The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

'Sir, it is the doctor and, sir, a friend of his, a friend with a most curious belief.'

At the sound of his servant's reassuring voice my patient began to cross the lawn towards us. As he approached, Sherlock Holmes stepped from the shrubbery and went to meet him, his figure tall and commanding in the silvery moonlight. The two men came together in the full middle of the lawn.

'Good evening,' Holmes's voice rang clear. 'Whom have I the honour of addressing?'

As he spoke he thrust out a hand in greeting. My patient extended his own in reply. But then, with a movement as rapid as that of a striking snake, Holmes, instead of taking the offered hand and clasping it, seized its third finger, covered as always with its leather finger-stall, and jerked the protective sheath clean away.

There in the bright moonlight I saw for the first time the finger that had hitherto always been concealed from me. It wore no heavy royal signet ring, as indeed was unlikely on a finger of the right hand. It was instead curiously withered, a sight that to anyone other than a medical man might have been considered a little repulsive.

'You are not the Count Palatine of Illyria?' Holmes stammered then, more disconcerted than I had ever seen him in the whole of our long friendship.

'The Count Palatine of Illyria?' Mr Smith replied. 'I assure you, my dear sir, I am far from being such a person. Whatever put a notion like that into your head?'

It was not until the last train of the day returning us to London was at the outskirts of the city that Holmes spoke to me.

'How often have I told you, Watson,' he said, 'that one must take into account all the factors relevant to a particular situation before making an assessment? A good many dozen times, I should say. So it was all the more reprehensible of me deliberately to have imported a factor into the Hertfordshire business that was the product, not of the simple truth, but of my own over-willing imagination. My dear fellow, I must tell you that there were no reports of unrest in Illyria.'

'I knew it, Holmes. I had found out quite by chance.'

'And you said nothing?'

'I trusted you, as I have trusted you always.'

'And as, until now, I hope I have been worthy of your trust. But inaction has always been the curse of me, my dear fellow. It was the lack of stimulus that drove me to deceit now. You were right about your patient from the start. He never was other than a man with a not unusual nervousness of disposition.You were right, Watson, and I was wrong.'

I heard the words. But I wished then, as I wish again now with all the fervour at my command, that they had never been uttered, that they had never needed to be uttered.

The Repulsive Story of the Red Leech – David Langford

'Our client, Watson, would seem somewhat overwrought,' remarked Sherlock Holmes without lowering his copy of The Times.

We were alone, but I had grown accustomed to the little puzzles which my friend was amused to propound. A glance at the window showed nothing but grey rain over Baker Street. I listened with care, and presently was pleased to say: 'Aha! Someone is pacing outside the door. Not heavily, for I cannot discern the footsteps, but quite rapidly – as indicated by the regular sound from that floorboard with its very providential creak.'

Holmes cast aside his newspaper and smiled. 'Capital! But let us not confuse providence with forethought. That board has been carefully sprung in imitation of the device which in the Orient is known as a nightingale floor. More than once I have found its warning useful.'

As I privately abandoned my notion of having the loose plank nailed down and silenced, there was a timid knock at the door.

'Come in,' cried Holmes, and in a moment we had our first sight of young Martin Trail. He was robust of build but pale of feature, and advanced with a certain hesitation.

'You wish, I take it, to consult me,' said Holmes pleasantly. 'Indeed so, sir, if you are the celebrated Dr Watson.'

A flash of displeasure crossed Holmes's face as he effected the necessary introductions; and then, I thought, he smiled to himself at his own vanity.

Traill said to me: 'I should, perhaps, address you in private.' 'My colleague is privy to all my affairs,' I assured him, suppressing a smile of my own.

'Very well. I dared to approach you, Dr Watson, since certain accounts which you have published show that you are not unacquainted with outre matters.'

'Meretricious and over-sensationalized accounts,' murmured Holmes under his breath.

I professed my readiness to listen to any tale, be it never so bizarre, and – not without what I fancied to be a flicker of evasiveness in his eyes – Martin Traill began.

'If I were a storyteller I would call myself hag-ridden…

harried by spirits. The facts are less dramatic, but, to me, perhaps more disturbing. I should explain that I am the heir

to the very substantial estate of my late father, Sir Maximilian Traill, whose will makes me master of the entire fortune upon attaining the age of twenty-five. That birthday is months past: yet here I am, still living like a remittance-man on a monthly allowance, because I cannot sign a simple piece of paper.'

'A legal document that confirms you in your inheritance?' I hazarded.

'Exactly so.'

'Come, come,' said Holmes, reaching for a quire of foolscap and a pencil, 'we must see this phenomenon. Pray write your name here, and Watson and I will stand guard against ghosts.'

Traill smiled a little sadly. 'You scoff. I wish to God that I could scoff too. This is not a document that my hand refuses to touch: see!' And, though the fingers trembled a little, he signed his name bold and clear: Martin Maximilian Traill. -

'I perceive,' said Holmes, 'that you have no banking account.'

'No indeed; our man of business pays over my allowance in gold. But – good heavens – how can you know this?'

'Yours is a strong schoolboy signature, not yet worn down by repeated use in the world, such as the signing of many cheques. After ten thousand prescriptions, Watson's scrawl is quite indecipherable in all that follows the W. But we digress.'

Traill nervously rubbed the back of his right hand as he went on. 'The devil of it is that Selina… that my elder sister talks to spirits.'

I fancied that I took his point a trifle more quickly than the severely rational Holmes. 'Seances?' I said. 'Mischief in dark rooms with floating tambourines, and the dead supposedly

called back to this sphere to talk twaddle? It is a folly which several of my older female patients share.'

'Then I need not weary you with details. Suffice it to say that Selina suffers from a mild monomania about the ingratitude of her young brother – that is, myself. Unfortunately she has never married. When I assume formal control of our father's fortune, her stipulated income from the estate will cease. Naturally I shall reinstate and even increase the allowance… but she is distrustful. And the spirits encourage her distrust.'

'Spirits!' snapped Holmes. 'Professor Challenger's recent monograph has quite exploded the claims of spirit mediums. You mean to say that some astral voice has whispered to this foolish woman that her brother plans to leave her destitute?'

'Not precisely, sir. On the occasion when I was present for sisters must be humoured – the device employed was a ouija board. You may know the procedure. All those present place a finger on the planchette, and its movements spell out messages. Nonsense as a rule, but I remember Selina's air of grim satisfaction as that sentence slowly emerged: beware an ungenerous brother. And then, the words that came horribly back to mind on my twenty-fifth birthday: fear not the hand that moves against its own kin shall suffer fire from heaven.

'And my hand did suffer, Dr Watson. When I took up the pen to sign that paper in the solicitor's office, it burnt like fire as though in my very bones!'

I found myself at a loss. 'The pen was hot?'