The Instrument of Death E-Book

David Stuart Davies

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 291

Beschreibung

A brand-new Sherlock Holmes mystery from acclaimed Sherlockian author David Stuart Davies, featuring the sinister Dr Caligari Sherlock Holmes has just uncovered the truth about the theft of a priceless ruby. The wealthy Lady Damury staged the theft and tried to frame her husband – but just as Holmes reveals the truth, Lady Damury is found murdered. Holmes deduces that this is no crime of passion, but the work of a ruthless killer with no connection to the jewel. With reports of a man in a strange, trance-like state, Holmes finds himself entangled in a dangerous game of cat and mouse with the sinister Dr Caligari…

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Available Now from Titan Books: The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Epilogue

Note

About the Author

Also available from Titan Books

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKSTHE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE GRIMSWELL CURSESam Siciliano

THE DEVIL’S PROMISEDavid Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASUREStuart Douglas

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWNSteven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE WHITE WORMSam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACYDavid Stuart Davies

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVEStuart Douglas

THE MOONSTONE’S CURSESam Siciliano

THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEYCarole Buggé

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONERStuart Douglas

THE DEVIL AND THE FOURSam Siciliano

DAVID STUART DAVIES

TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATHPrint edition ISBN: 9781785658488E-book edition ISBN: 9781785658495

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: February 201910 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination orused fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except forsatirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2019 David Stuart Davies

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior writtenpermission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form ofbinding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similarcondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed in the USA.

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To Michael Daviot and Mark Kydd.The new brilliant portrayers of Holmes and Watson.

Prologue

He looked up at the night sky, a smile forming on his lips as he observed the full moon emerging in all its radiant glory from behind a bank of grey clouds, glowing brightly in the indigo heavens. He was mesmerised by it. Unfettered by the ragged clouds, the moon was there now to observe him, to support him, to bear witness, to shed its creamy light on his dark deed. It was as though it were his luminous confederate. He raised his hand to his forehead in gentle salute. The moon had given him its blessing and now he could be about it. Now he could proceed with the murder. Now he could kill.

Chapter One

Even as a child, Gustav Caligari had been an odd individual. A large baby, he had developed into a sturdy toddler, much bigger than his confederates at kindergarten. At this early age he was already an intimidating presence, which made it easier for him to bully and manipulate his peers. He was alone with his father in the city of Prague, his mother having succumbed to typhoid shortly after the child’s birth. The boy’s father, Emeric Caligari, taught surgical technique at the Charles-Ferdinand University in the city and his demanding duties left him little time for his son. In truth, he had no real interest in the child following the death of his wife. The boy was a constant, painful reminder of his loss and so he left the domestic parenting duties to the hired nanny, Rosa Placzek, sending the boy from home during the day as soon as feasible.

Despite his size, Gustav Caligari was a quiet creature, but he harboured a dark, sadistic nature. Even before the age of five he had developed a fascination with the torture of small animals and insects. He would trap a group of spiders in a jar, drop a lighted taper into their midst and chuckle with glee as the tiny limbs writhed and shrivelled in the flames. His favourite trick was to catch a small bird, a sparrow or a wren, and slowly twist its head round until he heard the tiny bones snap, finally tearing it off, delighting in the furious flapping of the wings and the twitching of the bird’s body until life in the mutilated creature ebbed away.

On one occasion Rosa Placzek caught him trying to strangle a kitten. He seemed surprised and annoyed when she shouted at him, snatching the terrified animal from his grasp. He failed to understand why she was so angry, why she remonstrated with him at length and called him “a devil child”. To his mind, he had merely been exercising his curiosity. He was experimenting, he explained simply and unemotionally. He only wanted to see how long the kitten would struggle before it surrendered itself to death. His mother had abandoned him and he wondered how hard she had fought to stay.

When Gustav began formal schooling at the age of five, he turned his attention to his fellow pupils. Larger and stronger than his contemporaries, he always targeted the weaker, less intelligent children, carefully finding a time when he could lure them away to some isolated spot. Then he would subject them to bouts of bullying: biting their arms, poking them in the eye and on one occasion bringing a large stone down on another boy’s foot, breaking many of the delicate bones.

This incident resulted in Gustav’s removal from the school.

