Chapter Two:
Grave Circumstances
A couple of days later (the journal states).
Extract:
"…with five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf," said the book collector standing in my study. "It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and last time in my life.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies, I had no idea you would be so affected…"
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
In the minutes following the shock discovery that my dear friend was still alive; I learnt the circumstances as to why Holmes had gone into hiding after causing Professor Moriarty to fall into the Reichenbach falls. In addition, he had returned to London after his adventures elsewhere in the world, in order to flush out the killer of the Honourable Ronald Adair. This turned out to be Colonel Sebastian Moran – the head of Professor Moriarty's chief of staff.
But Holmes had revealed himself to me a little sooner than he planned, when he learnt of the attack upon Mrs Hudson and my wife, and how Mary had died. He had come to help ease my grief, by re-entering my life so that I had someone close to look after me. And the discovery that Holmes was indeed not dead, did indeed somewhat reduce the sense of loss. I had not lost both of the two people who were closest to me. And I felt relieved that London had once again regained its brilliant sentinel against the scourge of criminality that was a sad factor of life almost everywhere.
Holmes had shown himself to Mrs Hudson at 221B, the day before the attack, causing her quite the fright. He had to hold and hug her, to convince his landlady that he was real. Eventually, he was able to convince her to keep his return from the dead a confidential matter, explaining that he still had to entice a killer who was after him.
The fact that both women closest to our company were attacked together, just after Holmes had returned to London (but still hidden from the wider public) was not lost on either me or him. Holmes agreed with my theory that the attack had to be connected with agents of the late Professor Moriarty.
"It was a message, Watson. Revenge for the death of Moriarty!" said he, as we talked in our sitting room, the evening after Moran's arrest – after Holmes had returned from Scotland Yard. "Note that it was Mrs Hudson who was targeted first in the attack. The assailants, or whoever directed them, was aware that I was alive – and so they sought to grieve me by killing my landlady. Your wife was attacked only after she intervened and injured the male ruffian."
I had to concur with his logic. "Then surely Colonel Moran can tell the police who those thugs were!" I pointed out.
Holmes shook his head. "I was present in the interrogation room with Inspector Lestrade when Moran was being grilled. I read his eyes and his expression carefully, Watson. Lestrade was quite forceful with him, I have to admit. And yet, when probed about the attack upon the women, he seemed shocked. Apparently, even Moran felt that an attempt to kill an old lady connected to his male target was unacceptable to him. Furthermore, Moran did not apparently know who the man and woman were. So, it seems we are at a dead end regarding the Colonel, where it comes to tracking down those responsible for the death of your dear wife."
I drew in my breath and slowly let it out, to steady my nerves. "Then if Moran really had nothing to do with the assailants…"
"…someone else, connected to Professor Moriarty in some way, does. Let's see if Lestrade is able to pull the names of the agents from Moran."
"What about the well-dressed man who tried to rescue Mary?" I asked. What's happened to him?"
Holmes pressed the palms of his hands together and tapped the tips of his fingers against his chin, as he crossed his legs in the chair besides the burning fire, dressed in his mouse-coloured dressing gown of old. At a glance, one might think that Holmes was praying. But I had never known my friend to be religious.
"Gregson was out on other business – so I was not able to ask about that man. I have to admit Watson, I had rather overlooked him amongst the details of the attack, whilst being occupied by my plan to flush Moran out, in his attempt to kill me."
"You certainly have been busy," said I. "Not forgetting the start of your arrangements to make yourself legally alive again."
Holmes chuckled, but his face was serious. "Nevertheless, it was remiss of me to not address the witness to the attack. Tomorrow, I must return to the Yard, and find out the testimony of that man."
"We don't yet even have his name," I pointed out.
"Exactly. The man was in a state of shock at the scene of the crime – and that was still the case when Gregson tried to question him in the hospital. He must have seen something remarkable, to be affected so profoundly."
"The neck injuries to my wife. He must have been shocked by the savagery of the attack," I suggested.
But Holmes shook his head. "Not good enough, Watson. Your wife's attacker disappeared, leaving his clothes behind. And the nearby witness is left utterly speechless! No… Something truly out of the ordinary happened, and the witness's mind could not rationalise it…"
He drummed his fingers on the armrest, his mind focused on his latest case – the mystery surrounding poor Mary's murder…
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
Whilst I prepared arrangements for my wife's hastily-arranged funeral, Holmes himself aided me in seeing to the awful business of notifying the relevant authorities, such as the bank, solicitor, and parish church – as well as Mary's friends, such Mrs Forrester and Kate Whitney. And so, on the following Wednesday, the day after the arrest of Sebastian Moran, I found myself attending another church service. This time, in an ironic twist of fate from the last occasion, it was Holmes sitting with me as we listened to the vicar giving the reading for poor Mary. Besides Mary's friends, supporting me in my grief were several of the Scotland Yard Inspectors – Lestrade, Jones, and Gregson amongst them. As well as Mycroft Holmes, who looked particularly disturbed that day.
