The Haunting of Dr Watson

Chapter Eleven

In the bedroom of Mrs Lyle were three people. One, sprawled across the crumpled rug, was the drunken and loudly-snoring figure of Godfrey Lyle. A change had come about him since I had seen him last and he now sported a bristling beard and a cloak.

Above him, his wife, clad in a feathered pink dressing-gown, stood in apparent consultation with another bearded man, who had the unfortunate Mr Lyle by the wrists and was intent on dragging him ever nearer to the bed. Each exertion brought forth a tremulous snort from the sleeping man, although not even the continued thumping of his head against the bare boards caused him to awake from his stupor. With the body finally positioned mid-way between door and bed, the man ceased his labour and with his foot rolled Godfrey Lyle onto his back. So doing, he then forced a poker into Lyle's hand. Satisfied with his handiwork, he wiped his brow and adjusted the beard that had loosened itself from his shining chin.

"Now go and rouse the old man and lure him up here," I heard Mrs Lyle whisper. "Just as we planned, remember. When you enter, I will fire the shots. Oh, and darling, leave yourself enough time to get into the passageway. We don't want our 'witness' seeing two ghosts, do we?"

He chuckled, and she gave his cheek a fond caress. I had heard enough to understand what was about to happen. It was high time that I interrupted these nefarious dealings. I reached for the light switch and in the sudden glare the pair stood squinting at me in baffled amazement.

"Why, Dr Watson," stammered the lady. "This isn't how it seems."

"Is it not, Madam?" I retorted. "It seems to me that you intended to kill your husband and blame it on the ghost."

"Not quite, Watson," Holmes spoke up. "You were meant to think that Mr Lyle had been masquerading as the ghost of Sir Eustace and would have been a witness to his 'manifestation'. When he entered the bedchamber of his wife – we are meant to assume with the intention of either scaring her to death or driving her insane – he was not to know that this night she was armed. You would have been in time to hear the shots and too late, would have entered to find the body of Mr Lyle on the floor and the gun in Mrs Lyle's hand, which is where it still is, may I remind you."

In the heat of the moment, I had neglected to give any thought as to what my actions should be after this overly dramatic entrance.

"I suggest you put down your gun, Mrs Lyle," said I. "Before anyone comes to harm."

"A little late for that," murmured Holmes. "Or have you forgotten what happened to the late Professor Warwick?"

"She killed him?"

"Or her accomplice here, the butler, Hanson. Evidently the Professor discovered the true nature of the ghost at the Abbey Grange. He had his doubts, remember. I dare say he threatened to expose her. Removing him became necessary and added weight to the violent nature of the haunting. You remember how insistent Mrs Lyle was that young George was not responsible for the Professor's death? To have him blamed did not suit her purpose at all."

"But why involve the Professor in the first place?"

"My dear fellow, surely that is obvious. As a witness, Watson! She needed someone with suitable credentials to testify at a later date that she had been subjected to campaign of terror, the source of which was her husband, so that she could claim self-defence for his murder."

"Who are you talking to?" Mrs Lyle suddenly demanded. "Dr Watson, are you quite well?"

She advanced, stepping over the prostrate body of Godfrey Lyle, and I raised my pistol a little higher. "I am warning you, madam, I know of your plot to kill your husband, and you would be well advised to come quietly."

The smile vanished from her face. "Do you now? How much do you know, I wonder? Too much perhaps." She raised the gun and pointed it in my direction. The hand that held it was firm, and I have seldom seen firmer determination or lack of remorse as I saw that night in Mrs Lyle's features. "Two deaths may suit our purpose as well as one."

At this, Hanson started forward. "For God's sake, Lily, you can't kill him!"

"Why not?"

"Your husband is one thing, but this man has done nothing to you."

The look she gave him would have caused a sensible man to fear for his life. "You fool, he knows! He could send us to the gallows!" Her eyes glittered with intent. "We'll say Godfrey did it. Picture the scene: my gallant ally rushes to my defence, they struggle for the gun, it goes off and both die."

Hanson looked aghast. "They'll never believe us."

