The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures Read online

  It was when Holmes was searching for new rooms, in January 1881, that he and Watson met and came to share an apartment. At the outset, as related in "A Study in Scarlet", Watson was at a loss to know what Holmes did for a living, and was rather bemused at all the visitors who came to see him, including officers from Scotland Yard. It is clear that in these four years Holmes had established a strong reputation though he had not, at that stage, made much financial gain. That would come later.

  After his own involvement in "A Study in Scarlet", Watson became increasingly drawn into Holmes's cases and recorded several that happened in the next couple of years: "The Resident Patient", "The Beryl Coronet" and the famous "The Speckled Band". At this stage, though, Watson was not fully into the habit of keeping methodical notes of the cases, because he had not yet pursued the idea of publishing them. At the start of "The Resident Patient" he talks about his "incoherent series of memoirs". However, by the time he came to write-up the case of "The Speckled Band" in 1888, five years after the events, he was clearly getting his notes in order, as he states so at the outset.

  It means that for the first few years of their acquaintanceship, Watson's record of Holmes's cases is hit-and-miss, and he seems to have preserved only those that made a special mark on his memory because of their bizarre or unusual nature. It may not be that sinister, therefore, that so few of these early cases survive and that, by 1884, we enter a relatively dark period when Holmes's activities are not well recorded. It may simply be that none of Holmes's cases were worth recording. Of course, the contrary could also be true. Since Holmes carefully vetted everything he let Watson publish we could deduce that he was involved in some very secret cases at this time. Some of the cases referred to in passing in later stories may date from this period, particularly those where Holmes began to move in higher circles in society, such as the help he gave to the King of Scandinavia and another time to Lord Backwater. These cases not only brought him prestige but were financially rewarding so that by the start of 1885 we find Holmes's practice on a firmer footing, and Watson keeping a better account of his cases.

  Thanks to the help of Claire Griffen, who came across some fragments of Watson's notes and related memorabilia that surfaced in an old book shop in South Australia, we have been able to piece together one of these cases that Holmes alluded to many years later. In "The Six Napoleons" he reminded Watson how the business of the Abernetty family came to his attention because of the depth that the parsley had sunk into the butter, an example of how not to overlook what may appear trifling detail.That case has puzzled Sherlockians for decades but at last we can report it in full.

  The Case of the Incumbent Invalid - Claire Griffen

  Of all the adventures I shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes I cannot recall one other in which he was quite so ambivalent about its outcome than the dreadful affair of the Abernettys, nor one which he felt so reluctant to pursue, yet was driven to its tragic and macabre denouement.

  Because of his peculiar sensitivity regarding the role he played therein I have never chronicled the affair, but a chance remark recently while discussing with Inspector Lestrade the bizarre case of the Six Napoleons, and the fact that the main participants have long since been freed to seek new lives in South Australia, encourage me to believe he will tolerate my jotting down a few remembrances of the case.

  The trivial remark of how far a sprig of parsley had sunk into melting butter on a hot day first seized his attention, but it was on a raw day in early January, 1885 when we first became embroiled in the question of Lady Abernetty's possible murder.

  I was standing at our bow window gloomily surveying the prospect. Fog had shrouded the city in the earlier hours of the day and would probably return in the late afternoon, but at that hour a pale straggle of sunlight lit a street almost deserted but for the occasional cab and passerby ulstered and mufflered against the chill damp. Despite the warmth of the fire I could not resist a shiver.

  "I'm sorry you feel you cannot afford to take the cure at Baden-Baden next spring," drawled my friend from his easy chair beside the hearth.

  I confess he gave me rather a start. I had said nothing about my somewhat wistful ambition to pamper my indifferent health at the famous resort in the Black Forest.

  Shortly before I met and took up residence with Holmes at Baker Street, I had returned from service in Afghanistan with the legacy of a jezail bullet and there were times, especially when I felt the London fog on my bones, that it throbbed remorselessly. I could more easily or cheaply take the cure at Bath, but I had a fancy for Baden-Baden, not for its casino and race-course, but to stroll along the banks of the Oos where Brahms composed his Lichtenthal Symphony and Dostoevksy strolled under the ancient trees.

