Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

CHAPTER 3

Rejection

‘Mrs McLaren, you have made your point, albeit more theatrically than necessary. What is so funny, Doctor?’

I shrugged and he continued.

‘Dynamite is the classic tool of the railway builder, the miner, and the anarchist. These appear to be Nobel’s latest type, made in their Scottish factory. What do you think these were doing in this form, wrapped as though filled, and yet not? Dummies, you say. And where exactly did you find them?’

Mrs McLaren smiled. ‘I have no idea. I found these two dummies, and a cache of what I believe were filled sticks in a tool shed in the back of the kitchen garden. And as to your other question, I have only to guess.’

‘Please do not. Guessing is for amateurs. Is there anyone in your family connected to the Scots Separatist movement? To the Russian Revolution? To French anarchists?’ He paused. ‘To the women’s suffrage movement?’

‘You have covered a great deal of territory, Mr Holmes. I myself support women’s right to vote as any clear thinker must. But I am not a radical. As to the rest, I could not be certain. Politics are not the primary subject at our family gatherings.’

‘What is, then?’

‘Money, Mr Holmes. The whisky business. Techniques of distillation, ponies, hunting, local gossip – and ghosts.’

Holmes sighed. ‘Dynamite is used in clearing lands for new buildings, is it not? And has your distillery been recently enlarged? Is there not a logical reason for dynamite to be present for these uses?’

‘Well, yes,’ said the lady. ‘But I wonder about the dummies.’

Silence. Small sounds came from the chemistry table. Holmes’s knee vibrated in impatience.

‘Madam,’ he said after a moment. ‘There are many hints of mystery in your various stories, and yet I am afraid I do not see a case for me. Dr Watson will show you out.’

I will admit my astonishment at this. I thought there was quite enough intrigue presented for several cases! But even more puzzling was Holmes’s rudeness to the lady. While he could on occasion display insensitivity, he was usually the soul of courtesy, especially where women were concerned.

Mrs McLaren stood abruptly and I rose with her. ‘I can find my way out, Dr Watson,’ she said. She then turned to my companion.

‘I am afraid I have wasted your time,’ said the lady. ‘And my own.’

Mrs McLaren took her leave, and as soon as the front door closed behind her downstairs, I could not contain myself. ‘Holmes! Why do you hesitate? There is so much of interest here! And Mrs McLaren—’

‘What? A servant girl has her hair shorn, servants fear ghosts, and some empty dynamite sticks may or may not have been found in a garden shed? By the way, those were not created as dummies. Someone had removed the cordite, for whatever reason. I suspect the lady herself did so, then brought these along to bring out if her other stories failed to get my attention.’

‘Holmes, that is an outrageous notion!’

He shrugged. ‘Do you not think her capable?’

‘That is beside the point! She seems far too intelligent and level-headed to resort to such trickery. Did you not find her story, indeed the lady herself, intriguing?’

‘No, you found her intriguing. I find her—’

‘Utterly fascinating.’

‘—provocative. Really, Watson, you must raise your sights.’

‘Provocative is not a bad beginning for a case, Holmes.’

‘I have decided and that is that. Besides, Mycroft has something for me and I am to meet him in the morning. Would you care to join us? It will most certainly be more interesting than the McLaren imbroglio.’

‘Yes, I will come, Holmes. Though I do not understand this decision. Ah, it is freezing in here now.’

As I moved to close the damaged window, I stole a glance outside. The snow was coming down hard now and the air was growing opaque. But across the way, I saw something that made me stop short.

‘Hullo! Your man is in trouble down there!’

In the deepening shadows, the hulking Butterby was struggling with a tall, well-dressed stranger, who wielded his walking stick like a club. The attacker was clearly at an advantage, and suddenly struck the larger man in the face. Butterby fell back into the shadows.

Holmes bounded to the window, took one glance and ran for the door shouting, ‘Stay here! On no account come down. Do as I say!’

In a moment I saw him dash into the snow sans overcoat and dodge the traffic, across Baker Street to where Butterby had arisen and was now locked in combat with his attacker. From the distance I could only discern a gentleman of about our own age, who was fighting with a particularly vicious energy. Butterby was taking a beating as Holmes ran towards them.

But the attacker sensed his approach, broke free from Butterby and whirling at the last instant aimed a fierce blow at Holmes with his walking stick, striking his shin with a crack I could hear from across the street. Holmes shouted and went down. Two pedestrians nearby fled.

I was down the stairs and into the street without a thought.

By the time I reached the trio, Holmes had regained his footing, and the three were struggling on the slippery pavement, the snow swirling wildly about them. Butterby fell and the attacker turned his attention full on Holmes.

But perceiving my approach and sensing the odds were no longer in his favour, the assailant broke free and started to flee, his camel hair coat billowing behind him. Fate, however, intervened and he suddenly slipped on the icy pavement and fell, striking his head against the base of a lamp post as he went down.