"Of course, they'll believe it. I am a great actress, after all."

She gestured grandly, carried away with her performance. At the same time, Holmes wandered past her and drove his foot hard in the sleeping Lyle's ribs. He groaned and rolled onto his side, throwing out an arm as he did so. It struck his wife on the back of the leg, and for a moment she was thrown off balance. She toppled backwards, the gun flew from her hand and she fell over the body of her husband into the arms of her lover. I collected the gun and held the pair at bay.

On the floor, Lyle was coming back to his senses. He squinted up at us with the bleary eyes of the inebriated.

"Lily, what the devil is going on?"

"Godfrey, you fool!" she wailed. "The doctor here has gone quite mad. He means to kill us all."

"Oh, does he now?" he slurred. Trying to sit up, the beard fell from his chin. "What the deuce am I wearing?"

"Your wife was planning to murder you, Mr Lyle."

"He's lying, Godfrey. You know I love you." She knelt by his side, cupping his face between her hands and lavishing kisses upon his cheek. "He's a senile old fool," said she, glaring at me. "He lies."

"Now wait a minute, Lily," said Lyle, removing his wife's caressing hands from his person. "What's this all about? And why is Hanson dressed like Blackbeard's ghost?"

"Mr Lyle," I said, "would you be so good as to rouse yourself and telephone the police? Tell them that your wife and her lover have attempted to murder you tonight."

At that, Hanson crumpled. "It was Mrs Lyle," he wailed. "It was all her idea."

"Lily!" said her husband, pushing her away. "How could you?"

Her hand came up and she slapped him hard around the face. What she said next was unladylike and unrepeatable. Even Mr Lyle looked surprised. It did, however, bring him to his senses. Finally galvanised into action, he dragged himself off the floor and stumbled out of the room. Mrs Lyle continued to rage and cry, while Hanson sat with his head in his head. Satisfied that the business could now be safely left in my care, Holmes nodded to me and vanished.

Well into late afternoon the next day, I was sitting in the reception of the Chislehurst Police Station, waiting for young George Lestrade to be released. Mr Lyle's telephone call had brought the collective force of the local constabulary to the Abbey Grange with noisy haste. Inspector Livingstone was grumbling yet again about being summoned from his bed in the middle of the night, and had decreed that we would all be more uncomfortable down at the station. I had waited for what seemed like an age to give my statement, only to be told that it was unlikely that I would have to attend court, as I had nothing to add in the matter of Professor Warwick's death. As to the charge of attempted murder of her husband, Mrs Lyle was strident in declaring that her actions had been misconstrued. Mr Lyle could remember nothing, and the sergeant confided that it looked as though that particular charge would have to be dropped.

Overall, Inspector Livingstone was less than pleased with the outcome. Mrs Lyle and Hanson the butler were busy trying to place the blame for the murder on each other. Worse, the notion of releasing a prisoner he had thought he had 'bang to rights', as he put it, did not sit well with him. That he had Mrs Lyle and Hanson in custody was as nothing compared to the indignity of admitting that in George's case he had been mistaken.

As it was, he prolonged all of our misery in taking his time with the release. The duty sergeant had been considerate enough to provide me with tea and a copy of the Chislehurst Herald, so I whiled away the time reading of accounts of social events, local marriages and the winning entries at the various flower festivals and gardening clubs. Long after I had wearied of my reading material, I felt a familiar chill down my side.

"Why are you still here?" Holmes inquired. "I thought Livingstone said you were free to leave."

"I am waiting for George." I glanced over at him. His position was hunched and awkward with that pinched look familiar to me from my years in practice. It was the expression worn by patients with a festering medical problem. "How's the hand?" I asked.

He raised his arm where the hand was still invisible. To my consternation, I saw that the condition had progressed near up to his elbow.

He waved my concerns aside. "It is a mere trifle, Watson. It causes me no discomfort, save the knowledge of its presence."

"You needn't have exerted yourself on my account. I could have handled the situation."

"Of course you could, my dear fellow. But why take that chance? Mrs Lyle is a curiously unbalanced creature. I anticipate that she will enter a plea of insanity."

