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acdholmesfestTitle: The Violin of Toten Hall
Recipient:saki101
Author: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Holmes, Watson
Warnings: None
Summary: Holmes and Watson are on a case of strange music in the night.
Disclaimer: All is thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle and his delightful creations.
The Violin of Toten Hall
Rarely during my long friendship with Sherlock Holmes did I ever see my great friend left without a satisfying conclusion to a mystery. And to my readers it is not often that I would sit down to write a chronicle with the foreknowledge that many might find this an unsatisfactory tale were it not for the strange place it has taken up in the annals of our cases, that Holmes and I will still talk about in the vaguest of terms. Neither of us ever clear of exactly what occurred after the solving of the case at Toten Hall.
In October 1894, some weeks after I had once again taken up rooms in Baker Street, Holmes and I were in the middle of a multitude of cases when we were visited one early morning by a Miss Charlotte Warren of Toten Hall.
The young lady had something of a lively, anxious air about her, cheeks flushed from the sharp October winds. Entering the room, she affably shook both Holmes' and my own hand before settling on the settee. However, it was easy, even for myself, to notice she was lacking sleep.
"Excuse the early hour, gentlemen," Miss Warren said as Holmes settled in the chair opposite. "But after this past night we've had at the Hall, I can bear it no longer."
"The hour is a trivial matter, tell us what's been occurring at Toten Hall." Holmes coaxed her swiftly toward her tale.
Miss Warren began to lay her story out in a business-like manner. Her uncle had been the unfortunate first violin the orchestra in London that opened the Hall in Hyde Park. The dreadful acoustics that were quickly reported after the opening, and, despite the architecture being at fault for such a shameful performance, the importance of the occasion seemed to unsteady him from his craft.
"I remember specifically that evening, though it was quite a while ago now, father and Mister Silas — the second violin — had brought him home in some fit. Soon after, Mister Silas was asked to replace him and my uncle's illustrious career fizzled."
"I recall the less than noteworthy opening," Holmes interrupted. "But what does that have to do with the events of last evening?"
"That's exactly it, Mister Holmes. Eight months ago, my uncle stopped sleeping. For weeks he told us he kept hearing the echo of the violin, at times throughout the night. Mister Silas had taken to coming by each evening to sit with him and talk to him of the pieces the orchestra were playing, hoping that he might pick up his instrument once again, but my uncle's talk would not be deterred from the music in the night. We assumed he'd been imagining it."
"Despite all we tried to do, he unfortunately passed away two months ago — pneumonia. So leading up to his death, he'd not been in the best of health, you see? We couldn't have possibly believed him. But then..." Mis Warren paused gravely.
"It started several weeks ago, now. And every night since....we've all begun to..." Miss Warren trailed off. Her ashen face progressed impossibly pale. Until her story came to its conclusion, Holmes had been listening with his hand arched in front of his nose, eyes closed, and a minute quirk to his lips.
It was a pose I'd seen him in throughout the latest round of clients and since his return, Holmes' demeanor had been something like a cat that had gotten the cream. The apprehension of the vile Colonel Moran seemed to finally lay to rest the ghost of Professor Moriarty, ghost that had haunted us both over the past four years. The relief was evident in Holmes' peculiar enjoyment of his work. At the time I thought perhaps he was lacking a challenge, and yet none of his occasional ennui showed. There would be the odd moment however, when I'd catch Holmes by the hearth, eyes poised on some distant point far away from Baker Street and, I suspect, England. I knew there would always be much of those four years I would never be aware of, but there was something of the grave about that look I could only guess at.
"Heard what exactly, Miss Warren? And be precise!" Holmes must have garnered something beyond me for his entire demeanor shifted drastically.
"We've heard it ourselves now, Mister Holmes! It's the same song, every night. The one from that night at the Hall, Mister Holmes. And it sounded like — but it couldn't possible be — my uncle."
