A Study in Terror Read online

  “And your alertness is to be commended,” said Holmes, as he took the parcel. After his long-suffering landlady left, he added, “Just recently, Mrs. Hudson brought me a parcel. It was in connection with an unpleasant little affair I brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and it was sent by a vengeful gentleman who under-estimated the keenness of my hearing. The ticking of the mechanism was quite audible to me, and I called for a pail of water. The incident gave Mrs. Hudson a turn from which she has still not recovered.”

  “I don’t wonder!”

  “But what have we here? Hmmm. Approximately fifteen inches by six. Four inches thick. Neatly wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Postmark, Whitechapel. The name and address written by a woman, I should hazard, who seldom puts pen to paper.”

  “That seems quite likely, from the clumsy scrawl. And that is certainly done in a woman’s hand.”

  “Then we agree, Watson. Excellent! Shall we delve deeper?”

  “By all means!”

  The arrival of the parcel had aroused his interest, not to mention mine; his deep-set grey eyes grew bright when he removed the wrappings and drew forth a flat leather case. He held it up for my inspection. “Well, now. What do you make of this, Watson?”

  “It is a surgeon’s instrument-case.”

  “And who would be better qualified to know? Would you not say also that it is expensive?”

  “Yes. The leather is of superb quality. And the workmanship is exquisite.”

  Holmes set the case upon the table. He opened it, and we fell silent. It was a standard set of instruments, each fitting snugly into its appropriate niche in the crimson-velvet lining of the case. One niche was empty.

  “Which instrument is missing, Watson?”

  “The large scalpel.”

  “The post-mortem knife,” said Holmes, nodding and whipping out his lens. “And now, what does this case tell us?” As he examined the case and its contents closely, he went on. “To begin with the obvious, these instruments belonged to a medical man who came upon hard times.”

  Obliged, as usual, to confess my blindness, I said, “I am afraid that is more obvious to you than to me.”

  Preoccupied with his inspection, Holmes replied absently, “If you should fall victim to misfortune, Watson, which would be the last of your possessions to reach the pawn-broker’s shop?”

  “My medical instruments, of course. But—”

  “Precisely.”

  “Wherein do you perceive that this case was pledged?”

  “There is double proof. Observe, just there, through my lens.”

  I peered at the spot he indicated. “A white smudge.”

  “Silver-polish. No surgeon would cleanse his instruments with such a substance. These have been treated like common cutlery by someone concerned only with their appearance.”

  “Now that you point it out, Holmes, I must agree. And what is your second proof?”

  “These chalk-marks along the spine of the case. They are almost worn away, but if you will examine them closely, you will see that they constitute a number. Such a number as a pawn-broker would chalk upon a pledged article. Obviously, the counterpart of the number upon the pawn-ticket.”

  I felt the choler rising to my face. It was all too evident to me now.

  “Then the kit was stolen!” I exclaimed. “Stolen from some surgeon, and disposed of, for a pittance, in a pawn-shop!” My readers will forgive my indignation, I am sure; it was difficult for me to accept the alternative—that the practitioner would have parted with the instruments of a noble calling under even the most grievous circumstances.

  Holmes, however, soon disillusioned me. “I fear, my dear Watson,” said he, quite cheerfully, “that you do not perceive the finer aspects of the evidence. Pawn-brokers are a canny breed. It is part of their stock-in-trade not only to appraise the articles brought to them for pledge, but the persons offering them as well. Had the broker who dispensed his largesse for this surgical-case entertained the slightest suspicion that it had been stolen, he would not have displayed it in his shop-window, as of course you observe he has done.”

  “As of course I do not!” said I, testily. “How can you possibly know that the case has been displayed in a window?”

  “Look closely,” said Holmes. “The case lay open in a place exposed to the sun; does not the faded velvet on the inner surface of the lid tell us that? Moreover, the pronounced character of the fading marks the time-span as an appreciable one. Surely this adds up to a shop-window?”

  I could only nod. As always, when Holmes explained his astonishing observations, they appeared child’s-play.

