“The work of a madman, whatever else it is. Look, mixed with the dogs are some true exotica: a mongoose there, two bandicoots in the corner, a panda . . . and look over there, Watson, look.”
My eyes reluctantly followed Holmes outstretched arm to a corner of the room where there were three black masks shining, dancing in the wind. I entered the only other room, which contained a bed and chest of drawers. The walls, however, were covered with masks and wooden crosses hung alternately in neat rows.
“Come, Watson, back to London as fast as we can make it. I suspect that we shall be too late no matter what. McMillan unfortunately has the jump on us.”
We almost ran to the station. Holmes barely had time to ask the station master to call the police when our train arrived.
Holmes was silent, but wrought. When he finally spoke, it was with a rueful sigh.
“I should have seen through it all at the very beginning. But I didn’t. Perhaps it doesn’t matter at this point.”
It was about five p.m. when we reached London. Holmes hailed a cab and directed the driver to Hyde Park. There we walked to where Harry had initially taken us, to the dingy end of the park. From a tall pile of moist oak leaves there emerged, perpendicular to the earth, a human leg naked to the knee. The foot wore a white sock and a black chupple, attached to which was a green woollen hat that fluttered every so often like the flag of some faraway country, mysterious and unknown. Holmes gently removed the leaves to reveal the face of John McMillan and that of his sister, Gertrude. Brother and sister were still tied together with ropes, unable to free themselves except for McMillan’s one leg. Sister Gertrude clutched a wooden box to her breast. Holmes opened it. It was empty.
Harry found a bobby for us, who reported the deaths to Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard. In the morning we read the
“As of now, Watson, I regard this as one of my defeats. The man has won or at least played his game well enough for me to call it a draw at best.”
“Perhaps we will have a visit from the masked men,” said I.
“Quite possibly, but let us not wait for such an eventuality. Watson old boy, reach over to the shelf next to you and hand over the book on peerage in England. I want to know something more of Lord Fitzwilliam.”
THE CASE OF THE MISSING LODGER
OF THE MANY FRIENDSHIPS I HAVE BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH to have forged in an increasingly long life, none, with the exception of my relationship with Sherlock Holmes, was ever as strong as my friendship with Dumond Davies. His premature death was the saddest of events for all who knew him.
Davies and I had grown up in the same part of London, attended school and the university together, and finally, commenced the study of medicine at the same time at Edinburgh. It was only in 1878 when I joined our forces in Afghanistan that we were separated. We corresponded fitfully for a time until he informed me that he had met and fallen in love with a young woman of great beauty, who, he was amazed to say, agreed to marry him after the briefest of courtships. More than anything he wished for me to be present at his wedding.
As luck would have it, a Jezail bullet had hit me in the shoulder several weeks before the arrival of his letter, and the necessary papers authorizing my discharge were thus already prepared. I wrote Dumond that if he and his bride-to-be could wait until my release, I would be overjoyed to attend. My wound, though a minor one, suffered in Candahar, was thought by our commanding officer to be of sufficient gravity for me to return to England and rejoin civilian life.
The wedding took place shortly after I arrived in London, just after my initial meetings with Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, learning of my new acquaintance, Dumond and his bride immediately extended an invitation to him. In the coming months and to my great surprise, Holmes and the Davieses became good friends. Their home was often a refuge for the now famed detective during those moments when he was close to the solution of a crime, but was still unsure of his way forward. Dumond would then provide a willing ear for him when I was unavailable because of a medical or other emergency.
It was a terrible moment that particular evening, therefore, when I read Barbara’s note imploring us to come as quickly as possible, for Dumond, she thought, had accidentally electrocuted himself while mending a lamp. For a moment on the way, Holmes and I hoped that he could be revived. We knew it to be too late, however, when we heard Barbara’s grief-stricken sobs as we entered and saw the look of helplessness on the face of Tanner, the local police doctor, whom I knew quite well and for whom I had the highest respect.
”Too heavy a bolt, I would say, for him to survive,” he said quietly. “He must have tripped, and the current from the main went right through him.”
Holmes and I took a quick look at the body and nodded to Tanner in reluctant assent. A strong odor of singed cloth and hair permeated the room. We remained with Barbara and their two young daughters through the night until morning. Dumond was buried that afternoon.
It was not long after the death of her husband that Barbara felt the need to take in boarders. Dumond left neither inheritance nor pension, the large house on Lloyd Square being the only substantial asset bequeathed to her. There was no question of selling, for the square was quite rundown, with many of the houses in great need of repair. Only the most optimistic of investors would have considered purchasing any of them. Doing some of the initial work herself and thus balancing her first rental income against the repairs, she made steady progress. The Davies home in time became not unlike that comfortable residence at 221b Baker Street run by Mrs. Hudson, who generously took it upon herself to guide Barbara in the making of a boarding house.
In the days immediately after Dumond’s death, we saw Barbara with great frequency, but soon our meetings became rarer, and we kept in touch through Mrs. Hudson, who as a landlady of long experience with peculiar and often penurious tenants had become one of Barbara’s close and valued friends. It was indeed through her insistence that Holmes and I found ourselves one morning in Lloyd Square standing in front of the Davies residence, ready to help with what Mrs. Hudson saw as an unusual occurrence, one of which Sherlock Holmes at the very least, she thought, should be made aware.
When the door opened, a smiling Barbara greeted us. She had aged considerably since we saw her last. Her hair had turned almost white and she walked hesitantly before us, slightly bent, trying to hold her head straight. When she spoke, however, she showed considerable strength in her voice, and her face displayed the same vibrant spirit as before.
“Do come in, you two. It has been too long a time.”
We sat together over tea and heard the story of what had troubled Mrs. Hudson.
“I don’t think it’s anything of consequence, but your landlady thinks quite differently. And since she has lived with you two for so long, I feel that she may be right.”
“Mrs. Hudson has developed a certain acuity in these matters,” said Holmes, “a knack for perceiving irregularities in human affairs that even I at times have overlooked. Indeed, I have come to value her opinions. But let us hear directly from you what has happened.”
“Dumond’s death, as you know, was a terrible blow to me, and for a time I could barely think,” she began. “The world, however, does not stop even at the loss of one’s beloved. I found that Dumond had, to add to my sorrow, no money except what he earned as a doctor. There was nothing for me and my two young daughters to live on. I tried to find work, but all my efforts in that direction came to naught. It was at this low point in my life that I thought of taking in boarders. The house, as you know, is large, and when I examined it closely, I found that if I took in a few boarders, I would be able to survive: I could keep the house and feed my daughters and myself. I spoke to Mrs. Hudson about my plans, and she not only approved but helped me over the coming months. When the rooms were ready and Mrs. Hudson had approved the changes, I began interviewing prospective clients. It took me only a week to fill my rooms, and for the first time since Dumond’s death I thought I could go on.”
Holmes sat back and I could see his eyes running over the room and its contents, noting the stair just beyond the door, the paintings Dumond worked on during his spare moments, the large number of books neatly stored in their shelves.
“A few weeks ago,” she continued, “one of my rooms, then given to an American writer from Boston, was vacated, and I promptly advertised in