Outside, after the service, the rain was falling, creating a suitably sombre mood, as we gathered around whilst the coffin was lowered into the freshly dug hole, with the wreath of flowers paid for by Holmes, at his insistence, on top. He patted my shoulder sympathetically as I silently wept for my sudden loss. Then my friend rubbed Martha Hudson's shoulder as well, as she wiped away her tears with her handkerchief.
I could only pray for Mary's soul – and hope that she would be happily reunited with her parents and be at peace in God's Kingdom.
But the next day saw my grief compounded. I was at home, thinking of what my life was going to be like now that it was just me – supported by my maid, who was now also serving as my cook. Opening up the bedroom wardrobe and drawers was something I dreaded doing, as I would see Mary's clothes amongst the contents. I was not sure that my maid would be the right fit. Even so, I supposed that most of the hats, dresses, and blouses would best go to the parish centre – to go to the less-fortunate in London. It would be just one more task to see to, once I could summon up the energy and motivation to do so.
I sat on our – no, my bed. I was staring at the picture at the dressing table. The photo of myself and Mary, just after our wedding. Mary was even smiling for the camera. She had been able to maintain her expression long enough for the exposure – unlike me. Oh, I had been happy, of course. But Mary had been a more content person than me…
Our hands were entwined. Wedding rings on our fingers. Mary holding her bouquet of flowers.
I was interrupted from my brooding thoughts by the knock on the bedroom door.
"Doctor Watson, sir," my Irish maid, Kaitlyn, called out. "Mr Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade are here to see you."
"What…?" I muttered. I could count the number of times Holmes had visited me and Mary on one hand. But him calling upon me here with Lestrade? Something had to be serious – otherwise Holmes would not have disturbed me.
I rose and opened the door to face the maid. "Did they say…?"
Kaitlyn shook her head, her short, curly brown hair held underneath her maid's mob cap. "I did ask, given the circumstances, doctor – but they were tight lipped. With grim faces, sir. They're in the sitting room."
"Very well… I'll see them," I declared. And with that I headed downstairs.
In the sitting room, my eyes confirmed the maid's words. Both Holmes and Lestrade looked disturbed. With the weasel-like inspector particularly uncomfortable. They already had their hats in their hands as they stood and faced me. My friend was dressed in his usual manner whilst working. His long overcoat was open, revealing the dark trousers and matching waistcoat. The ends of his black bow tie were tucked underneath the collar of the white shirt.
"Holmes… Inspector… Good morning to you…," I mustered a greeting.
"You had better sit down, dear Watson," my friend announced.
We did so – then Holmes began.
"The good Inspector here has brought news of a…disturbance…to me. He wanted to take me straight to the scene. But I insisted that we tell you first."
I frowned. "What's happened, Holmes?"
"Mrs Watson's plot in the cemetery has been tampered with, doctor," Lestrade told me, his eyes failing to hold contact with mine.
"What!?" I cried out. I gripped the armrest to steady my nerves. "Someone has…damaged her coffin?"
"I've only briefly been to the cemetery, Doctor Watson. I put a pair of lads on duty at the site, before heading straight over to Baker Street – and then here." Lestrade twitched, and got to his feet, apparently wanting to get things done as quickly as possible. "Mrs Watson's body… The body is…"
"Not…mutilated?" I gasped, not understanding why anyone would do that to my Mary – but it was what came to mind.
Lestrade shook his head. "Her body is missing, doctor."
"You do not have to come, Watson," Holmes muttered to me, his head bowed.
I managed to regain my breath after a few moments. Slowly I stood up.
"No, Holmes. I need to see what has happened," I declared. "I am coming with you!"
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
Shortly after our arrival, I was bitterly regretting my decision.
The graveyard was like a nightmare for me. But never had I dreamed that fate would taunt me so.
After being advised by Holmes not to approach too closely, least I disturbed the scene of the…disturbance. I had stood on the tarmac path, gazing with horror at the hole, where only the day before, my poor Mary had been laid to rest in her coffin.
Now, not only were there clear signs of the ground having been upturned, but the exposed coffin was also visible to me and the other men present. A broken coffin, at that, with some of the jagged fragments scattered around Mary's grave.
Lestrade had checked with the pair of constables left on duty in the graveyard – and they had reported to him, upon our arrival, that they had made a quick search around the premises. They had also made enquiries around the houses around the entrance to the cemetery. One neighbour, a Mr Vincent Jenkins, had been walking home from his work as a plumber when he had seen a coach, driven by a pair of horses, pull into the driveway, not long after sunset. He had thought the coach must have belonged to the local funeral company, but he did not understand why it had arrived at the cemetery after sunset, when the gates were locked. He had walked on – seeing no one with the coach, except for the cloaked driver at the front. The blinds of the coach were pulled down.
"So, this Mr Jenkins did not see anyone actually open the gates? Or enter the cemetery?" Lestrade asked the constable.
"Um… No sir," the bobby replied.
