Memento Mori
CHAPTER I
A young boy wearing a thin brown cap and a matching coat stood upon the street, waving in his fist a fresh edition of that day’s newspaper, loudly announcing the headline of the front page to the people passing by. He could not have been older than thirteen years old, and his clothes certainly could not shield him completely from the bite of the icy London winds, but he had a wide, cheerful smile on his face. He was one newspaper lighter, and his pocket was heavier than it ought to have been for that. All thanks to the young, dark haired man who lived in Montague Street, and who—while he seemed to have less skin upon his bones than young Wiggins himself—always paid him a little extra. Especially when the weather was cold. Such a gentleman was an amateur detective that lived just around the corner from The British Museum, and was named Sherlock Holmes.
He had no friends and usually spent his days in solitude, either inside his flat or inside Bart’s Hospital’s laboratory—except for the times when he was required for a case, which were few in between. The place where he lived was too small for his taste and quite worn by the years, yet his business didn’t allow him to afford anything else at the moment, thus he made do with what he had. The flat itself consisted of two main rooms—a scarcely furnished sitting room, and a bedroom—and a single bathroom. The sitting room, narrow already, was also reduced in size even more due to a sturdy table that stood against one of the walls. It was full of worn scientific equipment—such as Bunsen burners and bottles of different chemical agents—and served as an improvised chemical table. A common man might have seen nothing special about it, nonetheless a medical man would find said equipment a bit too familiar, since most of it had come from Bart’s Hospital’s laboratory, courtesy of Holmes’ quick and light fingers. (His conscience remained undisturbed by that fact, however, for Holmes was convinced that his ability to offer his complete services to people would more than make up for the loss of some old pieces of equipment in the long run.)
While he seldom got up early, that morning Holmes sat at his dining table, one hand holding a hot cup of tea and the other holding that morning’s newspaper, his keen eyes fixed on it like a hawk’s on its unassuming prey. He leafed through it hastily, and when he found the headline he had been looking for, his mouth curled with disdain as he read it.
MAN WHO CLAIMED COULD COMMUNICATE WITH GHOSTS SEEMINGLY PROVED RIGHT DURING A SÉANCE.
Holmes filed the name of the man’s newest victim in a corner of his mind, and then threw the newspaper to the floor with an ejaculation of disgust. He could not be bothered to read anything else about that despicable man. How could anyone fall for his scheming tricks was beyond him, but Holmes was quickly growing more exasperated with each passing case. There wasn’t much he could do about him in his current position, but he would keep waiting for an opportunity to catch him.
He leaped out of his chair, steaming tea forgotten upon the dining table, and moved towards his battered, old bookcase that stood in the corner of the room. It was filled all the way to the top with books on different topics—so different that anyone who wasn’t familiar with the man who owned them would fail to understand the use he had for them. But Sherlock Holmes wasn’t interested in those books at the present moment. He picked up one of the many thin, cheap notebooks that sat one next to the other all across a single shelf, all its translucent pages filled with his own scribbled handwriting, and quickly skimmed through the one labelled “W”.
Watson, John.
Age: Thirty years old.
Occupation: Conman (earns his pay claiming he can communicate with people in the afterlife, robbing gullible people in the process.)
He became a criminal shortly after he returned from the war this year, claiming his experiences in the battlefield had awakened his psychic powers. Has extensive medical knowledge due to his former position in the army as a surgeon. Lives alone as a bachelor and has no living relatives.
He rose to fame thanks to his former clients who, convinced by his deceit, quickly made his name known among several circles, from the lowest classes to the highest. Many claim he helped them make peace with their deceased parents, brothers, and lovers. His method is defined, according to several accounts, by his “kindness and compassion.” He is a master manipulator, and there is a very high chance that he does not work alone—after all, a farce like his cannot be carried out by a single man alone. It is possible that he is the head of a much bigger organisation, and that his schemes go beyond the simple deceit of some weakling’s mind. However, all of this remains but a mere hypothesis, more data is required to arrive at a more satisfactory conclusion.
Holmes turned the page, his eyes setting on the growing list that was scribbled on it.
WATSON’S VICTIMS.
