Sherlock Holmes and the Three Poisoned Pawns Read online

  Sherlock Holmes and the Three Poisoned Pawns

  Emanuel E. Garcia, Roger Jaynes and Eddie Maguire

  © Emanuel E. Garcia, Roger Jaynes and Eddie Maguire 2008.

  Emanuel E. Garcia, Roger Jaynes and Eddie Maguire have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the authors of this work

  First published in the UK by Irregular Press 2008.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Sherlock Holmes and the Mystery of Hamlet

  Sherlock Holmes and the Belgravian Letter

  Sherlock Holmes and the Highcliffe Invitation

  Sherlock Holmes and the

  Mystery of Hamlet

  Emanuel E. Garcia

  Foreword

  Upon his death my uncle Sir John H. Watson entrusted to me, as executor, his literary estate. He generously gave me carte blanche, asking only that I exercise 'common sense' when it came to publishing the cases and notes that were archived in Cox and Co. bank at Charing Cross. As a result, accounts of the Sumatran rat, the red leech, Wilson the canary-trainer, the story of the lighthouse, the affair of the aluminium crutch, the steamship Friesland, etc., were eventually incorporated into a complete standardised edition of the Holmes' chronicles. The world has, I believe, been the richer.

  The present manuscript, that I discovered serendipitously within a cache of yet to be catalogued miscellanea, bears several marks of distinction. First, for reasons as yet to be ascertained, it was neither complete nor filed away with Sir John’s other meticulously preserved case reports at Cox’s Bank. Second, the action of the tale – if action it can be called that – occurs in the last year of Holmes’ life, and both its principal content and evidence of Sir John’s visit are corroborated by Sigmund Freud in the only extant allusion to the chronicle: an as yet unpublished letter addressed to my uncle and dated 23rd May 1939. Finally, it is a singular example of the application of Holmes’ science of deduction to literature and as such reveals a striking and novel facet of the great detective’s powers.

  I am certain Sir John would never have wished to withhold an account of his friend’s most unique triumph from the general public.

  James J. Watson, Esq.

  London

  Saturday, 16th July 1938

  It has been over a decade since last we met. I had travelled from London at Holmes' unexpected and urgent request – his summonses were always urgent – and I wondered what new game might be afoot, unlikely as it might seem given our advanced years. Europe was on the brink of cataclysm. Could it be that as before my dear friend had been engaged by a representative of the Government to match wits against an increasingly dangerous and evil foe? As I strolled along the gravel path leading to the door of his cottage in Sussex, I could not help but admire the quiet natural beauty of the surroundings in which the great man had chosen to spend the days since his retirement from criminology.

  On my right lay an extensive herb garden whose curiously mingled scents recalled for me the markets of Afghanistan, and to my left in the distance ranged hive upon hive of the apiary to which Holmes was now devoting so much of his intellectual acumen. Surprisingly enough I could hear from the direction of his cottage the harmoniously plaintive sounds of violin and piano borne aloft by a gentle afternoon breeze.

  Had Holmes arranged for a celebration of our reunion? If so, it would be most unusual. Nonetheless the mere thought stirred me deeply. Though my ear was not a particularly musical one – not at all up to the fine standard of my friend's – the strangely exquisite harmonies and the tender yet strong melodic lines fit so unerringly into the Sussex countryside that I found myself rooted to the spot, quite overcome by emotion. Fearing to disturb the spell being woven by this strange compelling music I lingered motionless on the path until the final notes had died away and the low insistent hum of bird and insect life re-assumed prominence.

  As I approached the threshold the door swung open before I could knock and there stood my dear companion, virtually unchanged save for his now silvery-white hair, as fit and lean as he had been at Baker Street. His incessantly observant grey eyes were sparkling.

  “Watson!” exclaimed Holmes as we warmly clasped hands. “Time has treated you well I see.”

  “Holmes!” I stammered, scarcely able to pronounce his name as my eyes brimmed.

  “Come along, my dear fellow,” he continued, “and allow me to introduce you to someone.”

  I coughed and brushed my cheeks with the sleeve of my overcoat. Not since Holmes' miraculous reappearance in my rooms years after I had believed him to be dead had I experienced such emotional consternation. Luckily this time I did not faint – had I done so, I would have been deprived of an exquisite sight. Just under a window that overlooked a lovely patch of verdant terrain was a piano, and sitting at the instrument was an extraordinarily handsome young woman.

  “Mrs Grant, this is the dear comrade-in-arms of whom I have so often spoken,” announced Holmes. By now I had fully – no, thank-fully – regained my composure. She rose courteously and I took her hand in greeting. A sweet pang reminded me of my long-deceased wife Mary. There was something so familiar …

  “Well, Watson, do you see the resemblance?” interrupted Holmes.

  I gazed intently at her enchanting countenance. Years of intimate association with the most acutely perceptive mind in Europe had not gone wasted.

  “Could it be, Mrs Grant,” I tentatively inquired at last, “that you are related to our former landlady, one Mrs Hudson?”

  She smiled broadly and Holmes nearly leapt with excitement.

