Memento Mori
CHAPTER III
It wasn’t long before Inspector Lestrade came back to Mr Stamford’s residence with a few constables at his heels, having received a telegram from Holmes informing him that he was clear to proceed with his investigation. He wasted no time cornering Holmes and demanding answers from him, although not without first throwing Watson out of the flat without sparing him a single glance, bloody murder shining in his eyes.
“I’m sick of games, Mr Holmes. That crime scene had better be as I found it or I swear to God there will be consequences. Tell me what you have found. Now.”
Holmes kept an unfazed expression on his face, although he felt anything but. “It’s all perfectly well, my dear Inspector. See for yourself.”
They returned to the bedroom where the body was. Watson had packed away every single one of his tools shortly after regaining consciousness, effectively erasing all signs of the events that had taken place during the séance, yet Lestrade’s features remained drawn with suspicion as he re-examined the crime scene. When he found nothing amiss with the body or the murder weapon, he went straight to the drawers of the dresser and repeated the notions he had seen Holmes perform merely a few hours ago, with the frenzy of a man in search for treasure. At the sight of the bottle, he let out a low whistle.
“Well, would you look at that…” He turned towards Holmes, who had remained fixed by the door looking like the very image of nonchalance itself, and sneered. “Our man was a sodomite.”
Holmes didn’t react. “So it would seem, yes.”
“What do you make of that, Holmes?”
“Nothing that could aid you in solving this case, I’m afraid.”
Lestrade’s sneer vanished, desperation dawning on his features. “No?”
“No. Mr Stamford was alone last night.”
The inspector scratched his neck, his gaze leaving Holmes’ as he spoke to wander around the room, a slight tinge of red colouring his ears. “And what about…?”
“Ha! That charlatan?” Holmes let out a dry, humourless cackle, perfectly hiding the slight tremor in his voice. “My dear Inspector, I understand you are eager to put your newly gained rank to good use, but I thought you were wise enough not to fall for such sly, insidious artifices, even when faced with such an intricate mystery and no answers. Nothing that man did could be of any use to a man of science. All we can do is continue our investigation. On that note, I will take my leave now. Farewell.”
Only once the door to Mr Stamford’s building had been safely closed behind him did Holmes drop his nonchalant facade. The full weight of the events he had witnessed fell upon him and he found himself trembling. He could barely understand what he had seen, and for once in his life, he was terrified of the discovery that lay ahead of him, should he decide to declare himself mad and pursue it. He took a deep breath to soothe his nerves and basked under the warmth of the meagre English sun, strangely grateful for its presence, as he tried to ignore the nausea that rose through his throat at the smell of the incense that still clung to his clothes. It felt as if he had been inside that dreadful room for years rather than merely a few hours.
“Do you still believe I’m a dirty scoundrel?”
Holmes turned around with a startle to find John Watson watching him closely. He was leaning against the wall of the building, with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face. The colour had returned to his cheeks but the remnants of death still clung to him like a widow’s veil. The dark bruises around his neck were visible through his popped collar, although he had taken the precaution to pull it up in an effort to hide the worst of it.
Holmes schooled his features back into neutrality. “It is clear that the fumes from the incense are to blame for what we’ve experienced today, Doctor.” His voice had lost the tone of loathing that had persisted during their first meeting, replaced now with cold, indifferent scepticism, the kind that allowed no argument.
Watson shook his head and got closer to him. “Don’t play me for a fool. You know perfectly well that is not the case, Mr Holmes,” he said in a low voice. A mix of anger and disbelief shone bright in his eyes as he continued. “Do you believe these lovely marks around my neck are the result of the smoke as well?”
“I did not say that.”
“Well, how do you explain them, then? Or is it that you got tired of my “charades” and decided to, pardon the pun, take the matter into your own hands?”
“What!” Holmes staggered back. “That is a ridiculous accusation! Don’t you remember what happened?”
“Not usually, no. That is why I have this.” Watson pulled out his notebook, angling it towards Holmes so they could read it together. “See?“
Written in what Holmes couldn’t possibly believe to be English letters, for they were drawn in the messy, fast strokes that had grown to be associated with a doctor’s dreadful handwriting, were three sentences:
IS THAT YOU, WATSON, MY DEAR FRIEND?