“I am sorry to inform you that your son has serious problems,” the headmaster informed Gustav’s father, who had been summoned to his office. “He has an inability to integrate peacefully with the other children and he seems consumed with a desire to hurt them. What is so chilling is that he carries out these terrible acts in what appears to be a calm and matter-of-fact manner. He never seems angry or loses his temper. It is almost as though he causes pain purely in a spirit of enquiry. To him they are experiments in torture. This is a most disturbing trait and I suggest that you seek medical advice and treatment. This dark tendency should be nipped in the bud. If not…” The headmaster shook his head.

Emeric had no doubts. Quite clearly, his son was a monster in embryo.

After Gustav’s removal from public education, a series of private tutors came to the house, the majority of whom lasted only a few months. These frustrated pedagogues found the boy a conundrum. On the surface he was polite and docile with rare flashes of charm, but he was also monosyllabic and rarely responded to any of the stimuli they provided.

That was until Hans Bruner appeared on the scene.

In many ways, he was a last resort. Emeric Caligari had heard from his colleagues about the old retired headmaster, who lived in a less salubrious quarter of Prague and was constantly seeking work to supplement his meagre pension. He had a reputation for dealing with recalcitrant students, having worked in one of the toughest schools in the city, and was something of a legend, achieving remarkable results. Emeric thought that he seemed an ideal candidate to tutor his difficult son – and moreover, Bruner was relatively cheap and eager.

When Hans Bruner first entered the schoolroom in the Caligari house, Gustav knew at once that they were going to get along. In his mind’s eye, he saw the ancient fellow standing before him as a version of the aged magician in Goethe’s poem “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”. He possessed stooping shoulders, a bowed back and a white straggly beard that came to a point several inches below the chin. He wore a pair of heavy dark spectacles on a curved beak of a nose that gave him the appearance of a weary owl. His coat was long, old and shiny, with wide lapels and a full-skirted swirl of fabric, which gave the impression to Gustav that it was actually a cloak.

It had long been Bruner’s belief that in order to engage difficult students in education, they should at first be allowed to choose their own field of study rather than having one imposed upon them, thereby risking rebellion. As a result of this approach, enthusiasm was ignited and a close relationship was gradually formed between pupil and master. Gustav Caligari’s choice of subject came swiftly: “The history of magic,” he cried, with uncharacteristic animation. As it happened, this was a particular interest of Bruner’s. He had written a long paper on the subject as a young man at university. It was always in the murky corners of knowledge that he found most interest and inspiration.

As the years passed, student and master travelled down this dark path of academic enquiry. Gustav’s enthusiasm for the subject unleashed Bruner’s long-restrained passion for sorcery and within weeks they were reciting the arcane words of several simple occult ceremonies. Bruner’s eager student pressed his tutor to move on to the study of rituals and spells that would bring individuals under the power of the magician. This led them to focus on the work of Franz Friedrich Anton Mesmer, the German physician who believed that there is a magnetic force or “fluid” within the universe that influences the health of the human body. Such a force could, in the hands of an expert practitioner, exert a power over the patient.

Gustav sat entranced as Bruner explained the theories behind Mesmer’s experiments. “In the early stages of his work,” Bruner told his student, “Mesmer had experimented with magnets in an attempt to gain control over his patient, but he later concluded that the same effect could be achieved by passing the hands or some small inanimate object in front of the subject’s face. These were later referred to as making ‘Mesmeric passes’.”

“What would happen then?” asked Gustav, his eyes ablaze with interest.

“These passes would lead the patient into a trance. In this state the patient was able, with the assistance of the physician, to aid his own recovery from whatever ailment he was suffering. A side effect of this trance state was the ability of the doctor to take complete control of his patients, subverting them to his will if he so wished. The practice became known as ‘mesmerism’ after its creator.”

“So… so you could make the patient a slave, obeying your commands?”

Bruner’s brow creased. “In essence, yes, but the process was to facilitate the patient’s recovery – a process that we now refer to as hypnotism.”

Gustav was eager to learn the procedures involved in this strange but powerful practice. The thought of taking control, of being the puppet master of another individual, inflamed his senses. With these skills, he could truly play God.

Emeric Caligari had no notion as to the nature of his son’s studies. In truth, he was not much interested, but he was pleased with the effect the tutor was having on the boy. Gustav now seemed more at ease with himself and more biddable; he even exhibited signs of reserved maturity. The boy’s father was entirely unaware that this was a conscious act on Gustav’s part, to prevent his father from prying into his education and the path it was taking. As well as the daytime lessons, Gustav spent most of his evenings in his room studying the ancient tomes that Bruner had managed to secure for him.