  “Watson, you exceed my expectations!” he cried. “I see that my methods have left a legacy. Fancy that here in my retirement from the fog and crowds of London I should yet encounter a reminder of the old days. As you undoubtedly have already ascertained, Mrs Grant is an accomplished pianist, and as a vicar's wife she has ample occasion to exercise her musical artistry for her parishioners’ benefit.”

  “But where is her partner, Holmes? I distinctly heard a violin and, meaning no disrespect to Mrs Grant, she was every bit an equal.”

  Holmes grinned.

  “She, Watson?”

  “Well, such delicacy of touch could only be attained by a feminine nature – it was the stamp of a virtuoso; and judging from the splendid interplay with Mrs Grant, it must be someone with whom she practices assiduously.” I grew heady with conjecture. “A sister – yes! Mrs Grant, I believe you have been accompanying your sister – an elder sister, I should add – and that her absence now can mean only that she has excused herself to powder her nose in preparation for imminent departure.”

  I must say, I fully expected Mrs Grant's elder sister to appear momentarily. Holmes was shaking his head and Mrs Grant blushed.

  “Watson, Watson, I am afraid I spoke too soon,” said Holmes, nearly convulsed with laughter. “You should have stopped after your early triumph of detection. Mrs Grant is indeed related to our dear landlady – she is her grandniece – touché! But her musical partner stands before you.”

  I was astonished. Naturally I knew of Holmes' penchant for picking up the fiddle and scraping away for hours on end in Baker Street, particularly when involved in a case that tested his intellectual prowess. But today I had heard an artist – not an amateur – of the instrument.

  “If you'll excuse me, Dr Watson, but I really must be returning to the vicarage,” said the captivating Mrs Grant, adding mischievously while taking her leave of Holmes, “my sister awaits.”

&n
bsp; I seated myself, flustered and flabbergasted, and Holmes brought out the cigars.

  “Watson, bee keeping and horticulture have been daytime pursuits – my nights have not been idle. Music has much occupied me. Did I not send you my treatise on the polyphonic motets of Lassus?”

  “Yes, Holmes, of course – but your musicological research would not suffice to explain this new found virtuosity at a time of life when one's physical powers cannot but have deteriorated significantly.”

  “Watson, you are much too much a follower of so-called 'scientific' prejudice. We improve with age, my dear man – with age the wealth of our knowledge and experience, the complexity of our understanding – they enhance our powers! Too many of us are lulled by superstitions into neglecting the cultivation of mind and body. My hair may be white, Watson, but I can assure you that the organ it protects is keener than ever! And you would be amazed to learn what a creative mind may attain, even under the most inauspicious conditions.”

  Holmes beamed with enthusiasm.

  “The music you heard moments ago, Watson – would you believe that it was composed by a man blind and paralysed, a man in nearly constant pain who required the unstinting assistance of others to do what you and I take for granted? Would you believe that a man in such a state would be able somehow to convey musical ideas of such exquisite and complex beauty to an amanuensis?”

  “Impossible, Holmes, impossible!” I retorted.

  “No, my dear Watson, not impossible, but fact. Implausible, perhaps, but true. Had you spent less time in the billiard room the names Fenby and Delius might be familiar.”

  I bristled under Holmes' condescension.

  "However, to return to your questioning of my musical technique … I have always maintained, Watson, that if a fellow merely takes the time to observe he will inevitably discover something of value. You will admit my fondness for the violin, and I will admit my extraordinary good luck in securing for myself at so little cost an instrument of such merit as the Stradivarius. Unfortunately during the salad days of our criminal investigations I had neither the time nor enthusiasm for the refinement of technique to do this magnificent instrument justice. But here in Sussex, among my bees and plants, I have been blessed with both.”

  Holmes poured two brandies and fetched two more cigars.

  “In my concert-going excursions I always paid particular attention to the solo violin, and I noted invariably that the wheat and chaff among soloists could quite easily be separated. The truly outstanding violinist, Watson, would be capable of playing pianissimo – but with a most robust and accurate tone; furthermore, he – or she – could also play both presto and pianissimo simultaneously. Lesser musicians can play fast only if they play rather loud, and are generally unable to project a rich sound in passages requiring utmost sensitivity.”

  As a physician I now warmed to the topic.

  “It seems to me to be a matter of fine muscular control, Holmes: lesser control invariably involves compensatory pressure – in other words, one disguises one's deficiencies by pressing with greater force upon the strings.”

  “Precisely, Watson. Reasoning thus, I thereupon devised a very simple but quite effective method of practice which resulted in the virtuosic display – if you will pardon my immodesty – that graced your ear today.”

  “Holmes, I cannot help but admire you! How did you do it, what were the particulars?”

  “They were – elementary, my dear Watson!”

  Holmes and I both laughed at the deliberate misquotation from my chronicles, which had made its way into common parlance.

