Associates of Sherlock Holmes

THE CASE OF THE PREVIOUS TENANT Ian Edginton

“Well, Doctor, what is your diagnosis?”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Why me of course.” came the curt reply. “For a full thirty minutes now, you have been perusing me from behind the horizon of your newspaper.”

Before I could respond, he brandished an index finger in my direction. “Do not deny it. You may as well have been sending out a semaphore for all your interminable rustling.”

I sighed and patiently folded my newspaper. I knew too well from past experience how Sherlock Holmes railed against inactivity. I had often reassured him that it was merely a passing inconvenience to be endured. Much like his sour mood.

“Holmes, this is merely a fallow patch,” I replied. “You have been through them before and will no doubt do so again. In fact, it has only been… what? Two weeks since the conclusion of our last case?”

“Long enough for the ink to dry on your latest tawdry narrative.”

“Holmes!” I rose sharply to my feet and was about to slam down my copy of The Times to punctuate my displeasure when I thought better of it. There was enough petulant behaviour in the room already. “You are my dearest friend, but there are occasions, such as this, when I find your company difficult to endure.”

Holmes folded his arms and turned to face the window.

“Surely the origin of that must lie with your friend Stamford for introducing us in the first place.”

I snatched my overcoat from the stand and proceeded to the door. “I am going for a walk. Some time apart may benefit us both.”

Without turning, Holmes gave a faint, dismissive wave.

“Oh, and when you pass Inspector Baynes of the Surrey Constabulary on the stair please tell him to come straight in, there’s no need to knock.”

“Inspector Baynes?”

“Of the Surrey Constabulary, yes. You’ll recall his most erudite handling of the incident at Wisteria Lodge?”

“Certainly. But how do you know he’s here? I didn’t hear the bell.”

Holmes turned to face me, a dark silhouette backlit by the sharp, winter daylight.

“The good inspector is somewhat on the stout side, therefore his weight upon the stair causes it to creak with a different timbre should you or I or Mrs Hudson bring pressure to bear.” He crossed to the fireplace and selected a long-stemmed pipe from the rack on the mantel. “Also, he pauses on every fifth stair to catch his breath, suggesting he is in ill health, although nothing more serious than a head cold.”

I was readily aware of Holmes’s methods but even I was briefly confounded by this deduction.

“You saw him out of the window didn’t you? He was arriving as Mrs Hudson was leaving to visit her friend in Worthing, ergo no door bell?”

Holmes gave a flicker of a smile but I sensed something else behind it, a suggestion of discomfort. He studied the pipe as if puzzled by its presence. He placed it back in the rack and elected to take a cigarette instead. His hands were trembling. Holmes has often said it is the observation of trifles that are the most revealing.

“Holmes, are you quite alright?”

“Clearly I am not, or you would not be asking such a question.”

“Then what is it that troubles you? I am both your friend and physician, remember?”

He lit the cigarette and drew deeply upon it before slowly exhaling a roiling cloud of grey smoke. The tension that hung about him seemed to dissipate along with it.

“Sleep, Watson, sleep. It and I have never been on the best of terms, but these past few nights my sleep has been sorely tested. I awake in the morning… exhausted.”

Before I could answer there was a knock at the door.

“Come in Inspector Baynes,” said Holmes. “The door is open. There is no need to stand on ceremony.”

“Ah, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. A very good morning to you both!”

Baynes had changed little since we met the year before. A short, solidly built fellow with a slight puffiness to his features and a red bloom to his cheeks. His frame suggested a family heritage of stout yeoman stock, of honest toil working on the land. His eyes, however, were bright, keen and ever watchful.

It was during the case of Wisteria Lodge, of the murder of Aloysius Garcia and the uncovering of the vile Central American despot Don Juan Murillo – “the Tiger of San Pedro” – that his talents came to the fore. Eschewing Holmes’s offer of aid, he ploughed his own course, revealing both murderer and motive at the same time as my friend. I distinctly recall him praising Baynes’s exceptional abilities. “You will rise high in your profession,” Holmes had declared.

And now Baynes was here in Baker Street and, after sneezing explosively into his handkerchief, was clearly full of cold.

“Forgive me gentlemen. It sounds far worse than it feels. Although I shall endeavour to keep my distance for fear of spreading same.”

