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acdholmesfest2017-10-28 09:27 am
spacemutineer) wrote in acdholmesfest2017-10-28 09:27 am
Entry tags:
Fic for smallhobbit: Camelot, PG-13
Title: Camelot
Recipient:smallhobbit
Author: [redacted]
Beta: [redacted]
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6300
Characters: Watson, Holmes, a plethora of original characters
Warnings: Potential triggers for dementia and elder abuse; mild violence
Summary: Holmes and Watson encounter a client like no other: the ultimate unreliable witness.
Author's Notes: The time setting is early post-hiatus; Watson POV
Camelot
Chapter 1: Mr Sherlock Holmes
It was early in October of 1896 and the days were getting shorter when my fellow lodger, the criminologist Sherlock Holmes, and I were hailed as we approached our Baker Street flat.
‘Dr Watson, Mr Holmes! I am glad to see you!’ said a man in Royal Mail livery. I recognised him at once as Bruno Olivett, whose family had been under my care before I gave up my practice in Kensington.
‘Mr Olivett, are you and your family all right?’ I asked. Certain of my former patients continued to consult me even though I had all but given up general medicine to specialise in ophthalmology and amateur criminology.
‘Never finer, Dr Watson. However, it is Mr Holmes I would have a word with.’
Mr Sherlock Holmes, the renowned consulting detective, once realising it was he and not I who commanded Mr Olivett’s attention, stopped and turned to face him.
‘Mr Olivett, I do not believe we have met, and other than you are a family man of Italian descent, have grown up in East London, are a postman for the Royal Mail (and whose patch is in South London), I know nothing whatsoever about you.’
‘It’s true; it’s all true what you wrote, Doctor! He is amazing!’ Olivett turned to Holmes ‘How did you know all that?’
Holmes’ chest puffed a bit and his face assumed an aspect of modest benevolence as he explained. I rolled my eyes.
‘Your wedding band is ornate in the Italian style, you are in your work uniform but your boots have dust from the vicinity of Lewisham, your accent is a restrained Cockney, and Dr Watson inquired after your family, whose name is actually French. Was Olivett always your surname?’
‘Marvelous! No, originally, my grandfather was called Olivetti, but he changed his name when he joined the army.’
‘Very well, Mr Olivett,’ said Holmes, basking in the glow of his deductions, ‘come inside and let me know how I might assist you?’
Chapter 2: An Unconventional Request
‘I was on my regular rounds this morning when, out of the blue, I was struck in the back of my head with what I thought was a small stone flung by some brat. I looked around for the culprit but there was no one about. On the ground lay a shilling. It had to be what struck me because I heard it hit the pavers. I look around again and there was movement in an upstairs window. Someone was waving a piece of paper and once I’d noticed it, they dropped it and it fluttered into the rosebushes and I heard the window shut.
‘The piece of paper was actually an envelope, and normally I wouldn’t deliver anything without postage, but the shilling would more than cover it, and it is not the first time a young girl wanted to pass a letter to her young man without her parents’ knowing. I thought it would be a good deed so I did not go to the door and ask questions. Instead, I was about to tuck it into my pouch when I took a closer look…’ Mr Olivett handed the item to Holmes who read the address:
Holmes had retrieved his great lens and was examining the writing and the paper stock with interest.
‘From what address did you get this?’ Holmes asked without looking up.
‘It was Ivyleighton in west Lewisham; an older manor surrounded by newer houses. It is the de Leighton family’s home. Professor de Leighton lives there now that the old Colonel is gone.’
‘This is not an envelope, it is one piece of paper folded and glued,’ Holmes observed. ‘Who else resides there?’
‘Just the old man and his household staff, as far as I know. I’ve met the butler. The neighbours say the professor is quite a recluse. Some think he is ill.’
‘What kind of mail does the house receive?’
Olivett hesitated. ‘It is not my habit to snoop about…’
‘Just a general description will suffice,’ Holmes cut in impatiently.
‘Invoices from shops mostly; personal correspondence between the housekeeper and her sister; really nothing remarkable, I’m sorry, Mr Holmes.’
‘Does the professor receive any personal correspondence?’
‘Actually, I cannot recall any.’
‘Very well, Mr Olivett. Thank you for bringing this to me. Here’s another shilling for your trouble.’
I showed Mr Olivett out, passed my best wishes along to his wife and children, and then returned to the sitting room where Holmes had carefully opened the missive with his sharp penknife.
‘What is it?’ I asked as I could not read his expression.
‘The game’s afoot in Lewisham,’ he replied, handing me the paper with my forceps.
The message was short and it read:
Its script was level and evenly spaced, indicating an adult author and yet the individual characters were written with an unsteady hand.
‘That’s very vague. Are you sure this is worth your time?’
‘Look closer, Watson,’ Holmes was as alert as a hound in the slips. ‘I am quite compelled to investigate this matter.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because this request has been written in blood.’
Chapter 3: Lewisham
With prophetic clouds heavy with impending rain, the next morning found Holmes and I in a cab bound for Lewisham.
‘Someone in Professor de Leighton’s house is a prisoner and I mean to find out who,’ said Holmes, breaking the silence.
‘A prisoner? You astonish me,’ I declared.
‘Who else would construct an envelope, write me a message in blood, and seal it with oatmeal porridge? Someone went to extraordinary measures to contact me; someone without access to envelopes or ink. I fear it may be Professor Humbold de Leighton himself. I was not idle last night. The Who’s Who lists de Leighton as a retired Cambridge historian and lecturer who specialised in the evolution of Arthurian literature and was well-regarded in that area. The dates indicate that he took early retirement to Ivyleighton in Lewisham, the home of his father, the late Colonel Conrad de Leighton of Balaclava fame.’
It would be futile to ask Holmes to speculate further so I passed the time spotting landmarks along our route.
The rain was falling in earnest as we rang the doorbell and I regretted Holmes’ decision to release the cabbie from any obligation to us.
Moments later the door opened to our summons and we were met by a tall, angular man, dressed appropriately in the crisp suit of the major domo. I estimated his age to be approximately fifty years. His greeting was polite and formal.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ his statement had a questioning tone.
‘My name is Sherlock Holmes,’ said my companion. ‘You may have heard of me. And this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.’
‘Yes, Mr Holmes. Your reputation precedes you. I am Hodges. How may I be of service?’