At the bottom of it, Holmes wrote that day’s date, added the name of themost recent victim, and then put the notebook back in its place. He reached for his pipe and sat in one of his armchairs, with his back to the door, staring out the only window in the room.
It was only a few moments later when the door opened and Holmes’ housekeeper entered the sitting room, announcing a visitor.
Mrs Turner was an elderly, ill-tempered woman. Her face held a few traces of something that spoke of a former beauty, though nowadays her skin was as wrinkled and worn as her dress, and her dark eyes as cold as the weather outside. She didn’t like most of her tenants, but considered Holmes to be the worst of them all. His flat was often the cause of the most vile smells; he was up at all kinds of irregular hours and rarely touched the food she prepared for him, save for certain occasions where his appetite seemed to surpass that of a common man, and she found herself having to prepare a second ration. His worst habit, however, was his violin playing. He had demonstrated to be a brilliant player, yet more often than not the melodies which he busied himself with were erratic and capricious, sounding more like they were coming from a wounded animal rather than a wooden instrument. She did not know what he did for a living, but if asked she would probably answer that it was something unlawful, for suspicion hung around the young man like thick fog in London during the evenings, and she found herself unable to trust a man who seemed to know where she had been by taking a single glance at her dress, her shoes, or her hands. He had one redeeming quality, however, which was the reason she put up with him at all: he was the only one of her tenants who always paid his rent in a timely manner. Although there were moments—such as this one—when she wondered whether that fact alone made everything else worthwhile.
“Mr Holmes”, said Mrs Turner, her eyes staring at the papers thrown haphazardly upon her floor with disproving eyes, and briefly burning holes in the back of Holmes’ head in response afterwards. “Mr Lestrade is in a cab by the door. He asks if you would be so kind as to provide him with your assistance.”
⁂
Holmes entered the cab and found Lestrade sitting inside it, a weary look on his face. He was a short, lean man with dark hair, dark brown eyes and a small snub nose, which gave his face a certain rodent quality to it. He was dressed in a light-brown dust coat and leather leggings, and despite his efforts to carry himself with pride and authority, few would have guessed he was an inspector from Scotland Yard.
“Thank you for coming, Holmes”, was all he said in greeting, as the cab began moving. “I apologise for showing up with such short notice, but there has been a murder last night that has left me and my subordinates completely stumped.”
Holmes waved a hand in dismissal. “Do not worry, my dear fellow.” He offered him a small smile and his eyes glinted with mischief. “You know that I’m always happy to shine a light on the paths that remain helplessly dark to others.”
Lestrade rolled his eyes, but made no further comment on Holmes’ little jab. “The case is as follows: this morning, at around seven thirty, Mrs Bellamy woke up and, as she does every day, brought breakfast to her tenants. All of them received her amicably, except for one who would not open the door no matter how many times she knocked on it. This was the flat of Mr Stephen Stamford, a young doctor just out of university. He had impeccable habits and was never up later than seven, making this behaviour extremely out of character for him. Fearing that the young fellow had somehow become indisposed and that was the reason he would not open the door, Mrs Bellamy used her own keys to get into the flat. Once inside, she found nothing amiss. The living room was as tidy as one would expect with one bachelor living in it. There were no signs of struggle, nothing. But something still bothered her.What exactly was it, she didn’t say. Mrs Bellamy refused to elaborate on it beyond the fact that it was ‘women’s intuition’. She approached the bedroom and repeated the process from earlier. Only this time she opened the door to find his tenant dead upon his bed, a dagger stabbed through his heart.”
Holmes closed his eyes, and Lestrade thought he could see the gears of his brain turning as he tried to make sense of what he had just told him. “Were there any windows in his bedroom?”
“None. The room was locked tight.”
“And I imagine Mr Stamford had no visitors the night before, is that correct?”
“Yes, Holmes. According to Mrs Bellamy, Stamford dined at seven and received no visitors before or after dinner. He was alone the entire night.”
“A very curious case, indeed.” The cab came to a stop, just a few blocks away from Bart’s Hospital, and Holmes smiled, stepping out and moving in direction to the flat without waiting for the inspector.
Stephen Stamford’s flat was bigger and slightly fancier than Holmes’. The living room was wide and luminous, with a big bow window framed by deep blue curtains that offered a view of the pale morning sky of London, as well as the streets below. Holmes noticed none of those details, and moved straight to the mantle of the fireplace, his eyes catching the sight of a single drinking glass resting upon it. There were a few drops of Brandy laying at the bottom.
