My Sherlock Holmes Page 17

  BILLY “PAGE BOY” CHAPLIN

  PROLOGUE

  Swains Lane, near Highgate Cemetery’s side entrance, late at night

  “Come along, Frenchie!” I said in very low voice, giving the man a slight tap on the shoulder.

  Despite the freezing air the stranger was crouching against the rusty gate of the old graveyard, staring blankly at a great tomb of marble which lay a short distance beyond, as if impelled by some sort of morbid fascination. At the touch of my fingers, he gave a violent start and turned round swiftly, clenching his fists, ready to fight for his life.

  “Bon sang d’bon soir, Billy!” he cried reproachfully. “Pah! You gave me the creeps, you know!”

  I sneered at him. “Keep an eye out, next time. I could have slaughtered you as easily as a sheep, Monsieur Le Villard!”

  Le Villard—or to tell the reader his full name, François Le Villard—had reached the top a long time ago in the French detective service, and worked with Scotland Yard on many occasions. He had thus built up a deep friendship with my master, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who said of him that he had all the Celtic power of quick intuition but was deficient in the wide range of exact knowledge which was essential to the higher developments of his art. At the moment the Frenchman was carrying out a most astounding investigation which had brought him to London.

  “Mon cher ami—” he went on, but I cut him off.

  “Later … and don’t you speak so loud!” I said bluntly, casting a careful glance around. “Let’s get away from here while we can.”

  “But I have to get some proof first,” pleaded Le Villard, showing the Kodak he was hiding in his lap.

  “A goner doesn’t need any. My master told you before it was sheer folly to hang about here late at night, but as usual, Monsieur Le Villard, you didn’t listen to him. Now, move on!”

  “Mais, Billy …”

  “Sorry, old man, don’t harp on it. We’d better stir our stumps!”

  I took the French detective’s arm in nervous haste and dragged him along down Swains Lane.

  “Pray she has not spotted us already,” I whispered, looking up anxiously at the great ranges of funereal trees leaning over the long, half-crumbled wall which encircled the cemetery.

  Le Villard gave me a wink and patted a bulge in his jacket at heart level. “My revolver, mon bon vieil ami,” he boasted, “ready to give six nice kisses from France.”

  “Hem! A toy gun would be just as useful at the moment, I’m afraid. Once again, we’d better hurry.”

  We went down Highgate Hill at a very quick pace. Mist had settled over the place, obscuring the faint light of the stars. There was something weird, uncanny, threatening in the aspect of the interminable cemetery wall which lined the lane. And to make things worse, it grew more and more vague and shapeless, until it became part of the haze. Eerily, through the tense silence, a sudden yell rang out in the air.

  Le Villard’s face fell.

  “Hey! What’s that cry?” he gasped.

  “Who knows? A raven’s call?” I replied in uneasy tone.

  In fact, I thought of something more abominable. The truly awful feeling that a monstrosity is lying in wait was strong upon me, though my composed, resolute face showed no sign of flinching. I was grimly prepared for the worst but my hope was to gain a hansom before it happened. So I said in commanding tones:

  “Now run, Monsieur Le Villard! For God’s sake, run!”

  The French detective had no time for more than a passing glance round as I was already racing down the lane, but what he caught sight of on top of the wall was so ghastly that he hurled himself forward in my wake, awestruck.

  We flew down Swains Lane, dashed across Oakeshott Avenue, and attained Highgate Road with heaving heart and panting breath.

  “To that cab!” I ordered, pointing towards a hansom waiting close by.

  We reached it in double quick time without mishap, and I climbed in with a sigh of deep relief.

  The hansom cab was rattling over the cobbled streets through the fog-shrouded night. The streetlamps made great ghostly blurs as they melted in the distance and the passing houses were dark and gloomy as so many tombs.

  I said to the Frenchman sitting by my side: “Creepy, wasn’t it?”

  “Tu parles! Never was I so scared in my whole life.”

  I gave him a nod and asked in a half-voice:

  “just what did you see, Monsieur?”

  Le Villard’s voice shook. “Bon Dieu! Billy, I saw a shrouded corpse floating above the graveyard wall … . Oo la la! Horrible!”