“Will you take a brandy?” I offered.

“Thank you, no, Doctor. This is but a sniffling trifle; it will work its own way clear in due course. I am not a great imbiber, and I fear a glass of spirits would dull my senses even more.”

“Then pray take seat,” replied Holmes. “It is the least we can offer.”

“That I will, Mr Holmes. Thank you.”

I took Baynes’s heavy overcoat and wide-brimmed felt hat – the same, I noted, that he had been wearing when we first met. He seated himself at the dining table and laid a large leather satchel before him. Holmes was clearly intrigued.

“Am I correct in assuming this is not a social call, Inspector?”

“I wish I could say otherwise Mr Holmes but no, it is not. It is more by way of a consultation.”

“We are all ears,” Holmes replied.

The inspector unfastened the satchel and withdrew a thick cardboard envelope. From this he took six large photographs and laid them on the table.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, wheezing slightly. “Tell me what you make of these.”

The images were of a corpse, the same one in each but viewed from a different angle and distance, to take in not only the form but also the situation in which it was lying. It was male, judging by the clothes, but the body itself had been denuded of all the soft tissue. There remained only a few shreds of matter and wisps of hair clinging to the bones.

Holmes descended upon the photographs, his face inches from the nearest as he scrutinised it with his magnifying glass.

“It’s the body of a man in the final stages of decay,” I said. “Although after exposure to the elements, it’s impossible to adequately gauge the time of death.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said. “This is all that remains after the wildlife and water have done their work.”

“Water?” I queried.

“He is lying in a reed bed, yet the earth around him is dry and cracked. This area was once marshland but has recently been drained for agricultural use?”

“You’re not wrong there, Mr Holmes. It is a small fenland, just south of the Thames, near Mortlake. The farmer was clearing it when he discovered the body.”

“I cannot discern any broken bones nor trauma to the skull. Of course there may well have been foul play, but the march of time has trampled over a good deal of the evidence.”

“That it has, Mr Holmes,” replied Baynes. “However, the fellow’s pocket watch and wallet were found upon his person.”

“So we can rule out robbery,” I added.

“Ah, Watson,” Holmes sighed, “there are more reasons to murder a man than merely for the contents of his pockets. But tell me, Inspector, is it now customary for the Surrey Constabulary to photograph crime scenes such as this? If so, it shows great foresight, as it has only recently become common practice here in London.”

“Sadly not. But, given the delicate condition of the body, I recruited a local photographer to record any evidence in situ before moving it compromised the remains.”

“Ha! Splendid!” Holmes exclaimed. “I have said it before and will say so again, your talents are wasted in your little corner, Inspector.”

“You are very generous, Mr Holmes.”

“That’s as maybe,” replied Holmes, a hard edge creeping into his voice. “But perhaps you might tell us the real reason for your visit so that we might end this charade?”

Baynes’s genial manner faltered for a moment. “You are quite right: I have not been fair in this matter, but it was not meant with any trickery or malice in mind.” He took a second, smaller envelope from the satchel. Inside was a delicate sheet of tea-coloured paper.

“I simply wished to glean your reading of the situation without it first being coloured by what I have here.”

The document was rippled and brittle, rather like a dried leaf. It had been wet at some point, causing whatever had been written on it to bleed almost beyond recognition. The printed heading though was unmistakable.

“This is headed notepaper from the British Museum?”

“That it is, Doctor. Now do you see anything else?”

I studied the abstraction of smears but was able to discern only a vague swirl or loop of the occasional letter. It took me a minute or so to see past the chaos and interpret these enigmatic hieroglyphics.

“Good lord, it’s an address! It says ‘221B Baker Street’!”

“And that’s not all,” Baynes added. “I have been able to decipher a number of other words and a name, a Professor Mori –”

“Moriarty!” I exclaimed.

“No, Watson, it is not he. Nor is it wise to jump to conclusions however accommodating the evidence.” Holmes stood, staring at the letter as he contemplated the connection.

“The name is Professor Mortimer Shawcross, the associate head of the department of Anglo-Saxon history at the British Museum and the previous resident of 221B. Almost fifteen years ago now, he suffered a sudden and violent breakdown and has been a resident at The Briars, a private asylum, ever since.”