"Which is curious, given that Mr Gardner here says that the gates were locked to, last night. Until his working day began," Holmes remarked.
"That's right, Mr 'Olmes," the head gravedigger spoke up. "There was no reason for those gates to be open last night. I don't understand how anyone could'a got in!"
"Though there is the issue of the broken fencing on the north side of the site," the vicar pointed out to the head gravedigger. "I have told you to deal with that!"
"Still waiting for the materials to arrive, your reverence," Gardner muttered, looking down at his shoes. "But no one could'a entered the site last night through the gates. They were locked this morning, 'til I unlocked 'em!"
Feeling queasy whilst this debate unfolded, I had been escorted to a memorial bench in the centre of the graveyard by one of the constables, so that I could sit and recover. From there, I could see – and hear – Holmes and Lestrade talk with the vicar and the gravedigger. Both of the last two men looked dumbfounded at the mess around my Mary's grave. The vicar at my wife's funeral, the Reverend Easterling, had briefly closed his eyes and crossed himself, in a visible attempt to recompose himself at the shock. Lestrade took notes in a little notepad, whilst Holmes studied the men as he asked them questions.
Within a few minutes, the vicar and gravedigger were dismissed, and they headed off back to the vicarage. Then Holmes turned his keen attention to the clumps of earth around the grave itself, yards in front of my bench, directly within my field of vision. The ground was still a little moist from yesterday's rain – as was the bench I was sitting on.
"Bravo, Lestrade! I see that you prepared tarpaulin for me to kneel upon," came the clear, sharp voice of Holmes as he lowered himself closer to the ground and pulled out from a pocket of his coat his magnifying glass.
The Inspector chuckled. "I try to please, Mr Holmes," said he.
"But I see from the ground around the grave that you have been stomping around like a herd of elephants once more," Holmes carried on, this time in a reproachful tone.
"How on earth…?"
"Oh. Come now! Need I remind you of your sprayed out right foot when you stand, Lestrade? I told you about that during our investigation of Enoch Drebber's death, as Watson here may recall. Now… Let me see what the ground itself can tell us…"
Wearing his black gloves, Holmes got to work, examining the ground a section at a time, before crawling over the tarpaulin in the manner of a cautious cat, to peer into the grave as best he could. He fingered the smaller fragments of scattered wood, muttering to himself.
I was beginning to feel redundant, due to my shock at the desecration of Mary's grave. And in the first night after her funeral. I stood up from the bench I was sat on, steadying myself on one armrest. Then I noticed that there were little clumps of grassless soil on the bench itself, where I had been sitting. And some more on the path before the bench…
Intrigued, I looked over the graves on the opposite side of the path. The white marble tombstones born no signs of the scattered soil.
I turned back to look at Mary's grave before me, which was set on the edge of the established graves, with fresh grass to one side. Her grave was several yards away from the bench, and yet…
"Holmes! Lestrade!" I cried out, pointing at the clumps on the bench and path. "Is this soil from the grave, as well?"
Both men turned to me and made their way over. My friend's eyes gleamed with interest as he applied his magnifying grass to my discovery.
"It would appear so, Watson," he muttered.
"So, the gravedigger tossed some earth with his spade as he dug," Lestrade declared, frowning as he gauged the distance. "He must have been a muscular fellow, but I failed to see…"
"Then why are the marble tombs on the other side of the path – in between the grave and this seat - clear of the scattered earth!?" I snapped.
There was a moment of silence. Holmes pivoted on the spot and examined the marble.
"Bravo, Watson!" he breathed, now looking at the ground on either side of the path. "No, Lestrade. Whoever disturbed the grave came to rest here, and they must have brushed away the earth that was sticking to their clothes. Let's see if there's any footprints around this bench… Ah, yes. A trail leading from the grave. I crave your silence, gentlemen, whilst I trace this trail backwards. I will return in due course…"
And so, Sherlock Holmes traced the faint footprints on the wet grass back to the grave. There he circled around the tomb for a minute. Shaking his head, he headed back to us, following the direction the body snatcher had taken.
"Note in particular that the trail is not straight!" he called out. "This person meandered, and I see that they left soil marks on the crosses of the graves in between Mrs Watson's grave and the bench. They must have brushed against the stone crosses."
"Then they came to the bench, rested a while… And then what?" asked Lestrade.
Holmes bent down to keenly examine the path with his magnifying glass. He gave a cry of delight. "A few wet footprints! Moisture from the grass. They headed along the path in this direction, towards the wooded corner of the graveyard, close to the gate. Now, the rain was forecast to stop soon after the funeral service that Watson and I attended, yesterday afternoon. It was a dry night."
Lestrade, the two constables and I followed Holmes as he walked slowly along the path. Then he stopped as firstly the footprints dried up, then the traces of displaced soil came to an end. Holmes looked around at the low trees and bushes on one side of the path, and he gave a sharp cry. Walking in his wake, we caught up with my friend as, with his gloves, he carefully pulled out a strip of white material that had caught on the edge of the bushes. He looked thoughtfully at it, then turned to face me.
