“But the lawyers, Holmes, they were real and quite emphatic about Tomkins. Why, I returned all the way to London to meet Herriot, a partner in the firm.”
It was as I uttered the last sentence that I saw the lawyer in Holmes’s eyes and the unmistakable look of Mr. Herriot, the advocate I met in London.
“Holmes,” I cried, “it was you all along.’’
“Yes, old fellow. It was the clearest way I could make my point. Should any of you doubt my word, you are welcome to make any inquiries you like at the office of Herriot and Herriot, in Cornwall or London. Since the material of the case is false, the Herriots will have no problem in discussing it at length with anyone around this table. And I am sorry, old boy, that I had you make an extra trip to England, but I had no other way of your hearing the story directly from your lawyers without considerable risk of my plot being found out before our séance here. I see that Madame Blavatsky is trying to get our attention. Let us hear her out.”
The leader of the Theosophical Society was visibly angry.
“Clever, Mr. Holmes, but not clever enough. This is another of your outrageous accusations against people of good will. If you cannot believe in the spiritual, then leave it to those of us who see an awakening of mankind in its possibilities. How do I know, Mr. Holmes, that you did not concoct this scheme with the knowledge and cooperation of this man seated beside your closest friend?”
“Permit me, Madam. I have no objection to your attempts to awaken mankind to its spiritual nature. I merely object to the means, which are false and quite frankly faked by an unsavory group of thieves who are using this poor young woman for their own ends. I do not include you in that group, Madam. You are not a criminal, you are merely the gullible minister of her cynical bosses. As to any falsity in my account, you may discuss the matter with Mr. Herriot of Cornwall for evidence of my honesty and goodwill in the matter.”
There was a sudden emanation of sound from the wooden box that sat behind us. There was a crackling quality to it as if flames were being fanned by the argument we had just heard. Blavatsky smiled. “You hear, Mr. Holmes, the flames of Hell about to envelop us.”
“Not at all, Madam. What you call flames are the static produced by radio waves. The box was shown to me by its inventors, Marconi in Italy and Tesla in New York. I have worked with these gentlemen and indeed am responsible for several improvements in the clarity of reception. You see, Madam, I must keep abreast of new developments in knowledge in order to continue the struggle with human ignorance. You, on the other hand, appear to be content to maintain the old feudal order, of which you are one of the few literate members. It is you, not I, who help to keep mankind in the throes of poverty and unending subservience to those in power.”
Mme. Blavatsky took her seat, apparently chastened by Holmes’s rhetoric. No one else ventured any comment. Holmes nodded toward the chairman and we parted, leaving the rest of the assembled to their own judgements of what had just happened.
As we walked through the front hall, I heard Lombroso calling to us. As he approached us I could see that he had been quite taken aback by Holmes’s performance.
“Well?” said Holmes.
“I believe you now,” said Lombroso. “Isadora now admits that she was coached by Nicola Ciocchi, a valet for my father. He knew everything about us, and fed it all to the Palladino gang.” He extended his hand and we reciprocated.
“It is almost seven. Let us have dinner together in the Piazza,” said I.
“Benissimo,” said Lombroso. “We shall dine at La Sonnambula, which has the best food in all of Tuscany.”
We walked together and gazed at the crowd of people before us and the darkening sky above. The conversation at dinner was mostly about La Persano. Lombroso was excited, for not only did he believe that Holmes was right, but that he himself had thought of a new way of looking at mediums that was worth exploring.
“The whole question, Holmes, is how La Persano and others like her obtain such detailed and minute information concerning the lives of their clients. In my own case, I can see how. We were a household of many people. My parents loved to have guests, we were surrounded as children by servants with whose children we played constantly. Is it not possible, therefore, by as yet some unknown mental power that we absorb much of each other’s personalities in addition to what enters our brain through the senses? I do not mean any mystical power but a perspective of the brain itself that enables the individual to recall large parts of the past that were thought to be inaccessible. I hope, my dear Sherlock, that you understand that I am not speaking of what they call in your country channeling.”
“My dear Cesare, you choose to walk into fields of knowledge which are fraught with danger. I admire your courage but I am situated within a different set of problems, problems in which the fundamental boundaries have already been set. Some day, dear Cesare, someone will evaluate my work and your work, and find where our results agree and differ. That person,” said Holmes with a very broad smile, “might have to be a new kind of medium, a Lombroso medium.”
I raised my glass and toasted both of my companions. By the time we departed, the food and drink of La Sonnambula had done their work. I recall only a sound sleep and Holmes knocking on my door, reminding me that we were scheduled to leave for London at once.
“Come along, old boy,” he said. “I have a note from our dear friend Lestrade who once again finds himself beyond his depth. Let us have our coffee. If we leave now, we will be in time to assist the poor chap.” Holmes handed me a large cup of caffè latte and the morning paper.
I wonder what Lestrade is up to now, I thought to myself. In the paper, I saw that a Mr. Peter Tomkins of Sloan Square had been murdered the day before and that Inspector Lestrade had requested that Mr. Sherlock Holmes join the investigation.
“Only the name is the same, old boy, only the name.”
I packed my few things and we were off to what my friend often referred to as the “great cesspool” of the British Empire.
A SINGULAR EVENT IN TRANQUEBAR
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE QUIET DAYS ON WHICH SHERLOCK Holmes proclaimed in a loud, determined voice that it was time for him to put his papers in order. By the time he had finished his morning tea, however, he had been diverted to his violin, which he plucked noisily, declaring that it needed new strings. His papers lay silent on his desk, forgotten and unattended, as he took up his bow and began a piece by Paganini.
He played beautifully, but, as was his habit, he played nothing all the way through to its close. The great composers for the romantic violin—Bruch, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Brahms—became somehow sewn together into one large musical quilt of excerpts, which had its own peculiar unity. I said nothing, listening to my friend’s remarkable playing, when there was a firm knock at the door, one which we both recognized as that of Mrs. Hudson.
“Mr. Holmes, there is someone here to see ya’, very persistent, I would say. Why, he’s followed me right up. Go on, up ya go.”
A middle-aged man, oddly dressed in a green woollen cap and a long black cloak entered our quarters. He removed his hat, and I saw a man who was disheveled, his hair matted and stuck in clumps on his head, his face pasty, dark complected, almost dirty, certainly someone who had not slept in his own bed for several nights. His trousers were muddy and held up by a piece of rope which had been threaded through some crude holes made at the waist. He wore black chupples and thin stockings, also soaked with mud. His eyes were red-rimmed and almost cloudy, a condition that I had often seen in my medical practise as a strong indication of the use of opium. In all, an unhealthy eccentric, I thought to myself, bordering on the deliberately offensive.