‘I wish to speak with Professor de Leighton.’
‘I’m afraid that would be impossible. The Professor is not receiving guests at present.’
‘Is that so? This is a serious matter and I am willing to come back with the police and a warrant.’
‘Respectfully, sir, that would not be necessary. You are welcome to come back tomorrow for a visit after luncheon. The Professor has been under the weather as of late and was not expecting visitors today.’
‘My colleague is fully qualified—’ Holmes began.
‘Professor de Leighton has his own physician, Dr Isaac McDonald.’
‘Thank you, Hodges,’ I responded before Holmes could say another word. ‘We will return tomorrow afternoon around two o’clock. Good day.’
The door closed and I turned to face Holmes’ glare. ‘We have nothing to gain by antagonising the staff. Besides, I know McDonald. He might be willing to answer a few discreet questions.’
Chapter 4: What Dr McDonald Had To Say
Dr Isaac McDonald’s prosperous practice on Harley Street boasted multiple waiting rooms where he consulted with his patients. Years ago, I had the privilege of attending to several of McDonald’s home visit patients whilst he recovered from a yachting accident and I was sure he would speak with me even on short notice, medical confidentiality notwithstanding. I tried not to take up too much of Dr McDonald’s time and I quickly jotted the salient data in my notebook. What I learned was discouraging and wondered to myself whether or not Holmes would continue his investigation once he heard what I had to report.
‘Professor de Leighton suffers from dementia. He had to leave his position at Cambridge because he could no longer function as lecturer and his research was devolving into, and I quote, “gibberish”. His mental faculties have quite deteriorated and lately his physical condition has started to decline. He is prone to delusions and paranoia, alternating between periods of confusion, violence, and apathy. McDonald was initially consulted when de Leighton moved to Lewisham and anticipates a rapid decline. In his opinion, Professor de Leighton has less than a year to live.’
‘Perhaps this is a prank but I am willing to try to find out. Would you care to join me again tomorrow?’
‘Gladly, if you think there is something to it.’
‘At this point, I cannot promise it one way or the other.’
Chapter 5: Return to Ivyleighton
On our subsequent journey to Lewisham the following afternoon we were greeted, not by the butler Hodges, but by Mr James Gillespie, Professor de Leighton’s lawyer.
‘I apologise, Mr Holmes,’ said Hodges. ‘You have a reputation for uncovering that which wishes to remain covered. It was not my place to discuss the Professor’s health with you, so I contacted Mr Gillespie.’
‘Hodges was right to send for me,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘There are matters of confidentiality to consider. Professor de Leighton’s health is tenuous and we do not want to do anything to jeopardise him or his privacy in anyway, do you take my meaning?’
‘I am not some rat of a reporter, seeking gossip to exploit,’ Holmes insisted. ‘I received a request from the man himself, and I am determined to follow up on it.’
‘You received a request?’ Both Hodges and Gillespie were clearly astonished and demanded to see it. They discussed and debated its origin and came to the conclusion that since it was indeed penned by Professor de Leighton, as long as Holmes and I vowed to protect de Leighton’s privacy, we would be granted an audience.
‘There are certain things you need to know before you go in,’ said Gillespie. ‘Professor de Leighton is quite insane. If the asylums were not such horrendous hell-holes, I would have found accommodations for him there. He has developed a propensity for violence which, in such institutions, would result in harsh punishment and strong and questionable medications. Asylum patients may become subjects of medical experimentation as well. Arthur de Leighton, the professor’s son, would not hear of having his father thus institutionalised and we are all content with that decision.
‘The professor’s condition is changeable. One day he may be as meek as a lamb and on other days he may need to be restrained. As of late, his physical strength has been waning so he has been easier to manage, but his delusions are the hardest thing to contend with.
‘The Professor believes that we are all out to kill him. He will starve himself for days in fear of poison. Sometimes he is lost in the past, asking after his dead son. Sometimes it is the tales of King Arthur and the knights of old. Other times he claims that he is imprisoned by the household staff and even refuses to acknowledge his daughter. Poor girl; she no longer comes to visit.’
‘I have no idea, Mr Holmes, of why he contacted you.’ Hodges said. ‘I did not know that he had the capacity for such actions, nor do I know what story he will tell you. Just be prepared to hear anything and try not to upset him.’
Chapter 6: We Meet Our Client At Last
We were led up two flights to the door to the Professor’s room. Holmes seemed eager to confront the questions raised in his mind and I too confess to less-than-professional curiosity in anticipation of meeting this strange man. We opened the door and entered.
The sparse room was bright with natural light even though the day was overcast. Two tall windows faced the rather unkempt back garden. Seated in bed was a frail-looking elder man in clean blue pyjamas. As was my habit when dealing with the aged, I looked for signs of neglect. The man’s hair and beard had been recently washed and trimmed. The room and the patient smelled clean and he gave no signs of heavy medication. With a nod from Holmes, I examined the items in the room finding only essential toiletries, small clothes, and spare bedding.
‘Good afternoon, Professor de Leighton—’ Holmes began.
‘Merlin!’ the old man exclaimed, his eyes filling with tears.
‘I’m sorry, Professor. You have confused me with another. My name is—‘
‘Merlin! I see through your disguise. You can’t hide genius like yours so easily!’
If Sherlock Holmes had a weakness, it was flattery. Over the time I have known him, he has become better at concealing it, but it persisted nonetheless. Holmes blushed as he pulled up a chair to sit at de Leighton’s bedside.
‘I am Sherlock Holmes. You sent for me.’ Holmes held out the missive.
De Leighton’s face fell but he continued to stare deep into Holmes’ eyes. Slowly he grinned. ‘Of course, of course. You may take the name Holmes in this lifetime, but I recognise you from days of old. You are Merlin, your intellect shines bright as the midsummer sun, and I KNOW you, but I do not recognise this man.’
‘That is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. He is a healer.’
‘A healer and a warrior… seen better days from the looks of him.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said I returning the offered handshake while noting his freshly cut nails and the bruises on his wrists as his pyjama sleeves fell back. I met Holmes’ eye. He had observed those details as well.
‘If I am Merlin, then who are you?’ Holmes asked.
‘So many years have passed that it is no wonder you do not recognise me. I’m Hwerd, a squire of Arthur’s court.’