He lay still. We stood gasping, Butterby still splayed on the curb next to us, holding his head.

‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I shouted over the rising wind.

‘Yes, see to that man, Watson,’ Holmes replied, helping Butterby up.

I turned to the downed attacker. His was a handsome face, chiselled and refined. The eyes remained closed and he was still. I knelt, checking his pulse and his pupils. They were not dilated, a good sign. The wind continued to whip snow around us in a flurry. Holmes and I were without our coats.

‘Get him inside,’ I shouted. Holmes hesitated for only a moment, but then nodded.

With Butterby’s clumsy help, the three of us managed to transport the fellow up to our sitting room, and minutes later, the mysterious attacker was stretched out unconscious on our settee, his hands secured behind him with Butterby’s handcuffs. Holmes grabbed a second pair of cuffs from the mantle and secured his feet to one leg of the settee. I was shivering from my brief exposure to the elements but applied myself to examine the man further. I placed a pillow to raise his head where it had tilted back over the edge of the settee.

My patient was a tall, well-built fellow. His coat was of the finest Savile Row tailoring, now dirtied and torn from the fight. He had suffered a nasty cut on the forehead, and remained unconscious, but his pulse was strong and regular, his breathing normal. I called down to Mrs Hudson for hot water and towels and blotted the wound with a clean handkerchief and some of Holmes’s clear spirits.

A silent and glowering Butterby stood like a plinth in the corner of the room. Melting snow dripped from him, splashing lightly onto the rug. He held a dirty handkerchief to a bleeding cut on his cheek and grimaced. I handed him a clean one. Holmes looked up and, finally noticing him, suggested he fetch Lestrade and be quick about it.

‘Right-o, then,’ Butterby grunted, and lumbered off. Holmes shook his head in annoyance.

Our man on the sofa was struggling to regain consciousness. He groaned and his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, closed, and opened again. I turned to my friend.

Holmes was pale with exertion and cold, snow still visible on his hair and the shoulders of his dressing gown. He rubbed his shin and grimaced.

‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I asked again.

‘It is just a bruise. Our man here has been in training since last we met. I underestimated him. What is the damage?’

‘You know him, then?’

‘The damage, Watson?’

‘He will live. I would ask for brandy, but—’

‘Here, give him some of this. My best whisky, though he hardly merits it.’ He handed over a bottle. McLaren Top!

I held the drink to the assailant’s lips, supporting his head. He squinted and took in his surroundings and then suddenly jerked his limbs only to discover his restraints. With a splutter he pulled away from the drink, but clipped it with his chin and several drops spilled over his damaged coat.

He shook his head to focus and suddenly noticed Holmes standing above him. He emitted a deep-throated cry and jolted violently towards me. Struggling against his bonds he began making a series of strange, garbled sounds.

‘Now that is a waste of perfectly good Scotch, St John,’ said Holmes. ‘Not to mention you have further stained your rather fine coat. I see you have retained your excellent taste in tailoring.’

‘How do you know this man?’ I asked.

‘It is a very long story,’ said my friend, his voice strained.

Another set of unintelligible sounds emerged from the fellow. Turning to stare at him, I discovered why. As he continued to make noises, I remarked in horror that the man had lost his tongue! The wound was not recent. There was not a trace of blood, just a dark space where a tongue would rest.

St John glowered.

Holmes turned to me. ‘This is Mr Orville St John. A distinguished member of the St Johns of Northumberland, titled landowners, enormously wealthy from their logging endeavours. We were undergraduates together at Camford. Shall I tell Dr Watson what happened there, St John?’

The man said nothing.

‘I shall presume that was a yes. Mr St John and an equally well-placed friend, both of whom enjoyed great prestige at Camford, took top honors in mathematics and chemistry, until I arrived upon the scene and began to prevail. A prize or two, the favour of a famous professor, and suddenly I was, to them, some kind of nemesis, an object of both envy and derision.’

I noticed St John staring with vehement anger at my friend.

‘They began a campaign to drive me from the University.’ Holmes’s tone was matter of fact, even light, but the tension in his face spoke of more behind the words. ‘He attempted to persuade students and faculty alike that I had harmed his dog, and had blown up a laboratory deliberately. My position was precarious. Not only did I lose the few friends I had – well, not that popularity was ever my goal—’

On the couch, St John snorted.

‘I very much doubt they got the better of you,’ said I.

St John grunted loudly.

‘You would be wrong, Watson. Of course he could speak then. In fact, St John was President of the Union and a champion debater. His nickname was “The Silver Tongue” and he managed by dint of his extraordinary powers of persuasion to turn an entire college and most of the dons against me.’