  "My dear Watson," Holmes replied to my start of surprise, "you've been haunting travel agencies on your days off, your desk is littered with brochures and time-tables. I observed you studying the balance in your pass-book with a morose expression and you've been poor company ever since."

  "I beg your pardon if I appear so. It's this dismal weather. Don't you find the fog depressing, Holmes?"

  "Not I!" My companion's grey eyes sparkled. "I find it stimulating. I conjure up all manner of fiendish doings under its cover. By the way," he added, casually, "you will let me know when the carriage pulls up at our front door."

  "Are we expecting someone?" My spirits lifted. Since I had resided with Holmes many interesting people had crossed the threshold of 221b Baker Street, some of whom had invited us into the most intriguing and dangerous adventures it had ever been my privilege to share and chronicle.

  "A prospective client." Holmes took a note from inside his pocket and spread it open on his knee. "The hour mentioned is three. Ah, there strikes the clock."

  "Anything of interest?" I enquired, eagerly.

  "I fear not," sighed Holmes. "A domestic dispute, I fancy. Cases worthy of engaging my complete attention have been sparse in recent weeks."

  I echoed his sigh. I had learned to dread these periods of inactivity when my friend lapsed into boredom and melancholy. I had discovered only recently his injudicious use of cocaine in such lapses, a regrettable weakness from which I seemed powerless to dissuade him.

  "A carriage has just stopped at the kerb." I observed a rather large lady in furs and a rather small man in greatcoat and Homburg alight. "Could these be our visitors?"

  "Ah, since you speak in the plural the lady must be accompanied. A Mrs Mabel Bertram, Watson, a widow she writes, so the gentleman is not her husband." He rose, gave his shoulders a twitch and stood with his back to the fire.

  The knock on our door could almost be described as deferential. At my friend's nod, I admitted our visitors.

  "Have I the honour to address Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective?" enquired the gentleman, in a pleasant yet suave manner.

  "I am Dr John Watson. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes. Won't you come in?"

  The woman who advanced into the room was indeed Junoesque and stylishly dressed in a fur-trimmed coat of the colour that, I believe, was called cobalt blue, and a feathered hat perched somewhat coquettishly on Titian hair that owed more to the cosmetician than to nature. I perceived her to be a woman of fifty, whose features bore the remnants of a once-proud beauty.

  Her companion was slim and dapper with dark lively eyes and a waxed moustache. He removed his Homburg to reveal a sleek, dark head.

  "Mr Holmes, how kind of you to see me," greeted the lady, warmly. "I am Mabel Bertram. May I present Mr Aston Plush?"

  Bows were exchanged and, standing well back, Holmes invited his visitors to take seats before the fire. Mr Plush preferred to stand with his back to the window so that he was almost in silhouette.

  "Draw your chair closer to the fire, Mrs Bertram," coaxed my friend. "I observe you are shivering from the inclement weather."

  "It is not the chill that makes me shiver, but the anxiety caused by my dilemma." She fixed her gaze imploringly on his face. "You are my last hop
e, Mr Holmes."

  "Dear me!" After one swift scanning glance over her entire person, he leaned back in his armchair steepling his fingers against the shabby velvet front of his smoking-jacket and examining her face from eyes that were mere slits under his drowsy lids.

  "You mentioned in your note you were concerned about the welfare of a relative. Pray go on."

  "To be precise, my stepmother. I am the eldest daughter of Sir William Abernetty by his first marriage. Upon the death of my mother he married Miss Alice Pemberton, a lady some ten years older than myself. There was a daughter from this second marriage, Sabina, and a son born posthumously, Charles. You may be amazed at my concern for my stepmother when she has two children of her own, but being so close in age we have always been on the best of terms. Until recently."

  "And what has happened to cause this rift?"

  "Nothing!" burst out the lady. Restraining herself quickly, she went on. "Nothing that I can account for. There's been no quarrel, no exchange of harsh words, yet Charles and Sabina have informed me in the plainest of terms that she refuses to see me. I should add here that Lady Abernetty is an invalid. Neither my half-brother nor sister are married and both reside with their mother in Grosvenor Square."