Holmes look at me questioningly. I had devoured the Arthurian legends when I was young but that name was not familiar to me. I shrugged and Holmes turned back to de Leighton.
‘I know you to be Humbolt de Leighton, King’s College Cambridge historian, and son of Colonel Conrad de Leighton. I do not know Hwerd.’
‘I was just a boy; more servant than squire when the prophecy was made: that Arthur would return in Albion’s time of greatest need. That time is now. You were his mentor, his friend. You must find him, Merlin— you must!
‘Is that why you called upon the services of Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yes. No? Yes. Arthur lies uneasy in his grave. He must be found and buried in sacred earth in order to rise again. There is an east wind coming and it brings leagues of hellspawn warriors, monsters of the sea, and fire-breathing dragons to fill the skies. Albion will need her King or all will be lost. Were I not prisoner here, poisoned by my captors, I would have sought him out years ago. It is the duty I owe him.’
‘I’ve met your household staff. They are very concerned for you.’
‘LIARS! IMPOSTERS! THEY ARE KILLING ME WITH THEIR WITCHCRAFT! Merlin, surely you can see through them!’ his voice fell to a whispered plea.
This outburst prompted a firm knock on the door preceded by Hodges’ entry.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. I warned you this might happen. Professor de Leighton is agitated and needs his medicine. You will have to leave.’
Holmes stood. ‘My colleague can help. Watson, please see to the professor. I will be just outside in the hallway.’ Holmes gave the Professor’s arm a reassuring pat and left the room.
Hodges handed me a little box of pills. ‘These help calm him. They contain a mild sedative. Normally he takes one, but considering his current state, he should take two.’
‘Very well,’ I said examining the box for labels and finding none. When Hodges excused himself I resumed the chair Holmes had occupied. De Leighton regarded me with fear.
‘Please... don’t make me...’
‘I won’t. Just promise to calm yourself and I’ll say that you did, all right?’
The professor nodded in relief and I secreted two of the pills in my handkerchief, knowing that Holmes would be interested in assessing their chemical compounds. I poured water from the ewer, leaving the glass half full as if the medicine had been taken.
Chapter 7: Legal Affairs
The lawyer, Gillespie, whose offices were near Westminster, offered to take us back across the river in his carriage and Holmes took the opportunity to question him about the de Leighton family.
‘My office was in charge of the old colonel’s affairs for many years so it was not surprising that Professor de Leighton retained my services upon his arrival at Ivyleighton. I even assumed that role for Lt Arthur de Leighton when he was discharged from the army, poor fellow; most unlucky.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Arthur was in the artillery. A shell took half of his hand and incapacitated his arm quite badly. He was very unhappy for a while but after a few months he met a young woman; an American, and they made plans to marry. She returned to New York and he was lost at sea three months later. He had been on his way to meet her parents and to accompany her on her return to England.’
‘Lost at sea?’
‘Perhaps he had misgivings. It is pointless to speculate. He was last seen at supper two nights out of Southampton. His belongings were found in his cabin all neatly packed and his valuables had not been removed. Foul play was not suspected. The polite explanation is that he may have imbibed too much and fell overboard. Less charitable rumours suggested suicide.’
‘And the young American?’
‘Georgia Penhay as she was called back then, engaged the Pinkerton agency to investigate Arthur’s disappearance. They came to the same conclusion as the steamship company: death by misfortune. She has since moved on and has married a Canadian called Brody.’
‘Professor de Leighton also has a daughter. What led to her estrangement?’
‘Guinevere; how did you know about that?’
‘Her name came up in conversation and yet there are no portraits of her in the house, whereas the Colonel holds pride of place over the mantel, the Professor’s Cambridge portrait adorns his library, and there are photographs of Arthur in various rooms.’
‘I suppose Professor de Leighton locked away or destroyed all images of her when he disowned her. I know naught of what caused the rift. The professor refuses to even acknowledge her; claims he has no daughter. Perhaps you should ask Hodges. He has known the family longer.’
‘What about the rest of the staff?’
‘Hodges hired the housekeeper, Mrs Lukes, when the professor moved to Ivyleighton. Daisy Beele is the latest of a long line of maids. The house is too big for one girl to manage and I imagine de Leighton’s erratic behaviour would drive anyone to their wits’ end. The girls soon find better opportunities and move on.’
We left Mr Gillespie at his offices and headed home to Baker Street.
Chapter 8: Reflections On The Matter
‘That poor man,’ I reflected on our encounters as we hailed a likely hansom.
‘The professor? Medicine is not my speciality and neither are maladies of the mind yours, Watson. That aside, something is not right at Ivyleighton.’
‘Then despite all this fancy, you believe his wild allegations?’
‘A brilliant mind lies amongst the ruins here, Watson. What did you think of his room?’
‘His room?’ I was surprised by the tack the conversation had taken. ‘It was clean, bright, and certainly a better situation than any room in a private hospital, never mind an asylum. Why, what am I missing?’
‘Ha! Good old Watson; sniffing ‘round the wrong tree again. The windows—’
‘The windows opened on the back garden, not to the street!’ I exclaimed in a rush.‘ Professor de Leighton could not have been the one to drop the letter to Olivett—’
‘Or…’ Holmes arched an eyebrow at me in expectation.
‘Oh. How can I be so stupid? The room was too clean. There were no personal objects. He had been moved. But why?’
‘That is just one of niggling details I would like to resolve. Give me the pills you purloined and I’ll analyse them tonight and find out what nefarious compounds they may contain. I hope I have enough tobacco. It’s going to be a long night.’
Chapter 9: The Investigation Takes A New Course
Sometime in the wee hours I awoke to Sherlock Holmes entering my room carrying a lamp.
‘Ah, Watson. I’m glad you’re awake. I just returned from the bookseller’s shop—’
‘You just returned? Just now? There are no shops open at this hour!’
‘That is true, but Goldstone opened his doors for me,’ Holmes beamed, ‘And he was just the man. Here is a present for you.’ Holmes pulled from his pocket a small, thin volume which by the dim light appeared to be an illustrated book for children. The title page read:
‘Wait, Holmes, weren’t you going to test the medicine?’
‘I did. The pills were as advertised: a mild sedative; perhaps stronger than what Hodges indicated, but not enough to be suspicious. Ah well, there are plenty of less obvious ways to poison a man, if he is indeed being poisoned at all.’