"What do you make of this, Watson?" he asked, holding the item in his leather palm.
I peered at it, then draw in my breath.
"It…it resembles the gown Mary was wearing in her coffin!" I gasped.
"I thought so. And yet there are no other signs of snagged fabric around here. Most curious…" Holmes briefly rested his chin on the back of his other hand. Then, placing the gown fabric into Lestrade's pouch of evidence, which the Inspector had at the ready, Holmes carefully made his way between the bushes and the trees, urging us to return to the concreate path, whilst he stayed on the trail of the body snatcher. We did so.
A minute later, at Holmes' beckoning hand gesture, the three other men and I followed the path around the undergrowth, to rejoin him before the brick structure in the corner of the graveyard.
"What is this outbuilding?"
"The workmen's shed, Mr Holmes," one of the constables replied.
"Has it been searched?"
"No sir," the other spoke up. "The 'ead gravedigger – Mr Gardner – assured us tha' it was locked, an' that only 'e 'ad the keys. So, we ain't touched it."
Holmes's expression turned stormy. He strode over to the side of the shed, where the door was, and he stared at it.
"And you did not bother to think that someone else could have broken in here, during the night?" his sharp voice cut through the air.
"What!?" Lestrade retorted.
Within seconds, all of us had walked quickly to see the shed door for ourselves. At the short distance involved, it was now clearly visible that the wood around the lock had been broken.
Holmes tried to push open the door, but it did not give way. Evidently something was on the other side, holding it back. With myself assisting him, we were able to force the shed door open – which resulted in a 'thud' on the inside. The sound was ominous – and my heart missed a beat. Was Mary's body….?
Except that when I was able to look over Holmes' shoulder, I saw the stout form of a bearded man, probably aged in his sixties, lying on the floor of the shed, dried blood all over his clothes. Next to his curled right hand was a knife, the blade smeared red.
The front and side of the man's neck had been cut open. His eyes were wide. His mouth open and slack.
"Upon my word!" Lestrade flinched as he pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his mouth, to prevent himself from gagging at the sight and smell of death. "He must have killed himself. But why? And where is Mrs Watson?"
Holmes stepped around the corpse and examined the cleaned tools in the shed a few feet away, then saw the frosted high window that would admit the noon sunlight. There was a hole in the smashed glass – the size of a man's fist.
"There's no other body here!" I roared.
"There is something else missing as well," Holmes muttered as he examined the windowsill and the floor. "Can someone please look at the grass on the outside of this window?"
Lestrade hurried outside and soon called back from the doorway. "Just glass from the window, Mr Holmes! So, it was smashed from the inside."
"Quite so," Holmes agreed.
Lestrade turned to his men. "You pair! Alert Mr Gardner and the vicar – and call for back up!"
"Yessir!"
"Holmes?" I called to him, whilst Lestrade was preoccupied. My friend was holding his gloved hands to his chin, lost deep in thought. "What is going on? Where is my late wife's body!? This man must have been the graverobber… But why did he break the window and then kill himself?"
He shuddered and looked at me. Rarely had I seen Holmes so daunted, so…disturbed.
"These are dark waters, Watson. Much is unclear to me," he spoke carefully. "I feel that we are now entangled in something that will task us greatly. Can you…? Can you assist Lestrade with your previous army experience of dealing with dead bodies?"
I paused. Composing myself, I nodded. "If it will help lead us to Mary's body, of course."
He patted my shoulder. "Thank you. I would not ask this of you, if I did not think you perfectly capable. Remember my methods, and employ them, Watson. I want you to examine the body as best you can, right here. Rule no theory out!"
"I… I'll try," came my response. "Is this…? Is this death somehow linked to the attack upon Mary and Mrs Hudson?"
"It must be, Watson! And that is the thread I should follow right now, whilst I leave you to work with Lestrade. From my earlier conversation with the Inspector, I have now discovered the identity of the man who tried to save our dear acquainted ladies during that terrible night – and I am the best man to question him. Even though he is currently in a secure ward in the hospital where you saw him – owing to his shocked state of mind."
"Who is he?" I asked.
Holmes gave a rueful smile. "The friend of mine that I told you of, with that remarkable case you wrote up as 'The Musgrave Ritual'!"
"What!? Then you mean…"
"Exactly, Watson. Sir Reginald Musgrave!"
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
After discussing the situation with Lestrade, as Holmes prepared to leave, the Inspector hesitated – then he agreed to let me make a cursory examination of the man's body. Once he had been moved to the police forensic lab, a Home Office doctor would conduct a formal post-mortem.
In the shed, the deceased had with him various items that were evidently his: a backpack, a blanket, a cooking pot and utensils, as well as some provisions. It was confirmation, along with the man's scruffy clothes, untidy beard, and sunburnt face, that he had been living rough. Also, before he had left, Holmes had quickly examined a spade on the floor, apart from the others. An embedded splinter of glass in one corner of the handle was enough to identify it as the implement used to break the window. He drew it to Lestrade's attention, who promised to have the spade checked for fingerprints. The crosses in the graveyard that had soil on them, would also be forensically examined.
