Sherlock Holmes and 'The Kiss of Death' Copyright 2005 Peter C. Shumway

Chapter 2 - The Science of Deduction

 
Saturday, April 19, 1886
 

Three years later a terrible vengeance slithered across England.  It was cold and silent like the grey fog, which drifted about the desolate swamplands of eastern Dartmoor.  The dense fog hovered over the stale water as it squeezed around decayed tree stumps and dead weeds.  Like venom oozing through blood-filled veins, the sinuous fog infected the dank night air.

On an isolated patch of dry land, deep within the gruesome moor, stood an old stone house.  It was a gloomy, weather-beaten house sadistically erected in the darkest quarter of the Grimpen mire.  Emanating from the second story window, a dim yellow light cast an eerie glow over the black water.

The flame in the oil-lamp flickered quietly as Dr. Collins sat in his armchair reading a book.  The clock on the mantel ticked like a metronome to a chorus of chirping swamp peepers outside of his window.  His pipe lay in the ashtray next to a sticky glass of Irish brandy.  All but a few smouldering embers in the fireplace had faded into powdery dust.  The mantel clock methodically chimed eleven times and the doctor thought about sleep.

There was a gentle tap at the study door and the housekeeper presented herself.  She turned up the collar of her quilted housecoat and glided over to the fireplace.  After placing two small logs on the grate, she opened the face of the mantel clock, slid the key from beneath its base and wound the springs.

"Can I get you anything else tonight sir?"

"No Mary.  Thank you.  I'll be turning in shortly."

She knew he would fall asleep in his chair as he did every night.  She also knew he would wake-up in a few minutes and make his way to his bedchamber.

Miss Mary Hart was the doctor's long time housekeeper.  She was a fine cook and pleasant company on long quiet evenings.  She knew when to start conversation and when to keep silent.  She always provided the retired doctor time alone for his studies.  She knew it was what he needed most of all.

"Don't forget to close that window Doctor," she reminded him.

"I won't forget.  Good night."

"Good night sir."

The old woman closed the door behind her.  Dr. Collins looked back down at his book and soon fell asleep.

Suddenly a loud hideous cry sounded.  The doctor awoke abruptly.

"What in the world was that?" he asked himself.  A cold chill ran down his spine.

"Sounded like it came from the moor," he thought as he sat up a little and rubbed the back of his wrinkled neck.

Collins was familiar with most of the swamp dwellers and their peculiar noises but this cry was different.  It was a painful cry and not like anything he had ever heard before.  He sat and listened for a minute in complete silence.

"That's unusual," he thought, "now I don't even hear a cricket."

Deciding to investigate, he pushed himself up from the chair and walked over to the open side window.  Pulling his burgundy smoking jacket around his shoulders, he peered out into the night.  As he looked across the moor, squinting to aid his poor eyesight, an expression of complete fear spread across his face.

"Oh my God!"

Horrified, he took two steps back, grabbed his throat, and collapsed to the floor.

 

 

The next morning was beautiful.  The sun gently lifted the morning dew from the London streets and warmed the backs of the horses, as they stood tied to their wagons.  The spring breeze made the air fresh again and breathed new life into all living things.

Horse-drawn buggies clapped down Baker Street.  The smell of fresh bread and sounds of children playing filled the air.  Fine men and women strolled along the pavements unaware of the real evil that lurks in the minds of some.  In the suite at 221B there resided one who was continually aware of the depraved mind.

Sherlock Holmes was, at the time, recognized by only a few of the public however all at Scotland Yard knew of him.  The tall, hawkish man with the high forehead, piercing eyes, firm lip and sturdy jaw was perfecting the unique craft, which he had founded.  He was London's first private consulting detective.

Through keen observation and deductive reasoning, Sherlock Holmes made a science of crime and an art of solving criminal problems.  Mysteries unfolded in his hands as he observed people and their situations, weeding out the unimportant or irrelevant facts among those that completed a puzzle.