‘But you think this book is important?’
‘You don’t have to read it tonight, dear boy. Take it with you to Moorfields and look it over when you get a moment. It’s a simple read yet it may prove to be illuminating. I look forward to your insights tomorrow evening. I should very much like to hear what Professor de Leighton’s former colleagues have to say about him so I’m off to Cambridge in the morning.’
‘It IS morning, Holmes,’ I made no attempt to stifle my yawn or mask my annoyance.
Chapter 10: What The Cambridge Scholars Had To Say
Holmes had a productive day in Cambridge and he returned satisfied that his time had not been wasted. He found out that Professor de Leighton had become obsessed with the original roots of the Arthur myth; a very elusive pursuit due to the Old Gaels oral tradition of story-keeping being superseded by wave upon wave of more recent adaptations; from the early Christian influence to the European retellings by the French and the Germans. At first his colleagues thought that de Leighton was just becoming engrossed in his research, then in 1881, his son, called Arthur, injured by the war, came home. By then the Professor's friends realised that he was actually losing his mind. There was an incident involving some embarrassment to his college but nobody got hurt. His friends convinced him to leave and he retired to Lewisham to care for his son.
‘This incident; did it involve his daughter perhaps?’ I inquired.
‘No, there was no mention of her. It concerned the carving of a pagan phallus into a local farmer’s field on the night of the winter solstice.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘The professor was naked at the time.’
‘Oh my!’
Chapter 11: A Children's Book
‘I must thank you for the charming book, Holmes. I had no idea de Leighton was so creative. The tales he tells of magic and high adventure are so vivid. Did you know he illustrated it himself?’
‘No, but did you examine the dedication?’
‘It said ‘for Arthur’. I’m guessing he meant his son, and not the legendary king.’
‘Quite. It was a self-published limited run of forty-eight copies which were given out as gifts, primarily to Arthur’s playmates and their families. No mention of the daughter?’
‘Come to think of it, no. Not even as a character in the stories. That’s strange. Perhaps he wrote other stories for her. Anyhow, the squire, Hwerd, features as a clumsy lad who shirks his menial duties in favour of learning swordplay and raiding the food stores. Here’s a picture of him with King Arthur hiding under a round table whilst evading some enemy invaders. They’re trying desperately to cover Arthur’s sword because it insists on glowing and giving their position away.’
It was a charming picture. The mixture of fear and comedy truly matched the scene of the story.
‘And yet, no Guinevere,’ mused Holmes. I confess this detail made me a bit uneasy.
‘Watson, I admit this case is quite intriguing. Separating fact from delusion is just the kind of challenge I crave.’
‘I know you like a good puzzle but please try to remember that your client is very vulnerable. You cannot treat him as cavalierly as is your wont.’
‘Because I am willing to communicate with him on his level? Tsk, tsk! You better mind that you do not treat him as if he is already beyond hope. The professor was a brilliant man when he was healthy and I have to believe some of that remains.’
That night I lay awake contemplating my approach to Professor de Leighton’s condition and asking myself if I was doing my best in this situation.
Chapter 12: The Clue of the Rhododendron Hedge
We returned to Ivyleighton two days later. Holmes bid me visit with the professor intending to examine the other upstairs rooms unobserved.
I open the door and entered. Professor de Leighton sat looking down upon the neglected garden. Tears streamed down his face. He did not turn to face me. I reintroduced myself and noted how frail he had become.
‘It’s sad: too many houses, too many neighbours,’ he decried. ‘We scar the land with our hedges and our walls. To what end? The walls crumble and the hedges wither and die.’
I spotted shoddy workmanship in many sections of the garden wall, and the rhododendron hedge looked lifeless and neglected except for one corner near the potting shed where the leaves were full and green.
‘Will Merlin come today?’ he asked at last.
‘Maybe later, or perhaps tomorrow.’ I replied.
‘Can we walk in the garden?’ de Leighton asked after another long silence.
‘Yes. I’ll help you manage it.’ I assisted him with his slippers and dressing gown and he was as light as a bird as I carried him down to the garden.
Professor de Leighton ran his fingers along the lush portion of the rhododendron hedge with a look of abject sorrow.
‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
‘This cursed curse…’ He snorted realising he had made a joke. ‘It is important. I just cannot remember why. I would ask Merlin if he were here.’
‘You lived here as a child. Has it something to do with that?’
He brightened.
‘The castle!’ he exclaimed, pointing at the dilapidated potting shed. We made our way over and I pried the door open. Inside was dark and smelled of mould and the leavings of mice.
‘There are likely spiders in here.’ I warned.
‘Big ones, to be sure!’ exclaimed de Leighton with more glee than I considered necessary. I retrieved and lit a lantern to better see the shed’s contents.
‘Did you bring your son here when he was a child?’ I asked but the professor’s moment of lucidity had waned. He fixated on a circle carved into the surface of the bench. I went to take his arm and lead him out but we were stopped in our tracks by Hodges who stood in the doorway blocking our progress.
‘Doctor, you should know better than to have the professor out of doors. Where is Mr Holmes?’
‘He returned to London to post some telegrams to the census office,’ I replied with what nonchalance I could muster. ‘He is trying to trace Guinevere de Leighton.’
‘I already gave him her address,’ said Hodges.
‘It proved false.’
‘I don’t know what to say. It is the only one she provided,’ apologised Hodges smoothly.
‘I have no daughter. I NEVER HAD a daughter. Merlin is on the right track!’ the professor exclaimed.
‘Please, Professor, you’re becoming upset. Doctor, can you help me get—’
‘Merlin is on to you,’ roared de Leighton, pointing an accusing finger at Hodges. ‘You killed Arthur!’
‘Professor, these fanciful tales are all in your head. King Arthur is only a myth,’ reasoned Hodges.
‘Not King Arthur; MY SON, Arthur!’
Hodges was rattled and turned to me. ‘His son was lost at sea; on his way to America. Dr Watson, please help me return the professor to his room. He’s clearly out of his mind!’
‘I’m not entirely convinced of that. Why did you move him to the rear bedroom?’ I demanded.
I knew I had struck a nerve. Hodges’ composure slipped for an instant. He lunged at me with some garden shears. There was a sickening crunch and pain shot through my arm. Off-balance I was easy prey. Hodges swept my leg out from under me and I fell, my head striking and shattering a stack of clay pots. I urged de Leighton to flee, or at least I meant to, as I fought to remain conscious.