Once Holmes had gone, I got to work on the body. Still wearing my gloves, and bearing Holmes's advice to me, I carefully examined the bearded man's hands and fingernails, as well as his clothing and muddy, but still-sturdy shoes. I also squeezed the hands and arms of the deceased, noticing the tension in the limbs and curled hands.
When I had done all that I felt I could, I headed outside in need of some fresh air, whilst the vicar and head gravedigger returned. They both crossed themselves upon seeing the body through the open doorway.
I wanted to smoke a cigarette, in order to steady my nerves. The questions in my uneasy mind were beginning to gnaw at me. But I felt that smoking in that location would be disrespectful. Instead, I leaned against one of the nearby trees and listened to the spring day birdsong. A reminder that, in spite of the two deaths so far – Mary's and this unnamed man's – life in general carried on.
And so, I too, had to carry on. To live the rest of my life productively, even if I could not find happiness again after my recent bereavement.
I wiped away the onset of tears. I was not facing Mary's desecrated grave. To do so again would have broken down the resistance I was managing to hold…
After the vicar escorted me back to the vicarage, I was given paper so I could write up the notes I had jotted down. Then, once I had given my report to Lestrade of my observations, the startled Inspector arranged for a cab to take me to Baker Street, where I steeled myself before telling Mrs Hudson of the unexpected and unnerving developments surrounding Mary's death. After that, I would get one of the Baker Street Irregulars (there was always a pair on watch duty in the street now, Holmes had told me) to inform my maid that I would be late home that evening, after my arranged meeting with Holmes at our old rooms.
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
Holmes arrived just in time for dinner. Despite the shock of my news to her, Mrs Hudson had composed herself and insisted on making a meal for us.
"It will help keep my mind occupied, doctor," she had said to me.
Holmes nodded as I told him I had informed Mrs Hudson of the desecration of the grave.
"Thank you, Watson. However, do not ask me anything of Sir Reginald until we have fully sampled Mrs Hudson's work," said he, with a faint smile, holding up a long index finger. "Otherwise, the food will only go cold – and I have no intention of upsetting my dear landlady any further today."
I agreed. And thus, we made light conversation during our meal.
Once we had finished, I was sat in my usual chair, smoking a cigarette. Holmes lit up his cherry-wood pipe and stood next to the fireplace which crackled nicely with reassuring familiarity. However, I was keenly aware that my companion's expression was still troubled.
"So… Sir Reginald…," I began.
"His story is a strange one, Watson. You know my maxim of deduction…"
Holmes had stated it several times during the years I had known him, and so remembering it was easy for me. "Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth!"
"Quite so. The problem with the sequence of events surrounding what has befallen your wife, however, is that several impossible things appear to have occurred. And I am beginning to wonder where it will end for us. My faith in science is being shaken."
I pulled out the cigarette from my mouth and stared at Holmes for several moments, mouth slightly agape, not knowing what to say.
"Perhaps it will be easier for us both if you tell me what conclusions you have come to, Watson," Holmes suggested, before returning to his pipe.
I nodded. "I have managed to convince Lestrade that the man we found did not commit suicide. Although the knife was indeed the cause of the man's neck wound - and it could well have belonged to him - his hand and limbs were too tense, for my liking. In my opinion, he had tried to fight off an attacker. There were traces of skin cells under his nails."
"Excellent, Watson! Irrespective of the man clearly being a tramp, and no doubt ill-content with his lot, there was no suicide note – and the breaking of the window from the inside made no sense. And there was another clue that struck me before I left – which I observed, before leaving…"
"There wasn't enough blood on the floor of the shed," I concluded. "The tools, a couple of yards away, had no bloodstains on them. The man didn't simply cut his throat and neck and bleed to death. Yes, his clothes were ruined. But there is roughly a gallon to a gallon and a half of blood in a grown man's body. And yet, no bloodstains were outside the shed, either."
"What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes put to me, with a watchful gaze.
"I… I do not fully understand it, Holmes. It seems to me that the man must have been involved in digging up my wife's body. He and another man broke into the tool shed, dug up poor Mary, and got the body into that cab outside the gates which Mr Jenkins reported on – maybe thanks to a duplicate key. At some stage, during the activities, our bearded man and the other digger returned to the shed after wiping the spades. An argument occur – probably over money – and the traveller of the road was silenced," I tried to reason. "If the bearded man did not handle Mary's body through the gates, then someone from the cab – a third man – must have aided the second one in this. And Mr Gardner has checked the broken fencing on the north side of the cemetery. He is satisfied that the dead man must have entered the graveyard that way."
"Was anything found in the dead man's pockets?" Holmes asked. "I am specifically interested in any note or money."
"There were just a few coins found by Lestrade," I confessed. "No note."