  “Countess Vetcha!” I sniffed. “‘Diamond of the first water,’ her wooers used to whisper when they saw her, their eyes shining with desire. A very fair Hungarian lady indeed who lived in a wonderful mansion at Eltham. The neighborhood, though, gave her another kind of name. ‘The Witch of Greenwich,’ they used to call her … .

  “In her lifetime, of course!” I added with a shrug.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE BLACK DEATH

  Greenwich, a few hours later, some time before daybreak

  “Fire! Fire!”

  The cry rose up startlingly in the deep silence of the very early hour, arousing Constables Curland and Flanders, who were peacefully patrolling Church-bury Road. They turned back as one man and looked up anxiously around.

  “Hey! It’s all ablaze over there!” exclaimed the first one, pointing at a vivid red glare in the northern sky which threw some nearby chimneys into strong relief.

  “Rats! Not half!” replied the other in harsh tones, “but say, where d’you think it is, Curland?”

  “Don’t know. Eltham Palace Road? … Kings Round? … Can’t say for sure. Can you, Flanders?”

  “Nay. Let’s go and see!”

  The two policemen hurried back up the hill towards the fire, using the increasing glare as a guide, its glow on the clouds waxing and waning as the flames shot up or temporarily died down, and after a while, they came in sight of a huge column of smoke.

  “It’s in Queenscroft Road!” cried Constable Flanders.

  They covered some two hundred yards at a breakneck pace and were at last within view of a large house built in an antiquated style, blazing fiercely in the middle of a fallow park. “Holy Angels! It’s the late Countess Vetcha’s residence!” exclaimed Constable Curland.

  His mate nodded gravely as he recognized the place also. “Yes. But thank God it’s been unoccupied for over thirty years,” he said with a note of relief in his hoarse voice.

  The Metropolitan Fire Brigade had preceded the two bobbies and its brave men were already at work, their bright helmets glinting everywhere. Some, lost on ladders, amid smoke, poured a torrent of water on the burning and seething premises, while others used all their energy working the engines set back on the lawn.

  A few neighbors had joined the aged warden who was staring in utter sadness at the already tottering walls of the once proud mansion. The old man looked a heartrending, sorry sight, probably evoking in himself the bygone days when the park was full of carriages which pulled up one by one before the house, brilliantly illuminated in a far less dramatic way, when fur-lined cloaks and coats, dress uniforms, sumptuous gowns, passed in procession before a gigantic footman who made deep bows.

  Queenscroft Road, usually so quiet, was in an unbelievable turmoil: the intense glare, the shooting flames which darted viciously out and upwards, the puff and clank of the engines, the rushing and hissing of the water, the roar of the fire, and the columns of smoke which in heavy sulky masses hung gloating over the blazing mansion, gave it a weird and tragic aspect. Suddenly, Constable Curland who, like his mate, had been gazing eagerly at the firemen’s fierce struggle, uttered a wild cry.

  “Hang me! There’s a woman inside the house.”

  Indeed a female form had appeared at an upper window, framed in flame, curtained with smoke, but it vanished on the spot, as if swallowed by the noxious fumes. The small party of bystanders reacted as one:

 
“Save her! Save her!”

  Women twisted their hands with shrill cries, men clenched their fists and swore. The old warden alone stood rigid, transfixed with bewilderment.

  “Mercy me! … I can’t believe it … . I … it can’t be!” he faltered out, his lips parted, his eyes distended, his face frightened and white.

  “Say, are you sick, my good man?” inquired Constable Flanders solicitously, having noticed his distorted features.

  “No … no … nothing much … the heat probably. Thank you, Constable.”

  In the meantime, a fire sergeant had climbed up a ladder and leaped into the open window. He was swallowed up in a moment and lost sight of. Everyone beneath held his breath, wondering if he would ever come out of the furnace. Deadly seconds elapsed and at last, here he was again at the window, bearing a lifeless female form. A mighty cheer arose. He was greeted with great shouts of joy. But the people should not have crowed so hastily over his victory for, as we shall see now, it was what may be called a Pyrrhic one. The first to realize that there was something not quite right with the sergeant was constable Curland.