The mind plays tricks. Time seemed to slow and I perceived with absolute clarity the illustration from de Leighton’s storybook where Hwerd and Arthur hid beneath the table. And now, there was de Leighton, aged and frail, sheltering beneath the same table he had used in that drawing, clawing up the floorboard and retrieving, not a gleaming sword, but a narrow garden trowel. With all his might, the old man plunged the blade through the soft leather of Hodges shoe, down through the metatarsus, and God-willing, deep into the floor below.
Hodges’ scream rent the air but it seemed far away. I could smell smoke. Suddenly the howling stopped and I heard the voice of Sherlock Holmes imploring me to answer him.
Chapter 13: Denouement
Holmes bound Hodges, his foot still pinned to the floor in the shed, and had Daisy, the maid, summon the police.
I was dazed and probably concussed. Some of the pottery sherds had cut into my scalp and, in the nature of such wounds, it bled profusely. I knew my arm to be broken and tried not to squawk when Holmes fashioned a makeshift sling for it.
‘I was looking out the window when I spied Hodges following you into the shed.’ said Holmes. ‘I came running the instant he picked up the shears. Watson, what did you say to provoke him?’
‘I insinuated that there never was a Guinevere de Leighton.’
‘I had not shared my suspicions with you. How did you know?’
‘Arthur and Guinevere were husband and wife. One does not call their children after two lovers. Besides, Professor de Leighton was interested in the earliest Arthurian legends. The character of Guinevere was a later, French embellishment.’
‘Ha ha! Never let it be said that the study of literature is a waste of time!’
‘What happened to Hodges? ’ I asked Professor de Leighton whilst Holmes fussed about.
‘Merlin cast a fireball. It was brilliant!’
‘A fireball, indeed?’
‘Not exactly,’ interjected Holmes. ‘I struck Hodges with the lantern. His coat caught fire and I had to spend the next instance pummelling him to put it out.’
‘Brilliant,’ de Leighton smiled wistfully.
The police took Hodges into custody leaving the three of us alone by the potting shed. Holmes helped me to my feet and once assured that I could manage he pointed to the corner of the garden.
‘Do you see that hedge? There is a reason why it thrived whilst the others wasted away. It was receiving nutrients where the others were not.’
‘You don’t mean to say—’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Holmes. ‘Professor, I believe your son to be—’
‘Dig him up, Merlin. Arthur needs to be buried in hallowed ground or else he will not be able to answer Albion’s call. I could not save him in this lifetime, but I can prepare him for the next. Our Land will have its protector once more.’
Chapter 14: The Case Concludes
No trace of Guinevere de Leighton was ever found and her existence was written off as one of Hodges’ fabrications.
The rhododendron was cut down and found, entangled amongst its roots, were the skeletal remains of a human adult male. The surviving fabric was consistent with clothing Arthur de Leighton had worn on the night he was to depart to Southampton. The remains of a leather glove containing two carved wooden fingers confirmed Arthur’s identity. Apparently, the lieutenant had adopted the prosthetics to mask his injury. The cause of death was attributed to a crushed skull, although other soft-tissue damage would have been possible.
‘But Arthur was seen by many witnesses boarding the S.S. Atlantica. He disappeared at sea. How could he end up buried in the garden?’ I asked.
‘Hodges confessed to assuming Arthur’s identity and using his first-class ticket to board the steamship only to double back and re-board in disguise with a third-class ticket. I suspect Hodges found the freshly planted hedge to be a convenient place to hide his body. With the roots not firmly established, the soil would have been loose enough,’ replied Holmes.
Hodges was found guilty of the assault against me but the police had to force an admission from him connecting him to the disappearance of Arthur de Leighton. The coerced confession was inadmissible in court so the blackguard only received a ten year sentence.
‘I do not understand Hodges’ motive in all of this,’ I confessed to Holmes over brandy in our sitting room.
‘He believed he could inherit the de Leighton estate. I spoke to Gillespie. Professor de Leighton had not made a Last Will and Testament and being no longer of sound mind, any will he made would be invalid. Fortunately, the old colonel’s will was still in effect. It stated that if Professor de Leighton could not inherit, everything would pass to any surviving grandchildren. That will predated their births so the grandchildren were not named individually. Gillespie was not concerned because, even with Arthur being declared dead, the estate would pass to his sister, Guinevere.’
‘Except there was no Guinevere.’
‘Precisely. There were no further contingencies. The estate would have been mired in the courts for years while Hodges would have been appointed caretaker of the property and all the other physical assets; a nice salary, light duties, and the chance to pawn a valuable from time to time.’
‘What now? Professor de Leighton has no heir and cannot write a will. A criminal cannot draw benefit from his crimes, so Hodges’ scheme has failed.’
‘Gillespie and I made an arrangement with the chancellor at King’s College, Cambridge. All of the remaining assets of the de Leighton estate will be used to establish the Arthur de Leighton scholarship for the studies of Arthurian and early English history. We may have overstepped our bounds but we thought it would please Professor de Leighton if he understood at all.’
‘That seems quite fitting. How do you suppose the professor knew about his son’s death?’
‘I suspect that he either witnessed the murder or the subsequent burial. Somehow he deduced it, and somewhere in his labyrinthine brain he found the ways and means to involve me in the case.’
‘How did he know to contact you?’
‘There was an old copy of The Strand in his original bedroom. He must have liked your article.’
I still had questions. ‘Why did Hodges move the professor to the rear bedroom, Holmes?’
‘Hodges did not want us to notice that the windows were nailed shut and that Professor de Leighton had broken the glass to send his summons. Also, although Hodges attempted a hasty cleaning, the room was filthy. The professor had not been cared for very well, I’m afraid. I do not know how the professor happened to obtain a sheet of paper, but he plucked a feather from a taxidermy raven and fashioned a quill pen, drew his own blood to use as ink, and sealed the paper’s edges with starch from his morning porridge.’
‘That sounds like something Hwerd, the character in his stories, would have done,’ said I.
‘Yes. I believe the professor had quite an active imagination when he was young. He was considered a remarkable storyteller.’
Epilogue
Professor de Leighton passed from our realm three months later. I had taken to visiting him every week, bringing Holmes along whenever he was available. Sometimes the professor recognised me; most times he did not. Even so, he knew Holmes as Merlin until the very end.