"Given what happened the last time you helped me, I think you should exercise a little more caution. What is the penalty for a second transgression?"

Holmes made an airy gesture with his remaining hand. "What is the fate of one poor ghost compared to that of Dr John Watson with his daughter and grandchildren and creditors hammering at the door?" His smile folded. "Do not expect me to stand idly by and watch you die. An eternity in oblivion would be as nothing compared to having that on my conscience."

"It will happen eventually. Everyone dies."

"As long as it is in your bed, surrounded by your family, you will hear no complaint from me. In any other circumstance, I reserve the right to meddle."

"Very kind of you to say so, Holmes. But I do not expect it. You are not my guardian angel."

"Never was a man more in need of one. You have an unfortunate propensity for blundering into the worst of situations. If I choose to adopt the role of protector for myself, it is my choice. Unless you expressly forbid it and send me from your side."

"Why would I ever do that?"

"Why you ever believe that I mean you harm?"

His tone was earnest, and I was still smarting from the shame of my misconception. Looking back, I had to wonder how I had been deceived. Garfield had been persuasive at a time when I was having my own doubts. He had watered my fears, although I could not see to what end. It something I would have to question; for now I had other thoughts in mind.

"You still haven't told me how you knew about Mrs Lyle."

Holmes closed his eyes and released a long breath down his nose. The air chilled noticeably, and I drew my coat closer to ward off the biting cold.

"It was evident from the first that the ghost of Sir Eustace Brackenstall was an invention. What then was the point of such a deception? A nefarious one evidently. That it was aimed at Mrs Lyle when her husband was out of the house suggested that he played some part in it. With what intention? To drive his wife insane or to establish a motive for her death. The money was hers, remember. Spouses have been killed for less than the fortune Mrs Lyle had at her disposal. Then there were Lyle's nightly excursions. I did not believe his tales of pursuing his hobby. I followed him, Watson. It transpires that he has, what Mrs Hudson used to describe euphemistically as, 'a fancy woman'. Her name is Mrs Edna Didcott of Rose Cottage. I dare say this will all come out at the trial."

"Good heavens."

"That, above all, convinced me that Lyle was innocent."

"I should have said that the opposite was true."

"I asked myself how Mrs Lyle would react to the news that her husband had a mistress," said Holmes. "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. That she had her own lover was of little consolation. Between them, they devised this scheme to be rid of her husband and turn murder into self-defence. Professor Warwick perhaps did not realise the extent of the plan when he confronted her with the truth that the ghost was nothing more than Hanson the butler in disguise. He failed to appreciate what a dangerous woman she was and paid the penalty."

"It was an ingenious plan," I commented.

"Undoubtedly," said he, lighting a cigarette. "Allying my name with her scheme and calling into question one of my previous cases was a stroke of genius. Along with her fame, it ensured that the newspapers would take up the story. As I have told you before, Watson, the press is a most valuable institution, if you know how to use it. Mrs Lyle was, of course, a consummate professional in that field. Her tale had all the elements of tragedy and pathos so beloved by the scandal sheets. I fancy her greatest performance is yet to come."

"Talking of performances, I didn't realise you could touch."

"I cannot."

"You kicked Godfrey Lyle."

He essayed a smile. "I moved energy. That is not the same thing. It requires considerable concentration and no little effort. What you interpreted as a kick was a transfer of my dwindling reserves to Mr Lyle, with the desired effect. In the field of perception, the human brain is flawed. You saw what you expected to see. I fear we have fallen into the same trap as regards Garfield."

A waft of smoke drifted in my direction. As I waved it away, Holmes saw my reaction and extinguished his cigarette.

"Forgive me, my dear fellow. I forget at times that you have given up this particular vice. I have had a trying evening. I had hoped to have made more progress in the matter of our fraudulent medium."

"Do tell me."

"Your local library is valuable asset to the community. Do you visit often? You will be gratified to hear that your accounts of my petty problems are well-thumbed."

"The royalties help pay the bills. Go on."

"My interest lay in the back issues of your local paper going back over the last three months. I spent a wearisome few hours reading up the reports of the deaths of the sixteen widows and five widowers late of your parish."