"Your troubles are very unfortunate, Miss Warren. I wouldn't worry about being affected by this much longer. Watson and I shall come round the Hall early this evening, and see what we can do."
***
After showing Miss Warren out, I returned to the sitting room to find Holmes in that strange philosophic mode I had been noticing. His sharp eyes lost of their focus, staring into the small fire at our hearth. It wasn't until I shut the door to our sitting room that his reverie broke. Holmes shifted quickly into a buzz of delight, jumping out of his chair. It was not something one would have even thought him capable of seconds ago.
"Watson! This is delightfully singular. Not so much a puzzle as one would have hoped, but a good thought experiment to say the very least."
"It is an incredible story. A violin playing, but no instrument or player? She seems quite unsettled, Holmes."
"Incredible, but aside from the specific who, not much of a mystery. I expect you assume something of the grave?" Holmes arched an eyebrow at me.
"Holmes," I teased. "you don't think me silly enough to have assumed some ghost to be at play, do you?"
"Your flare for the dramatic might have let it cross my mind, Watson," Holmes seemed amused by me. "No. You have sense enough to suspect something along the lines of our illustrious Norwood Builder from some years ago."
"But do you suspect something as sinister?"
"I suspect myself of leaping to conclusions without the proper evidence."
***
Holmes and I took a leisurely route to the Toten Hall, enjoying the crisp October evening.
Upon reaching the Hall, we were met by Miss Warren at the gate, her complexion and dark eyes still stark evidence of the horror she felt herself oppressed by. Even now, I feel guilty about the dismissive attitude of Holmes and myself.
It was a lonely house despite it's proximity to the great metropolis of London. Upon our approach to the door, steps crushing on the gravel drive, with every step closer my skin crawled with unease. It was something I could only remember feeling during those long hours waiting in the fields before Maiwand.
"Holmes, I feel we're being watched," I whispered in a break with his questioning of Miss Warren.
Holmes hummed an assent briefly before speeding his pace toward the middle of the drive and affecting a rather dramatic form.
"Watson, what a significant example of early Edwardian architecture," he said with the affect of someone interested in such things. He walked back and forth stopping directly in line with the top loft window.
While he spent some moments giving both myself and Miss Warren a lecture on the aspects of the Hall, I tried to dissect the things Holmes brought into detail, trying to piece together what he was seeing.
Entering the house was a silent affair. Miss Warren had assured us that there were no less than a dozen people about the property, and yet the Hall was completely still.
"Direct us where you believe the music to be coming from, if you could."
Miss Warren led us up from the ground floor, past the first. Pointing out her rooms, where her uncle's had been and her father's. The final set of stairs we at the back of the Hall, a small spindly set. Holmes examined them prior to leading the way up.
The loft had little in it save for some old trunks, and was in much need of dusting. It held none of the suffocating gloom I'd been expecting. Instead, it was quite bright and airy.
Holmes did one complete sweep of the loft until he stood at one end near a rafter, put his finger through a knot in the wood, and pulled.
The board fell directly down in a flurry of dust revealing a small area behind it.
"Mister Silas, I presume," Holmes said looking down at the man.
The older man disengaged his limbs from the small space between the rafters, and came out with his hand clutching a violin. We could all see now, in the dim light, the imperfections in the dust he had left moving in and out of the loft toward the back stairs.
Once he was standing, Miss Warren determinedly strode up to him and slapped him across his face.
"How dare you?" Miss Warren attempted to slap him again, but I caught her hand gently.
"To what end, Mister Silas," Holmes asked calmly.
"To what end?" Silas spat. "He ruined me! I was always supposed to be first chair, but he was always there. And even when he wasn't, he still had the orchestra's ear." Silas smashed the violin to the floor and glared at Holmes.
Holmes led Silas down into the sitting room as Miss Warren rang for some tea and her father.
"You tell us the why, Mister Silas, but how did you do it this way without anyone noticing?" I asked as Holmes and I were left with him, for a moment.