Holmes paused, remembering. ‘Eventually I was sent down. Although at that point I had lost the will for … other reasons. In any case, Watson, there is my reason for leaving the University, sitting before you in all his glory.’

I was sure that there was much more to this story. St John stared at Holmes, unblinking and cold. Holmes turned to face him, all pretence of humour gone. The hatred between the two was palpable, an electric current travelling through the air.

‘You were very persuasive, St John,’ said he.

I had long wondered about the reason that Holmes had left university without taking his degree. This seemed an incomplete explanation. I pulled him aside, behind St John, where our captive could not see us. I indicated the tongue, with a gesture demanding an explanation. Holmes just shook his head, ‘Later,’ he mouthed.

There was a noise on the stairs and Mrs Hudson showed in Lestrade and two deputies. The wiry little inspector was as usual, full of energy. ‘Mr Holmes!’ he cried.

‘Ah, Lestrade, I see Butterby has succeeded in something at last,’ said Holmes. ‘He has delivered you in a timely fashion. In a moment I would like you to remove this man, Mr Orville St John.’

‘Ah, a gentleman, he appears, but without manners. To gaol then, Mr Holmes? Butterby claims assault and battery. Him as well as you, and the good doctor,’ said Lestrade, with relish.

‘One moment if you please, Inspector.’

Turning to St John, Holmes said the following slowly and carefully. ‘St John, you are now known in these parts and have tried to kill me three times in the last six days.’

Holmes leaned in and removed a revolver from St John’s outer coat pocket. The man inhaled sharply as Holmes opened it, checking the bullets. He handed it to Lestrade. ‘Recently fired, and the calibre and make will match, no doubt, this bullet found in my wall over there.’

He pointed and I discerned a new bullet hole in the wall, just under my picture of General Gordon.

‘Attempted murder, then, as well!’ said the policeman.

‘Patience,’ said Holmes, and turned again to the man restrained before us. ‘I am going to make you an offer for your freedom, St John. If you agree to my terms, I will not press charges. And Lestrade, I ask that you convince Butterby to drop his charges as well. Release this gentleman’s ankles, would you please, Doctor.’ He handed me the keys to his cuffs. ‘And you his hands, Butterby.’

As he was freed from his restraints, St John looked pointedly away, rubbing his wrists. I was unable to read his reaction to these last words. Holmes continued.

‘What is so completely odd, St John, is why now? What has sent you here?’ He leaned forward.

St John turned away again coldly. Holmes sighed. ‘You must let this vendetta go. You know that I am not guilty of that which you accuse me. In your heart of hearts, you know this.’

St John remained inscrutable. I scanned his motionless face but read no sign of the man relenting.

‘Once again, in front of witnesses, can you let this vendetta go? If so, then you walk away a free man. If not, it will be to gaol with you, where I will ensure you stay a very long time.’ Holmes then made several strange gestures in the air with his hands. I recognized the motions as French sign language used by the deaf or mute, but had no clue to the meaning.

St John hesitated, and a torrent of emotions passed over his face as he clearly fought to regain control. He made a brief reply in sign language.

‘Fine then, St John, but consider this. If you do not desist, although I am not a vindictive man, you will leave me no choice. I will investigate your personal business, and create as much difficulty as I can for your family. You will bring trouble down on all you love. Do you agree to let this go once and for all?’

St John closed his eyes for a moment, then opening them, he stared fiercely at my friend, then nodded in assent.

‘I need your word.’

‘Let him say it, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade.

Holmes shot a glance at Lestrade. ‘He is mute.’ He turned to glare at St John. The man hesitated, then finally, an affirmative ‘Uh huh’ came from him.

‘That will suffice. Gentlemen. I now formally drop my charges against Mr St John for his attempts on my life. For the time being.’ Turning back to St John he said, ‘Take care that you keep your vow. Do you understand me?’

St John slowly raised his eyes to meet Holmes’s. There was a cold rage, now, in that look. The man was ready to kill Holmes, of that I was sure. And yet my friend seemed eager to let him go.

St John nodded one more time.

‘Escort Mr St John back to the Langham Hotel, please.’

St John started at this.

‘Yes, I know your hotel, and a great deal more,’ Holmes said. Then, to Lestrade, ‘It is a lodging well suited to this gentleman’s means and style. He lives on a grand estate just outside Edinburgh, and he is the respected owner and editor of St John and Wilkins, a major publishing house. He has three small children, a growing business, a loving wife, and a brother in delicate health. He has much to lose.’

St John stood, and as he did, one of Lestrade’s deputies approached and took him by the arm, and they moved to the door. As he stood in the doorframe, St John turned to Holmes and elaborated some complex thought with sign language, ending with an aggressive gesture.

Holmes clearly received the message. He sighed and shook his head.

The men departed, Butterby with them.