  “Hey, look at him!” he exclaimed. “What’s up? Has he got the fidgets or what?” Indeed, oddly enough, the sergeant gave the impression of having a sudden fit of frenzy, most similar to St. Vitus’s dance. He looked like a wild contortionist lost in a sea of flame and smoke, and it was extremely weird to watch him twisting and shaking all over in the glare of the conflagration. Obviously the poor man had grown suddenly mad. That thought and a thousand troubled others passed through everyone’s mind.

  Already, two firemen were rushing up ladders to give him help. Alas, they were hardly halfway up when he abruptly dropped the senseless woman back into the blaze and hurled himself headfirst out of the window with an unearthly yell. Constables, neighbors, and firemen alike were horror stricken. Women gave screams and fainted, men dashed mechanically forward with oaths, but there was nothing to be done, and the next moment, while the unknown woman was probably heaped in a small pile of ashes inside, the fire sergeant lay lifeless on the lawn like a broken puppet.

  The sergeant’s corpse was now lying on a stretcher, waiting to be taken away. Suddenly, the old warden who had just approached and was leaning over it as so many others did, gave a violent start. Pointing a trembling finger at the dead man’s face, he cried in tones of pure horror:

  “The Black Death! Mercy me! … The Black Death!”

  Then, ridden by intense fear, he sprang back and most unexpectedly ran away, yelling all the more: “The Black Death! The Black Death!”

  An expression of deep horror had suddenly come over Constables Cur land’s and Flanders’ faces. They both had been soldiers in India and both had heard this blood-chilling announcement while on campaign in Bengal. They looked at each other aghast.

  The Black Death! … or, in other words … bubonic plague!

  CHAPTER 2

  THE EMPTY COFFIN

  Inspector Gregson sat in his office at Scotland Yard, perusing a report which bore the stamp of the police mortuary. He turned it over in utter perplexity, pursed his lips and groaned inwardly:

  “He’s always been a man of sound advice … why not ring him, then?” He took up the receiver on his desk with some brusqueness and dialed Sherlock Holmes’s number. My master answered immediately.

  “Holmes speaking.”

  “Hullo! It’s Gregson.”

  There was a chuckle at the other end of the line.

  “Dear me, we must be kindred spirits, Greg’. I was on the point of calling you. I read in the morning paper that the late Countess Vetcha’s mansion in Eltham burned to the ground last night. I am deeply interested in the matter, you know … .”

  It was Gregson’s turn to be pleased. My master’s unexpected words immediately put him in a good mood and he replied with great friendliness: “You still don’t know the best, Mr. Holmes. Did you read about Sergeant McLean?”

  “The brave fireman who found death on duty? Indeed yes, why?”

  “Well, the press didn’t report the whole story. You’d better cling to your chair, sir!”

  The inspector paused for a couple of seconds. He declared at last with some emphasis: “Sergeant McLean’s body and face bore stigmata of bubonic plague!”

  “Oh? And about time, too!” was my master’s brief, stolid reply. Greg son was totally discountenanced by it. He gave a gasp of appalled surprise and almost dropped the phone.

  “Don’t … don’t tell me you expected it, Mr Holmes!” he stammered out.

  “Of course I did! Sorry to spoil your little surprise, Greg’!”

  The inspector passed a trembling hand over his forehead. “How on earth could you—” he began in tones of pure astonishment, but my master cut him off.

  “The explanations will come at the proper time, Greg’,” Holmes said. “There is no time to waste, believe me. Londoners’ security is at stake. I must interview the mansion’s caretaker at once. Tell me, where can I find him?”

  “I don’t know. He ran away.”

  “Ran away?”

  “Yes. You see, he’d hardly looked at the fireman’s face when he made off, bawling like a banshee. Nobody’s seen him since.”

  “Too bad. The main trail is lost,” muttered my master bitterly. “Well, I’ll have to do without him, then,” he added after a brief silence.

  “Look here, Mr. Holmes, you spoke of Londoners’ security … . Are you serious?”

  “Most serious, alas! The situation could rapidly become tragic.”

  “Hey! What do you mean?”

  “Hem! I would trigger off a panic in Scotland Yard if I told you … . Sorry, Greg’,” apologized Sherlock Holmes. And most impolitely, to cut short the inspector’s questioning, he rang off.