“You’ve beaten me to it, Mr Holmes.” Baynes chuckled. “Thanks to this letter I traced the fellow in the field back to the museum where he was identified as one Peter Allenby, a student and assistant of the professor. They were working on an archaeological excavation in the spring of 1881, not far from where the body was found in fact.”

“And shortly afterwards Shawcross had his breakdown and Allenby disappeared.”

“It would seem so,” the inspector replied. “It was reported that the professor was arrested for indiscriminately attacking a number of people.”

“What on Earth happened?” I asked.

“He ran riot in the street late one night, brandishing the still quite deadly remains of a Viking sword,” Holmes replied. “He killed three people and injured five more before he was apprehended.”

“Do you think he murdered Peter Allenby?”

“It’s doubtful,” said Baynes. “The professor had returned to Baker Street and left Allenby in charge of the dig site for a few days. Then one day the boy was just gone.”

“Closely followed by Professor Shawcross’s mental collapse. I doubt very much that it was a coincidence,” remarked Holmes.

“Holmes, how long have you known about this?” I asked.

“Since our mutual acquaintance Stamford first informed me that these rooms had become available. He knew some might find it ghoulish to take them on but that I was not so disposed,” he replied.

“However, it would have been churlish to simply accept them sight unseen, plus having read of the professor’s story in the newspaper I confess to a degree of professional curiosity.”

“You knew!” I exclaimed. “You knew all of this right from the very start? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it didn’t seem relevant.” Holmes seemed genuinely bemused. “Besides, I was aware that your battle scars were more than just physical. I did not wish to burden you further.”

“How considerate!” I snapped. “And of course it had nothing to do with not wishing to scare me off from sharing the cost of the rooms with you?”

“It was… a consideration,” said Holmes, a faint sheepishness creeping into his tone.

“And Mrs Hudson?”

“I counselled her to say nothing to you either, to spare your nerves. She was most sympathetic.”

“I see.” I felt angry, embarrassed and indignant, but I knew these feelings would achieve little, the injury having been inflicted over a decade earlier.

“What is to be done now?” I said. “With regards the case of the late Peter Allenby, I mean.”

“There is only one course of action as far as I can see,” remarked Holmes. “We must go and pay Professor Shawcross a visit.”

Located between the cathedral city of Hereford and the village of Stretton Sugwas, just north of the River Wye, The Briars was formerly a country manor house now converted into a mental institution catering for patients whose families were of no small wealth and status. The ancient wall encircling the grounds, a sturdy bastion from the days of the Civil War, had been substantially strengthened and topped with iron spikes. At the main gate, the guards, while being smartly uniformed, would not have looked out of place at a Shoreditch bareknuckle bout.

Upon reaching the entrance, the director, an anxious-looking American by the name of Dr East, was waiting for us. Short, slightly built, with a shock of sandy-coloured hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses, he gave the impression of a small mammal, ever-conscious of the lethal swoop of a hawk.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he enquired in a soft, clipped tone.

“I am he,” declared Holmes, stepping down from the cab. “And this is my colleague Dr Watson and the inestimable Inspector Baynes.”

“Yes,” said East, somewhat disdainfully. “Your brother’s telegram said to expect you. I am not comfortable with this,” he continued. “Not at all! The families of our residents expect the utmost discretion and that does not include detectives, consulting or otherwise, being let loose in these halls.”

“You may have no fear of that, Doctor,” said Baynes, his cold making his voice course and rattling. “We are not seeking to roam unfettered. We only wish a few words with Professor Shawcross and we’ll be on our way.”

We began to make our way up the steps when East purposefully put himself between us and the building.

“About that,” East continued. “You are aware that given his condition, whatever the professor might disclose, it cannot in any way, shape or form be construed as an admission of guilt or used as evidence of any kind?”

“Yes, of course!” exclaimed Holmes and, pointing his cane forwards like a divining rod, marched boldly inside the building. “Your secrets are safe with us.”

East scurried after him. “This way, gentlemen,” said the flustered physician, leading us down a wide, wood-panelled corridor.

I quickly stepped into pace alongside Holmes. “I didn’t know Mycroft sent a telegram?”