Lestrade shook his head. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, I have seen some strange things in these rooms, but that gentleman is surely one of the strangest. I do not have a good feeling about your letting him go like that.’

‘Nor do I, Holmes,’ said I. ‘I think you are making a mistake.’

My friend stood peering into the fire. ‘Gentlemen. I am very tired suddenly and need to rest. If you will excuse me, please. Good evening, Lestrade. Watson, would you be so good as to meet me at the Diogenes Club at 9.30 tomorrow morning.’ He shrugged. ‘Or stay, if you like. Your old room is probably habitable.’

Without a further word, he retired to his bedroom and shut the door. As soon as he did so, I realized that I had meant to have a look at the leg where St John had struck him. But he would not be disturbed now. I turned to Lestrade, who was now staring curiously at the still gurgling chemistry mess in the corner.

‘What on earth is that, if you do not mind my asking?’ he said.

‘I promise you I have not the faintest notion, Inspector.’

‘You must have a very forgiving landlady,’ observed the little man tartly. On cue, the saintly Mrs Hudson appeared with his hat, coat and umbrella.

‘Good evening, Inspector Lestrade,’ I said.

As he left, Mrs Hudson sniffed the foetid air and took in the chemistry disaster. ‘Mr Holmes?’ she enquired.

‘He is resting,’ said I.

‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said. ‘I shall bring you both some warm soup. Will you be staying, Doctor?’

‘My room—’

‘It has been made up fresh as Mr Holmes requested.’

I smiled. Had Holmes known that Mary was not home and would not miss me? It should not have surprised me. But meanwhile, the weather had grown increasingly inclement.

‘Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I will stay.’ In truth, I felt uneasy at the recent events. Until I was sure that this St John had been dissuaded from his mission, Holmes might well make use of my help.

Thus I decided to stay the night and accompany my friend in the morning to see his brother, Mycroft Holmes. As it turned out, it was lucky that I did.

CHAPTER 4

Brothers

The thought had in fact occurred to me. ‘Well, not a live one, at any rate. But how did it happen?’

‘It was the act of a madman, a mutual acquaintance, Watson, who has since passed on to meet his Maker.’

‘Strange. But why does this St John think you were responsible? And why attack you now?’

‘Certainly some recent event has served to reanimate his rage. Perhaps a letter. I intend to find out. In any case, it is complicated, and long past. Leave it, I say.’ His tone brooked no argument and I knew it was useless to pursue for the moment. We soon pulled up in front of the Diogenes Club.

‘I shall pay,’ I offered, in an attempt at détente. Perhaps Mrs McLaren had been right and he was in need of cash. I fished in my own pocket.

‘I have it, Watson. You are a bit short of funds yourself.’

It was regrettably true! My practice had suffered recently when a doctor of considerable charm and a decade more experience had hung his brass plate two doors down from my own. But how could he know?

‘What herculean efforts you make to keep track of my personal affairs!’ I exclaimed as we entered the august precincts of the Diogenes. ‘Perhaps better spent elsewhere!’

‘Very little effort at all,’ said he, ‘Watson, you are an open book.’

‘Well, you are wrong about that,’ I insisted.

Soon afterwards we were seated in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes, awaiting Mycroft Holmes.

The antique globes in their familiar place, the bookshelves filled with leatherbound volumes, the large window onto Pall Mall – all was as it had been before. While the club’s peculiar regulars must have chosen it for its rules of silence, I found the place oppressive.

The Stranger’s Room was the only place in this eccentric institution where one was allowed to speak. Eventually Mycroft Holmes sailed in as a stately battleship through calm waters to sit before us. Mycroft was over six feet tall, and unlike his brother, very wide in girth. He carried a leather dossier in one enormous hand. He smiled in his particular mirthless way, and then he and my friend exchanged the usual pleasantries characteristic of the Holmes brothers, that is to say, none at all.

Coffee was served. The clink of china and silver was hushed in the room.

‘How is England doing?’ asked Holmes finally.

‘We are well,’ said Mycroft. ‘Considering.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair, a twitching knee giving away his impatience. Mycroft eyed his younger brother with a kind of concerned disapproval. ‘But you, Sherlock, must watch your finances. I have mentioned this before.’

‘Mycroft!’ exclaimed Holmes.

‘Little brother, you are an open book.’

I cleared my throat to cover a laugh, and Holmes shot me a look. ‘What is it you want, Mycroft? Trouble in France I hear?’

‘Precipitous. The threat of war. You have heard of the phylloxera epidemic? It is not a virus, but a little parasite, it seems, and it is destroying the vineyards of France. Their wine production is down some seventy-five per cent in recent years. Dead brown vines everywhere. A good, cheap table wine is impossible to come by, and the better brandies, too. An absolute disaster for the French, and keenly felt.’