  “It is a pity,” said I, “that we do not know where the pawn-shop lies. This curious gift might merit a visit to its source.”

  “Perhaps in good time, Watson,” said Holmes, with a dry chuckle. “The pawn-shop in question is well off the beaten track. It faces south, on a narrow street. The broker’s business is not flourishing. Also, he is of foreign extraction. Surely you see that?”

  “I see nothing of the sort!” said I, nettled again.

  “To the contrary,” said he, placing his fingertips together and regarding me kindly, “you see everything, my dear Watson; what you fail to do is to observe. Let us take my conclusions in order. These instruments were not snatched up by any of the numerous medical students in the City of London, which would assuredly have been the case had the shop lain on a well-travelled thoroughfare. Hence my remark that it lies off the beaten track.”

  “But must it lie on the south side of a narrow street?”

  “Note the location of the bleached area. It runs neatly along the uppermost edge of the velvet lining, not elsewhere. Therefore, the sun touched the open case only at its zenith, when its rays were not obstructed by the buildings on the opposite side of the street. Thus the pawnshop stands on the south side of a narrow street.”

  “And your identification of the pawn-broker as of foreign extraction?”

  “Observe the numeral seven in the chalked pledge-mark on the spine. There is a short cross-mark on the ascender. Only a foreigner crosses his sevens in such a fashion.”

  I felt, as usual, like the fifth-form school-boy who had forgotten the words to the national anthem. “Holmes, Holmes,” said I, shaking my head, “I shall never cease to marvel—”

  But he was not listening. Again, he had stooped over the case, inserting his tweezers beneath the velvet lining. It gave way, and he peeled it off.

  “Aha! What have we here? An attempt at concealment?”

  “Concealment? Of what? Stains? Scratches?”

  He pointed a long, thin finger. “That.”

  “Why, it’s a coat of arms!”

  “One with which I confess I am not familiar. Therefore, Watson, be kind enough to hand down my copy of Burke’s Peerage.”

  He continued to study the crest as I moved dutifully towards the book-shelves, murmuring to himself. “Stamped into the leather of the case. The surface is still in excellent condition.” He came erect. “A clew to the character of the man who owned the case.”

  “He was careful with his possessions, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps. But I was referring to—”

  He broke off. I had handed him the Burke, and he leafed swiftly through the pages. “Aha, here we have it!” After a quick scrutiny, Holmes closed the book, laid it on the table, and dropped into a chair. He stared intently into space with his piercing eyes.

  I could contain my patience no longer. “The crest, Holmes! Whose is it?”

  “I beg your pardon, Watson,” said Holmes, coming to with a start. “Shires. Kenneth Osbourne, the Duke of Shires.”

  The name was well-known to me, as indeed to all England. “An illustrious line.”

  Holmes nodded absently. “The estates, unless I mistake, lie in Devonshire, hard by the moors, among hunting-lands well-regarded by noble sportsmen. The manor house—it is more of a feudal castle in appearance—is some four hundred years old, a classic example of Gothic architecture. I know little of the Shires history, beyond the patent fact that the name has never been connected with the world of crime.”

  “So, Holmes,” said I, “we are back to the original question.”

  “Indeed we are.”

  “Which is: this surgeon’s-case—why was it sent to you?”

  “A provocative question.”

  “Perhaps an explanatory letter was delayed.”

  “You may well have hit upon the answer, Watson,” said Holmes. “Therefore, I suggest we give the sender a little time, let us say until—” he paused to reach for his well-worn Bradshaw’s, that admirable guide to British rail movements “—until ten-thirty to-morrow morning. If an explanation is not then forthcoming, we shall repair to Paddington Station and board the Devonshire express.”

  “For what reason, Holmes?”

  “For two reasons. A short journey across the English countryside, with its changing colours at this time of year, should greatly refresh two stodgy Londoners.”

  “And the other?”

  The austere face broke into the most curious smile. “In all justice,” said my friend Holmes, “the Duke of Shires should have his property returned to him, should he not?” And he sprang to his feet and seized his violin.