“He didn’t,” he replied, flashing a quick smile. “But I dare say he would’ve done if I’d asked. Sometimes the mere mention of his name is enough to open doors.”

I stifled a burst of laughter, prompting East to cast me a scowl over this shoulder.

“Holmes,” I began, “I’m sorry about what happened earlier. Whether rightly or wrongly, I took offence at an ages-old incident without taking into consideration how much richer my life has been for knowing you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Holmes replied. “After all, I’ve done considerably worse things to you and we have still remained civil.”

“Such as?”

“Letting you think I’d died and returning out of the blue some years later?”

“There is that.”

We followed Dr East down one corridor after another, passing several stern-faced members of staff clad in spotless white uniforms. I noticed a brief flicker of curiosity as they caught sight of us. It appeared that visitors were not a common occurrence.

East asked us to wait as he went to speak to an attendant leaving one of the rooms. There was a sign baring Professor Shawcross’s name on the door.

“This is a house of secrets and no mistake,” said Baynes. “And that young fellow is the keeper of the keys.”

“You suspect something is askance, Inspector?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on, but I have heard of more than one case where an elderly or infirm relative has been committed in order to free up an inheritance. A place like this with its locks and whispers could well facilitate such a practice.”

Dr East returned to us, smiling. I did not take that as a good sign.

“My apologies, gentlemen, but Professor Shawcross has been given his medication a little early today. I afraid he won’t be in a fit condition to answer any questions.”

Holmes gave the doctor a thin, humourless smile. “That is indeed inconvenient. Tell me, Doctor, how long is it before the medication takes full effect?”

“Ten… perhaps fifteen minutes given he’s just eaten.” East replied with some caution.

“And it was administered when?”

“No more than five minutes ago.”

I could sense East’s growing agitation.

“Then we may proceed as planned. We need only five minutes of his time and we shall be on our way.” Holmes walked briskly past the bemused attendant. “Come gentlemen, tempus fugit.”

He ushered me and Baynes inside before turning to block East’s admission.

“I really should be in attendance…”

“There’s no need. We would hate to be a drain upon your time, and Dr Watson is a most eminent physician. If we encounter any problems, you and your staff are just on the other side of this door.”

Holmes stepped inside.

“I shall be sure to tell my brother of your most obliging cooperation. I’m certain he will be interested to know how well this institution is being managed.”

Holmes shut the door and permitted himself a short sigh of relief. “That will have given him something to think about,” he remarked. “If the good inspector is correct, the last thing Dr East will want is the authorities taking an interest in this place. Now, we have little time and much to do!”

The room was cordoned off down one side by steel bars running floor to ceiling. Beyond this artificial annex there was what appeared to be a very compact yet comfortable bachelor’s apartment.

On our side was a desk bearing a pair of white enamel surgical dishes. One contained the remains of a snapped glass vial and a spent syringe while the other had several more but unopened. I picked up the broken vial.

“Holmes, we may have less time than you imagine. This is a potent sedative. It has even been proscribed in some hospitals for its potentially deleterious effects. They clearly intended to have the professor too incapacitated to speak to us.”

“Thank you, Watson. Nevertheless, we must do what we can.”

“Hello? Can I help you?” Professor Shawcross, who had been reading in an armchair, rose to greet us. He was easily six feet tall and broad across the shoulders. He’d possibly been an athlete in his youth, a rower perhaps? His hair was thinning but close cut at the sides and back. His cheeks were heavily pock-marked, suggesting a brush with the measles or chicken-pox.

“Professor Shawcross, my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr Watson and Inspector Baynes of the Surry Constabulary.”

“Surrey…” Shawcross interceded. “You’ve found Peter?”

“Yes, sir, two days ago,” replied Baynes. “We found his body just outside Mortlake.”

“I didn’t kill him, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Baynes. “It’s looking more like an accidental death. That area can be marshy and treacherous, especially at night. The ground may seem firm enough but it’s easy to put a foot wrong. He wouldn’t be the first poor soul to lose his life in such circumstances.”

Shawcross fixed the inspector with an intense stare. “I said I did not kill him, but that does not mean it was an accident. He played the tune and paid the piper… with his life. As we all must in our turn.”

“And the piper is?” enquired Holmes.

