My Sherlock Holmes Page 7

  “He stopped me that very evening in the Commercial Road, and had I not been warned by my dear Mrs. W.—Mrs. Watson, that is,” she amended hastily, “I don’t know but what I might have gone with him for a drink. For in that great beard and those spectacles I did not recognize him, and he kept his voice low and husky, and his words short. He knew he had little time. Our daughter turns twenty one this month, and he must have guessed—seeing how she spoke against him in the court today—that his chance of controlling any portion of the family money would be done when she reached her majority.”

  “The importance of Miss Thorne’s impending birthday did not escape me,” said Holmes. “What did you intend to do, when she came of age?”

  “I intended to die,” said Julietta Thorne, quite calmly. “Oh, not actually die,” she added, when both I and John cried out in horror. “I had made my will, leaving everything to Viola absolutely and without reference to her father. I planned to stage-manage an ‘accident’ in Brussels or Hamburg, with some of my seafaring friends, with sufficient proof that Julietta Thorne was no more. Only in that way could I be sure of freeing myself, and my poor child, from the scoundrel I married. It broke my heart to know that I could never see my child again … .”

  Her voice wavered, and she forced a smile. “I saw her at the Assizes today,” she said. “I was in the courtroom—Did she not look beautiful, as she stood up and told her own tale of the wrongs she witnessed that he did to me, the abuses she herself had endured at his hands? There is a girl who will never know her mother’s foolish belief in a man’s lies.”

  She broke off, and pressed her hands to her lips, her dark eyes flooding with tears. “My poor Viola,” she whispered. “What she must have gone through, after I fled—thinking that I would leave her, merely to save myself from unpleasantness. Now that Lionel is where he cannot get at me, I shall institute divorce proceedings, which I am sure will be granted given his attempt at murdering poor Mrs. Watson … .”

  She held out her hand to me, and clasped my fingers in her strong, work-roughened grip. “But I fear that I shall never be able to look my daughter in the face again.”

  While Mrs. Thorne had been speaking, I saw Mr. Holmes turn his head, listening to sounds in the street. Listening myself, I heard a cab outside, and Martha’s sister-in-law, Jenny Turner, opening the street door. Moments later the parlor door opened to reveal the tall slim dark-haired girl I had glimpsed only once on the doorstep. Mrs. Thorne gave a little cry, but her daughter only crossed the room in a stride or two, and took her mother in her arms.

  As the two women held each other close John put a gentle arm around my waist, and led me from the room.

  MR. JAMES PHILLIMORE

  Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox & Co., at Charing Cross, there is a travel worn and battered tin dispatch box with my name, John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to examine. Some, and not the least interesting, were complete failures, and as such will hardly bear narrating, since no final explanation is forthcoming. A problem without a solution may interest the student, but can hardly fail to annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.

  —“The Problem of Thor Bridge”

  by MEL GILDEN

  The Aventure of the Forgotten Umbrella

  In “The Problem of Thor Bridge,” Dr. Watson mentions several cases which “will hardly bear narrating, since no final explanation is forthcoming.” He goes on to say that “Among these unfinished tales is that of Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world.”

  I, Mr. James Phillimore, still being very much in this world, take the liberty of explaining myself what happened on that chilly April morning—believing that the true and correct details of the case should be preserved. The facts are both less mysterious and more dramatic than some of the fantastic suppositions that have been put forward in the more sensational stories of the daily press—having to do with neither black magic nor abduction by Mr. Wells’s Martians, but only with human greed.

  I begin:

  Five years ago I met a young lady who called herself Alice Madison. She was a substantial woman with rosy cheeks and a pleasant disposition. I liked her immediately, and, it would seem, my warm feelings were reciprocated. Over a period of months our mutual respect and enjoyment of each other’s company bloomed into love. She seemed unencumbered by personal affiliations, and I made a good living as a vice president at Morehouse & Co., so there was no reason we should not plan to be married.

  Early in our marriage Alice took up the habit of stopping at my offices in Throgmorton Street so that we might take our midday meal together. We both enjoyed the diversion, and we saw no harm in it so we continued to meet in this way once or twice a week. At the time it did not seem important that a large safe stood in one corner of my office. The safe contained money, as well as stocks, bonds, contracts, and other important papers that our investors might require, and having these documents near at hand saved us the trouble of sending a messenger to the bank time and again throughout the business day. Only Mr. Morehouse and I knew the combination to the safe.

  My life continued without unpleasant incident until one evening when I arrived home from work to find my dear wife in serious conversation with a short round man who had a face that was florid and large-featured, if unshaven, under thick beetling brows. He was dressed as a moderately successful tradesman on holiday might be—in a suit that was slightly out of style, a little tight under the arms, and frayed at the cuffs. His hat had seen better days, and no one had thought to brush his shoes recently.

