Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Cold-Served Revenge

II: A Funeral

The funeral of a legend is always a sad affair, especially for those who have spent a part of their lives or career with him. Pastor Barlow gave a eulogy for Sherlock Holmes in Fulworth church and many of the detective’s friends attended. His brother Mycroft, a high-ranking government official, came from London together with Inspector Lestrade and several other police officers from Scotland Yard. I was especially touched and surprised to see the Countess Marie Framboise de Plessis-Bellie're, with whom I had first become acquainted years ago during a certain infamous case in Bohemia. She must have been invited by Mrs Hudson, who had made a list of funeral guests according to my suggestions and from Holmes’s address book.

After the eulogy the ceremony continued at the rustic local cemetery, under the vast blue sky. We gathered in a small open space near the oak coffin, the air smelling of elder and cut grass.

Watching Holmes’s coffin slowly disappear into the earth was hard for all of us. Nobody tried to hide their tears. The words which Barlow uttered on behalf of the detective were no doubt beautiful and touching, but I do not remember any of them. In my head I was replaying everything that had happened in the last ten days, ever since I had received a telegram from Mrs Hudson about the dire state of my friend’s health. The silence cut me off from the surrounding world with its merciful robe, giving me the opportunity to finally sort my agitated thoughts.

It started to rain. Umbrellas were pulled out and opened.

“If Holmes is looking at us from Heaven it must appear to him that black flowers are growing in his last resting place,” said the Countess, grasping me by the arm.

At the funeral we all bade each other farewell. Nobody felt like sharing their mood with the others at dinner. Barlow accompanied us to the gates of the cemetery and scurried off to find shelter. Our London friends, including the Countess, made ready for their departure to the station to catch the afternoon train.

“Perhaps next time we will meet under happier circumstances,” said the Countess, squeezing my hand as Mycroft helped her into the carriage.

“I fear that we will never get over this loss,” said Lestrade.

Mycroft and I exchanged silent glances and left his remark unanswered. The spring storm and wind scattered us, the carriage disappeared behind the trees and I took a hansom back to Cuckmere Haven, the rain drumming on the canvas roof.

Mrs Hudson, who had not attended the funeral, already had food prepared. While she set the table and chased flies out of the dining room I stepped into Holmes’s bedroom.

The detective was standing at the window with his hands behind his back, listening to the howling of the wind between the casements. He did not so much as glance in my direction when I greeted him.

“I trust that you buried me with all honours,” he said, his gaze fixed on the glistening leaves in the garden.

“You and your charades. Are you aware that the Countess Framboise was in attendance? It almost broke her heart. I presume that you are enjoying yourself?”

“No indeed, Watson. My enemies have already buried me so many times that I fear no one will notice when I finally do pass on. I will personally visit the Countess once this matter has been resolved.”

“Enemies?” I cried. “You have arranged most of your funerals yourself!”

“But only in order to confuse the criminal element and take advantage of their reduced vigilance. But this time it is different, my friend. This time it is personal.”

The last time I had seen Holmes express such hatred was after the death of Professor Moriarty. Back then he had disappeared and been considered dead for three years.

In his retirement Holmes never would have anticipated such an attack, and if the murderer had been provoked merely by the request of the deceased Minutti, something big must have been afoot. For this reason the detective decided to “succumb” to the poison that was hidden in the tobacco and arranged his funeral so that his unknown enemy would lower his defences.

Only I, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft knew the truth.

For several days Holmes lay concealed and recovered under my careful watch. In less than two weeks I managed to restore his blood pressure and heart rhythm to normal. I adjusted his regimen so that he would gain strength and return to the world of the living.

Today was his first day out of bed, and while I participated in the tasteless theatre for the outside world, he conducted an analysis of the poisoned tobacco.

“My suspicion has been confirmed, it indeed contains traces of digitalis,” he said dryly. “Somebody wanted to prepare a sweet death for me.”

“It was ingeniously planned,” I said, nodding.

Like every man of medicine I was well acquainted with the digitalis plant family, and I had to concede that mixing the dried leaves into Holmes’s tobacco was brilliant. Except for a slight sweetness the herb is practically tasteless. The symptoms which the detective suffered also suggested its use: headaches, lack of appetite and irregular pulse. From my medical practice I knew of cases where people had made tea out of digitalis, mistaking it for the harmless comphrey, or children who had been poisoned by drinking water from a vase containing the plant. Fortunately Holmes’s murderer had endeavoured to use subtlety and had prepared the deadly tobacco in such a small concentration that my friend’s heart was only gradually weakened.