  Holmes raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. He had begun to look rather bored, but at the mention of the èlite address he perked up a little. Nevertheless, he murmured, "I fail to see what assistance I can be. As you say, you are not the lady's daughter and can lay no claim to her affections. She may see you or not as she pleases. Her children are no doubt following her instructions."

  "Hear me out, I implore you." Mabel Bertram laid aside her muff and clasped agitated hands. "I am not alone in being excluded from her door. My stepmother has suffered from an affliction of the lungs for many years and a doctor has been in constant attendance. Imagine my horror when I was informed by Dr Royce Miles that he no longer calls upon Lady Abernetty — at the request of her son Charles, and this after a professional attendance of many years." Her lower lip trembled. "Mr Holmes, I fear for my stepmother's life."

  My friend frowned. "Have you reason to believe your brother and sister have anything but the most loving regard for their mother?"

  Mabel Bertram coughed discreetly behind a lace-trimmed handkerchief. "My stepmother has many admirable qualities, Mr Holmes, but I think it fair to say that with her children she was something of a Tartar. There was never any question of either Charles or Sabina marrying. Her formidable manner drove away any suitors or lady friends. Alice much preferred to have them at her own beck and call. Son and daughter have always been expected to stay close to home and Alice has always kept a tight grip on the purse-strings. Now I hear Sabina's been seen gadding about in new gowns and Charles has joined the Footlights Amateur Dramatic Society."

  "Dear me!" Holmes smiled in amusement.

  "Mr Holmes, I fear my stepmother no longer has the power to influence her children."

  "Would that be such a bad thing?" asked my friend, quietly. "Their indulgences seem innocent enough." He suddenly lifted a piercing gaze to her companion. "In what capacity do you accompany Mrs Bertram, Mr Aston Plush?"

  The gentleman hesitated. "As Mrs Bertram's legal adviser and friend."

  "You are a solicitor then?"

  "Mr Plush handled my late husband's estate and before that his business affairs," intervened Mrs Bertram. "He has been kind enough to act for me in this matter."

  "I have written several letters expressing Mrs Bertram's concern and requesting access to her stepmother. Beyond

  that my hands are tied. There is no legal way we can obtain admittance to the house on Grosvenor Square. Were we to force entry the Abernettys would be quite within their rights to summon the police."

  "I did enter the house through the servants' entrance on the first day I was refused admittance," confessed Mrs Bertram, with a slight blush.

  "You did not tell me this ..." began the lawyer in a vexed tone.

  "My dear, it was a humiliating experience. I was actually ejected by the butler. Charles and Sabina reacted with quite uncharacteristic hostility. Perhaps because I had seen evidence of their neglect of their mother."

  "Indeed, and what was that?" Holmes glanced at her keenly.

  "It was Lady Abernetty's custom to have a roll with parsley butter for her breakfast every morning. The cook had obviously

  prepared the tray, but there was the butter still standing on the table at noon with the parsley quite sunk into the butter. Alice always demanded a well-run, fastidious kitchen ..."

  "And when did this visit take place?" interrupted Holmes. "On the first day of August."

  "And you have not seen Lady Abernetty since." He returned his attention to Aston Plush. "Did you receive any response to your correspondence?"

  "Two letters, one from each of the children and each couched in similar terms, reiterating that their mother wished no further communication with Mrs Bertram. There was no cause for alarm concerning Lady Abernetty's health. Would Mrs Bertram please leave the matter as it stands?"

  My friend returned his gaze to Mabel Bertram's face. "But you feel you cannot do so ..."

  The lady leaned forward. "I see I must confide in you my darkest fears. You may think me a fanciful, even hysterical woman, but I fear my stepmother has met with foul play. Only tell me this isn't so, Mr Holmes, and I will never intrude upon them again."

  "Of course there is also the matter of the Power of Attorney," interjected Plush.

  "Which has been given to the son?"