"This house is strange, I would come every evening, listening to the old fool, and when it came time to leave, I'd always show myself out. No one was ever about, really, so it was nothing to get up to that loft. I would play, during the night, only to listen to the old man moan about it the next evening until it killed him." Silas smiled.
Just as Miss Warren and the cook came into the room, followed directly by her father a great concerto could be heard echoing throughout the hall.
Holmes' eyes snapped to mine as the happy crescendo echoed throughout the house. We both turned to check that Mister Silas was still in his seat, before racing to the stairs. Flying up them we reached the attic we'd left not long before to hear the final quivering note disappear into gloomy silence.
Holmes stopped short, still as a statue, and I paused directly behind him at the entrance to the loft we'd left only a quarter of an hour before.
"Holmes..." I whispered, and rested my hand on his arm. I could feel his wiry muscle underneath his coat poised for action and trembling slightly. The loft was empty, and the violin was as we'd left it: broken, on the floor.
Holmes and I have had many quiet evenings since in his cottage discussing old cases, but it is only on those odd still nights that our talk may turns toward what had occurred at Toten Hall. For a long time, I would have suggested that it was simply the wind, or perhaps a figment shared of both our imaginations, but Holmes will only speak of it in vague reference: The possibility of something beyond us.
Recipient:
saki101Author: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Holmes, Watson
Warnings: None
Summary: Holmes and Watson are on a case of strange music in the night.
Disclaimer: All is thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle and his delightful creations.
The Violin of Toten Hall
Rarely during my long friendship with Sherlock Holmes did I ever see my great friend left without a satisfying conclusion to a mystery. And to my readers it is not often that I would sit down to write a chronicle with the foreknowledge that many might find this an unsatisfactory tale were it not for the strange place it has taken up in the annals of our cases, that Holmes and I will still talk about in the vaguest of terms. Neither of us ever clear of exactly what occurred after the solving of the case at Toten Hall.
In October 1894, some weeks after I had once again taken up rooms in Baker Street, Holmes and I were in the middle of a multitude of cases when we were visited one early morning by a Miss Charlotte Warren of Toten Hall.
The young lady had something of a lively, anxious air about her, cheeks flushed from the sharp October winds. Entering the room, she affably shook both Holmes' and my own hand before settling on the settee. However, it was easy, even for myself, to notice she was lacking sleep.
"Excuse the early hour, gentlemen," Miss Warren said as Holmes settled in the chair opposite. "But after this past night we've had at the Hall, I can bear it no longer."
"The hour is a trivial matter, tell us what's been occurring at Toten Hall." Holmes coaxed her swiftly toward her tale.
Miss Warren began to lay her story out in a business-like manner. Her uncle had been the unfortunate first violin the orchestra in London that opened the Hall in Hyde Park. The dreadful acoustics that were quickly reported after the opening, and, despite the architecture being at fault for such a shameful performance, the importance of the occasion seemed to unsteady him from his craft.
"I remember specifically that evening, though it was quite a while ago now, father and Mister Silas — the second violin — had brought him home in some fit. Soon after, Mister Silas was asked to replace him and my uncle's illustrious career fizzled."
"I recall the less than noteworthy opening," Holmes interrupted. "But what does that have to do with the events of last evening?"
"That's exactly it, Mister Holmes. Eight months ago, my uncle stopped sleeping. For weeks he told us he kept hearing the echo of the violin, at times throughout the night. Mister Silas had taken to coming by each evening to sit with him and talk to him of the pieces the orchestra were playing, hoping that he might pick up his instrument once again, but my uncle's talk would not be deterred from the music in the night. We assumed he'd been imagining it."
"Despite all we tried to do, he unfortunately passed away two months ago — pneumonia. So leading up to his death, he'd not been in the best of health, you see? We couldn't have possibly believed him. But then..." Mis Warren paused gravely.
"It started several weeks ago, now. And every night since....we've all begun to..." Miss Warren trailed off. Her ashen face progressed impossibly pale. Until her story came to its conclusion, Holmes had been listening with his hand arched in front of his nose, eyes closed, and a minute quirk to his lips.
