The Defaced Men, page 11
“Then you can give me no idea how long we might be compelled to wait?” I asked.
“No, I cannot,” Holmes replied calmly.
Abruptly, his head jerked. “Hide!” he hissed.
The sharpness of his tone prevented me from making any argument. I scrambled blindly into the undergrowth at the left side of the driveway, my calves striking protruding logs and thin branches scratching at my face. My impression of Holmes’s movements was that they were like those of a rabbit: he bounded over obstacles and then came to a halt in a crouching position.
Seconds later, a two-horse Clarence made its way up the narrow lane. The driver was forced to duck his head to clear the low-hanging branches, and twigs were torn free by the roof of the vehicle and sent skittering in its wake.
The driver made a wide half-circle in the area before the house, producing an amount of noise that made me appreciate Holmes’s earlier warning, and eased the horses to a halt. Then he hopped down and opened the door of the carriage – on the side which was obscured from Holmes and I.
As I waited in anticipation of seeing the occupant, I cursed our new position within the woodland, which made visibility of the house even poorer. Presently, the driver returned to his raised seat, and then his passenger appeared, his back to us, and approached the door of the house.
I heard Holmes exhale softly beside me.
“Is that Fay?” I whispered, but Holmes gave no reply.
To my surprise, the man did not unlock and enter the building. Instead, he pressed the doorbell and then waited. Despite the gloom, I saw the gloved fingers of his right hand stretch and curl in a repeated action. He pressed the bell again.
My gaze shifted to the illuminated windows. I saw no sign of motion from within.
The visitor raised his arm and struck the door three times. Then he called out, “Fay! Fay! Let me in, you scoundrel!”
With a start, I realised that I recognised the voice.
“Holmes,” I said, forgetting to restrain my voice to a whisper, “surely that is—”
The next moment, my pronouncement became redundant. The man turned away from the door, and his face was revealed in full. There could be no mistaking that head of wild white hair, the pointed beard with its end so low as to be tucked into his overcoat.
All the same, I breathed the name. “Muybridge.”
Muybridge stalked to the left of the building, his head thrown back as he looked up at the same curtained first-floor window that we had been watching. Next, he pressed himself up against the ground-floor window beside the entrance, shielding his eyes as if to see through any gap that might present itself, but he soon withdrew. Then he went fully around the west wing of the building, disappearing from view, and once again I heard his muffled shout, “Fay! Let me in this moment!” He reappeared a minute later, shaking his head in dismay.
Beside me, Holmes murmured, “We owe him a debt of gratitude. Now we need not risk being seen in order to check the first-floor windows at the rear of the house.”
“If you ask me,” I hissed, “this entire situation is absurd. Eadweard Muybridge is our own client, yet we are hiding in the bushes rather than speak to him. I might add, also, that we are hiding in bushes rather than approach a house which is evidently empty.”
If Holmes paid any attention to my words, he gave no impression of it. He held up a hand, which now appeared merely a blotch in the murky twilight, as a command for silence.
We watched Muybridge approach the carriage, then heard the click of its door. Responding to an inaudible command, the driver flicked his reins and the horses completed a turn and then eased along the overgrown driveway once again. Only once the sound of hooves came from the London Road did Holmes’s posture loosen.
“I’m glad that’s over and done,” I said, stretching to ease my stiff joints. “Though I suppose I ought to offer my apologies. There can be no denying that Muybridge’s case is related to Israel Fay. He defaced the zoopraxiscope slides, then – for whatever foolhardy reason – he revealed his authorship to Muybridge, who is quite rightly incensed and refuses to pay the ransom demand. Even if they were once friends, Fay’s housekeeper was clear that Muybridge had never visited Snakeley Manse before, which might have raised our suspicions even if Muybridge had not been so clearly incensed.”
“On the contrary,” Holmes replied.
I sat up sharply. “Then you have changed your opinion about the link?”