“Why, death, of course.” Shawcross blinked and looked around perplexed, as if rousing from a fugue state. “Please excuse me. My medicine is taking its toll. I’m afraid I will shortly be of scant use. What is it you wish to know?”

“Everything. Omit nothing, no matter how trivial,” said Holmes.

“Yes, of course, it would be my pleasure,” replied Shawcross, lowering himself into the armchair again. “So, where to begin?”

“Perhaps with the excavation?” prompted Holmes.

“Quite so. As you may or may not know, I was formerly Associate Head of the department of Anglo-Saxon history at the British Museum. In March of 1881, I and several of my associates commenced an archaeological dig close to the village of Mortlake. You see, in the ninth century, England was sorely afflicted by attacks from Scandinavian Vikings. Surrey’s inland position saw it go largely unmolested until a large invasion force of Danes, some ten thousand strong, made their way up the Thames. They had already sacked Canterbury, then London, and defeated King Beorhtwulf of Mercia in battle. The West Saxon army led by King Aethelwulf rose to meet them, but the odds did not bode well. This was a hardened, battle-seasoned foe they faced.”

“And what happened?” asked Baynes, obviously intrigued.

“The Danes were defeated at the Battle of Aclea. Routed, slaughtered. Thousands of the fiercest warriors the world had ever seen.”

“How’s that possible?” I asked.

“Perhaps a combination of tactics and knowledge of the terrain?” said Holmes.

“Or something else?” added Shawcross. “Legend has it that before the battle King Aethelwulf sought the council of a tribe of cunning women. Witches, shamans, call them what you will. Their arcane practices were being scoured from the land by the one true god, but the King offered them amnesty if they would aide him in his darkest hour. And aid him they did. They summoned the angel of death itself to walk in the vanguard, playing a pipe whittled from the bones of the first human. The King’s men were bade to avert their faces and stopper their ears so as not to see or hear it.”

I was watching Shawcross closely now. His face was beaded with sweat. Despite the sedative’s soporific effect, the professor showed no signs of succumbing. Quite the opposite in fact.

“It’s said the Danes gave the piper no mind at first, but when its tune reached them, they froze, rigid with terror. When they then set eyes upon the darkness of the angel’s form, it swallowed their gaze and showed them the yawning chasm of eternity that existed after life. There was no Heaven, no Valhalla. There was nothing but the endless void, where a second would last an eternity. Some of them ran, mad. Others remained in shock, even as the king’s men fell upon them, butchering them all. That is how the day was won.”

“But it’s a story, surely?” I said. “Perhaps with a grain of truth at its core, but a story nevertheless.”

“I thought so too,” Shawcross replied. “That is why I began the dig at the site of King Aethelwulf’s muster camp. It was a disappointing dig, yielding nothing of great note. Coins, combs and brooch pins, plenty of broken pottery and several untouched jars of wheat and rye grain.”

“So you returned to London and left Peter Allenby at the site?” said Holmes.

“I had business at the museum. I was only back a day or two when Peter’s telegram arrived.”

“He’d found something?”

“He found it – the piper’s flute! It had been wrapped in doe skin and buried deep inside one of the grain jars. I was all set to return when a parcel arrived the next morning. It was the flute itself; Peter had sent it to me.”

“That’s not customary, is it?” Holmes asked.

“Not at all, but he knew how anxious I would be to see it. I imagine he thought he was helping. I telegraphed him to say it had arrived, but, well, events took another turn as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Yes, well, I think we’ve heard enough for now,” I suggested. “We don’t need to pursue this any further. You should rest.”

“There’s time for one more question, surely?” said Holmes.

“Holmes, this man’s mind is a fragile thing!” I said in terse whisper. “You cannot simply push a stick into it and stir it up as if it were an anthill!”

“It’s alright, Doctor, it’s no bother.” Shawcross was on his feet, standing straight and tall, his arms by his side. His face was sheened with sweat and something else, a calm beneficence that sent me cold. I knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that Professor Mortimer Shawcross was quite insane.

“The flute was an extraordinary object. It was indeed a human tibia with faint, almost imperceptible, ridges engraved upon its surface. An elaborate scrimshaw of the most beauteous and obscene images I had ever seen. I put it to my lips and played it. It seemed the right thing to do. It gave a flat, dull tone and proved to be something of an anti-climax. However, I was soon to discover that I couldn’t have been more wrong in my assumption.”