He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world that a ghost would spend the hours of darkness in research. Holmes in death acted much as he had done in life, and saw no contradiction in so doing. To my way of thinking, it made a mockery of the inscription found on a thousand or more tombstones of 'rest in peace'.

As if to further disillusion my impression of the afterlife, Holmes elaborated on what must have been a bizarre sight to any onlooker.

"The librarian, Mr Regis, was most helpful."

"He is psychic, I take it."

"No, he is dead, Watson. A bookcase fell on him thirty or so years ago and killed him outright. He had a particular attachment to the books under his care and thus felt compelled to return to – you'll excuse the expression – 'familiar haunts'. He was only too pleased to assist my investigation. He said he gets very few inquiries these days."

"What did you discover?"

Holmes counted the incidents off on the fingers of his visible hand. "Five drownings – two in the bath, one in the wash basin, one on a fishing trip and another sea-bathing at midnight at Bangor. Three unfortunates who perished on level-crossings, one run over by a tractor, which inexplicably started up and travelled under its own power, one kicked in the head by a horse, and another trampled by sheep. Five poisonings – all accidental, naturally – involving the ingestion of common but deadly potions found about the house. The final five were a miscellaneous collection of falls in the street, falls from bridges, falls from trees and electrocution, like Mrs Emily Brown."

I considered the nature of these deaths. "I see no common element."

"Save that they were all of a violent nature, neither do I." He got to his feet and paced distractedly. At his passing, posters attached to the police notice-board drifted skyward in the breeze and tugged fretfully at their drawing pins. "What would Garfield stand to gain by the deaths of any of these people? I immediately suspected a financial interest in their wills. Yet the account of Mrs Brown's neighbour suggests that is not the case."

"Couldn't you ask them? I presume you are not prohibited from communicating with other..." I chose my words carefully. "Deceased individuals?"

Holmes shook his head. "It took me a year to return to the mortal realm. Barely three months have lapsed since the first death. These are deep waters, Watson. I must give the matter further thought. In the meantime, be wary of Garfield."

He slowly faded from my sight as into the reception came Inspector Livingstone, a sober-looking George trailing behind him.

"He's all yours, Doctor," said the Inspector gruffly. "Oh, and if you're thinking of making a career in the field of detection, young man…"

"Yes?" said George.

"Don't bother. We've got enough to do without clearing up after amateurs. Just because you've got a deerstalker, it doesn't make you Sherlock Holmes. Now go on, hook it!"

George was disconsolate at that, and fell to brooding on his shortcomings. My intention had been to drive him to the railway station and let him find his own way home. Seeing his depressed state, however, I took pity on the lad. As it was getting late, I offered instead to drive him back to my home, which was closer at hand, and let him spend the night. This was not entirely selfless on my part. I did not relish the thought of returning to an empty house, and George, left to his own devices, was given to unhealthy introspection. He may not have measured up to my friend's exacting standards, but he did have a good heart. That, in these increasingly cynical days, counted for something.

He cheered considerably at this invitation and accepted wholeheartedly. I had forgotten how garrulous he could be and the better part of the journey was spent with him indulging his passion for the cinema. It seemed he had passed on from detective films to the supernatural, something his recent experience had not dimmed. Dracula held a particularly gruesome fascination for him [1] and he enthused for the better part of an hour, until he suddenly grew reticent.

"Of course, Mr Holmes never believed in vampires," said he. "Not that that matters now, I suppose. I'll never be like him."

"I don't know anyone who is like Holmes," I told him. "You mustn't let that hold you back, George."

"Inspector Livingstone didn't think I could make a career of it."

I am not comfortable with this modern-day disparaging of the young. Like a delicate bloom, youth needs care and encouragement. Had I had poured on me half the criticism that George regularly faced, I should never have pursued a career in medicine. On the other hand, harm may be done in misplaced encouragement. George was not the best of detectives, but like his grandfather before him, he was tenacious and had enthusiasm to carry him through. It was not for me to discourage his hopes and dreams. If he did give up, it would have to be because he wanted to, not because he was told to do so.