“Ah, Holmes. I see you have already made yourself at home,” said Lestrade, as he entered the room, not without a slight hint of irritation in his voice. Holmes’ gaze lingered on the mantle a few moments after he had returned the glass to its original position. He took note of the set of keys that hung by the door and moved towards the dining table, where the tray with that morning’s breakfast and newspaper still stood, completely untouched. Finding nothing of interest, he turned around towards the inspector.
“I’d like to examine the body now.”
Lestrade nodded and took him to the bedroom. As he opened the door, the smell of death and blood flooded the air. Whereas the living room had been somewhat refined, wide and luminous, the only remnant of that in here seemed to be the wallpaper. The bedroom was sparsely furnished and had no windows. Two sconces had been lit up, casting the room in an orange glow. In the middle of it stood a small single-sized bed, dressed in what once had been white sheets but were now mostly soaked in blood, and a thin blue coverlet, which had been rolled back to allow a better view of the body. There was a small dresser on the wall opposite to it, next to the door, with a small basin on it and some shaving equipment beside it. Over the wall hung a medium-sized square mirror.
Holmes stared at the body and raised an eyebrow. “You did not mention that the man was completely nude, Inspector.”
Lestrade’s gaze fell to the floor and his ears reddened. “Yes, well…” He let out an awkward chuckle. “Figured you’d see it for yourself once you got here.”
Stephen Stamford lay on the bed with his legs tangled between the sheets and a pained expression on his face. His dark brown eyes were wide open, staring in the direction of the ceiling, with a look of endless terror on them. His arms were drawn in front of him with his palms up, his muscles stiff with tension, almost as if he had died trying to push something off his chest. A dagger was buried deep between his ribs.
Holmes used his magnifying glass to examine the handle of the dagger. It was made out of plain, dark wood and had no markings of any sort.
“It’s a strange position to die in, wouldn’t you say, Holmes?”
Holmes hummed noncommittally, moving towards the face of the man, and to Lestrade’s dismay, offered no other response. He spent a few minutes examining the body, measuring the distance between his outstretched arms and looking under his fingernails. Something in them seemed to have picked his interest, for he placed whatever came off them inside his handkerchief, before tucking it away in his breast pocket. He then moved on towards the dresser, opened the two drawers, coursing through heaps of trousers and shirts neatly folded, and closed them again, making a note of the small bottle of oily liquid that lay hidden amongst them. When he finally turned around, he found Lestrade shooting daggers at him which could have rivalled the one buried in the victim’s chest.
He offered him a placating smile. ”My apologies, my dear fellow. I seemed to have become too engrossed in my examination and forgotten completely about your presence. I’d like to talk with Mrs Bellamy, now.”
Lestrade did not move. “You’ve found something, Holmes. What is it?”
A placating hand joined the smile. “I promise I shall share my thoughts with you once I’ve had the opportunity to look through all the evidence.” Holmes’ tone was kind but firm. “Now, please lead the way to Mrs Bellamy.”
⁂
Mrs Bellamy was a middle-aged woman with kind blue eyes and long white hair, which she kept tied in a tight high knot. Her dress was simple, although it was clear to even the most untrained eye that the deep green fabric was expensive and rich. She wore very few pieces of jewellery—a pair of small pearl earrings and a silver cross on her neck—and they glinted softly under the morning sun that came in through the window. Despite the sober air about her, all around her there were traces of modest wealth, and Holmes knew her tenants would have to be in a fairly good position to afford her lodgings.
“Mr Stamford was a kind man, Mr Holmes”, began the woman, her eyes dimming with emotion. “I cannot understand how such an awful thing can happen to someone like him.”
Holmes had curled up in one of the dining chairs, and was listening to the woman with his eyes closed, Lestrade standing close behind him. “Did he have any enemies?”
The woman shook her head. “None. The man was as good as they come. Polite, respectful. Always paid his rent in a timely manner and once he even offered to treat my joint pain at a discount…” Her gaze darkened. “Something strange happened last night, Mr Holmes. I’m absolutely certain of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious, is it not? There is no way he could have been killed inside a locked room!”