Shawcross held out his hands.

“I studied my hands as they held the flute. I fell into them, past them. I rushed headlong beyond tissue and bone, soaring past atoms and the spaces in between the spaces until there was naught but void.”

He looked up at us and I could see tears streaming down his cheek. His face was a picture of saintly elation.

“I lifted my head and did the same. Lath and plaster, brick and sky were stripped away as my mind raced. Planets, suns and stars sped past me, the whorl of galaxies, the very crucible of creation, until again there was an infinite absence. But where was God in all of this? Then it struck me: God was the void, everywhere and nowhere.”

Shawcross was face-to-face with us now, only the bars keeping us apart.

“We are born from nothing and return to nothing. It is life that is the abomination, an unnecessary punctuation. Death is the release, which unshackles us from the flesh.”

“So you took up a sword and became death?” said Holmes.

“No… but I am its prophet. It is my crusade to relieve mankind of the burden of its mortality.”

“Mr Holmes!”

Dr East suddenly appeared, backed by a trio of burly guards. He brandished a telegram in Holmes’s face.

“This is not from your brother! You are not the only one with influence and friends in high places. It did not take much digging to discern the truth!”

“You really should not have gone to all that trouble,” Holmes quipped. “We were just leaving.”

“I guarantee it. Escort them off the premises.”

We were pressed sharply towards the door when Holmes called back. “Professor, where is the flute now?”

“Safe, Mr Holmes. As it was below, so it is now above. It lies in Hell with an eye on Heaven.”

“Get them out!” shrieked East. And that was that.

The train journey home was a grim affair. The weather was wretched and the carriage an icebox. Baynes was wrestling with his cold, which seemed to have gotten steadily worse. Holmes’s lack of sleep had added to his irritability, while my head was pounding from trying to make sense of what we’d heard thus far.

“I’m no psychiatrist, but Professor Shawcross is clearly suffering from some form of megalomania.”

“Yet his friends and colleagues at the British Museum said he was right as rain, right up until he went off the rails that is,” Baynes replied.

“So they say,” added Holmes. He was slumped in the corner, cocooned in his overcoat and scarf.

“Academics close ranks like any other senior profession, to preserve the solemn sanctity of their trade, yet something pushed Professor Shawcross over the edge just as surely as something else drove Peter Allenby into that marsh.”

“You don’t think it was an accident?” I said.

“The young man knew his occupation. He also knew the area and would mostly likely know the condition of the soil. I doubt he would simply wander blindly into the marsh.”

“So, we’re still none the wiser?”

“Not quite; there’s one thing we’re certain of.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“That there’s more to know,” Holmes said.

In Mrs Hudson’s absence 221B Baker Street was dark and cold. We remained swaddled in our coats as I set a fire in the grate and we gradually thawed out. Hot brandies were the order of the day, and this time the inspector did not refuse. Holmes was more animated than he had been on the train, pacing the room, before pausing periodically to rap on the floor with the tip of his cane.

“Holmes is that din really necessary?”

“I don’t know yet,” was his cryptic reply.

“You think it’s still here, don’t you?” rumbled Baynes. “Under the floorboards, perhaps?”

“So that’s why all the tapping,” I said. “You did the same thing in the case of the Red-Headed League when you detected the tunnel to the bank under the street!”

“The flute was never committed to evidence when Professor Shawcross was arrested, and it would go against his very nature, however deranged, to simply discard it.”

“Or it may never have existed at all,” I suggested. “There were only two witnesses to have seen it. One is dead and the other mad.”

“That is also a possibility, thank you, Doctor.”

“Also, if it were here don’t you think we would have found it by now?”

“Only if we knew to look for something concealed, which we did not until today.”

“Good lord, I think I’ve fathomed it!” Baynes sat forward and put his brandy on the table.

“Inspector?”

“I know where the flute is! The professor told us himself: ‘As it was below, so it is now above’. It was buried before, concealed below ground. But these rooms are above ground, so where would you bury it?”

“Beneath the floorboards?” I offered.