Before his death, Professor de Leighton had told Holmes that he wished Arthur to be properly buried in hallowed ground. We three visited the resting place of Colonel de Leighton in the old cemetery in Blackheath, a burial site which dated back to pre-Christian times. When the professor deemed the resting place acceptable, Holmes himself made the arrangements. Arthur was re-interred in the family plot, and when the time came, so was his father. Their names were added to to the colonel’s monument, and their resting places were marked by simple stones, one carved with “Arthur” and the other “Hwerd”.
Recipient:
smallhobbit Author: [redacted]
Beta: [redacted]
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6300
Characters: Watson, Holmes, a plethora of original characters
Warnings: Potential triggers for dementia and elder abuse; mild violence
Summary: Holmes and Watson encounter a client like no other: the ultimate unreliable witness.
Author's Notes: The time setting is early post-hiatus; Watson POV
Camelot
Chapter 1: Mr Sherlock Holmes
It was early in October of 1896 and the days were getting shorter when my fellow lodger, the criminologist Sherlock Holmes, and I were hailed as we approached our Baker Street flat.
‘Dr Watson, Mr Holmes! I am glad to see you!’ said a man in Royal Mail livery. I recognised him at once as Bruno Olivett, whose family had been under my care before I gave up my practice in Kensington.
‘Mr Olivett, are you and your family all right?’ I asked. Certain of my former patients continued to consult me even though I had all but given up general medicine to specialise in ophthalmology and amateur criminology.
‘Never finer, Dr Watson. However, it is Mr Holmes I would have a word with.’
Mr Sherlock Holmes, the renowned consulting detective, once realising it was he and not I who commanded Mr Olivett’s attention, stopped and turned to face him.
‘Mr Olivett, I do not believe we have met, and other than you are a family man of Italian descent, have grown up in East London, are a postman for the Royal Mail (and whose patch is in South London), I know nothing whatsoever about you.’
‘It’s true; it’s all true what you wrote, Doctor! He is amazing!’ Olivett turned to Holmes ‘How did you know all that?’
Holmes’ chest puffed a bit and his face assumed an aspect of modest benevolence as he explained. I rolled my eyes.
‘Your wedding band is ornate in the Italian style, you are in your work uniform but your boots have dust from the vicinity of Lewisham, your accent is a restrained Cockney, and Dr Watson inquired after your family, whose name is actually French. Was Olivett always your surname?’
‘Marvelous! No, originally, my grandfather was called Olivetti, but he changed his name when he joined the army.’
‘Very well, Mr Olivett,’ said Holmes, basking in the glow of his deductions, ‘come inside and let me know how I might assist you?’
Chapter 2: An Unconventional Request
‘I was on my regular rounds this morning when, out of the blue, I was struck in the back of my head with what I thought was a small stone flung by some brat. I looked around for the culprit but there was no one about. On the ground lay a shilling. It had to be what struck me because I heard it hit the pavers. I look around again and there was movement in an upstairs window. Someone was waving a piece of paper and once I’d noticed it, they dropped it and it fluttered into the rosebushes and I heard the window shut.
‘The piece of paper was actually an envelope, and normally I wouldn’t deliver anything without postage, but the shilling would more than cover it, and it is not the first time a young girl wanted to pass a letter to her young man without her parents’ knowing. I thought it would be a good deed so I did not go to the door and ask questions. Instead, I was about to tuck it into my pouch when I took a closer look…’ Mr Olivett handed the item to Holmes who read the address:
Mr Sherlock Holmes
Baker Street
Mr Olivett continued. ‘Rather than sending it through regular channels, I thought it best to deliver it myself.’Baker Street
Holmes had retrieved his great lens and was examining the writing and the paper stock with interest.
‘From what address did you get this?’ Holmes asked without looking up.
‘It was Ivyleighton in west Lewisham; an older manor surrounded by newer houses. It is the de Leighton family’s home. Professor de Leighton lives there now that the old Colonel is gone.’
‘This is not an envelope, it is one piece of paper folded and glued,’ Holmes observed. ‘Who else resides there?’
‘Just the old man and his household staff, as far as I know. I’ve met the butler. The neighbours say the professor is quite a recluse. Some think he is ill.’
‘What kind of mail does the house receive?’
Olivett hesitated. ‘It is not my habit to snoop about…’
‘Just a general description will suffice,’ Holmes cut in impatiently.
‘Invoices from shops mostly; personal correspondence between the housekeeper and her sister; really nothing remarkable, I’m sorry, Mr Holmes.’
‘Does the professor receive any personal correspondence?’
‘Actually, I cannot recall any.’
‘Very well, Mr Olivett. Thank you for bringing this to me. Here’s another shilling for your trouble.’
I showed Mr Olivett out, passed my best wishes along to his wife and children, and then returned to the sitting room where Holmes had carefully opened the missive with his sharp penknife.
‘What is it?’ I asked as I could not read his expression.
‘The game’s afoot in Lewisham,’ he replied, handing me the paper with my forceps.
The message was short and it read:
Mr Sherlock Holmes
Please help me
Please help me
Its script was level and evenly spaced, indicating an adult author and yet the individual characters were written with an unsteady hand.
‘That’s very vague. Are you sure this is worth your time?’
‘Look closer, Watson,’ Holmes was as alert as a hound in the slips. ‘I am quite compelled to investigate this matter.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because this request has been written in blood.’
Chapter 3: Lewisham
With prophetic clouds heavy with impending rain, the next morning found Holmes and I in a cab bound for Lewisham.
‘Someone in Professor de Leighton’s house is a prisoner and I mean to find out who,’ said Holmes, breaking the silence.
‘A prisoner? You astonish me,’ I declared.
‘Who else would construct an envelope, write me a message in blood, and seal it with oatmeal porridge? Someone went to extraordinary measures to contact me; someone without access to envelopes or ink. I fear it may be Professor Humbold de Leighton himself. I was not idle last night. The Who’s Who lists de Leighton as a retired Cambridge historian and lecturer who specialised in the evolution of Arthurian literature and was well-regarded in that area. The dates indicate that he took early retirement to Ivyleighton in Lewisham, the home of his father, the late Colonel Conrad de Leighton of Balaclava fame.’
