“Now, you know there was no ghost, Mr Connor.”
“Indeed not. But that is not the same as saying there are no ghosts, is it? ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies…’ as the Bard puts it.”
“Perhaps.” Having been both right and wrong in recent weeks, I could concede that much.
Mary fell ill the next week. A bout of brain-fever was not unexpected after her recent traumas. She took to her bed, now out of sight of the fateful window, her rest aided by strong medication prescribed by our matron.
I had yet to replace Munton, so when autumn rain gave way, in the space of an hour, to winter’s still and bitter cold, I took a spare blanket up to Mary myself. I found her dozing, rosary entwined in her fingers. As I unfolded the blanket over her she opened her eyes.
“Don’t worry, Mary,” I murmured, “just rest.”
“I dreamt Father came for me.”
“I can assure you that will not happen.”
Her gaze was febrile and bright. “Are you sure? After Peter died, he said such terrible things.”
“All untrue, I’m sure. Peter was your brother, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.” She looked past me, as though at something unseen. “He fell.”
Whilst I did not want to cause the girl further pain, curiosity still pricked me. “An accident, yes?”
“Yes.” Her gaze focused on me. “He fell from the attic window.”
No wonder she had connected the flapping sheet outside with her dead brother! “Oh Mary. It must have been awful.” I shivered; the cold had taken hold up here.
“It was.” Her face twisted into an odd, feverish smile. “But it’s all right. No one saw.”
As I opened my mouth to ask what she meant a sharp bang resounded through the dormitory. I jumped to my feet, heart pounding. The noise had come from the far end of the room. I looked to the source of the sound, then, suspicions confirmed, hurried towards it.
The window was wide open. Before fear could get the better of me I leant out and grabbed the latch. My glimpse of the world outside was pure normality: a bright winter’s afternoon, girls on the sports fields below, rooks in the elm trees.
When I tugged the window closed I half expected the catch to be broken, but it was not. Whoever last opened it must have failed to fasten it properly, leaving it to be caught by a stray gust of wind.
I walked back to Mary’s alcove to find her sound asleep, that same peculiar smile still on her face.
THE CASE OF THE PREVIOUS TENANT
Ian Edginton
Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary is something of an anomaly in that he appeared in only one Sherlock Holmes story, “The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge”, but he’s also the only police officer to have ever successfully matched wits with the great detective and come out on top. In fact, Holmes goes so far as to outright congratulate Baynes, remarking: “You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct and intuition.”
It’s something he’s never said to poor old Bradstreet, Gregson or Lestrade, despite their best efforts.
Baynes is described as being on the stout side with florid cheeks but possessing extraordinarily bright eyes hidden beneath the heavy creases of his solid, yeoman features. The intimation is that there’s a keen intellect at work behind that everyman exterior. Given that he’s also a provincial policeman, there’s the temptation to write him off as an almost comic aside, but that’s where you’d be wrong. He’s very much a precursor to Columbo, in that his appearance, methods and mannerisms often lead people to underestimate his abilities. Even Holmes himself is a little taken aback when Baynes spurns his offer of help and successfully solves the case in his own way.
I would have loved to have seen Baynes and Holmes cross paths in a few more stories, which is why I jumped at the chance to use him.
“Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?”
“Of what?” I asked.
“Why me of course.” came the curt reply. “For a full thirty minutes now, you have been perusing me from behind the horizon of your newspaper.”
Before I could respond, he brandished an index finger in my direction. “Do not deny it. You may as well have been sending out a semaphore for all your interminable rustling.”
I sighed and patiently folded my newspaper. I knew too well from past experience how Sherlock Holmes railed against inactivity. I had often reassured him that it was merely a passing inconvenience to be endured. Much like his sour mood.
“Holmes, this is merely a fallow patch,” I replied. “You have been through them before and will no doubt do so again. In fact, it has only been… what? Two weeks since the conclusion of our last case?”
“Long enough for the ink to dry on your latest tawdry narrative.”
“Holmes!” I rose sharply to my feet and was about to slam down my copy of The Times to punctuate my displeasure when I thought better of it. There was enough petulant behaviour in the room already. “You are my dearest friend, but there are occasions, such as this, when I find your company difficult to endure.”
Holmes folded his arms and turned to face the window.
“Surely the origin of that must lie with your friend Stamford for introducing us in the first place.”
I snatched my overcoat from the stand and proceeded to the door. “I am going for a walk. Some time apart may benefit us both.”
Without turning, Holmes gave a faint, dismissive wave.
“Oh, and when you pass Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary on the stair please tell him to come straight in, there’s no need to knock.”
“Inspector Baynes?”
“Of the Surrey Constabulary, yes. You’ll recall his most erudite handling of the incident at Wisteria Lodge?”
“Certainly. But how do you know he’s here? I didn’t hear the bell.”
Holmes turned to face me, a dark silhouette backlit by the sharp, winter daylight.
“The good inspector is somewhat on the stout side, therefore his weight upon the stair causes it to creak with a different timbre should you or I or Mrs Hudson bring pressure to bear.” He crossed to the fireplace and selected a long-stemmed pipe from the rack on the mantel. “Also, he pauses on every fifth stair to catch his breath, suggesting he is in ill health, although nothing more serious than a head cold.”
I was readily aware of Holmes’s methods but even I was briefly confounded by this deduction.
“You saw him out of the window didn’t you? He was arriving as Mrs Hudson was leaving to visit her friend in Worthing, ergo no door bell?”
Holmes gave a flicker of a smile but I sensed something else behind it, a suggestion of discomfort. He studied the pipe as if puzzled by its presence. He placed it back in the rack and elected to take a cigarette instead. His hands were trembling. Holmes has often said it is the observation of trifles that are the most revealing.
“Holmes, are you quite alright?”
“Clearly I am not, or you would not be asking such a question.”
“Then what is it that troubles you? I am both your friend and physician, remember?”
He lit the cigarette and drew deeply upon it before slowly exhaling a roiling cloud of grey smoke. The tension that hung about him seemed to dissipate along with it.
“Sleep, Watson, sleep. It and I have never been on the best of terms, but these past few nights my sleep has been sorely tested. I awake in the morning… exhausted.”
Before I could answer there was a knock at the door.
“Come in Inspector Baynes,” said Holmes. “The door is open. There is no need to stand on ceremony.”