YOU MUST STOP HIM. HE BELIEVES US TO BE ABOMINATIONS, AND WON’T STOP UNTIL WE ARE ALL DEAD.
Watson spoke first. “Something must have gone wrong during the séance. I remember… a strong feeling coursing through my body. I was furious, filled with such a deep revulsion that I almost felt sick with it. Yet… There was more. I felt… righteous. As if I had been imparting justice. It couldn’t have been Stamford, it must have been the killer.” He looked at Holmes. “Did you see anything? An apparition, perhaps?”
Holmes stood in silence as the image of the man in the mirror flashed before his eyes. He pulled his cigarette case from his breast pocket with slow movements, his long, nervous fingers going through the motions with care. It wasn’t until after he had taken the first drag that he answered, swirls of white smoke coming out of his lips. “I saw no such thing.” Watson opened his mouth to ask yet another question, but Holmes cut him off with one of his own. “Mr Stamford did not share your… talents, is that correct?”
“Indeed, he did not.”
“Yet he—whatever it was that you spoke with thought you were deserving of the same fate as him.”
“So it would seem, yes.” Watson smiled, the expression on his face as charming as ever, in spite of the fact that he had just had a near-death experience and looked as if he had crawled out of his own grave. He drew closer to Holmes before continuing in a low voice. “Surely, you must have heard about the company that army men seek in times of war.”
Holmes blinked as his mind conjured all sorts of preposterous scenarios, full of warm caresses from within the shadows. A slight brush crept onto his pale cheeks. “Indeed,” he replied in a clipped tone, and Watson let out the croak of a laugh, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.
“There you have it, then. It is clear this is the work of a vengeful spirit who is targeting men of certain proclivities.”
Holmes shook his head. “This is a waste of time,“ he said, brusquely starting to walk away. “My apologies, Doctor, but I cannot possibly accept this is the work of a ghost. I have other leads to pursue, ones that won’t land me inside a madhouse. Good day.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. If you cannot believe your eyes, if you cannot believe your ears, then, pray tell, how are you supposed to chase after the truth?”
“Senses can deceive, doctor.”
Watson tried to go after him, but his leg soon began to protest and he had to stop in the middle of the street. “Wait!”
It was no use, for Holmes had already hailed a cab and was swiftly speeding past the buildings of London, towards 57 Great Russell Street, the address of Doctor Edmund James.
⁂
“There we go, young man. See? It was nothing more than a scratch.”
“Thank yer so much, Doc.”
The doctor finished dressing his young patient’s knee and stood up from where he had been crouching to wash his hands. “There’s no need to thank me, dear boy. ‘Tis what I’m here for. Just be careful out there.”
“That I will, sir,” the child rose from his chair and ran towards the exit, his physician’s advice flying from his head as he left, now that his scraped knee was as good as new. So pleased was he, in fact, that he didn’t see the man who was entering the office until he had collided with his legs. “Sorry, Mister,” muttered the child, raising his head to meet the man’s eyes. Recognition dawned on his gaze when he saw him, and he offered him a cheerful, if slightly bashful smile. “Oi! Good to see yer Mr ‘Olmes!”
“Good to see you too, Wiggins,” Sherlock Holmes replied, returning the gesture using only his eyes.
Wiggins tipped his cap at him and left. Holmes approached the doctor, who had been watching the exchange with amusement. “Welcome sir, I’m Doctor James, how may I help you?”
Holmes took a few seconds to study him and his office. Edmund James was of average build, with a long, clean-shaven square face and high cheekbones. His dark hair was carefully combed in the manner of the latest fashion and he wore a white shirt with a pair of dark trousers. There were no signs of anxiety or fear upon his person; his gaze shone bright with peaceful joy and contentment, and was only slightly dimmed by the dark lines of exhaustion under his brown eyes, likely the result of his passionate activities during the night before (whether they had involved murder as well as sexual congress remained to be seen). It was clear that he had risen early and that Wiggins had been the last of a long string of patients he had seen so far that day, both inside his office and out, as evidenced by the strong smell of iodoform emanating from him, as well as the various stains of mud upon his shoes, which were a mixture of reddish, dark and light brown colours.