Holmes smiled, his gaze focusing on the woman. “Someone could have stolen your keys.”
The woman’s head was shaking before he had even finished the sentence. “No. Only I have access to them. No one was in this flat except for myself and my tenants last night, and I can assure you none of us had any reason to kill that poor man.” Holmes’ expression remained neutral, and she continued: “I believe there were otherworldly forces at play the night Mr Stamford was killed.”
“You mean ghosts?” asked Lestrade, a dumbfounded look on his face. “Ma’am, you said nothing about ghosts when we first spoke.”
“I was too upset to make sense of what had happened then, Inspector. However, while I waited for you to arrive with your colleague here, I had the opportunity to catch up with this morning’s newspaper and—”
Holmes let out an indignant grunt. “Please, Mrs Bellamy. Don’t tell me you too have fallen for that ridiculous man’s lies!”
Mrs Bellamy rose from the chair, her chin high and her eyes shining with determination. When she next spoke, her voice was serious. “Mr Watson has agreed to make a visit to communicate with Mr Stamford and find out what truly happened last night. You may stay, or you may leave, Mr Holmes, it is your choice. All I ask is that you refrain from meddling with the crime scene until Mr Watson has had the chance to talk with Mr Stamford.”
Lestrade looked at Holmes, who was shaking his head in disbelief and then at Mrs Bellamy. “Madam, we cannot postpone an murder investigation in favour of a séance!”
“Go,” Holmes told him. At Lestrade’s surprised look, he added: “Don’t worry about the crime scene, inspector. Go back to the station, we shall talk later. I promise you I’ll make sure that everything remains in its proper place until Mr Watson has finished. I doubt you will find yourself terribly inconvenienced by the threads and artefacts he shall use for his illusion. There’s no need for both of us to stay for such a distasteful show of trickery when a single victim will suffice.”
Under the watchful look of Mrs Bellamy, Holmes himself walked a very confused and irritated inspector to the door, who assured him that he would return to the crime scene in a few hours to retrieve the murder weapon and whatever else which might serve as evidence. Once it was firmly closed, he turned towards her.
“You can tell me the truth now, madam.”
The woman took a step back, her eyes growing dark with wariness. “I have already told you everything I know, Mr Holmes. There is no other explanation possible.”
“I know that Mr Stamford was not alone last night.”
“I told you, no one—”
“I know he spent the night with a man, Mrs Bellamy,” Holmes interrupted her. “There were two glasses on that mantle before the inspector arrived. There’s a fresh stain in the spot where the other glass was, so subtle now that with your poor eyesight you couldn’t possibly have seen it. Mr Stamford died in bed, nude, as the day he was born. If he had spent the night with a woman, no matter how scandalous the fact, you would have just said so.” His tone had been gentle, soft, yet the woman paled as if he had shouted every word, her eyes widening with fear.
“He had nothing to do with this,” croaked out Mrs Bellamy after a moment, her voice barely a whisper. She closed her eyes, taking a breath, and then spoke again, this time clearly. “I promise you. He would not have hurt Mr Stamford.”
“Tell me what happened last night, madam. Who was Mr Stamford’s lover?”
She looked at him keenly. Something in Holmes’ demeanour seemed to put her at ease, and she led him back to the dining chair in Stamford’s living room. “His name is Edmund James,” she began once they were both seated. “He is also a doctor. They became friends in university, although the young gentleman only began visiting last year. It was not unusual for Mr James to drop by for dinner or lunch. Sometimes they went to concerts together as well. Yesterday it was one of those nights. They came home in extremely high spirits, dined together at seven, and afterwards…” She trailed off, knowing it unnecessary to go into detail over the activities her tenant had engaged the night before.
“But Mr James did not stay the night.”
“He did not. He never stayed later than eleven.”
Holmes heard the rumble of wheels growing increasingly louder as the seconds tickled by. “Tell me his address, Mrs Bellamy. I shall pay him a visit this afternoon. And don’t worry, I will not share this information with Inspector Lestrade unless I am certain he was involved in the murder. Now, I believe Mr Watson has arrived,” he said, as the sound of the carriage came to a stop and someone knocked at the door of Stephen Stamford’s flat.