  He looked at me as if appraising an animal. “’Is lordship’s a likely lad, ain’ ’e?” he remarked in an insulting tone.

  My wife said nothing but only continued to stare at him in horror.

  “Don’t forget,” this unpleasant man said and shook his finger at her.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” I cried. “Why are you pestering my wife?”

  The man sneered. “Your wife, indeed,” he said as he tipped his hat to me and sauntered out, closing the door behind himself. I threw it open and watched him strut along the street past a brace of waiting cabs. I closed the door and turned to my wife, intending to get to the bottom of this situation. But she paced up and down before me and wrung her hands in the most dreadful manner. Obviously, I could not interrogate her while she was in such a state. I called for water, then encouraged her to calm herself, and to sit down. After the maid had brought an ewer of water and a glass, Alice took a few sips and then buried her head in her hands, sobbing.

  “Certainly,” I said, “as long as I’m here you have nothing to fear from that man.”

  “On the contrary,” she said. “I fear he can ruin our lives.”

  “Our lives?” I asked with astonishment. “Are we in danger? I will call the police immediately.”

  She lifted her head and dabbed with a handkerchief at her red rimmed eyes. “I am afraid,” she said, “that the police cannot help.”

  “My dear, you are not making sense.” For many years, my only contact with members of the constabulary was to exchange nods if we happened to pass on the street. I had never needed their help, but had always assumed that if I requested it, it would be forthcoming.

  She answered by taking a ragged breath.

  “Perhaps you’d better explain,” I said.

  She nodded. “I must begin,” she said, “by admitting something so horrible that I have been keeping it from you, fearing what you might do.”

  “I love you, my dear,” I said, quite bewildered by her warning. “There is nothing you might have done that can be so horrible I would harm you in any way.”

  “I love y
ou, too, James,” she said. “And I ask only that you not think too harshly of me.”

  “Done!” I cried rather more loudly than I’d intended. “Only what is your admission?”

  “I was married before we met.”

  Her words were a great shock to me, but still not so bad as I had feared. While I was still absorbing her information, she went on. “And I am afraid that I am still married.”

  Her second admission proved that I was still not impervious to surprise. And I found it difficult to keep the promise I had so recently made. Harsh thoughts filled my brain. “Go on,” was all I trusted myself to say.

  It was then that Alice told a story I would not have credited had I not known her so well, and seen the sincerity on her face. As it happened, my trust in her was not ill-placed because events later proved her out.

  She had been (she explained) little more than a child when she met and somehow fell in love with the unpleasant man I had just met, a certain Mr. Harvey Maynard. Shortly, she and Mr. Maynard were married.

  “He was kind at first, but it was not very many days later that Harvey proved to be a most disreputable and violent person,” my Alice went on. “He beat me only when he drank, but he drank constantly. It soon became obvious that his love for me was just as surely an artifact of his alcoholism as was his enthusiasm for striking me with his hand. I would even have divorced him, if I could, the shame of divorce being no greater than the suffering I endured while married to the brute. When I went to visit my sister in Kent, he came and dragged me back to London.

  “Then, one morning I awoke to find he had not returned from the carousing and revelry in which he nightly indulged. I cannot say that I was unhappy with the turn of events, but I admit to a certain morbid curiosity about what had happened to him. It was only some weeks later that I learned he had been arrested for a most brutal robbery and eventually taken to Dartmoor prison. Some years later I was notified that he had died crossing the moors during an escape attempt. A great weight seemed lifted from my shoulders. Shortly after that I met you, my dear, and I thought my life had turned around for good.”

  “Then who was that irritating little man?” I asked, bewildered. “Surely, you didn’t marry him, too?”

  “No, dear,” she replied patiently. “I did not. That was Harvey May nard.”

  “But you said—”

  “That he was dead? Indeed I thought so for many years. Then, shortly before you arrived home from work today, Harvey turned up on our doorstep. He boasted with smug arrogance that while escaping prison he had met a man by chance on the moors, forced him to exchange clothing, and then murdered him. By the time the body was found it could no longer be identified properly. The clothing seemed to speak for itself.”

  I cannot sufficiently describe my feelings of pity for my wife and my revulsion for Mr. Harvey Maynard. I patted Alice’s hand and bade her take another sip of water. When these ministrations were, for the moment, complete, I asked her to continue her story. “Certainly, there must be more,” I said.

  “No,” she said with difficulty. “No more.” She looked away from me and shuddered.

  “But what did he want?”

  “Only to gloat a little about his escape.”

  “Surely, I must call the police.”

  Alice sighed. “Harvey Maynard is a very bad man,” she said, “but unfortunately he is not stupid. The police will certainly not find him before he boards a ship bound for South America.”