Thus Holmes had succeeded in uncovering the plan at the last moment.

“We have confirmed how,” I said. “Now all that remains is to determine who and why.”

“Yes, I admit that I am overwhelmed with curiosity,” said Holmes, rubbing his chin. “Well then, we might as well start with our dear Barlow.”

“But there is one more thing...”

“Which is?”

“Who will conduct the investigation? You are officially dead and cannot appear in public. And I can hardly catch the murderer by myself.”

“My dear fellow!” laughed Holmes. “It is but a trifle!”

The next morning, a certain Mr Cedric Parker of Stone Terrace, Weston-Super-Mare appeared in the vestibule of Holmes’s house. The detective had selected the identity of his cousin, coming to arrange his estate, as the ideal disguise to assist him in moving freely and inconspicuously during the investigation without being disclosed.

He had not shaved for several days and he trimmed his full beard into an elegant grey-flecked point. He stopped brushing his hair straight back and instead parted it to the right and smoothed it with brilliantine. He left the greying in his temples, but coloured his eyebrows in order to give his face a different expression. He also donned round spectacles with transparent glass. His attire consisted of a summer suit with a vest, which was quite a contrast to his usual rather homely clothes. Taking into account the family resemblance, which nobody would think twice about, an entirely different person now stood before me.

“Holmes, I do not recognise you!”

“Then I am satisfied,” said the detective, studying his new appearance in the mirror. “But I still do not much resemble the real Cedric. Let us hope that no one takes it into their head to look for his photograph.”

“This cousin of yours really exists?” I asked. “I thought you had invented him! You never mentioned him before!”

“Indeed, Cedric Edward Parker is an actual member of my extended family[9]. I wanted to give my alter ego a certain measure of credibility in case Barlow or any other curious soul decided to confirm my family circumstances at the register office. One can never be too cautious.”

Once Mrs Hudson had approved the detective’s disguise we were finally ready to attempt a dress rehearsal. It was time to pay a visit to Pastor Barlow and untangle the circumstances of his role in the unsuccessful attempt on Holmes’s life.

We walked out into the front yard, where Holmes again felt the sunshine on his face after so many days confined to the house. He paused for a moment, spread his arms and inhaled deeply.

“It was rather tiresome staying indoors so long,” he said. “But for a dead man I feel wonderful!”

I admonished him for this blasphemy and headed to the coach, but Holmes stopped me.

“Better to walk,” he said. “The exercise will do me good and it will be excellent if people see me. I don’t have anything to hide.”

I agreed and followed the detective. We left the estate and headed to the pastor’s farmstead along the dusty path by the south slope of the local coastline with its magnificent view of the Channel. Beneath us cliffs extended to the pebbly beach below, from where we could hear the cries of seagulls.

We walked through the outskirts of the town, bidding good day to several villagers, and even passed by the cemetery, where Holmes took a morbid delight in his grave. The flowers that people had brought and which practically covered the gravestone gave him pause, but the expression in his eyes was neither sad nor regretful, but shone with satisfaction.

People had come from near and far to pay tribute to the greatest of detectives, a legend in the battle against crime and injustice, who helped everyone regardless of their station.

“They have buried me a hundred times, and a hundred times I have risen,” said Holmes. “As long as there is crime in the world I will continue to rise.”

“We could not hope for more,” I added.

Talking thus we arrived at Barlow’s rectory.

Everything indicated that the pastor was at home; but not alone, as we deduced from the automobile parked before the gate to his house, a magnificent Silver Ghost that shone in the sunlight. Local children were gathered about the car with reverent expressions on their faces.

“We have come at an inconvenient time,” I said. “Perhaps we should return later. We could come for afternoon tea.”

But Holmes appeared not to be listening. His attention was completely captivated by the Rolls Royce with its elegant open silver body and black seats. For a moment he was like one of these small rogues as he admired the luxurious vehicle. In those days automobiles were already becoming a relatively common sight in the city, but in the countryside they attracted much attention.

“Have you never seen an automobile?” I teased.

“Of course I have,” he answered, without tearing his eyes from the Silver Ghost. “But one does not often come across such a beautiful specimen, my friend. This is the best car in the world. It won the gold medal in the Scottish Reliability Trial for its speed and handling. It also set the world record for driving without stopping. Imagine: it travelled without stopping a total of twenty-seven times the distance from Glasgow to London, or some fifteen thousand miles!”

“You sound like a brochure, Holmes. I suppose you will also tell me how much it costs.”

“Upwards of three thousand pounds,” he said. “I briefly considered buying one, but for an old man such as I it would be a pure extravagance.”