“Of course not, Watson. I meant only that to-night’s adventure is not ‘over and done’, and that we are likely to be compelled to wait here a little longer yet.”
“For what earthly reason?”
“The very same that brought us here. To see Israel Fay.”
I made a very deliberate sound of exasperation. “More riddles! Shall I make my bed here, then?”
“If you wish, Watson.”
I did not do so, but instead spent my time alternating between grumbling and rubbing my arms for warmth – though both were pantomimes with the primary ambition of pricking Holmes’s conscience. Yet my friend’s conscience is a complex thing, and at times it seems to be entirely absent. He waited placidly, his gaze never straying from the moonlit spectre of Snakeley Manse.
I checked my watch. It was now just after ten o’clock.
“Do you realise that the last train was half an hour ago?” I said in alarm, the prospect of sleeping in the undergrowth seeming ever more likely. “Don’t you think that—”
“Hush!” Holmes replied.
I drew myself to my full height. “Holmes, I have had as much as I can bear – and now you are silencing me!”
My words died away as I registered in Holmes’s silhouetted profile a greater intent than before. I looked towards the house, and with a start I saw that the light coming from the study window was dimmer than before – a lamp must have been extinguished.
I turned my attention to the central, circular window. There was still a light there, though surely only just bright enough to illuminate the passage from the west to east wing. It occurred to me that if Fay’s study spanned the depth of the house, then his bedroom must be within the east wing.
This conclusion was very soon confirmed. At the circular window I saw a figure making his way from left to right, his entire body from head to foot visible in the circular frame for the briefest of moments, before he disappeared into the east wing. I waited expectantly, but no light came from the first-floor window that was visible from our location.
“His bedroom must be the one at the rear of the house,” I said. “That is a shame.”
“Why is that?” Holmes asked casually.
“Well… were we not hoping to see more than a fleeting glimpse of him?”
Without reply, Holmes rose and then turned to help me to my feet.
“Are we leaving at last?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“And you are content with our evening’s work?”
“More than content.”
“And… are you confident of finding us beds for the night?”
Holmes laughed and turned to stroll along the driveway in the direction of the road. Over his shoulder, he said, “That is a matter for the landlord of the Dolphin.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I spent a most uncomfortable night at the Dolphin inn, upon a bed with creaking wooden slats which seemed throughout the night to moan the word ‘rickety, rickety’. Upon our return to Baker Street, Holmes went to his desk and set to examining his journals and his library of newspaper cuttings. I watched on for a while, but each time I made a comment he waved me away impatiently, and eventually I retired to my armchair with a book. All afternoon and evening Holmes was occupied in a similar manner, and when I emerged from my room the next morning he appeared not to have moved from his position. Rather than spend my time waiting and being continually dismissed, I ventured to my club, where I might find one or two people who were pleased to see me.
It was with a mixture of surprise and foreboding that, after my early luncheon, I opened The Times and discovered another picture of Eadweard Muybridge. Rather, I did not know at first that it was he, but the picture was immediately arresting, and then I read the accompanying article and then understood what had happened. At first glance, in truth, it was not evident that there was any figure at all in the picture, dominated as it was by a mishmash of lush foliage, and its background filled with not sky but a sheer rock face. In the foreground was a jetty that protruded slightly onto a placid river – and on the jetty, stick in hand, stood a man. He wore a rumpled suit and, as far as I could tell, a scarf, but anything above that was impossible to discern. His head was entirely missing, obscured by a swirl of white that appeared rather like foam in a plughole, and which made a stark contrast with the dark trees.
And yet, this mutilation was not what had initially attracted my notice. Above the headless figure were scrawled in white the words ‘NO RETURN’ in large uppercase letters.
The article read:
Zoopraxographer Fears for His Life – Where is Sherlock Holmes?