  "Presumably."

  My friend was silent for several minutes, his eyes closed, while the lady continued to gaze at him beseechingly. Behind Mrs Bertram's chair, Mr Aston Plush stirred uneasily.

  When Sherlock Holmes reached a decision about taking a case he often moved quite abruptly. He did so now, springing briskly from his chair. "I will look into the matter for you."

  "Oh, Mr Holmes, you will find me so grateful."

  "And generous." Mr Plush had come forward to assist his client from her chair.

  She flashed him a glance before she lowered her veil.

  "Hopefully you will hear from me within the week. Watson, the door."

  "How will you ... ?" she enquired timidly.

  "My methods are my own. Good-day to you," he returned, brusquely.

  I ushered out the pair and returned to find Holmes filling his pipe from a tobacco pouch he kept in an old Turkish slipper on the mantelpiece.

  "Well, what did you make of that,Watson?" he asked, smiling.

  "It seemed to me a tawdry affair. But, of course, the lady's anxiety was genuine."

  My friend laughed softly. "One of your most endearing qualities, Watson, is your naivete about the good in people."

  I must confess to feeling slightly nettled by my friend's cynicism. "How did she strike you?"

  "Here we have a rather theatrical, still-handsome woman who knows how to deploy her charms. Did you notice which chair she took? With her back to the window, away from the daylight and where the firelight would soften and enhance her looks."

  "She may not have wished to sully her dress with the rather obvious pipe-ash scattered on your chair," I retorted.

  "Well done!" approved my friend. "And what did you make of the silent partner?"

  "Mr Ashton Plush? I was surprised a lawyer should take such an interest in a domestic squabble."

  "Indeed. I feel he has what is generally termed a vested interest. Did you mark where he stood,Watson?"

  "Behind her chair, in a most protective manner."

  "No, where his own face was in shadow and he could observe me observing her. He wanted to gauge my reaction to her story. There's more to this than meets the eye, Watson. A lady dressed in the height of fashion in the company of a man some ten years younger than herself. She evinces little sympathy for the plight of her siblings, yet a great deal of concern for her stepmother. What is her real concern? We might look into the father's background." He took down a
red-covered reference book from the mantelpiece. "Ah, yes, Abernetty, Sir William, knighted for services to the crown. A son of impoverished country gentry. Made a fortune in the East by mysterious and possibly devious means. Returned to England in 1830 whereupon he married Clarissa, daughter of Sir Arthur Humphrey, and entered politics. Money opens many doors Watson, even one on Grosvenor Square. Wife died in 1848, one daughter Mabel. Married Miss Alice Fernberton 1850, died 1852. Aha, Watson! Made some bad investments in the East Indies, died with his fortune considerably reduced."

  "What does that tell us, Holmes?"

  "I'm not sure, but it should tell us something. What did you think of the story of the parsley sunk into the butter?"

  "Almost ludicrous."

  Holmes looked at me musingly. "Did you indeed? I hope to teach you the importance of trivialities. Do you have the time to join me on this adventure, Watson, if it is indeed to be an adventure? I doubt if I can promise you a baboon or a cheetah on this occasion."

  "My dear Holmes, if you think I could possibly be of use." I still felt a thrill of pride at having my assistance requested as I had not yet shared as many exploits with my friend as I have to this date and it was all quite new and uncharted to my prosaic way of life.

  Holmes smiled in one of his rare flashes of warmth. "Thank you. I shall as always value your company. And your medical expertise may be of value should we chance to meet the invalid. But at the moment I would greatly appreciate your going to your club. You may even choose to spend the night there to avoid the evening fog. I have to give this matter a great deal of thought and I can't predict how many pipes will bring me to a solution."

  Being aware of his practice of using tobacco for a stimulus to his thought processes until the room was filled with an acrid pall of smoke, I was happy to oblige.

  When I returned next day at noon I was met by an astonishing sight. My friend stood in our little sitting-room transformed into a Bohemian with flowing locks, a flourishing moustache, a hat with a curled brim, a dashing cape and yellow spotted silk bandana knotted at his throat.