  “Wait, Holmes!” said I. “There is something in this you have not told me.”

  “No, no, my dear Watson,” said he, drawing his bow briskly across the strings. “It is simply a feeling I have, that we are about to embark upon deep waters.”

  Ellery Continues

  Ellery raised his eyes from the manuscript. Grant Ames, III, was at the scotch again.

  “You will be cut down eventually,” Ellery said, “by a pickled liver.”

  “Killjoy,” Ames said. “But at the moment I feel myself a part of history, son. An actor under the Great Proscenium.”

  “Drinking himself to death?”

  “Bluenose. I’m talking of the manuscript. In the year 1888 Sherlock Holmes received a mysterious surgeon’s-kit. He trained his marvelous talents on it and began one of his marvelous adventures. Three-quarters of a century later, another package is delivered to another famous detective.”

  “What’s your point?” grumbled Ellery, visibly torn between Dr. Watson’s manuscript and the empty typewriter.

  “All that remains to complete the historic rerun is to train the modern talent on the modern adventure. Proceed, my dear Ellery. I’ll function as Watson.”

  Ellery squirmed.

  “Of course, you may challenge my bona fides. In substantiation, I point out that I have followed the Master’s career faithfully.”

  That pierced the fog. Ellery studied his guest distastefully. “Really? All right, wise guy. Quote: ‘It was in the spring of the year 1894 and all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the—’? ”

  “ ‘—Honourable Ronald Adair.’ Unquote,” said Ames promptly. “The Adventure of the Empty House, from The Return of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Quote: ‘She had drawn a little gleaming revolver and emptied barrel after barrel into—’ ”

  “ ‘—Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt-front.’ Unquote. The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.”

  “You scintillate, Watson! Quote: ‘These are the trodden, but not the downtrodden. These are the lowly, but never the low.’ ”

  “Unquote.” The playboy yawned. “Your efforts to trap me are childish, my dear Ellery. You quoted yourself, from The Player on the Other Side”

  Ellery scowled at him. The fellow was not all overstuffed blondes and expensive scotch. “Touche, touche. Now let’s see—I’m sure I can stick you—”

  “I’m sure you can if you stall long enough, but that’s exactly what I’m not going to let you do. Go into your act, Mr. Queen. You’ve read the first chapter of the manuscript. If you don’t come up with some Queenian deductions, I’ll never borrow a book of yours again.”

  “All I can tell you at the moment is that the handwriting purporting to be Watson’s is precise, firm, and a little crabbed.”

  “You don’t sound like Holmes to me, old buddy. The question is, is it Watson’s? Is the manuscript the McCoy? Come, come, Queen! Apply your powers.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Ellery said, and he went on reading.

  Chapter II

  THE CASTLE ON THE MOOR

  In his later life, as I have recorded elsewhere, my friend Sherlock Holmes retired from the feverish pace of London to keep bees, of all things, on the South Downs. He thus terminated his career with no regret whatever, turning to that husbandman’s activity with the same single-mindedness that had enabled him to track down so many of the world’s cleverest criminals.

  But at the time Jack the Ripper stalked London’s streets and by-ways, Holmes was a whole-hearted creature of urban life. His every faculty was keyed to the uncertainties of London’s dawns and dusks. The sinister stench of a Soho alley could set his nostrils a-quiver, whilst the scent of spring stirring a rural countryside might well put him a-dozing.

  It was therefore with surprise and pleasure that I witnessed his interest in the passing scene as the express hurtled us towards Devonshire that morning. He gazed through the window with a concentrated air, then suddenly straightened his thin shoulders.

  “Ah, Watson! The sharp air of approaching winter. It is invigorating.”

  I for one found it not so at the moment, an atrocious cigar between the teeth of a dour old Scot, who had boarded with us, befouling the compartment. But Holmes seemed not to notice the reek. Outside, the leaves were turning, and flashes of autumnal colour streamed past.