Now I recognised the old Holmes. His ascetic nature had overcome his enchantment.

Suddenly the door of the parish burst open and out shot Barlow’s visitor. He shooed away the cluster of children around his automobile and with a contemptuous glance silently climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.

“Good upbringing can’t be bought,” said Holmes loudly.

The man looked around and realised that the comment was directed at him.

“Mind your own business!” he shouted at us, donning his driving gloves and slipping a pair of goggles over his bulbous nose and large moustache. Glowering at us from beneath bushy eyebrows, he honked loudly on the claxon and sped off, leaving a band of shouting children in his wake. He was an unpleasant person with whom I did not wish to have further intercourse.

The commotion also brought Barlow outside.

“Dr Watson!” he cried when he saw me on the driveway. “I did not expect to see you here today! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Judging by the expression on his face, however, I doubted that he was in fact pleased to see me. He looked like a schoolboy who had been caught cheating.

“Mr Cedric Parker, Holmes’s cousin, has arrived in order to arrange the detective’s estate,” I said, introducing my companion to the fat pastor. “It occurred to me that I should pay you a visit and use the opportunity to show Cedric the country where our friend lived happily for so long.”

The two men shook hands. I was numb with suspense as to whether Barlow might see through Holmes’s disguise, and those few seconds when he examined Parker seemed like an eternity. Fortunately, the pastor did not evince even the slightest suspicion. Holmes’s cousin apparently did not warrant so much as a second glance.

“Certainly, gentlemen, please be my guests,” he said nodding to the door with his eyes fixed on the departing automobile. “In a moment my housekeeper will have tea ready. Will you stay?”

“Gladly,” said Holmes. “I hope that we did not interrupt your visitor. The gentleman seemed rather upset.”

“Oh, you need not worry about him, he is one of my parishioners,” the pastor mumbled while leading us inside. “He brought a donation for our parish, which I will use to finance repairs to the roof of the church.”

The man did not look like someone who was kept awake at night by concern about the sanctuary of Fulworth’s believers nor did the pastor seem to want to talk about him. Holmes’s curiosity was supremely piqued, but he said nothing, of course, to avoid angering our host.

Indeed, a cheque was lying on the vestibule table, the ink still wet. I tried to make out the name of the donor and the amount, but Barlow tossed a newspaper and several letters onto the table.

He led us into the garden and to a sunny gazebo where the housekeeper had laid out tea, or rather what resembled an early luncheon. Judging by the size of the repast, it was difficult to imagine what the pastor’s actual luncheon might be.

So far each meeting that I had had with this man, with the exception of the funeral, had featured a culinary accompaniment of various proportions. He ate food as others breathe air. For every morsel that I swallowed Barlow inhaled four and by and by all that remained of the chicken on his plate were a few bones. No wonder he was so fat! If as yet he suffered no ill effects, I predicted he would in the near future.

“If I could not eat a fine meal which of life’s joys would remain to me?” he said. “I have no wife, my life belongs to God, and I need hardly mention other vices. Take our dear friend Holmes, the same age as I am, who ate rather poorly his whole life, and who is now with God while we sit here and talk. I think that my health is in the best of hands!”

He crossed himself and poured a cup of black coffee.

“Holmes clearly had a bad doctor,” said Holmes, screwing up his face.

I shot him a glance, but the pastor, digesting contentedly, spiritedly defended me.

“Dr Watson did everything in his power! Unfortunately, Holmes was beyond help. He paid for his genius with his weaknesses and excessive strains.”

“Weaknesses? Do you mean smoking?”

“Certainly.”

“You are right,” I said. “Unfortunately, we all encouraged him in this vice. Indeed, you recently brought him some valuable tobacco, I believe from India...”

Barlow clearly did not realise that Holmes had related this to me before his death.

“Oh, that is true,” he admitted with a wry smile and, it seemed to me, perspiring even more than usual. “Do not be cross with me. I too received it as a gift, but I do not smoke. I did not know anyone else who would appreciate it more than Sherlock, which is why I gave it to him.”

“I do not mean to take issue with you,” I clarified. “In fact, Holmes valued your friendship greatly and told me about the tobacco only in connection with the gratitude that he felt towards you as a friend.”

A blush appeared on the pastor’s baroque face and he blinked humbly. In the sunlit garden, among the blooming rhododendrons and singing birds, he seemed almost saintly. How could he have been involved in the plot to kill Holmes?

The detective coughed, put down his cup of coffee and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“I still have not seen today’s paper. Have they written anything about Sherlock’s funeral?”