  The shadowy twilight was deepening into night. My master and François Le Villard were carefully moving through Highgate Cemetery’s dismal wilderness. They passed many half-ruined, moss-grown cenotaphs and decayed chapels whose stained-glass windows were smashed; they zigzagged in a maze of flat-topped tombs with buddleia and fern sprouting from crevices, until they came into view of a huge yew casting its broad, black, outstretched limbs athwart a massive mausoleum of marble, as if to protect it from the chill breezes which now and again came sighing and sobbing through its interlacing branches. Sherlock Holmes then gently touched his companion’s shoulder and pointed to the white monument. The Frenchman gave a nod and looked carefully around. They waited a while in the long, dank grass, caught in the eddying current of the keen night air, and then stole towards the great tomb. At last they reached its rusty iron gate. My master gently opened it with a latchkey he had produced from his pocket and stepped in. He found his bearings instantly, as far as the lingering light would admit it, to a narrow stone staircase and climbed down as stealthily as possible, followed by Le Villard. They reached the bottom rapidly and my master flashed his pocket lantern full onto a small sepulcher whose center was occupied by a single oak coffin. The smell of rot there was almost unbearable. Nevertheless they stepped to the coffin and read the following epitaph, inscribed on a large brass plate:

  KAROLINA SZOKOLI

  COUNTESS VETCHA

  WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE

  18 MAY 1871

  IN HER 24th YEAR

  “Well, let’s see now what’s left of her,” said my master grimly. Putting then the lantern into Le Villard’s hands, he produced a screwdriver and began to remove the many screws. Soon the lid was loose. He lifted it with disgust and a low exclamation broke from the Frenchman’s lips:

  “Bon sang … . It’s empty!”

  “I expected it,” said Holmes.

  He breathed a sigh, wagged his head from side to side in utter despondency, and declared loudly, in sepulchral tones: “So, here is the definite proof … .”

  After a moment’s silence, he continued in the same way: “Karolina Szokoli was married when in her teens to Count Vetcha, who so utterly crushed her young life by his continu
ed cruelty and excesses that she died while yet in the very heyday of her youth and beauty … .”

  Oddly enough, as he was delivering this funereal oration, my master had carefully fitted his hands with thin but very solid leather gloves. Much to Le Villard’s surprise, he produced then a very tiny pair of forceps and scrutinized the coffin’s decayed satin lining. All of a sudden, very swiftly, he picked up something minuscule and thrust it into a small test tube he had also produced from his waistcoat. “ … And she has ever since haunted the estates of the illustrious Hungarian family to which she belongs.”

  My master pocketed the tweezers and test tube with a surreptitious smile of satisfaction, and added in the same grim voice: “We know now that Countess Vetcha is one of the living dead and we had better take our leave before she turns hack. It’s the Church’s business to exorcise the place, not ours. Let’s get out of here, François!”

  CHAPTER 3

  BOG TOWN

  Bog Town. Search as minutely as you could on a London map, you would not have found it, even on the most detailed one. And yet it well and truly existed not so long ago. On paper, it was but a mere blank, at the outermost bounds of Lewisham, between Deptford Church Street and Norman Road. Scotland Yard itself had but a rather vague layout of this (at least officially) nameless district. There, on every side of a strip of fallow land watered by Deptford Creek, big heaps of waste and rubbish alternated with rows of rickety shanties—the dingy abode of the great metropolis’s rag picking population.

  In Bog Town, all day long, you found numbers of tattered women seated in front of their shabby dwellings, with bushel baskets full of refuse by their side. They probed and examined, in the most pernickety manner, the squalid loot that their men had brought back from their early morning’s dustbin round, sorting out whatever could be worth a bob, a tanner, or even a brass farthing. Bands of ragged kids were gamboling around and shouting in merriment under the amused gaze of careworn patriarchs seated by the side of their windows. The only pub in the neighborhood was always thronged with motley groups of rag-and-bone men loafing about the bar, drinking, chatting, and smoking their pipes. On Saturday evenings in the taproom could be seen Curly the squeeze-box player, with a dozen couples enjoying the dance and singing over their gin-and-water. To sum up, Bog Town’s inhabitants, though very poor, formed a cheerful and happy lot until that fatal day when they suddenly all became … plague-struck!