Sometimes, after supper, he would leave the house quietly and stroll about the city in the cool of the night, especially when the moon was full, casting its silver light on the quiet thoroughfares. On these walks he took pleasure in observing the lives of the folk he encountered as they made their way about the streets: scurrying little ants, each with their own concerns, passions and destinies. Drab specks on the face of the universe. He fantasised about taking one of these individuals and enslaving him. Under the yoke of mesmerism the fellow would do his bidding, whatever Gustav wished him to do. One day, he thought. One day.

On one such nocturnal excursion, he found himself outside a small theatre. The garish poster advertising the show within promised an evening of gothic thrills. The concept was unknown to him but the poster, telling of blood, terror and brutality, was sufficient to lure him inside.

He sat at the back of the tiny auditorium and was immediately entranced by the performance on stage. It was a crude melodrama acted out against a stark and symbolic backdrop, the villain a tall crooked figure draped in a flowing cape with a scarlet lining, visage smeared with green greasepaint. Presented as blend of vampire and black magician, he was the epitome of evil. The climax came when he trapped the nubile heroine in a vaulted cellar. With dramatic gestures, he tore her outer garments from her, revealing flimsy satin underclothes. With a maniacal laugh he stabbed her violently in the chest. Bright red blood gushed and spurted from her, covering her torso in a shiny scarlet hue as she screamed and bellowed in theatrical agony.

The audience, shocked to the core at such a show of violence, sat in silence, open-mouthed with horror. In the darkness, at the back of the theatre, Caligari leaned forward in his seat, entranced, his eyes aglow with enchantment and a broad smile on his pale face.

Chapter Two

With the assistance of Hans Bruner, Gustav Caligari’s explorations of the supernatural continued alongside his study of the more mundane academic subjects. As the boy matured, it became ever more apparent to him that in order to progress in the world, to attain a position where he could achieve independence and act unhindered by petty restrictions, he should become well-educated and adept at manipulating events to his own advantage. In order to achieve this, it was necessary to embrace all the subjects in the academic curriculum. He must have knowledge of geography, mathematics, the arts and literature and other disciplines. To his surprise he developed not only a liking but a facility for science, in particular human biology.

As his teenage years progressed Caligari grew more interested in medical studies and saw that his professional career might lie in a sphere rather like that of his father. Gustav took to borrowing a number of his father’s textbooks and even persuaded him to allow his son to attend some of his lectures. Nevertheless, Hans Bruner remained Gustav’s real rock and his only confidant. Gustav could never expose his darker thoughts to his father; with Bruner, however, he could be himself. He felt he had no need to hide from his tutor his dark and strange desires. And the sense of security he experienced with the old pedagogue gave the youth confidence and helped foster his ambitions.

Then came the blow. Some months before Gustav was to take his admission examinations to the Prague Medical School, Bruner fell ill. The doctor attending Bruner advised Gustav and his father that it was a fatal illness. “The old man is worn out. There is no way back for him. His major organs are failing. The oil in the lamp has dried up and so the flame will falter and die.”

It was the first time in his life that Gustav had felt the emotion of sadness. Somewhat to his surprise, it dawned on him that not merely had he come to rely on the old fellow regarding his studies; he had, too, grown terribly fond of him. The shock of his tutor’s illness made Caligari realise that he had come to think of Bruner as a father figure. He certainly had more in common with him than with his own natural parent. They shared a remarkable affinity and understanding that was, in Gustav’s eyes, spiritual. He knew that he owed the old man a great deal for opening up that shadowed territory which now consumed much of his interest. The thought of losing Bruner, of there being a world without him, pained Gustav severely. It was a heavy burden pressing down on his soul. He did not, however, harbour false hopes; he accepted the inevitability of the man’s death and this made the pain worse.

One dull autumn evening, as the louring grey clouds scudded across the sky, Gustav made his way to see the old man in his cottage in the poor quarter of the city where he lived. As he walked through the shabby, narrow streets, the burden of sadness lay heavy on his shoulders. He was well aware that this was the last time he would see his ailing tutor in the land of the living.

He entered the gloomy, cramped room where Bruner lay on his sick bed, covered with ancient grimy creased linen and a threadbare counterpane. A single candle was the only illumination in this death chamber, as Gustav conceived it. The old man lay on his back, only his head visible above the covers. His visage was wrinkled and grey, like the sheets themselves. The cheeks were sunken and his eyes, dark pinpricks, peered out from hollow caverns.