"So, if the man had been killed over money, his killer failed to search for any the deceased already had. Though if there had been a note of an arranged meeting, it could have been seized by the killer," Holmes surmised. "But I see in your eyes, Watson, that there is something else bothering you."
"Well, yes. I carefully examined the knife wound. There were…bite marks around his neck. Or so it appeared. I… I do not know what to make of them."
Holmes suddenly straightened himself. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke.
"Could it be possible, Watson, that someone had bitten the man – then slashed his neck and throat with his own knife, in order to hide the bite marks?"
I stared at Holmes with surprise, then I thought it over. "It is possible, yes," I concluded. "But why?"
"Possibly because whoever killed the man did not want his death to attract too much attention. Or suspicion. They wanted it to look like a suicide. But they were not thorough. It could be that they were pressed for time and had to move quickly move on. The cab outside the gates, could not stay for too long, after all. It was not long after sunset, and although the nearest houses are along the road outside, there was a chance that someone else besides Mr Jenkins would have come walking by and bore witness. This time, seeing someone besides the cab driver."
"Any indication that the horses moved, whilst the driver left them?" I put to Holmes.
He chuckled. "You remember that detail in one of our earliest cases. Well done, Watson. No, I did look at the soil of the driveway after leaving the graveyard. I saw no such clue that the horses were unattended on this occasion. Therefore, it is likely that there was a passenger who saw to the business they came for – whilst the driver watched over the horses."
"And Mary's body must have been born away by that coach. We need to trace it! And find these graverobbers," said I. "And that tramp must've been involved. Or he was a witness to what took place – and the graverobbers killed him, possibly because he could identify them!"
Holmes refilled his pipe, before sitting down in his chair.
"I am satisfied that the tramp was not at your wife's grave, Watson," he declared.
"What? How you are certain of that, Holmes?"
"I traced the footprints from Mrs Watson's grave. Despite Lestrade and his constables not being as careful as they could around the disturbed earth, I only detected one set of footprints. They meandered around the gravestones, and yet the stride was short. The imprint on the ground was that of a pair of shoes with no tread. What does that suggest?"
I thought back to my examination of the man's body. "The deceased was a tall man, wearing shoes that still had a decent tread…," I answered. "So, it was not him… But a pair of shoes with no tread, given the state of the ground after yesterday's rain?"
"Quite so, Watson. Another factor that – on the face of things – does not make sense. Also consider the torn fabric from your wife's funeral gown."
"I'd… I'd rather not think about that, Holmes." I finished my cigarette. "Tell me about your meeting with Sir Reginald."
"The old fellow's disturbed state of mind was profound. He didn't even recognise me, at first. But I managed, to get him to open up enough to get some surprising answers." Holmes momentarily waved his pipe in the air before him. "He'll get professional help now, Watson. He feared he was going mad, and so he was in shock. Once he had told his story to an old friend he still trusted, I told him I did not think him mad…"
"But?" I prompted Holmes, sensing a problem.
"What Sir Reginald told me is absurd! And yet it is supported by the evidence of the clothes behind left behind by the man who killed your wife. How can I expect you to believe what my friend told me, when I am still having difficulty accepting it myself?" Holmes told me, his face ceased with clashing emotions.
"I see… Perhaps you had better tell me what Sir Reginald said – and I'll make up my own mind," I answered. "My mind has been broadened somewhat by my exposure to the crimes and mysteries your clients have brought to you."
"None of them were like this, Watson. Not even the remarkable case of Sir Henry Baskerville that Doctor Mortimer told us about… Very well, Sir Reginald had come to London on business for a week – and he was returning to his hotel room after a night at the theatre with his business associate. The two men parted outside the theatre, so Sir Reginald was walking alone, when – by providence or good chance – he was walking past the back street where Mrs Hudson and your wife were being attacked by that violent man and woman. Sir Reginald confirms that he arrived just in time to see Mrs Watson strike the male attacker with a half brick from the rubble nearby – the result being that the man turned furiously upon her, snarling. Then he bore her to the ground, and – pining her there – he… The man apparently bit your wife, Watson. Sir Reginald told me that man had sharp teeth – and he clamped them into your wife's neck, even as she tried to fight him off."
My mouth must have gaped open. I found myself unable to say anything. And yet, the prompted memory of seeing bite marks on Mary's dead body flashed into my mind.
Holmes continued. "Sir Reginald whacked your wife's attacker with his walking stick. Hard. But he told me it made no difference. So, convinced that he was dealing with a monster who was killing a lady, Sir Reginald spied the dagger that the rogue had dropped when Mary Watson struck him with that brick. And he flung himself upon the attacker, repeatedly ramming the blade into him, in desperation."
"My word…," I heard myself whisper. "And yet my wife's killer still managed to get away?"