It would be futile to ask Holmes to speculate further so I passed the time spotting landmarks along our route.
The rain was falling in earnest as we rang the doorbell and I regretted Holmes’ decision to release the cabbie from any obligation to us.
Moments later the door opened to our summons and we were met by a tall, angular man, dressed appropriately in the crisp suit of the major domo. I estimated his age to be approximately fifty years. His greeting was polite and formal.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ his statement had a questioning tone.
‘My name is Sherlock Holmes,’ said my companion. ‘You may have heard of me. And this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.’
‘Yes, Mr Holmes. Your reputation precedes you. I am Hodges. How may I be of service?’
‘I wish to speak with Professor de Leighton.’
‘I’m afraid that would be impossible. The Professor is not receiving guests at present.’
‘Is that so? This is a serious matter and I am willing to come back with the police and a warrant.’
‘Respectfully, sir, that would not be necessary. You are welcome to come back tomorrow for a visit after luncheon. The Professor has been under the weather as of late and was not expecting visitors today.’
‘My colleague is fully qualified—’ Holmes began.
‘Professor de Leighton has his own physician, Dr Isaac McDonald.’
‘Thank you, Hodges,’ I responded before Holmes could say another word. ‘We will return tomorrow afternoon around two o’clock. Good day.’
The door closed and I turned to face Holmes’ glare. ‘We have nothing to gain by antagonising the staff. Besides, I know McDonald. He might be willing to answer a few discreet questions.’
Chapter 4: What Dr McDonald Had To Say
Dr Isaac McDonald’s prosperous practice on Harley Street boasted multiple waiting rooms where he consulted with his patients. Years ago, I had the privilege of attending to several of McDonald’s home visit patients whilst he recovered from a yachting accident and I was sure he would speak with me even on short notice, medical confidentiality notwithstanding. I tried not to take up too much of Dr McDonald’s time and I quickly jotted the salient data in my notebook. What I learned was discouraging and wondered to myself whether or not Holmes would continue his investigation once he heard what I had to report.
‘Professor de Leighton suffers from dementia. He had to leave his position at Cambridge because he could no longer function as lecturer and his research was devolving into, and I quote, “gibberish”. His mental faculties have quite deteriorated and lately his physical condition has started to decline. He is prone to delusions and paranoia, alternating between periods of confusion, violence, and apathy. McDonald was initially consulted when de Leighton moved to Lewisham and anticipates a rapid decline. In his opinion, Professor de Leighton has less than a year to live.’
‘Perhaps this is a prank but I am willing to try to find out. Would you care to join me again tomorrow?’
‘Gladly, if you think there is something to it.’
‘At this point, I cannot promise it one way or the other.’
Chapter 5: Return to Ivyleighton
On our subsequent journey to Lewisham the following afternoon we were greeted, not by the butler Hodges, but by Mr James Gillespie, Professor de Leighton’s lawyer.
‘I apologise, Mr Holmes,’ said Hodges. ‘You have a reputation for uncovering that which wishes to remain covered. It was not my place to discuss the Professor’s health with you, so I contacted Mr Gillespie.’
‘Hodges was right to send for me,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘There are matters of confidentiality to consider. Professor de Leighton’s health is tenuous and we do not want to do anything to jeopardise him or his privacy in anyway, do you take my meaning?’
‘I am not some rat of a reporter, seeking gossip to exploit,’ Holmes insisted. ‘I received a request from the man himself, and I am determined to follow up on it.’
‘You received a request?’ Both Hodges and Gillespie were clearly astonished and demanded to see it. They discussed and debated its origin and came to the conclusion that since it was indeed penned by Professor de Leighton, as long as Holmes and I vowed to protect de Leighton’s privacy, we would be granted an audience.
‘There are certain things you need to know before you go in,’ said Gillespie. ‘Professor de Leighton is quite insane. If the asylums were not such horrendous hell-holes, I would have found accommodations for him there. He has developed a propensity for violence which, in such institutions, would result in harsh punishment and strong and questionable medications. Asylum patients may become subjects of medical experimentation as well. Arthur de Leighton, the professor’s son, would not hear of having his father thus institutionalised and we are all content with that decision.
‘The professor’s condition is changeable. One day he may be as meek as a lamb and on other days he may need to be restrained. As of late, his physical strength has been waning so he has been easier to manage, but his delusions are the hardest thing to contend with.
‘The Professor believes that we are all out to kill him. He will starve himself for days in fear of poison. Sometimes he is lost in the past, asking after his dead son. Sometimes it is the tales of King Arthur and the knights of old. Other times he claims that he is imprisoned by the household staff and even refuses to acknowledge his daughter. Poor girl; she no longer comes to visit.’
‘I have no idea, Mr Holmes, of why he contacted you.’ Hodges said. ‘I did not know that he had the capacity for such actions, nor do I know what story he will tell you. Just be prepared to hear anything and try not to upset him.’
Chapter 6: We Meet Our Client At Last
We were led up two flights to the door to the Professor’s room. Holmes seemed eager to confront the questions raised in his mind and I too confess to less-than-professional curiosity in anticipation of meeting this strange man. We opened the door and entered.
The sparse room was bright with natural light even though the day was overcast. Two tall windows faced the rather unkempt back garden. Seated in bed was a frail-looking elder man in clean blue pyjamas. As was my habit when dealing with the aged, I looked for signs of neglect. The man’s hair and beard had been recently washed and trimmed. The room and the patient smelled clean and he gave no signs of heavy medication. With a nod from Holmes, I examined the items in the room finding only essential toiletries, small clothes, and spare bedding.
‘Good afternoon, Professor de Leighton—’ Holmes began.
‘Merlin!’ the old man exclaimed, his eyes filling with tears.
‘I’m sorry, Professor. You have confused me with another. My name is—‘
‘Merlin! I see through your disguise. You can’t hide genius like yours so easily!’
If Sherlock Holmes had a weakness, it was flattery. Over the time I have known him, he has become better at concealing it, but it persisted nonetheless. Holmes blushed as he pulled up a chair to sit at de Leighton’s bedside.
‘I am Sherlock Holmes. You sent for me.’ Holmes held out the missive.
De Leighton’s face fell but he continued to stare deep into Holmes’ eyes. Slowly he grinned. ‘Of course, of course. You may take the name Holmes in this lifetime, but I recognise you from days of old. You are Merlin, your intellect shines bright as the midsummer sun, and I KNOW you, but I do not recognise this man.’