The sound of the door closing alerted the old man to the presence of a visitor. With infinitesimal speed, he turned his head and gazed in Caligari’s direction, but all he saw was a shifting grey shadow.

“Who is it?” he asked, the voice a mere jarring whisper.

“It is I, Gustav,” came the reply.

The thin cracked lips trembled into a feeble smile. “You have come to bid me bon voyage on my greatest journey, have you?”

Caligari nodded at first, realising after some moments that a silent response was of no use to a man whose senses were rapidly failing. “Yes,” he said at length.

“Are you not jealous, my boy? I am about to discover first hand all the mysteries of death we have read about in those dusty old grimoires and arcane tracts, and to which we could in reality approach no nearer than educated surmise.” He paused briefly to draw breath, a process which sounded like the thin wail of a pair of ancient bellows. “As I have intimated on many occasions,” he continued, his voice now weaker than ever, “true education is experience. We can learn the pathways from books and have clearer notions of hidden truths through experiments, but to really know, one must be part of it. Now, by dying, I shall be part of it. I embrace the darkness.” He gave a dry-throated chuckle and then lay still.

At first Caligari thought he had died, but then he observed the gentle rise and fall of Bruner’s chest beneath the bedclothes. Some renegade spirit within the old man still refused to let go the feeble threads of life. With a sudden instinctive motion, Gustav leaned forward, placed his hand over the old man’s mouth and pressed down. The pinprick eyes flashed in terror and the desiccated carcass stirred in the bed, the arms fluttering like the wings of a dying butterfly. Caligari held fast until the final drops of life were drained out of Hans Bruner’s body.

Some little time later, Gustav Caligari emerged into the street. The clouds had parted and the moon shone down brightly. Caligari gazed up at the amber sphere and smiled. It was as though the bright rays were an indication of heavenly approbation. He smiled broadly. It was surely a sign.

Within half an hour he was sitting in a tavern with a glass of burgundy. He raised it to his lips and smiled again before imbibing the warm red liquid. He was celebrating. Today, I have stepped over the threshold, he thought. And it felt good. He followed Bruner’s precept that to know something fully, to experience the reality, one must be part of it. He raised his glass to toast himself and his achievement. Today, he told himself with unrestrained enthusiasm, I have been part of it: I have taken a life. I have committed my first murder.

* * *

For some considerable time Gustav Caligari repressed his dark desires and murderous inclinations, concentrating instead on his medical studies. He knew that he must master all the principles of medicine and attain a comfortable living as a specialist before he could indulge in his real passion. In a strangely masochistic fashion, he enjoyed denying himself the pleasure of following his homicidal desires. He felt it made him a stronger and more powerful individual. Nevertheless, he continued his researches in hypnotism and methods of mind control, keeping these activities from the learned professors at the medical school.

The same year Caligari completed his studies, his father died, and Gustav inherited a considerable sum of money, which allowed him to set up a medical practice in Prague. He was now a master in the art of dissembling, subjugating his innate desires in order to develop a veneer of charm, ensuring his success as a doctor. Yet he soon grew bored and knew the time was right to kill again. He was hungry for it.

He had been planning to kill for some time, as he considered the prospect of stalking the enveloping blackness of the nighttime streets of the theatrical district after hours and taking the life of some random young woman who should know better than to be out alone. An opportunity presented itself closer to home, however, when one such woman stepped, or rather staggered in a shiver of ostrich feathers and fur, into his consulting rooms. Her heavy make-up did not disguise the veins around her nose and cheeks, and the jaundiced eyes bespoke the toll of being a heavy drinker. Her breathing was ragged and within seconds he had guessed that she was suffering from heart failure. She grasped the arm of the chair and sat down with relief.

“It’s my chest,” she said plaintively. “Haven’t been able to get my breath for a couple of weeks. If I don’t sing, I starve. I’m an artiste and I need to perform.” There was a desperate look in her eyes.

“My dear lady,” he said, summoning his most unctuous charm, “and so you shall.” For me, he thought. After a swift examination to confirm his diagnosis, he prescribed pills. Knowing they would hasten her end rather than postpone the inevitable, he handed her an unmarked plain bottle from his own shelves, thus ensuring that there was no risk of any connection with the pharmacy. On dismissing her, he took her name and address and promised to call on her the next day at home.