  “This England, Watson. This other Eden, demi-Paradise.”

  I recognised the near-quotation and was doubly surprised. I knew, certainly, of the sentimental streak in my friend, but he rarely allowed it to show through the fabric of his scientific nature. Yet, pride of birthright in the Briton is a national trait, and Holmes had not escaped it.

  As our journey neared its destination, his cheerful mien vanished; he became pensive. We were on the moors, those broad stretches of mire and morass that cling like a great scab to England’s face. As if Nature insisted upon a proper setting, the sun had vanished behind thick cloud-banks, and we seemed to have been plunged into a place of eternal twilight.

  We soon found ourselves upon the platform of a small country station, where Holmes thrust his hands deep into his pockets, his deep-set eyes kindled, as they so often did when he was beset by a problem.

  “Do you recall the affair of the Baskervilles, Watson, and the curse that darkened their lives?”

  “Well do I!”

  “We are not far from their holdings. But of course we go in the opposite direction.”

  “And just as well. That hound of Hell still haunts my dreams.”

  I was puzzled. Ordinarily, when Holmes was involved in a case, he viewed his surroundings single-mindedly, sharply aware of a bruised twig while remaining oblivious of the landscape in which it lay. At such times, reminiscence was no part of it. Now he stirred restlessly, as though he regretted having allowed impulse to send him upon our journey.

  “Watson,” said he, “let us arrange for the rental of a dog-cart, and get this business over with.”

  The pony we procured no doubt had relations among the ones that ran wild on the moors, but the little beast was tractable enough, and it clipped steadily away at the road between the village and the Shires land-hold.

  After a time, the turrets of Shires Castle came into view, adding their tone of melancholy to the scene.

  “The game-preserves are beyond,” said Holmes. “The Duke has a variegated terrain.” He scanned the country before us and added, “I doubt, Watson, that we shall find a jolly, red-cheeked host in that forbidding pile.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “People of long blood-lines tend to reflect the colour of their surroundings. You will recall that there was not a single cheerful face at Baskerville Hall.”

  I did not dispute this, my attention being fixed upon the scowling grey of Shires Castle. It had once been complete with moat and draw-bridge. However, more modern generations had come to depend for defence of life and limb upon the local constabulary. The moat had been filled in, and the bridge-chains had not creaked for many a year.

  We were ushered into a cold and cavernous drawing-room by a butler who took our names like Charon checking our passage across the Styx. I soon learned that Holmes’s prediction had been accurate. The Duke of Shires was as icily forbidding a man as ever I had met.

  He was of slight stature and gave the impression of being phthisical. It was an illusion. Upon closer inspection I saw a well-blooded face, and I sensed a wiry strength in his frail-appearing body.

  The Duke did not invite us to be seated. Instead, he stated abruptly, “You were fortunate in finding me here. Another hour, and I should have been on my way to London. I spend little time here in the country. What is your business?”

  Holmes’s tone in no way reflected the ill-manners of the nobleman. “We will intrude upon your time no longer than is necessary, your Grace. We came merely to bring you this.”

  He proffered the surgeon’s-kit, which we had wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with sealing-wax.

  “What is it?” said the Duke, not stirring.

  “I suggest, your Grace,” replied Holmes, “that you open it and discover for yourself.”

  With a frown, the Duke of Shires stripped off the wrappings. “Where did you get this?”

  “I regret that I must first ask your Grace to identify it as your property.”

  “I have never seen it before. What earthly reason had you for bringing it to me?” The Duke had raised the lid and was staring at the instruments with what certainly appeared to be genuine bewilderment.

  “If you will draw down the lining, you will find our reason imprinted upon the leather underneath.”

  The Duke followed Holmes’s suggestion, still frowning. I was watching closely as he stared at the coat of arms, and it was my turn to feel bewilderment. His expression changed. The palest of smiles touched his thin lips, his eyes brightened, and he regarded the case with a look I can only describe as one of intense satisfaction, almost of triumph. Then, as quickly, the look vanished.