Famed man of the sciences and arts, Professor Eadweard Muybridge, has further cause to fear for his life to-day, upon the delivery of an unusual package to the offices of this very newspaper. As readers will recall, Professor Muybridge has recently been threatened by various means, the most publicised of which are attacks in the street by horses and threats made upon slides projected via his celebrated ‘Zoopraxiscope’ device.
The first of the contents of this mysterious package was a photographic print, which is produced in sketch form above. Once again, the man portrayed is Professor. Eadweard Muybridge himself, and once again, his face has been crudely obliterated – on this occasion by overpainting rather than scratching at the image. At first consideration, the addition of the message ‘NO RETURN’ may puzzle readers, but working together, the art connoisseur and the classicist may solve the riddle. The portrait is one-half of a pair of stereoscopic images and dates from 1868, taken in the Yosemite Valley. Most significantly, the portrait is titled ‘Charon at the Ferry’ – a reference to the ferryman of mythology who transported the newly deceased across the river Styx to the world of the dead. If Muybridge is indeed intended to represent Charon, then the inscribed message ‘NO RETURN’ must surely indicate that the ferry must remain in Hades, and its unfortunate ferryman likewise. If there were any confusion over this message, the second item contained in the delivered package makes the matter clearer still: a single penny coin, evidently intended as substitute of the Athenian obol or danake with which passengers might pay the ferryman. That is, the ferryman has paid his own fare, and now he must retire to Hell.
Professor Muybridge was not available for comment at the time of going to press, but no doubt we will know his response to this dire new threat in the coming days. This gruesome development and the solution of this new puzzle begs another question: where is the famous Sherlock Holmes, who has been engaged to expose whoever is delivering these threats? Has this riddle truly left the great detective of Baker Street dumbfounded?
That afternoon, I climbed the stairs of 221B Baker Street and opened the door of our rooms quietly, fearing disturbing Holmes if he was still occupied with his research – and also, I confess, because I did not relish informing him about the new threat against Muybridge and the insinuations about his own diminished abilities. However, to my surprise Holmes was standing directly before me, empty Gladstone bag in hand.
He handed the bag to me, clapped me on the shoulder and said, “A cab will arrive presently.”
I groaned. “Why is it, Holmes, that I am perennially packing my belongings in a hurry?”
Holmes looked askance at me. Perhaps he imagined that I really was asking him to solve this minor mystery, to add to all of the others he had at hand. His eyes flicked to the clock on the mantelpiece.
“I understand your meaning well,” I said in a resigned tone. “Perhaps as I gather my things you might tell me where we are going, and for how long.”
Holmes followed me to my room. “Overnight, and to Bishop’s Stortford, naturally.”
“Then we are to visit Elias Griffin, the owner of the house that burned?”
“The very same.”
“Holmes, do you not have any impression at all that this case is straying ever further away from its origins? We were engaged to identify who has been threatening Eadweard Muybridge by defacing his glass slides. Then we followed a lead to Loudwater, which culminated in as excruciating a night’s sleep as any I endured in Afghanistan. Now we are to leave for Hertfordshire because of a chance mention in a newspaper article. I fear that we may be neglecting our client’s situation, which may be dire, even if he is aware of the culprit of the threats against him. Furthermore, even if you do not suppose that Muybridge is in immediate danger, the public at large have been led to assume so, and consequently—”
“Then you have been reading The Times at your club?”
I exhaled loudly. “I have. I am glad to know that you have read it too, as I did not know how to broach the matter.”
“Clumsily, as is your wont,” Holmes replied, with no suggestion of admonishment.
I hesitated, but then decided that taking offence would do me no earthly good. “Do you agree with the assessment of the meaning of the image sent to the newspaper offices?”
“Of course. Charon is a particularly interesting figure in myth – the most pre-eminent psychopomp, one might say. I see from your rapid blinking that you are surprised that my expertise might extend to the classics, Watson—”
I frowned and bade my eyelids to stop revealing my thoughts.
“—but it is as well to understand imagery that the more imaginative criminal mind might draw upon in his striving for significance beyond the mundane.”