Even when Holmes was not actually on a case, most of his studies and activities related to criminal investigations.  Whether it was isolating the strongest catalyst for his latest chemical reaction or mastering the South African bullwhip to determine the degree of penetration into human flesh, Holmes immersed himself in criminal knowledge.  He took pride in bringing light upon dark matters, which no one else could perceive.  The more difficult the problem the more he reveled in its solution.

As the morning sun struggled through the smoke-stained windows of the sitting room, Holmes was conducting his latest experiment.  The detective sat cross-legged on the floor by his laboratory table with a footstool on the floor in front of him.  A clamp used for holding chemical flasks had been crudely rigged to the stool to function as a vice.  It was presently grasping a three-foot blowgun in a fixed position.

Leaning forward Holmes carefully put his mouth to the end of the tube and gave a quick blow that sent a feathered dart across the room.  The dart sank with authority into the back cushion of Watson's sitting chair.

Watson gave a despairing sigh as he sat at his desk trying to write.  He dipped his pen and continued:

 

"I believe the mental state of genius to be more disease than gift.  To those afflicted, mere existence on this humble planet is commonplace.  The fantastic mind of the genius is plagued by either relentless creativity, or perverted insanity… or both."

 

Watson looked up to witness further assaults on the cushion of his chair as Holmes sent several more darts into the convenient but inappropriate target.

Dr. John Watson was an inquisitive, intelligent, and decent man whose curiosity could be aroused at the slightest motivation.  He was a respectful and orderly gentleman who cared for the comfort and well being of others.  Being a retired Army doctor with time on his side he made a study of people.  For the past five years he had been studying Sherlock Holmes, who gained Watson's respect and loyalty without ever trying.  The main tie bonding their partnership was Watson's admiration of Holmes' genius.

Watson did get perturbed, however, whenever Holmes methodically and viciously mutilated valuable objects in his pursuit of criminal knowledge.  Looking back down at the paper in front of him, Watson continued to write:

 

"Sherlock Holmes often conducts experiments that excel to quite bizarre proportions. Exercising his talents with a blowgun can now be added to the list.  And when I see my favorite sitting chair being done-in by an aborigine Englishmen, I come to the conclusion that bizarre has no limits."

 

Watson set the pen down in disgust, lit a cigarette and began another avenue of thought.  He appeared to be contemplating the air just above his head when Holmes interrupted.

"First of all Watson, all my experiments are essential to my work and undergo logical methods of testing.  Secondly, the chef's name was Masters... Charles Masters."

Holmes stood up from his cross-legged position behind the hassock and walked over to the chair.  Then he examined the markings left by the malignant darts.  Watson, astonished and a little annoyed, couldn't believe what he had just heard.

"I don't recall asking his name although I must admit that I was just this very second trying to think of it.  Surely you cannot read my mind?"

Holmes smiled slightly as he continued to examine the impaled chair.

"I am afraid my methods are not as mysterious as your imagination.  After all, I am not a magician Watson."

"But how on earth could you have possibly known what my innermost thoughts were?"

"Earlier this morning I noticed that you have been proof-reading your notes concerning last week's affair in Winchester.  I also read your account and observed that you unintentionally left out the cook's name.  Although Masters was not charged with any crime, I suspect he was instrumental in driving Sir Walter crazy.  I only wish Watson, that Scotland Yard had let me work on the case in my own way."

Holmes walked over to the fireplace, leaned his back against the mantel and crossed his arms.

"Well, back to how I deduced your line of thought.  I noticed that you omitted the cook's name when recording the facts.  I do not believe you to be so imprudent Watson.  Since you did not write in his name when looking over your notes earlier, but rather scribbled a question mark in the margin, I knew you had forgotten it.  The abstract expression transfixed to your face all morning told me you were still at a loss."

"But how did you know I was at this very moment thinking of the man?"

"Being distracted from writing your latest journal by my experiment with the blowgun, you naturally directed your thoughts to what was recently nagging your brain.  When a man looks up in the air and taps his chin with his finger it is a sure sign that he is trying to remember something.  I agree however, that to know at any given instant what is uppermost in another's mind is always a challenge."

"And a little guess work perhaps?" asked Watson impishly.

"I never guess Watson."