Holmes shook his head. "According to Sir Reginald, the killer gave a sudden, sharp cry as he stiffened. Then… Then the man's body rapidly aged and turned to ash, leaving behind only his clothes – and your wife, covered in blood and ashes. Sir Reginald remembers hearing the woman attacker scream in horror. Then she ran, as the pair of constables ran in, saving Mrs Hudson and Sir Reginald from any further harm. As my friend tells it, the constables prevented your wife from choking at the scene, and they did what they could to stem the bleeding from her neck. But as we know, at the hospital…" Holmes looked down at the carpet, unable to meet my incredulous gaze, until I got him to look at me again when I spoke.
"Do… Do you trust Sir Reginald, Holmes?"
"I believe that he believes his account, Watson. But the doctors watching over him regard him as of unsound mind. I have told them what I have just told you. Naturally, they believe that his mind has created a false memory to hide whatever he really witnessed in that fight. And Sir Reginald cannot be arrested for killing a man, when there is no victim left behind. A pile of clothes, surrounded by ash, strange as it is - does not make a body, when there has been no fire. And…something I have not yet mentioned. The dagger that the male attacker dropped – only to have it used against him… It was no ordinary weapon."
"How so?" I asked.
"It was made of carved bone. Yet still sharp. I have not heard of the like before, Watson. Have you?"
I had to admit I had not. After a pause, I spoke again. "Your friend really has gone mad. I pity him," I breathed, shaking my head. "I hope that the doctors can help him regain a correct memory of what happened.
Holmes got up from his chair and emptied his pipe. "There is one more thing that Sir Reginald told me that is most interesting, Watson," he declared.
I narrowed my eyes. "Is it believable?"
"Slightly more so. He told me that as the woman attacker froze in her attack upon Mrs Hudson, yelling in horror when her accomplice 'died', she and Sir Reginald saw each other's faces for a few seconds. He tells me it was a moment of mutual surprise – then came the police whistle, and the ghastly woman fled, outrunning the police constable."
I shifted in my chair, interested. "He recognised her? And she, him?"
"Apparently so." Holmes looked me directly in the eyes as he delivered his next words. "I will quote Sir Reginald's words to me. 'It was Rachel Howells, Sherlock! I'm positive it was her. But…she had barely aged since I had last saw her!' "
"What? But the 'Musgrave Ritual' case took place before I met you, Holmes? When did your friend last see his runaway maid?"
"In 1878. Sixteen years ago." Holmes gave a ghost of a smile. "All in all, it is a pretty puzzle, is it not, Watson?"
"In my opinion, it was unlikely to be her," I proposed. "Sir Reginald was shocked by the violence of the attack, and in his weakened state of mind, he projected the ghost of his missing maid onto the female assailant!"
"Well, my friend seems sincere. I can say no more on the matter for now," Holmes replied, a little stiffly.
I glanced at the clock and groaned. It was time for me to leave, to return to my house – where, at least, my own maid would welcome my return.
Biding Holmes goodnight, I paused at the door – and asked him if he had any idea of who had taken Mary's body, and why.
"I am still at a loss on that matter, I'm afraid, my dear Watson," he replied, staring into the fire as he stirred the coals with the poker.
"Is there nothing we can do!?" I yelled, losing my composure. I paused, then bowed my head. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I'm…"
"…angry and frustrated. Of course, you are. I would hate to be in your position right now, given that you have just lost a remarkable woman, who is then inexplicably stolen from you a second time!" he told me calmly. "Rest assured. I will do what I can to find Mary Watson's body. But I need more data! Or perhaps…"
"…perhaps what?"
"I need a second opinion to go over the data we already have," Holmes muttered. "From someone whose intellect I value more than mine. He might know something that we do not."
I considered Holmes's words, and then nodded, understanding him. "Mycroft," I concluded.
"Indeed. Brother Mycroft. I will see him tomorrow. Now you had best get back home and rest, Watson. Do take good care of yourself – with the help of your maid. I will call upon you when I am certain of the facts in this most mysterious matter," Holmes promised me, before we parted for the night.
*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*o*
Unfortunately, the next day, a Friday, saw me receiving a telegram from Holmes, where he apologised. He had been visited by the distressed wife of a London Member of Parliament, and the matter was going to delay his visit to Mycroft – who was also evidently tied up with business.
I was not due to return to my G.P. duties until the next Monday. So, I kept myself busy seeing to the ongoing business of writing to the remaining relevant businesses, informing them of Mary's death. Then, with my maid's help, I carried on with the horrible task of deciding which of Mary's personal items to give away – her jewellery, her scents, her clothes.
I had to give myself and Kaitlyn a break from the clearing out, every hour or so. It was just too trying for me, at times. I found that I could not bear the thought of all of her clothes vanishing from the bedroom. However, I had previously made the arrangements for Mary to be buried with the pearls that she had been gifted with from the Agra treasure. Yes, I could have held onto them, as a memento of her. But just looking at them, in our bedroom, after her death, had made my eyes moist. And instead of selling them, I wanted the chaplet of pearls to remain with Mary's body. It had been the sum total of the Agra treasure that had been sent to her – and I wanted it to be my last act of devotion to her, by letting her keep them for eternity.