It was a pose I'd seen him in throughout the latest round of clients and since his return, Holmes' demeanor had been something like a cat that had gotten the cream. The apprehension of the vile Colonel Moran seemed to finally lay to rest the ghost of Professor Moriarty, ghost that had haunted us both over the past four years. The relief was evident in Holmes' peculiar enjoyment of his work. At the time I thought perhaps he was lacking a challenge, and yet none of his occasional ennui showed. There would be the odd moment however, when I'd catch Holmes by the hearth, eyes poised on some distant point far away from Baker Street and, I suspect, England. I knew there would always be much of those four years I would never be aware of, but there was something of the grave about that look I could only guess at.
"Heard what exactly, Miss Warren? And be precise!" Holmes must have garnered something beyond me for his entire demeanor shifted drastically.
"We've heard it ourselves now, Mister Holmes! It's the same song, every night. The one from that night at the Hall, Mister Holmes. And it sounded like — but it couldn't possible be — my uncle."
"Your troubles are very unfortunate, Miss Warren. I wouldn't worry about being affected by this much longer. Watson and I shall come round the Hall early this evening, and see what we can do."
***
After showing Miss Warren out, I returned to the sitting room to find Holmes in that strange philosophic mode I had been noticing. His sharp eyes lost of their focus, staring into the small fire at our hearth. It wasn't until I shut the door to our sitting room that his reverie broke. Holmes shifted quickly into a buzz of delight, jumping out of his chair. It was not something one would have even thought him capable of seconds ago.
"Watson! This is delightfully singular. Not so much a puzzle as one would have hoped, but a good thought experiment to say the very least."
"It is an incredible story. A violin playing, but no instrument or player? She seems quite unsettled, Holmes."
"Incredible, but aside from the specific who, not much of a mystery. I expect you assume something of the grave?" Holmes arched an eyebrow at me.
"Holmes," I teased. "you don't think me silly enough to have assumed some ghost to be at play, do you?"
"Your flare for the dramatic might have let it cross my mind, Watson," Holmes seemed amused by me. "No. You have sense enough to suspect something along the lines of our illustrious Norwood Builder from some years ago."
"But do you suspect something as sinister?"
"I suspect myself of leaping to conclusions without the proper evidence."
***
Holmes and I took a leisurely route to the Toten Hall, enjoying the crisp October evening.
Upon reaching the Hall, we were met by Miss Warren at the gate, her complexion and dark eyes still stark evidence of the horror she felt herself oppressed by. Even now, I feel guilty about the dismissive attitude of Holmes and myself.
It was a lonely house despite it's proximity to the great metropolis of London. Upon our approach to the door, steps crushing on the gravel drive, with every step closer my skin crawled with unease. It was something I could only remember feeling during those long hours waiting in the fields before Maiwand.
"Holmes, I feel we're being watched," I whispered in a break with his questioning of Miss Warren.
Holmes hummed an assent briefly before speeding his pace toward the middle of the drive and affecting a rather dramatic form.
"Watson, what a significant example of early Edwardian architecture," he said with the affect of someone interested in such things. He walked back and forth stopping directly in line with the top loft window.
While he spent some moments giving both myself and Miss Warren a lecture on the aspects of the Hall, I tried to dissect the things Holmes brought into detail, trying to piece together what he was seeing.
Entering the house was a silent affair. Miss Warren had assured us that there were no less than a dozen people about the property, and yet the Hall was completely still.
"Direct us where you believe the music to be coming from, if you could."
Miss Warren led us up from the ground floor, past the first. Pointing out her rooms, where her uncle's had been and her father's. The final set of stairs we at the back of the Hall, a small spindly set. Holmes examined them prior to leading the way up.
The loft had little in it save for some old trunks, and was in much need of dusting. It held none of the suffocating gloom I'd been expecting. Instead, it was quite bright and airy.