The detective stood up straight, unfolded his arms and gave Watson a cold eye for questioning his line of reasoning.

"Don't you think you should write in the fiend's name before you forget it and I have to read your mind again?"

"Quite so," replied Watson as he shuffled through the papers on his desk in search of the notes on the case.

Holmes took out a caliper from the top drawer of his desk and walked over to Watson's armchair, which still bore the feathered darts in the back cushion.  Then he made several measurements between the darts as they clung to their upholstered target.  A few minutes of calculations on an abacus confirmed his theories.  He then removed the darts from the chair and viewed the damage.  Watson finished making the correction to his notes just in time to watch his friend throw his old frock-coat over the back of his chair.

"Out of sight, out of mind.  Eh Holmes?" chided Watson.  "Well, it won't do."

"The accuracy of the blowgun may well be a factor in the case before you Watson."  Holmes picked up his clay and lit whatever was left in the bowl from the last smoke.  "I believe you are calling our inquiry the 'Laughing Nobleman of Winchester'.  A crude and degrading title as any I would say."  Holmes paused to draw on his pipe.  "I like it."

"It will never reach the printer."

"Yes, yes, I know.  My findings have been inconclusive.  Well, do not give up hope my good fellow the case is not yet closed."

"Sir Walter Timms' brain-fever appears to be permanent.  Obtaining any rational information from the poor man is hopeless.  The police have closed the case and I thought you had also."

"The police are always eager to close a case.  I am not satisfied with any theories I have heard other than mine," stated Holmes.

Watson set down his pen and addressed his friend.

"I am afraid there is not much to theorize about.  Sir Walter was sipping his soup that evening as he usually did before retiring to the sitting room with a good cigar.  Halfway through his meal the poor man keeled over and fell to the floor.  Then he sprang to his feet, danced around the table, and proceeded to kick the furniture while making hideous animal noises.  The housekeeper, who was kind enough to let him gnaw at the heel of her left shoe, finally put him at ease.  When the police arrived, the man was found with his nose pushed up against the face of the hall clock, starring at the number six and mumbling some gibberish about naked women with wings.  The constables had to forcibly drag the most unfortunate man to the psychiatric ward of the hospital.  There he is content to wildly stare at his hands while laughing hysterically for hours on end."

Watson turned to his friend and continued.

"Was there something about those outré actions to give clue?"

"I'm afraid not Watson.  There was no pattern in his actions although there could be some significance to the number six."

"I say if there is, it is well beyond me!  The police examined the soup and found nothing in it but an old soup bone.  They used every method of poison detection known to science including the one you recommended yourself and nothing was detected in the soup or in his drink.  The cook was questioned and released.  The fact that he has since disappeared is no surprise to me Holmes.  If I were caught in the same circumstances, I think that I would make myself scarce too."

"You have covered the obvious Watson.  As you know I was not called in on the case.  Hinkerson resented my presence and was everything but helpful.  How he became Chief Inspector is a Scotland Yard mystery in itself."

Holmes placed his clay in the ashtray on the mantelpiece with an audible clack.  Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and paced around the room with his brow knit and his eyes focused on the floor.

"Since I have been unable to talk with the cook or the housekeeper, and since I was not allowed to examine the room, I have had to work from a distance.  But I am not without results."

"Are you referring to the foot imprints that led from the outside kitchen door to the window of the dining room, and the dust you found on the window sill?"

"Bamboo dust Watson," remarked Holmes.  The detective strode over to the lab table and removed the blowgun from the grips of the chemical stand.

"A small amount of poison could render a man insane."

Holmes rolled the bamboo tube in the tips of his long, delicate fingers.  Then he tossed the instrument aside, walked over to the fireplace and retrieved his clay from the ashtray on the mantel.  After filling the pipe with shag and re-lighting the bowl he walked over to the window to watch the busy street.

Watson could see his friend's profile against the sunlit window.  The rays of light seemed to bounce off his hawk-like features only to be caught up in the rising, blue smoke from his pipe.  He stood there by the window for a few minutes in deep thought before speaking.

"What do you think about the affair in Dartmoor Watson?  You read the account in this morning's paper while you breakfasted."

