aura that moved in each shot, swirling into different patterns as if it were a living – or at least animated – thing.

  “Fascinating,” said Newbury, clearly impressed. “Where did you obtain these?” He glanced up, looking directly at Holmes.

  “The subject’s home,” replied Holmes, giving little away. I presumed that he was withholding the details of the case not because he doubted Newbury’s discretion, but because he did not want to colour his opinion before it was proffered.

  “Your client?” said Newbury.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Holmes.

  Newbury grinned. “Very well, I’ll play along with your game, Mr. Holmes. I know precisely what these are, and exactly who took them.”

  Holmes leaned forward in his chair. He folded his hands on his lap. “Indeed?” he said.

  “They really are wonderful examples,” continued Newbury. “Perhaps the best I’ve seen.” He selected one and picked it up, holding it up to the light. “This one in particular. The aura is really quite pronounced.” He glanced at me, and smiled impishly. He was toying with Holmes. I couldn’t contain a grin of my own.

  Holmes cleared his throat. “The subject in the photographs is the late Mr. Herbert Grange, MP. He’d been engaged in vital work for the War Office until his untimely demise just two days hence. I have been asked to temporarily take leave of my retirement to investigate.”

  “Oh, yes, the chap who threw himself into the Thames,” said Newbury. “I read about it in The Times. Poor fellow, to be reduced to such a state that the only recourse is the swirling depths of the river.”

  “It was undoubtedly instigated by an as yet unidentified third party, Sir Maurice,” said Holmes. “I have little doubt of that. The means by which it was achieved, however…”

  “Are another thing entirely,” finished Newbury. “Well, gentlemen, I can tell you this much: the photographs you have in your possession are the work of a man named Mr. Seaton Underwood. He calls them his ‘spectrographs’, and he has spent many years developing the machine that makes them possible, his ‘spectrograph generator’.”

  “Yes, but what exactly are they supposed to represent?” I asked.

  “Underwood is obsessed with the notion that the human soul can – and does – exist independently of the body, Dr. Watson. He purports that these images,” he turned the photograph so that I might see, and ran his finger around the halo surrounding Grange’s head, “represent a photograph of the subject’s living soul.”

  I glanced at Holmes, who raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And do you, Sir Maurice, give any credence to these claims?”

  Newbury shrugged. “I remain doubtful,” he said, “although I do not claim to have investigated Underwood’s process in any detail.”

  Holmes nodded, clearly approving of Newbury’s rationalist approach.

  “But what would Grange be doing with such things?” I said. “It seems unlikely that a man of his position would engage in such unfounded nonsense.” I realised then that my derisory words might have seemed discourteous to Newbury, who had dedicated so many years of his life to the research of such phenomena, but he simply smiled and laughed.

  “I think you might be surprised, Dr. Watson, how many otherwise rational men have expressed an interest in occult or spiritual matters, particularly during times of uncertainty and unrest,” replied Newbury. “Although, I grant you, there is another possible explanation.”

  “Go on,” pressed Holmes, listening intently.

  “Seaton Underwood is the charge of Lord Foxton, of Ravensthorpe House.”

  “The well known reformist?” I said, surprised. I was well aware of Foxton from the newspapers, a member of the House of Lords who had worked with Asquith’s Liberal government on the welfare reforms.

  “Quite so,” said Newbury. “Underwood’s family were killed in a tragic accident when he was a boy – an accident, I understand, that involved certain members of Foxton’s own family. He took the child in, raised him as his ward. He’s had a privileged life, but he’s also been indulged.”

  “So you’re suggesting that Grange may have met Underwood through Foxton?” said Holmes.

  “Precisely,” replied Newbury. “I understand that Ravensthorpe House is quite the destination for those who wish to rub shoulders with the political elite. Foxton has cultivated an enviable circle of friends. It would not surprise me to discover your friend here was one of them.”

  “And Foxton could, therefore, have encouraged Grange’s interest in Underwood’s work?” I reasoned.

  Newbury shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said, “but more likely that Foxton sees the spectrographs as a harmless diversion, a parlour game to amuse his well-heeled guests.”

  “Which has the added benefit of placating his ward,” I added.

  “Then we shall make it our business to pay Lord Foxton a visit, I think,” said Holmes.

  “I can arrange it, if you like?” said Newbury. “Foxton and I share a mutual acquaintance in Professor Archibald Angelchrist. It may help to grease the wheels. Foxton is notoriously difficult to gain access to. Unless you’re part of his inner circle, that is.”