  “I wilfully abandoned all inclination to produce a beautiful sound and concentrated instead on playing extremely slowly and softly – painfully slowly and softly, Watson, painfully … It was anguish at first, I can tell you – but gradually, over the ensuing weeks and months I discovered that I could produce twice the tone with half the effort – and much more accurately than ever – when I played up to speed and volume. I need not bore you with every detail, but I am especially proud of the fact that the series of exercises I devised included, at appropriate stages, the purposeful elimination of vibrato, and also a deliberate restriction of the lateral movement of the bow to a narrow channel strictly parallel to bridge and fingerboard. Suffice it to say that I have never played better. Miracle, Watson? No, mere common-sense – with a dash of discipline.”

  “Holmes, you leave me speechless,” I answered.

  “A paradoxical response if I've ever heard one,” he retorted wittily.

  “But here, let me demonstrate.”

  He ran to snatch his fiddle and proceeded to illustrate the methodology, stage by stage. As a medical doctor concerned with physiology I was captivated by the obvious efficacy of these simple but masterful technical exercises, and as a friend I marvelled.

  “I hope I have made my point, Watson,” continued Holmes as he replaced the violin in its case, “and I also hope that you realise something of the valuable psychological consequences of practicing in this manner.”

  Holmes paused, peering strangely at me.

  “I have not yet been able to publish these findings because a matter far more pressing has absorbed my attention of late.”

  A feverish glow had suffused Holmes' face, so familiar to me from the past during periods of acute excitation preceding the denouement of an especially challenging case. I confess, however, that I wondered about the darker side of my friend's personality. The consternation must have been apparent, for Holmes' air grew perceptibly lighter and his words reassuring.

  “You need not concern yourself with my health, Watson. I have grown far too sensible, and I am no longer dependent on the thrill of the chase for sustenance. No, my pursuits have been rich and engrossing. I fear the golden age of criminal detection has disappeared, and a new one is upon us. Today the great criminals are criminals of state: artless, transparent and brutal. Even the Lestrades of the world are losing ground, their services confined to petty and guileless infractions. I see a time in the not too distant future – if there is a future, that is – when the gathering and correlation of evidence will be completely mechanised, and the Moriarties of society will exhaust their stratagems no longer as members of the underworld but as legitimate politicians! No, Watson, we have had our day …”

  Holmes mused, blowing desultory smoke rings towards the ceiling.

  “I do not mean to say that the principles upon which I exercised my faculties are obsolete or invalid – only that their fields of action have been altered. My studies in horticulture and bee keeping, in music and even in literature – yes, Watson, you thoroughly underestimated my love of letters – have been immensely satisfying.”

  “Tell me, Holmes, of your discoveries – surely you have retained the capacity to astonish.”

  Holmes smiled. He was a softer, graver man this evening.

  “The wonders of nature, Watson, and the wonders of mankind at its best – in its exercise of the creative imagination in both art and science – they are limitlessly rewarding. You might say that my former obsession with the darkest, most devious and destructive aspects of human existence was a kind of preparatory schooling for my present preoccupations, of which you unfortunately know so little. Our most exhausting adventures are as nothing compared to the rigours of my recent investigations.”

  I sat entranced by the quiet enthusiasm of my friend who teased me with the promise of other mysteries.

  “Take bees, for example, Watson. Mere insects – of interest to our species primarily for the honey they produce. Would it surprise you to learn that these fascinating organisms can speak?” Holmes asked impishly.

  “Preposterous!” I involuntarily exclaimed.

  “I did not say 'talk', my friend – no. But bees have indeed evolved a language of no little specificity and sophistication.”

  “Go on, Holmes, “ I replied.

  “During the years preceding the Altamont affair I had occasion to correspond with an Austrian
entomologist who at my suggestion pursued a line of research leading to the discovery that bees can perceive colour – and more. They can signal to each other the exact location of food sources – by dancing.”

  “The next thing you will have me believe is that they can sing too,” I expostulated.

  Holmes laughed kindly.

  “Well, they do buzz – you will not deny that, will you? But they also dance. If one of their scouts discovers a source of food close to the hive – say, a particularly fragrant cluster of flowers rich in nectar – upon his return he executes what my correspondent von Frisch calls a 'round dance' which marshals the inhabitants of the hive to fly forth to their treasure. But there is more to it, Watson. I believe I have finally persuaded von Frisch to my view that there is yet another kind of dance, a dance that is distinctly different – it involves waggling.”

  “Waggling?” I interjected, mildly stupefied.

  “Yes, it is a 'waggle dance', my dear fellow.”

  Here Holmes traced what looked to be figure-of-eights rapidly in the air with his forefinger.

  “The 'waggle dance' is employed to signal the location of food sources at a considerable distance from the hive, beyond 50 meters. Amazingly enough the particulars of the dance indicate quite precisely both the distance of the food source from the hive and its direction in relation to the position of the sun. In short, Watson, bees have their own language – and a most remarkably articulate one. As I have often told you, when the impossible is eliminated, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

  I merely shook my head.

  “Like you, von Frisch was incredulous at the suggestion, but I have no doubt that my facts will win him over.”

  Holmes indicated volume upon volume filled with the meticulous observations he had charted over the years. He continued.