“Would you believe it, I do not know myself!” said Barlow jumping out of his chair. “I shall fetch the paper this instant!”

He hurried off and a moment later returned with the paper. He spread the local daily before us, which was full of articles about Sherlock Holmes. Although I had not seen a reporter at the funeral, several columns of newsprint were devoted to the memorial service and the ceremony.

“I regret that I was not able to attend,” said the detective.

I smiled inwardly. He sincerely meant it, not as Parker, but as Holmes.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” said Barlow. “Most dignified and touching.”

The detective raised his head and I saw his chin twitch.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” he asked the pastor, his voice trembling.

“Yes, of course,” said the pastor. “May I be of any assistance?”

Holmes turned his head away, clenching the newspaper.

“No, I just need to be alone for a minute,” he said quietly and left through the garden to the vestibule.

No doubt this was a rehearsed performance and I was relieved to see that it had impressed Barlow.

“Mr Parker must be a very sensitive man; the death of our friend has distressed him greatly,” he said, leaning back in his armchair and biting into the dessert with relish.

“He was recalling the memory of their childhood together,” I said. “He will be all right.”

Thankfully Barlow was sitting with his back to the house and I could watch through the French windows as Holmes snuck into the pastor’s ground floor office and began rummaging through his desk.

While I watched in horror lest our host turn around or lest Holmes be caught by the housekeeper, I tried to continue the conversation in a casual tone. The detective went through the office with his usual attention to detail; he did not leave one drawer, bookshelf or closet unsearched, though he took care to not leave any traces that he had been there.

The pastor turned around to look for Mr Parker just as the detective was returning. He brought back the newspaper which he had taken with him in his fit of distress.

We lingered for another hour or so conversing politely and then bade the pastor farewell.

We returned home on foot, along the same path past the coast and cemetery.

“I am at somewhat of a loss, Watson,” said Holmes, when I asked him whether he had found anything out of the ordinary in Barlow’s study. “What I saw at the good pastor’s house has raised more questions than furnished answers.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first thing that caught my eye was the pastor’s reaction when he realised that we had seen his previous visitor. Did you see how he grew pale?”

“Indeed, he was not pleased when we mentioned it.”

“I must find out this gentleman’s name,” said Holmes.

“That will not be easy. Barlow will certainly not tell us. Perhaps we could find out by means of the automobile; surely there will not be many of them driving around Surrey!”

“A capital idea, my friend!” said Holmes. “It had occurred to me as well, but I have devised another way to find out more quickly.”

With these words he removed the front page of Barlow’s newspaper from his breast pocket. Apparently he had torn it away when he had disappeared with it into the pastor’s study. “As always, when I need to know something I can consult the daily paper!”

“Is there an article in it about that man?” I inquired.

“Certainly not, but the paper hides the answer we seek,” said the detective smiling. “The ink on the cheque over which the pastor placed this newspaper was wet. You see, the outlines of letters are visible!”

I studied the paper in the places that Holmes indicated. Though practically illegible, in several places you could nevertheless trace the mirrored print of the signature on the cheque and the amount.

“With a magnifying glass, a good light and a little bit of luck we will be able to decipher the signature!”

“So that is why you contrived to enter the house!”

“Yes, and to search Barlow’s study. I had already been in it several times, but always just for a short while, and I had no reason to search it until today. Several things surprised me.”

As usual he kept me in suspense before revealing his findings, but this time I did not urge him. I waited until he spoke, which presently he did.

“The queerest thing was his bookshelf. Barlow has an impressive collection of books and publications about beekeeping, but all of them are brand new. Untouched, unread, and judging by the dust on the shelves, unused. In the desk drawers I also found a bill for a new bee colony, which he ordered about a year ago. It seems that before that he did not have any at all!”

I realised what he was insinuating.

“Nevertheless, he always presented himself as a passionate beekeeper with years of experience. He also helped me resolve a great many problems.”

“Yes, he told me,” I said.

“But now that I think about it, I have never actually seen him in direct contact with bees. I always took his advice, and it always proved sound!”

By the end of the journey Holmes and I had come to the conclusion that the pastor could only have received the advice from a third person and had been merely dissimulating a love of bees. This, of course, could only mean one thing: his friendship with Holmes had been a calculated move. As unpleasant and painful as this thought was, the detective had no doubt.

“It grieves me, but I have encountered far stranger things,” Holmes said coldly. “It reminds me that in this world I can trust only you and my brother.”

Indeed, that evening Mycroft Holmes, about whom the detective spoke so affectionately, sent us a telegram that tested at least one part of this assertion.