  “Excellent!” said Holmes. “Most excellent. Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated, Sir Maurice.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” said Newbury. He rose to his feet, shuffling the photographs back into the envelope and handing it to Holmes. “I’ll send word once I’ve managed to arrange things with Archibald. Will I fi
nd you at Baker Street?”

  “Alas, no,” I said. I withdrew a card and laid it upon the desk. “Baker Street is long given up to new tenants. Here’s my card.”

  Holmes tapped the index finger of his right hand thoughtfully against his pursed lips. “There was just one other question, Sir Maurice.”

  “Yes?” replied Newbury.

  “Does the term ‘spirit box’ mean anything to you?”

  Newbury frowned. “I have heard the term used before, Mr. Holmes. I believe it refers to a practice originating in the West Indies, in which the soul of a person is captured and trapped within a small wooden casket, the eponymous ‘spirit box’. Influence is then asserted upon the person through ritualistic endeavour. The victim becomes suggestible, carrying out the bidding of the shaman who owns his soul…” Newbury trailed off. “Have you reason to believe that someone might have attempted to employ such a device to unduly influence Herbert Grange?”

  “It’s possible,” said Holmes. “On the day of his death, he was overheard by his secretary mumbling the words ‘I will not be responsible for the loss of the spirit box’. I must add that, given your enlightening explanation, it remains a potential line of enquiry, despite my reservations. I would be very interested to hear what Mr. Seaton Underwood had to say on the matter.”

  Newbury nodded. “Yes. It does seem rather coincidental, given the nature of those photographs. Nevertheless, first you would have to believe that such methods held some measure of validity. That’s a significant leap of faith.”

  “And one that I am not, at this stage, prepared to make,” said Holmes. “Although that does not preclude the notion that others might believe it to be true, and act accordingly.” He extended his hand and Newbury shook it. “Thank you for your time, Sir Maurice. I will await your call.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I echoed. “It was good to see you again after all this time.”

  “Indeed it was, Dr. Watson,” said Newbury. “I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  “Where to now?” I asked Holmes, as we climbed the steps out of the museum basement, emerging into the harsh daylight of the courtyard. I cupped my hand around my eyes while they adjusted to the sudden change.

  “Back to Ealing,” said Holmes. “There is much to be done, and by now Miss Brown should have sent over the missing interview transcripts. Whilst the origins of this mystery might be rooted in the supernatural, I’ll wager there’s a corporeal villain at the heart of it, and those transcripts may yet hold the key to identifying him.” And with that he was off, moving with the speed and vitality of a man half his age. The game was, as he was occasionally wont to say, most definitely “afoot”.

  CHAPTER SIX

  My house in Ealing seemed somewhat dark and gloomy upon our return. The grandfather clock in the hallway measured the seconds with a deathly monotony, and there seemed to be no life in the place.

  This, I supposed, was a symptom of my wife’s absence, but in many ways highlighted what my life had become during the course of the last few months. I had fallen into a miserable pattern of existence. I had allowed myself to wallow in my grief at the death of my nephew, and it had taken the reappearance of my old friend, Holmes – or rather the agency of his brother and the emergence of a new case – to realise it. Silently, I cursed myself, and vowed that, when this was over – when Holmes had returned to his bees in the Sussex Downs – I would not allow myself to fall afoul of such self-pitying again.

  Miss Brown had been diligent, and the last three interview transcripts had been delivered in our absence. They’d been pushed through the letterbox in a large, brown envelope. The address had been handwritten upon the envelope in neat print, and the lack of a postmark was evidence that it had been delivered in person, rather than trusted to the vagaries of the Post Office. I wondered for a moment how Miss Brown was coping with her grief.

  Holmes had been animated upon laying eyes on the transcripts, and after shrugging off his coat – which he flung untidily across the telephone table in the hall – he kicked off his shoes, stoked the fire and sank once again into my favourite armchair to read. With a shrug, I set about organising some tea. Years ago I had learned that there was little else to do when Holmes was so absorbed.

  Upon returning with the tea tray a short while later I found him buried in innumerable pages of typescript. He was examining each page in turn, holding them so close to his face that the tip of his hooked nose was almost touching the print. I decided that I would make a gift to him of a pair of reading glasses before he left London, knowing full well what he would make of such a gesture.

  I slumped into the armchair opposite Holmes and perused the newspapers for a while, skimming over page after page of reports from the front, of impossible-sounding death tolls and descriptions of the myriad horrors faced by the young men in the trenches.