The office itself was well furnished, though not frivolously so. There was a sturdy mahogany desk with a couple of chairs, a small liquor cabinet and a bookcase filled with all sorts of leather-bound books on the topics of anatomy, biology, and botany. Doctor James diploma’s hung framed on the wall behind his desk, and a number of miniature Wardian cases were evenly distributed throughout the room, filled with a variety of specimens ranging from brightly coloured begonias to even an exhibit of Dionaea Muscipula, a flesh-eating plant native from America which Holmes had only ever seen in an exceedingly old issue of Curtis’s Botanical Magazine when he was in college.
“My name’s Sherlock Holmes, I’m a consultant detective. I’m afraid I’ve come bearing dreadful news, Doctor James. Your friend Mr Stamford was murdered last night.”
Doctor James’ eyes widened, all traces of colour suddenly drained from his face. “What?! How did it happen?!”
“That is what I’ve come to ask you.”
The doctor took a step back, his face growing paler still. He offered Holmes a wobbling smile. “Surely you don’t think I’ve had anything to do with it, do you?”
“You were the last person to see him alive, Doctor. It stands to reason to believe you would have some knowledge about the circumstances which led to his death.”
“I swear to God I do not, Mr Holmes! He and I went to a concert together and afterwards we went back to his flat for supper but I did not stay long. That is all I know.”
“There’s no need to lie to me, Doctor. I am aware of the true nature of your relationship with Mr Stamford. Hold up, man! There may be hope for you yet; you are lucky it is me who is on the case, for I have no obligation to inform Scotland Yard of your private affairs provided I find you had nothing to do with Stephen Stamford’s death. Now get a hold of yourself and tell me exactly what you know.”
At the revelation that his secret had been discovered, Edmund James had staggered backwards, suddenly overcome by a tremor that went through his body with the ease and fatality of a bullet, but Holmes swiftly helped him back into the chair Wiggins had occupied moments before and moved towards the liquor cabinet in search of some brandy.
“Thank you, thank you,” gasped the doctor, as the brandy brought back a dust of colour to his cheeks. Cold sweat had spread upon his brow and he wiped it with a handkerchief. Still, the tremor in his hands persisted and the glass clattered loudly against his teeth for a few seconds. “I’ll tell you everything,” he continued, once the glass was empty and his hands steady. “But not here. Come.”
He led Holmes towards his flat and locked the door behind them. Holmes told him about the way Stamford had died and what Mrs Bellamy had revealed, and Doctor James nodded. “It is so. I saw Stephen last night. It was the anniversary of our first meeting and we wanted to celebrate.”
“Did you notice anything strange about him? Was he anxious or restless?”
“Not in the slightest.” A melancholic smile appeared on his lips as he reminisced. “I dare say he was the happiest man in England that night, for I’d never heard him laugh so much as he did then. He did say something strange after I had given him his gift, however. He said he felt he was being watched, although it was just the two of us in his room.”
“What was the gift?”
“A simple, plain dagger for when he went fishing. Even though he was not adverse to the occasional luxury, he had a pragmatic nature and preferred gifts that were the same, as opposed to glamorous trinkets that could only be enjoyed through the eyes.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“None.” Edmund James rose from his chair and looked Holmes in the eye. “I know what this seems like, Mr Holmes, but I did not do it. You must understand. I loved him dearly. I’d have sooner let myself die in his stead than allow him to suffer such a terrible fate! I have no logical explanation as to who could have done such a thing, but you must believe me, it was not me.” He fell to his knees and grasped Holmes’ hand with the fervour of a man on death row. “Please, sir!” He sobbed. “You must believe me!”
Memories of the séance returned to Holmes’ mind. He could still see Watson being strangled by an invisible force. He could still see the man in the mirror, hear his voice ringing clear in his ears. A voice he thought he would never hear again. A voice which belonged to a man he had once loved.
“I believe you,” said Holmes, at last, surprising himself. He pulled Dr James off the floor. “There is one more thing I need to know.”
“And what is that?”
“I need to know where you bought the dagger.”
A/N: Hello, again! I must apologise for such a long absence but I’ve been really busy with certain personal matters as well as with University and I barely had time to sit down and write. I must admit I struggled quite a bit with this chapter but I think it turned out well in the end. We’re nearing the end of the story, although we still have a couple of chapters left.