“A valid suggestion Doctor, but too obvious. The key is the second part: ‘It lies in Hell with an eye on Heaven’. Fire and the sky. Where do we find both in here?”

Holmes clapped his hands with a loud report. “Hah! A fireplace! A chimney!”

“A chimney indeed. The fire is a metaphor for Hell, and the eye on Heaven is the top of the chimney stack.”

“Might I suggest we check the other rooms first?” I said. “There are no fires lit in them and I am loathe to douse this one and return to our frozen state simply on a speculation. If the flute is there, it has waited ten years to be discovered. A few more hours will make little difference.”

“Duly noted. You are indeed on fine form today, Watson.”

I debated whether to feel praised or patronised and chose the former as the less contentious option.

We began in Holmes’s room. Baynes stayed in the sitting room by the fire, his health not inclining him to such exertion. Holmes knelt beside the cold grate and commenced tapping a half crown on the brick lining of the chimney.

“We are indebted to Mrs Hudson for having the chimneys swept only last week,” he said. “It at least gives us a clean field of play.” Each knock was met with a dense, dull response, all bar one. “There’s a void behind here.” Holmes tapped again to be sure. “Yes, definitely. I need tools.”

Moments later he was gingerly scraping away the crumbling mortar before finally easing the brick free. “There’s something inside,” he whispered. He reached in and gently withdrew a man’s shirt, bundled and filthy. Rolled within was a fold of ancient deerskin, and inside that lay the flute. A miasma of soot and fine dust drifted up from it that had me coughing.

There was no mistaking it as anything but a human tibia that had been skilfully shaped and polished with eight holes drilled along its length. As the professor had noted, it was decorated with scenes and symbols I will not utter here.

Holmes sat back on the floor, admiring the relic.

“We have it, Watson. We have it!”

The fire had done its work and the sitting room was like an oven. So much so I was obliged to loosen my collar. Between it and the brandy, I was feeling uncommonly warm.

The inspector, an empty glass before him, had also succumbed. He had keeled sideways in the armchair and was snoring robustly. I moved to wake him.

“Let him rest, Watson,” said Holmes. “The fellow has done immense service today. He’s more than earned a moment of repose.” He laid the flute on the dining table. “I’ll warrant that this is your grain of truth behind the professor’s story.”

“How so?”

“You know my methods of analysis. They are based on data and observation. Yet to some they seem miraculous. Likewise, if you took the science of today back two hundred years it would appear to be magic.”

“Or witchcraft?”

“Precisely! Not consorting with dark forces, but a combination of stage magic and ancient herbal healing all wrapped in a theatrical mystique. Now imagine a figure clad as death itself walking ahead of the king’s army. Would that not put fear in the enemy?”

I rubbed my temples with my fingertips. My head did not so much ache as throb. A deep roaring pounded in my ears. I could hear my heartbeat booming like a kettledrum.

“The illusion would only last as long as it took to skewer the mummer with an arrow,” I pointed out.

“But what if the Danes had been subject to some form of hallucinogenic? Say, a powder burnt in a firebrand? That is why the king’s men were told to avert their faces, in order to avoid breathing it in! Mystics of the time often partook of hallucinogen mushrooms to expand their consciousness.”

I could barely hear Holmes now, the agonising thrumming in my head drowning out all other sound. I clawed at my collar, my body burning from within. Everything was too bright. Daggers of light seared my eyes. I pushed the heel of my hands into them, but it did no good.

“Watson!”

I heard a faint, familiar voice, distant and echoing.

“Watson, you’re too close to the fire! The fire!”

“FIRE!”

I looked up to see Sergeant Green barking orders to the riflemen at his side, followed by a gusto volley that cut down the screaming ranks of oncoming Afridi warriors.

I lay slumped against a dead horse, my shoulder coursing blood. There were no hands to help me; all were set fighting the foe. I clamped my palm against the wound, blood pulsing between my fingers.

I felt lightheaded, adrift, my soul detaching from the anchor of my body. I looked out over the bodies of my brothers in arms, the 66th Berkshires, red on red in the Afghan soil. Soon we would all come to dust, far from home and forgotten.