  For a day or two I considered the fact that Alice was, in the eyes of the law if in no other way, a bigamist. Still, that seemed a small matter next to the crimes committed by Mr. Harvey Maynard. More importantly, I could not stop loving Alice just because of the indiscretions she had committed when she was young. Now Harvey Maynard was on his way to South America, where he would most likely stay; if he returned to England he ran the risk of being recognized by the police. No, he would not disturb my beloved Alice or me ever again. Maynard’s departure seemed to mark the end of the incident. What I did not know at that time was that Mr. Maynard had in fact not gone to South America, and instead had forced my wife to commit an act that was as much against her nature as it was against mine.

  Not many days after the appearance of Harvey Maynard Alice came to visit me for luncheon. I thought nothing of it when she arrived somewhat earlier than usual and took her customary seat in a wing-backed leather chair opposite my desk. We spoke for a moment, and then I went about my business. She seemed to take pleasure watching me work, and I admit that I took a certain amount of pleasure watching her watch me.

  “Excuse me, my dear,” I said as I stood. “I must get Mr. Morehouse’s signature upon these papers.”

  She nodded, and gave me leave to continue.

  I left the room and was gone for only a few moments. When I returned Alice was still seated, but reading a book she now put back into her hand bag, and smiled up at me warmly.

  “That concludes the morning’s work,” I informed her. “Shall we dine?”

  “Indeed we shall,” she said and stood up.

  I swung shut the safe, twirled the dial, and offered Alice my arm.

  As usual, we went to Luigi’s, a small restaurant on Broad Street that we both knew and liked. The beef was extraordinarily good, though the fowl was perhaps a trifle undercooked. During the course of the meal Alice attempted to tell me a hilarious story about our housemaid, Mary Anne, who had the habit of unconsciously performing little dance steps as she worked. But the story collapsed of its own weight when Alice seemed to distract herself with another thought.

  “What is it, my dear?” I asked. We had not spoken of Harvey Maynard for some days, but the episode had not been forgotten.

  “Nothing,” Alice said with a shake of her head. Abstractedly, as if something else were still on her mind, she chewed on her beef.

  That evening I found my wife in tears once again. Had some new catastrophe befallen my poor Alice?

  “I have a terrible admission to make,” she said as I rushed to her side.

  “What?” I asked with astonishment. “Another one?”

  Like light on water a smile came and went on her face.

  “I did not tell you the true reason for Harvey Maynard’s visit.”

  “Oh?” I remarked cautiously.

  “He demanded I give him one thousand pounds or he would ruin our lives by reporting to the police and to the daily newspapers that I am a bigamist.”

  “He has not gone to South America, then?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet, at any rate.”

  My astonishment was terrific. “You led me to believe that he’d come here only to gloat,” I said, trying not to sound accusing and failing at it.

  “My fondest wish was to see you uninvolved in these matters.”

  “You think so little of me—that I would do anything but help you as best I could?

  “Say rather that I thought so much of you. That the less you knew and the less you were involved the more likely you would emerge unscathed.”

  Her words touched me deeply. “But one thousand pounds.” I cried. “How could you hope to raise such a sum?”

  “I tried pawning my jewelry,” she explained. “But bargain as I might, I could not secure nearly enough in exchange.”

  “And so?” I suggested, prompting her, unable to prevent curiosity from creeping into my voice.

  “I saw that all avenues were closed to me but one. And my only solution was not perfect. It seemed that I had a choice between revealing you to be the pawn of a lady bigamist, or to be a man who had robbed his company of one thousand pounds. This afternoon, after I returned home from our luncheon, I gave the money I had taken from your safe to Harvey Maynard in exchange for his silence.”

  I had no trouble understanding her predicament, but one question remained. “As far as I am aware,” I said, “the combination to the safe is known only to Mr. Morehouse and myself.”

  “Exactly,” she admitted. “And so you become
the robbery’s chief suspect.” Once more she buried her face in her hands.

  “But how did you know the combination?” I asked, persisting.

  With nearly the directness of a man she stared me straight in the eye. “I had no need of a combination,” she said in a flat, unemotional voice. “I merely took the money from the open safe when you were out getting Mr. Morehouse’s signature on those papers.”

  I nodded. Her explanation made sense. As she began to cry again I noted that on the morrow when the shortage was discovered, as Alice had already pointed out, I would certainly be the first person who would fall under suspicion.

  I sat silently for a long while listening to her cry, and to the clatter of the oblivious traffic that passed on the street outside. Mary Anne made small tapping and shuffling sounds as she danced around the table, preparing it for dinner. Anger grew in my breast, all of it directed at Mr. Harvey Maynard, my sweet Alice’s despicable first husband. I wanted to assure her that between the two of us we would find a solution to our troubles, but I had not the faintest idea how to proceed.