“And is that what Fay is doing, in your estimation? Striving for significance?”
“Perhaps more for notoriety. We have concluded that Muybridge knows well the identity of his extortioner. He has already received a demand for payment of a sum of money, and he has his deadline. What more is required after that?”
“Reinforcement of that same demand, I suppose, along with a reminder of the consequences of a failure to pay.”
Holmes’s fingers rapped on the door frame in a complex rhythm. “Those are both reasonable conclusions. Then there is the fact that delivering the threat in full visibility of the English public, and in such a theatrical fashion, will make it far harder to ignore, either by the public or by Muybridge himself.”
“You are assessing this matter in a remarkably cold manner, Holmes. What concerns me as much as Muybridge’s fate is the sullying of your name. And do not suppose that it is a wholly selfless impulse: don’t forget that I myself am reliant upon your good fortune.”
Even as I said this, though, I imagined one day telling a very different series of tales about Holmes as an outcast and pariah. Would I stand by my friend if he was no longer considered the ‘great detective’? Would I continue to act as his chronicler? I knew instantly that the answer to both questions was ‘yes’.
“You have a faraway look in your eye, Watson,” Holmes said quietly. “I am not ready to give up on my chosen career just yet. Let us stay in the present, shall we?”
I cleared my throat and shook myself to wake from my daydream. “The point stands,” I said gruffly. “Are you really not concerned about the damage to your reputation?”
“I am not.”
“But if you lose the trust of the public—”
“The public are fickle, and I hardly desire more callers at present. We have much to which we may apply ourselves, Watson.”
“You refer to these trips, to Loudwater and now Bishop’s Stortford. Are they really so closely related to our starting point of the threats made against Eadweard Muybridge?”
“It is fascinating how far the current might take us, is it not?” Holmes replied, apparently unconscious of the criticism in my tone. “I am convinced that Elias Griffin is a piece of the puzzle. Even if it were not for the Muybridge link – and I remind you that Muybridge himself was in Loudwater, making clear the relationship between extorted and extortioner – then Griffin would be a man of interest to us. Alongside the connection of the Yosemite photograph, Israel Fay has invested in companies that are engaged in developments that match precisely Griffin’s own work.”
“And what nature of work is that?”
“A new type of celluloid that is to be used as a means to project moving pictures.”
“Like Mr. Paul’s films, which I saw at the Alhambra?”
“Quite so. In Paris, Louis Lumière has overseen the creation of photographic plate emulsion which may be used on rolls of celluloid, but the issue of orthochromasia continues to bedevil most of the men who have their sights set on the projection of moving images.”
“Ortho…” I began, then trailed off.
“The failure of a dye to change colour upon binding to a surface. Aniline-based dyes are one remedy, and more recently there have been some who endorse erythrosine.”
I turned to the bag upon my bed, with the dual purpose of continuing my packing and also hiding my confusion.
“Indeed,” I muttered.
“Griffin has produced numerous academic papers on the subject,” Holmes continued. “I will allow you to read them during the journey to Hertfordshire.”
Before I could conceive of a sardonic response, Holmes turned and said, “There is our cab.”
I paused in my packing and said, “I hear nothing,” but then seconds later I heard the clip of hooves and then the slowing of wheels outside the window.
“It was the hurried footsteps as pedestrians moved aside from the oncoming carriage that I identified at first,” Holmes said, gathering his coat. “Now do hurry, Watson. Next time we are to adventure I will pack your bag myself.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chaloner House was everything that Snakeley Manse was not. It was larger and a good deal more conventional in appearance, it was freshly painted, and though ivy climbed its walls it was not in sparse, messy arrangements but relegated to one end, coating the brickwork entirely with a pleasant deep green. The house was unobstructed by trees save for a grand oak that served as a useful means of determining the scale of the grand building, given that it reached only to the sills of the second-floor windows.