Holmes did one complete sweep of the loft until he stood at one end near a rafter, put his finger through a knot in the wood, and pulled.
The board fell directly down in a flurry of dust revealing a small area behind it.
"Mister Silas, I presume," Holmes said looking down at the man.
The older man disengaged his limbs from the small space between the rafters, and came out with his hand clutching a violin. We could all see now, in the dim light, the imperfections in the dust he had left moving in and out of the loft toward the back stairs.
Once he was standing, Miss Warren determinedly strode up to him and slapped him across his face.
"How dare you?" Miss Warren attempted to slap him again, but I caught her hand gently.
"To what end, Mister Silas," Holmes asked calmly.
"To what end?" Silas spat. "He ruined me! I was always supposed to be first chair, but he was always there. And even when he wasn't, he still had the orchestra's ear." Silas smashed the violin to the floor and glared at Holmes.
Holmes led Silas down into the sitting room as Miss Warren rang for some tea and her father.
"You tell us the why, Mister Silas, but how did you do it this way without anyone noticing?" I asked as Holmes and I were left with him, for a moment.
"This house is strange, I would come every evening, listening to the old fool, and when it came time to leave, I'd always show myself out. No one was ever about, really, so it was nothing to get up to that loft. I would play, during the night, only to listen to the old man moan about it the next evening until it killed him." Silas smiled.
Just as Miss Warren and the cook came into the room, followed directly by her father a great concerto could be heard echoing throughout the hall.
Holmes' eyes snapped to mine as the happy crescendo echoed throughout the house. We both turned to check that Mister Silas was still in his seat, before racing to the stairs. Flying up them we reached the attic we'd left not long before to hear the final quivering note disappear into gloomy silence.
Holmes stopped short, still as a statue, and I paused directly behind him at the entrance to the loft we'd left only a quarter of an hour before.
"Holmes..." I whispered, and rested my hand on his arm. I could feel his wiry muscle underneath his coat poised for action and trembling slightly. The loft was empty, and the violin was as we'd left it: broken, on the floor.
Holmes and I have had many quiet evenings since in his cottage discussing old cases, but it is only on those odd still nights that our talk may turns toward what had occurred at Toten Hall. For a long time, I would have suggested that it was simply the wind, or perhaps a figment shared of both our imaginations, but Holmes will only speak of it in vague reference: The possibility of something beyond us.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-27 06:17 pm (UTC)Thank you for this eerie, musical tale! The style so beautifully adapts the cadence of the original stories and the outcome is so delightfully baffling. Of course, the spirit of the deceased musician would be pleased to be know the perpetrator of his misery had been found out and would be punished, and the deceased would express his pleasure in no other way than music. I hope he plays forever, with only the most excellent acoustics to enhance his performance, in the hereafter.
And if, perchance there is another musical member of the household who felt equally pleased that the culprit had been caught and, also expressed themselves in song, then I wish them the best for a wonderful career in the here and now.
It's a perfect, ambiguous ending that allows us to imagine whichever explanation we most prefer!
And is the hall by Hyde Park, the Royal Albert Hall, by any chance?
Thank you again for this intriguing, atmospheric gift!!
no subject
Date: 2017-10-27 06:55 pm (UTC)"Holmes..." I whispered, and rested my hand on his arm. I could feel his wiry muscle underneath his coat poised for action and trembling slightly.
I quite like that image, simple but vibrant, one reaching for the other in a moment of high uncertainty.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-27 08:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-28 02:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-28 12:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-29 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 05:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 03:36 pm (UTC)I am secretly hoping that Mr Silas will find himself haunted by his own bit of music in the night, since I'm worried that the law will not be able to do much to punish him. There's no doubt that he drove a man to his death out of spite, but in such an indirect way that I doubt any jury would send him to prison. So in my head I will just leave the cause of justice in the hands of the unseen musicians!
Thank you for sharing this powerful story.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-10 05:48 pm (UTC)Thank you