  Closer to home, I read of the devastation wreaked by the raid of the night before, and couldn’t help but think again of poor Carter, and of the near miss we’d had at Herbert Grange’s house. I found it all thoroughly depressing, and it threatened to dampen my spirits even further. I tossed the papers aside with a muttered curse.

  Holmes, I noticed, had failed to drink his tea. He was still absorbed in his reading but I could stand the silence no longer. “Well, Holmes?” I said, a little huffily. “What do you make of it all?”

  Without lifting his eyes from the page he was reading he held up his left hand, extending his slender index finger in a gesture intended to encourage my silence. I gave an impatient tut and rose to my feet, indignant at being treated in such a manner in my own home.

  “A fresh pot of tea, if you will, Watson,” said Holmes, “now that you are up. I fear this one is rather tepid.” He reached for the still-full cup and saucer on the table beside him and held it out for me. Still, he did not look up from his reading.

  I collected his teacup, fighting the urge to overturn it on his lap, and retreated to the kitchen. A short while later, upon returning to the sitting room, I found Holmes of an altogether different disposition.

  The papers were now scattered untidily around his feet, having been introduced to their kin from the previous day. Holmes was reclining in the chair, one knee crossed atop the other, and a smouldering pipe clenched between his teeth. He smiled brightly when he saw me standing in the doorway. “Ah, Watson, my good man. Have you brought biscuits?” He looked at me inquisitively. “One should always accompany tea with biscuits, in my opinion.”

  “You have that smug look about you, Holmes,” I said, ignoring his remark. I set the tea tray down on the occasional table, rattling the cups in their saucers. “I see that you have discovered something in those transcripts. No doubt it confirms a fact that you had already anticipated, but for which you were lacking proof.”

  “Bravo, Watson!” said Holmes, removing his pipe from between his teeth. The end appeared chewed and decidedly unsightly. “Most perceptive.” He accepted the fresh cup of tea that I proffered. He raised a dubious eyebrow at the evident lack of biscuits, but a fierce warning look from me brought the matter to a brisk close. With a sigh, he took a long draught from his cup.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “Well indeed,” said Holmes. “I have now examined each of the transcripts provided by Miss Brown, concerning Herbert Grange’s interviews with the German nationals resident in the capital. I found them most enlightening.”

  “To what end?” I asked. “You said earlier that you were sure there was a pattern.”

  “Quite so, Watson. The particulars of the individuals are of little consequence, it seems – bakers, clerks, mechanics and factory workers,” said Holmes. “However, when all the facts are considered together, one particular line of enquiry presents itself. It seems that the same man employs three of the individuals in question, here in London: a banker by the name of Henry Baxter. He is the Head of Investments at Tidwell Bank, one of the partners.”

  “I’ve never heard of the man,” I said.


  “Indeed not,” said Holmes. “It appears he specialises in catering to the European elite – counts, viscounts, dukes and lords. Only the richest of men.”

  “And why is that in and of itself suspicious?” I queried.

  Holmes shrugged. “As you know, I do not put great stock in coincidence. Of the three men whom Grange interviewed that fateful morning, the second of them was another of Baxter’s employees. Could it be that one or more of these men had something to hide? Something they were holding back in fear that Grange might arrange for their incarceration or deportation?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I see the possibility of motive, Watson, if not yet the means by which the killer might have enacted his crime.”

  “I see your point,” I said. “Then what next?”

  “A trip to Tidwell Bank, I think,” said Holmes. “To speak with Mr. Baxter regarding his employees.” He took another sip of his tea. “But first, I really must press you for that biscuit.”

  * * *

  Tidwell Bank was, as Holmes had previously suggested, a rather upmarket establishment, a far cry from the sort of place I might typically visit to transact my financial affairs.

  The lobby was more like that of a grand hotel than any bank I had ever seen, with a marble floor laid out like a black-and-white chequerboard, a grandiose crystal chandelier, baroque stone window frames and plaster busts of figures from classical myth, nestled amongst rows of aspidistras. Nine identical oak desks, laid out in three neat rows, completed to the picture. Behind each of these desks sat a male clerk dressed in a formal black suit.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?” I turned to see a woman in a long, grey gown, sweeping across the lobby toward us. It appeared we were the only customers.

  “Good afternoon, madam,” said Holmes. “I telephoned ahead. We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Baxter.”

  “Very good,” she said, clearly surprised. “Allow me to just check the diary. Your names, if I may?”

  “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson,” said Holmes.