Late the following afternoon, under the cloak of dusk, Caligari arrived at a run-down apartment block in the east of the city. He had dismissed his cab two streets away and walked the rest of the distance, swinging his cane, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and carrying his medical bag as insurance against being seen in such an area. Taking the stairs to the second floor, he tapped on the scuffed door of Number 3A. There was no response but the door was unlocked. From the light of a single candle he saw a head thrown back and, as he moved forward, the meagre firelight revealed an assortment of shawls thrown on the floor around the figure of his victim as she lay motionless on a heavily cushioned sofa. Was he too late? Had he missed it? At his step she lowered her head, lungs rasping painfully as she shifted position. He noted the hectic spots on her cheeks and the exposed pale flesh elsewhere, glistening damply in the firelight. He smiled. The pills had done their work efficiently – it was clear that her blood pressure was dramatically raised. She was close to the end. All that was needed was a sudden shock and the woman would leave this earth while he watched. He knelt beside her and felt her pulse. Racing and erratic. Perfect. She stirred as he took her wrist and gave him a weak smile as she recognised him as the doctor.

“Will I sing again?” she croaked, tears forming in her eyes.

“Oh, yes, my dear,” he said, moving closer, running his hand across her rapidly rising and falling chest and pressing his powerful fingers to her throat. “Loudly. And for my ears only.”

Confusion clouded her face as she stared into his eyes, glittering in the firelight. She screamed once before he pressed down with a tapestried cushion in his other hand, viewing the terror and then the light fading from her eyes as he transported her from this world to the next. It was satisfying beyond measure.

He was admiring his work and wiping his hands when the door flew open and a young woman stepped inside, taking in the picture of the tall stranger and the medical bag on the table. “I heard a noise. I was worried. Is she – oh!” She gasped as she saw the staring eyes, the limp white arm hanging over the sofa. Something about the man in the room unnerved her.

Caligari took a deep breath and edged towards the door. “I am a medical man but I am afraid I could do nothing. A sudden attack…”

“Oh, poor dear,” she said. She had been fond of the older woman and gulped back tears. “But what kind of attack? I heard her scream. I thought it was her heart?”

“In the last moments, fear can overtake us all, young lady,” he said smoothly, staring at her.

She eyed him with scepticism and he sensed it. Weighing up the situation swiftly, he decided against silencing her. She looked strong and would struggle, possibly alerting other residents. He headed for the door. “I have other patients,” he said.

“But aren’t you going to make her decent?” she said, gesturing towards the still-open eyes of her friend. “And shouldn’t there be a certificate or something? Call yourself a doctor…”

“It will follow,” he said, as he escaped the confines of the suddenly oppressive room and broke into the cool air outside. Walking swiftly to the main thoroughfare he hailed a cab, and within half an hour was at home.

Only then did he discover that he had left his medical bag behind on the table of his victim’s apartment. The incriminating bottle of pills would still be somewhere in the room; not labelled, but the contents nevertheless potentially damning. Cursing his own stupidity, he debated returning to collect them. He could easily explain away his presence as the woman’s physician but somehow he feared the young neighbour’s perception of him. He debated the risks for some time but decided that he had no choice. The bag and its contents bore his name, and the longer he left it there unclaimed the odder it would appear.

Within two hours he was back at the apartment. An undertaker’s carriage was stationed outside. Clenching his fists, Caligari entered the building. The door was ajar and two undertakers were attending to the body.

“Sir?” said the short, bewhiskered gentleman.

“I am Miss Stein’s doctor. I left my medical bag here earlier this evening and only realised when I reached my next patient. Perhaps her neighbour explained? May I?”

The other man, tall and thin, nodded. “Ah, yes. Said she had some sort of attack while you were there. Have you a certificate? Need to have everything in order.”

“It’s in my bag,” Caligari said carefully, moving to the table and scanning the room for a pill bottle anywhere in sight. His grip closed on the handle of his medical bag. Perhaps he could distract them while he searched for the bottle?

“There’ll be a post mortem, I expect,” said the thin man. “Sudden death and all. The doctor who lives round the corner was called. He couldn’t tell what happened. Said she had some marks, like, on her face. Doesn’t look right, see?”

Caligari made his decision. The pill bottle was nowhere to be seen. He needed a couple of minutes to search the room. “You might want to check on your carriage before you finish here. There was a young man loitering around it when I arrived – very suspicious-looking. It would be safest if you both go – he may become violent if you challenge him.”