Watson gave Holmes a perplexed look since he had read the paper earlier that morning when Holmes was out of the rooms.  Holmes answered the doctor's unasked question.

"The Times rarely uses egg yolk to complement the ink Watson.  Unless I am mistaken, you had the paper open to page two while you breakfasted and the Dartmoor incident was the most eye catching article on the page," explained Holmes.

"You are quite infallible at times," remarked Watson.  He could see Holmes was pleased with himself.  The doctor recalled the article.

"As to the newspaper account I was not left with much of an impression.  It simply recounted the sudden death of a certain Dr. Collins of Devon.  Retired I believe."

Holmes snatched up the paper and handed it to Watson.

"Would you be kind enough to read it again for me?" he asked as he settled down in his armchair to re-light his clay.  "I think we both could do with the facts again."

"Let me see, yes here it is..."

 

 

"The most notable cases on Mac's list of successes are documented in the dispatch box in the corner of my room Watson so it is unnecessary to read the list," interrupted Holmes.  "You have not yet met Scotland Yard's youngest inspector Watson.  He is one of the few men at Whitehall who can set aside his ego and listen to what others have to say.  He has a grand respect for logic."

"I recall his name in connection with two or three cases in the papers during the past year.  I was not aware that you have worked with him."

"I have assisted Mr. Mac on several occasions Watson.  Most notably, he consulted with me last November regarding a sensitive Parliamentary matter, and for the resolution of which, his professional career was advanced.  He was promoted to inspector after solving the mystery of the missing water clock.  If you recall, the twelfth century historic masterwork was on loan from the Chinese government and was on display at Buckingham Palace last year.  The theft and subsequent recovery was of course never mentioned in the papers.  The affair has been kept a government secret of the highest level.  If word got out that I knew of the matter it would be very dark for MacDonald.  He took me into his confidence and I assisted him in solving the case from sitting here in front of the fire.  The Royal family was so relieved to have the security breech resolved and to have the celebrated antique returned unscathed that they sanctioned an immediate promotion for the young Yarder.  He of course had to accept the position and leave my involvement anonymous."

"I recall last November being in Vienna for the army surgeons annual conference.  You never mentioned working on any important cases Holmes," bemoaned Watson.

"It was only important in regards to a young man's career.  The case itself provided little challenge although it had everyone at Scotland Yard completely mystified.  Even if you had been informed of the details of the case and were permitted to publish the account, it would have made dull reading Watson.  It lacked the prestó needed for one of your stories.  I suspect the events in Dartmoor will prove more interesting."

"I see nothing out of the ordinary with the Dartmoor incident," remarked the doctor after re-reading the article silently to himself.  He handed the newspaper to Holmes, who casually tossed it aside letting it fall to the floor.

"The Times makes it a policy to state the cause of death if there is the slightest clue.  They have even had to print corrections on a number of occasions.  I have a feeling MacDonald is up to his bushy eyebrows with unanswered questions by now and I would not be surprised to hear from him today."

"Do you suspect foul play?"

"It is difficult to say at the present.  However, Mr. Mac usually consults with me if there are any doubts in his mind or any extraordinary facts about a case.  How about ringing for an early lunch?  Halloa?"

Just as Watson reached for the bell rope there was a knock on the door.  Holmes sprang to the door and threw it open.  Mrs. Hudson presented him with a C.I.D. telegram.  The detective thanked the landlady and closed the door behind her.  He held the dispatch up to the light.

"As I expected Watson," remarked Holmes.  "Dartmoor postmark."

Eager for a case, he quickly opened the dispatch.  After reading the note to himself, he folded it back using its original creases and looked up to Watson.

"I'm afraid there's no time for lunch.  Mr. Mac has asked me to look into the Dartmoor affair.  As I suspected, the lanky Scotsman is baffled.  Your services would be most welcome if you decide to play along."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Excellent.  Grab your hat and coat.  Our friend from the Yard is waiting," spoke Holmes as he strode across the room, picked up his magnifying lens and a corked test tube of white powder from the chemical table and walked through the doorway leaving the door open for Watson to follow in his wake.

 

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