I took a deep breath and hoped Holmes was not listening to our conversation. "It doesn't matter what Livingstone thinks. I considered you a good enough detective to bring this case to your door."

"I failed," said George. "Professor Warwick died because I fell asleep."

"Doubtless they would have killed him in any case. Being asleep may have saved your life."

George brightened at that, until another thought struck him. "Mr Holmes wouldn't have made that mistake."

"Mr Holmes made many mistakes in his career. I didn't write about all of them."

"You mean 'Norbury'."

"And others. Take heart, George. Even the best of men make mistakes sometimes."

It had the desired effect, and the rest of the journey passed with George back to something approaching his old self. Nearing home, he needed cigarettes after his ordeal, so I stopped the car in the village and he hurried to the local shop while I waited. A crowd of mostly women were gathered around the door of the village hall. All dressed in their Sunday best, chattering voices and an air of anticipation made it clear that they were expecting much of the evening. A bright poster advertised that in half an hour's time would begin an 'Evening of Clairvoyance' with the 'celebrated' medium Mrs Daphne Bracegirdle.

"Any good for you, Holmes?" I said out loud.

He materialised in the seat beside me. "I couldn't imagine anything worse. Still," he added with a sniff, "at least she is genuine unlike our friend Garfield."

"How do you know that?"

"There's a line of the dear departed waiting to be admitted. That is always a sign of confidence. You do not see them? No, of course not. It slips my mind on occasion that you see me only because I wish it."

"For how much longer?"

He grunted. "The time is fast approaching."

"Perhaps Mrs Bracegirdle could help you contact your brother."

"I would no more go to Mrs Bracegirdle for help than expose myself to ridicule at the Ghost Club," he said archly. "If Mycroft refuses to help me, well then, I must ration myself. I believe I could manage the occasional annual visit. We could meet once a year."

"In the cemetery perhaps? I could bring a picnic."

He shot me a critical look. "That is not amusing in the slightest."

"It wasn't meant to be."

Just then, I saw George heading back in our direction. Holmes de-materialised as George jumped in, slamming the door with enough force to make the tired suspension on my poor car creak and groan in protest. I was about to pull away from the kerb when another car sped past and came to halt outside the village hall.

A woman in flowing scarlet robes, coloured beads and an exuberant feathered hat stood up and accepted the applause of the crowd. This I took to be Mrs Daphne Bracegirdle. She waved to her admirers, took a step from the car, caught her toe in the hem of her dress and pitched forward onto the pavement. A gaggle of concerned ladies hurried to side and she was soon back on her feet, her hat now tilted jauntily over her eyes.

Beside me, George sniggered and I could guess what he was about to say. He did not disappoint.

"Didn't see that coming, did she?" said he.

I let it pass without comment and drove on. I arrived at my house under a sky shot with a vivid pink blush as the day descended into dusk. George was in better spirits, and I was mellow in mood. The worry of a court case had been lifted from my shoulders now that the question of the ghost of Sir Eustace Brackenstall had been resolved. All I had to do now was to deter the attentions of the questionable medium and make peace with my daughter.

The cook and housemaid had requested the evening off to attend the event at the village hall, and so I was not surprised to find the house silent and in darkness. George darted away to the kitchen to find sustenance whilst I made my way to the drawing room to light the fire. It struck me as I pushed the door open that all was not well; the atmosphere felt charged, as though a storm was brewing. I thought for a moment that Holmes had joined me and I called out his name. When he did not appear, I dismissed my concerns and entered the room.

A sensation like the wash of another being's feeling of panic immediately overwhelmed me. I staggered, thinking I would fall. Then, I heard George's cry from the pantry. As I turned, the light was flicked on.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," said Garfield from where he had been standing behind the door. "Sit down, sir. We have to talk."

Uh-oh, what does Mr Garfield want with Dr Watson?

It can't be good. Holmes was stumped, but can anyone else guess? It's fiendish, I can tell you that.

Find out Garfield's scheme in Chapter Twelve!

[1] The 1931 version, starring Bela Lugosi (yes, that Dracula).