The two men stood reluctantly, unwilling to leave their task but conscious of the possibility of their livelihood being damaged or stolen. They headed towards the door, just as the young neighbour entered with a police constable. She failed to see Caligari at first, the undertakers masking her view of the room. He slipped behind the door, but she spotted him easily.

“That’s him!” she said to the constable. “He went off real quick, like, without seeing to her properly. He’s no doctor.” She stared at Caligari; seeing the hatred in his eyes and remembering the scream, she declared, “He must have killed her!”

The constable reached out to block Caligari’s exit but he swung past and bolted down the stairs. Without thinking, he leaped into the driver’s seat of the undertaker’s carriage and whipped up the horses, putting some distance between himself and the accursed apartment. He slowed as he hit a main street, ditched the carriage and then took a cab home, trembling with rage. As he rode, he assessed the situation. He had done badly, acting out of voyeuristic greed and opportunism. He had omitted to plan thoroughly. The pills, no doubt, would be found and analysed. The bottle would contain no material evidence to link him to the crime, but several people would be able to provide a description of his striking appearance, and his own guilty behaviour as much as condemned him to the noose.

Gustav Caligari had to do two things. First, he had to leave Prague within the next twenty-four hours to avoid capture. Fortunately, he had long ago prepared for such an eventuality. A criminal mind always takes precautions. And the second thing made him smile. He would bide his time and on the next occasion he would put a distance between himself and the killings. He would acquire an instrument of death.

* * *

Having decided that a complete change of environment was necessary for this next stage of his career, Caligari travelled through Europe and made arrangements to move to London. It was in this dense sprawling city that he would find his victims.

Chapter Three

From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson

In the spring of 1896, I had been feeling out of sorts. My old war wound had been troubling me and so I decided to take a brief holiday away from the grime of London to revive my spirits. After spending four glorious days in the tranquil Surrey countryside, fishing and walking and breathing in the good clean air, I had felt both revitalised and renewed – until, that is, I stepped from the train at Euston Station. The great shifting crowds, the noise of people and machinery, the thunderous cacophony of the place began to overwhelm me after my solitary pastoral holiday; then, on emerging into the gloom of the evening, the thick foggy air of the metropolis seemed to dispel all the freshness from my body. By the time I had battled my way through the throng and eventually secured a cab, I had already begun to feel tired and worn out.

It was not until that moment that I realised how draining city life was. The pace of existence and the close contact with the mass of humanity certainly places pressures on an individual which, it seemed to me, are not present in the blessed countryside. On reaching Baker Street, as I climbed wearily up the stairs to the rooms I shared with Sherlock Holmes, I was conscious that the spring in my step had completely faded away.

I entered our sitting room to find Holmes in his usual chair by the fireside. He turned to me with a bright smile.

“Excellent timing, my dear Watson,” he cried enthusiastically. “You come at a crucial moment. What do you make of this?”

Holmes held an object out to me for inspection. It was as though I had slipped out of the room for one brief moment rather than being absent from Baker Street for four days. My friend seemed to have made no note of my holiday. I knew that he certainly would not enquire whether I had had a pleasant time. That was the nature of the concentrated focus of Sherlock Holmes’s mind. Such incidentals as a friend’s absence held no interest for him.

“Give me a moment,” I replied brusquely, dropping my suitcase on the floor with a bang. “If you’ll allow me to remove my hat and coat before you interrogate me.”

“You know how your observations often help me to illuminate the truth.”

“Do they?” I replied, my ill humour still prevailing. At length, somewhat sullenly, I took the object that Holmes was holding out for me: it was a man’s brown leather glove.

I turned it over in my hands. “What should I make of it? Is it a clue?”

My friend gave me one of his mischievous grins. “That is for you to decide. Examine it and tell me what conclusions you reach.”

“A test,” I said sharply.

“Hardly that. Indulge me, eh?”

“Very well,” I said. I studied the glove for a couple of minutes, but to my disappointment could discover nothing of note from my examination. I passed it back to my friend with a shrug. “Well, to my eyes there is very little to be gleaned from it. It is a gentleman’s glove of fine lamb’s leather, so the owner is likely to be comfortably off in order to be in the possession of such an item. It is quite new and of medium size, suggesting that the fellow is of average build. That, I am afraid, is as much as I am able to deduce from it. No doubt you are now going to list a wide range of details that I have missed.”