There were two developments – and two only – concerning my dear wife, over the weekend. The first was that the Saturday morning newspaper had an article on the discretion of the graveyard where Mary had been buried – which annoyed me, especially I had not even been approached for comment. The reporter even named Mary as the victim of the body snatcher. Also, the death of the man was given. Evidently, the police had interviewed the local residents, and presented a photograph of the dead man's face – and from this, someone had identified him as 'Old Billy Bray', who sometimes passed through the area.
I used part of my Saturday in order to visit the newspaper offices, to protest against the intrusion into my personal life, making my feelings known in no uncertain terms to the deputy editor. I was given an apology.
The second development occurred in the early hours of Monday morning, during my sleep.
It had taken me some time to settle down, given my distressed state of mind. For how long I had been sleeping before I was disturbed, I am uncertain.
I heard a voice in my mind – and it was the voice that I dearly most wanted to hear again.
"John…"
"M-Mary?" I mumbled, shifting underneath my bedsheets.
"It's me, John. Please come to the window."
In the dream, I rose and slowly stumbled in a daze towards my bedroom window, which looked over the back garden. There, partly lit by the moon, was Mary – her forearms on the outside window ledge, meaning that I could only see her upper body. She was wearing a crimson-coloured cloak over a blue petticoat. Her matching blue eyes were unmistakable, and she was smiling…as in relief. Her face was pale – yet her lips were redder than I remembered them when I had kissed them, when she had still been alive.
"Mary? Wh-what are you doing here? Who s-stole you away from me a se-second time?" I spluttered.
"I am not allowed to tell you the truth, John. Forgive me," she said. And yet her lips did not move. The window was closed – and in my dream state, I raised my hands to open the window…
"No! Please don't open it! I can hear you through the glass – and you can evidently hear me." Her expression of panic turned to sadness. "I'm sorry that I was taken away from you, John. Is Martha all right? Are you…coping?"
"You… You helped to save Mrs Hudson," I replied. "She is still grieving, like me. It's still a lot to take in. You've left a gaping hole in our lives, Mary. I miss you… I love you…dearly."
She nodded. "And I still love you, John. But you need to forget about me in time – and move on… You need to…find another lady who is right for you. You still have a life to live."
"Hurry up!" another voice hissed.
I blinked, not understanding. The second voice was that of another woman – somewhere very close. But I couldn't see her. It was if she was somewhere on the wall, just below my field of vision.
Mary looked down at the source of the other voice, her brow furrowed with annoyance. She hissed, parting her red lips very slightly. Then she returned her attention to me.
"This is just a dream, John. You wanted to see me once again – and so we have… I will admit that sometimes I was unhappy that you left me for days whilst you were on your adventures with Sherlock…"
"I'm sorry, Mary," I whispered. "But Holmes needed my company. I needed the exercise. And the money from selling the stories helped both you and me. But you are right. I neglected you too often. If only I had known our marriage was going to be too short…!"
"I know, John. I forgive you! I wanted our marriage to be for far longer. I wanted us to start a family. But I will cherish the time we had known each other. You… You can say I'm at peace, John. Don't worry… about my missing body. Just remember me, as I was. Goodbye, dear. Promise me that you'll move on from my death and live your own life in happiness."
"I promise…," I answered, pressing my palm against the window, wanting to touch her.
Mary pressed her own palm in alignment with mine, smiling sadly again. Then I heard her last words to me.
"Go back to bed, John. Sleep well."
And with that, she lowered herself from the outside windowsill. I felt compelled, as instructed, to return to my bed. So, I did, stumbling in the near-dark. Then I collapsed upon it.
The dream ended there.
The maid's now-usual knock on my bedroom door awoke me. I groaned and stirred, the fog slowly dispersing from my head. Then I froze.
I was lying on top of the sheets, at an angle – my feet just off the edge. The blankets were turned back, just as how I must have in the dream.
I evidently had been sleepwalking.
"Are you awake, sir?" the maid called out, knocking again.
"Yes, Kaitlyn," I called out. "Just leave me to it."
Satisfied at my response, she headed off downstairs. Meanwhile, I slowly walked over to the window, in bewilderment. I had wanted to see Mary. To talk to her. Even if I had just meant saying goodbye to her properly. To let her know my regrets. And out of my desperation, my mind had conjured up a lucid dream…
It was raining outside. A light rain that was blowing against the pane. There on the window was a handprint, on the inside. It had to be mine. I had sleepwalked as far as the glass, before returning to bed…
Wait.
I stepped to the edge of the window, so I could see better.
Dear god…
There was the faint image of another handprint. This time on the outside. It's outline matching mine in mirror image. Just as in the dream. But the rain was beginning to erase it.
I staggered back to my bed and collapsed on the edge, feeling faint. I forced myself to take slow, steady breaths, as my mind reeled at the possibility I may have been visited in the night by a thief - or by a ghost…