Something caught my eye – a black flag fluttering over the field. No, not a flag, a form, a figure! It had a human shape but was featureless, as smooth as oil, like a sheet draped over a cadaver. The vague geography of a body, but that was all. It drifted idly over the fallen, the tips of its toes lightly brushing their bodies as it passed. Raised to its lips was the flute, although I heard no tune above the din of war. Perhaps that was its music?

I drew a breath.

It stopped playing and slowly turned to face me. Its form was a fathomless gateway, unending, eternal. It studied me for a second, then its blank black features tightened, taking on shape and aspect. Its forehead was high and proud, its cheeks scarred and puckered. It smiled at me.

Frantically I looked around for a weapon. A revolver lay close by, gripped in the hand of the horse’s dead rider. I groaned between gritted teeth as I dragged myself over to it.

The figure glided unhurriedly over to me as I desperately prised the pistol loose. The black being tipped forwards and hovered parallel to my prone form. I attempted to raise the revolver to fire but it pinned my arms to the ground, the nail of its one hand piercing my flesh.

I screamed as the cold overtook me.

I screamed as the darkness descended.

And then I could scream no more.

I awoke in my bed, aching and thirsty. My throat was so dry I could scarcely make a sound. I rubbed my chin and raked at several days’ worth of growth. How long had I been asleep? I looked over and saw a haggard-looking Holmes in the chair opposite. As I stirred, his eyes flickered open.

“Holmes?”

“Watson, my dear fellow! How do you feel?”

I pushed myself upright, my joints groaning in protest. “As if I’ve been given a good hiding. What in God’s name happened to me?”

Holmes pulled up the pillows to support my back. “We have both been stricken with a form of ergot poisoning.”

“Ergot poisoning?”

“A particular mould that grows on grain, usually rye.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. It happens when the grains are stored in damp conditions. It has some very unpleasant symptoms: mania, delirium, paranoia.”

“As you have experienced. As we both have.”

“It was that blessed flute, wasn’t it! Shawcross said it had been stored in a jar filled with grain. It must have been contaminated somehow.”

“That is my conclusion also. I found fine particles inside the doe skin wrappings and the flute itself. When we took it out of the chimney and unwrapped it we were exposed.”

“What about Inspector Baynes?”

“He was in the other room. Also his heavy cold constricted his airways so he was unable to inhale the contaminant, and a good job too. He saved our lives.”

“How’s that?”

“You had a violent hallucination. You almost staggered into the fire, and when I attempted to restrain you, you reached for your revolver.”

“Good lord!”

“Fortunately Baynes had taken the syringes and vials of sedative from The Briars to have them analysed. He was obliged to use one on you.”

“I think I felt it.” I pushed up my sleeve and saw a yellowing bruise on my arm. “His technique left something to be desired, but at least he got the job done. What happened to you?”

“The same, but considerably less dramatic. It appears I had already been subject to ergot poisoning but in a much milder form. Hence my recent, foul disposition. When Mrs Hudson had the chimney swept in my room, it must have dislodged the brick the flute was hidden behind and released a few particles into the atmosphere. By some good fortune, I did not inhale a great deal of the particulate matter from the flute either. I had enough time to research our condition before I began to feel the effects myself.”

“We should have both been in hospital!” I exclaimed.

“There was no need. The hospital came to us,” Holmes replied. “Baynes contacted Mycroft who sent the best doctors and nurses the British government can call upon. They have been ministering to us for the past three days. In fact, they left only a few hours ago.”

“The same must have happened to Professor Shawcross and Peter Allenby,” I noted. “Except they received significantly stronger doses.”

“Potent enough to break Shawcross’s mind and send Allenby, pursued by phantasms, to his doom in the marsh. It is no wonder that in the Middle Ages those afflicted were thought bewitched or possessed by demons.”

“And what of Baynes?” I asked.

Holmes grinned. “Come with me.”

Holmes helped me out of bed and, like a pair of geriatrics, we made our way into the next room. There, asleep on the settee and snoring like a freight train, was Inspector Baynes.

“Mycroft said he refused to leave. He wished to stand watch until we were well. He is an extraordinary individual, don’t you think?” said Holmes.

“It takes one to know one,” I replied.

“With a singular exception,” added Holmes.

“What’s that?”

“He does not have the benefit of a noble Boswell, as I do.”