‘That is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. He is a healer.’
‘A healer and a warrior… seen better days from the looks of him.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said I returning the offered handshake while noting his freshly cut nails and the bruises on his wrists as his pyjama sleeves fell back. I met Holmes’ eye. He had observed those details as well.
‘If I am Merlin, then who are you?’ Holmes asked.
‘So many years have passed that it is no wonder you do not recognise me. I’m Hwerd, a squire of Arthur’s court.’
Holmes look at me questioningly. I had devoured the Arthurian legends when I was young but that name was not familiar to me. I shrugged and Holmes turned back to de Leighton.
‘I know you to be Humbolt de Leighton, King’s College Cambridge historian, and son of Colonel Conrad de Leighton. I do not know Hwerd.’
‘I was just a boy; more servant than squire when the prophecy was made: that Arthur would return in Albion’s time of greatest need. That time is now. You were his mentor, his friend. You must find him, Merlin— you must!
‘Is that why you called upon the services of Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yes. No? Yes. Arthur lies uneasy in his grave. He must be found and buried in sacred earth in order to rise again. There is an east wind coming and it brings leagues of hellspawn warriors, monsters of the sea, and fire-breathing dragons to fill the skies. Albion will need her King or all will be lost. Were I not prisoner here, poisoned by my captors, I would have sought him out years ago. It is the duty I owe him.’
‘I’ve met your household staff. They are very concerned for you.’
‘LIARS! IMPOSTERS! THEY ARE KILLING ME WITH THEIR WITCHCRAFT! Merlin, surely you can see through them!’ his voice fell to a whispered plea.
This outburst prompted a firm knock on the door preceded by Hodges’ entry.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Holmes. I warned you this might happen. Professor de Leighton is agitated and needs his medicine. You will have to leave.’
Holmes stood. ‘My colleague can help. Watson, please see to the professor. I will be just outside in the hallway.’ Holmes gave the Professor’s arm a reassuring pat and left the room.
Hodges handed me a little box of pills. ‘These help calm him. They contain a mild sedative. Normally he takes one, but considering his current state, he should take two.’
‘Very well,’ I said examining the box for labels and finding none. When Hodges excused himself I resumed the chair Holmes had occupied. De Leighton regarded me with fear.
‘Please... don’t make me...’
‘I won’t. Just promise to calm yourself and I’ll say that you did, all right?’
The professor nodded in relief and I secreted two of the pills in my handkerchief, knowing that Holmes would be interested in assessing their chemical compounds. I poured water from the ewer, leaving the glass half full as if the medicine had been taken.
Chapter 7: Legal Affairs
The lawyer, Gillespie, whose offices were near Westminster, offered to take us back across the river in his carriage and Holmes took the opportunity to question him about the de Leighton family.
‘My office was in charge of the old colonel’s affairs for many years so it was not surprising that Professor de Leighton retained my services upon his arrival at Ivyleighton. I even assumed that role for Lt Arthur de Leighton when he was discharged from the army, poor fellow; most unlucky.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Arthur was in the artillery. A shell took half of his hand and incapacitated his arm quite badly. He was very unhappy for a while but after a few months he met a young woman; an American, and they made plans to marry. She returned to New York and he was lost at sea three months later. He had been on his way to meet her parents and to accompany her on her return to England.’
‘Lost at sea?’
‘Perhaps he had misgivings. It is pointless to speculate. He was last seen at supper two nights out of Southampton. His belongings were found in his cabin all neatly packed and his valuables had not been removed. Foul play was not suspected. The polite explanation is that he may have imbibed too much and fell overboard. Less charitable rumours suggested suicide.’
‘And the young American?’
‘Georgia Penhay as she was called back then, engaged the Pinkerton agency to investigate Arthur’s disappearance. They came to the same conclusion as the steamship company: death by misfortune. She has since moved on and has married a Canadian called Brody.’
‘Professor de Leighton also has a daughter. What led to her estrangement?’
‘Guinevere; how did you know about that?’
‘Her name came up in conversation and yet there are no portraits of her in the house, whereas the Colonel holds pride of place over the mantel, the Professor’s Cambridge portrait adorns his library, and there are photographs of Arthur in various rooms.’
‘I suppose Professor de Leighton locked away or destroyed all images of her when he disowned her. I know naught of what caused the rift. The professor refuses to even acknowledge her; claims he has no daughter. Perhaps you should ask Hodges. He has known the family longer.’
‘What about the rest of the staff?’
‘Hodges hired the housekeeper, Mrs Lukes, when the professor moved to Ivyleighton. Daisy Beele is the latest of a long line of maids. The house is too big for one girl to manage and I imagine de Leighton’s erratic behaviour would drive anyone to their wits’ end. The girls soon find better opportunities and move on.’
We left Mr Gillespie at his offices and headed home to Baker Street.
Chapter 8: Reflections On The Matter
‘That poor man,’ I reflected on our encounters as we hailed a likely hansom.
‘The professor? Medicine is not my speciality and neither are maladies of the mind yours, Watson. That aside, something is not right at Ivyleighton.’
‘Then despite all this fancy, you believe his wild allegations?’
‘A brilliant mind lies amongst the ruins here, Watson. What did you think of his room?’
‘His room?’ I was surprised by the tack the conversation had taken. ‘It was clean, bright, and certainly a better situation than any room in a private hospital, never mind an asylum. Why, what am I missing?’
‘Ha! Good old Watson; sniffing ‘round the wrong tree again. The windows—’
‘The windows opened on the back garden, not to the street!’ I exclaimed in a rush.‘ Professor de Leighton could not have been the one to drop the letter to Olivett—’
‘Or…’ Holmes arched an eyebrow at me in expectation.
‘Oh. How can I be so stupid? The room was too clean. There were no personal objects. He had been moved. But why?’
‘That is just one of niggling details I would like to resolve. Give me the pills you purloined and I’ll analyse them tonight and find out what nefarious compounds they may contain. I hope I have enough tobacco. It’s going to be a long night.’
Chapter 9: The Investigation Takes A New Course
Sometime in the wee hours I awoke to Sherlock Holmes entering my room carrying a lamp.
‘Ah, Watson. I’m glad you’re awake. I just returned from the bookseller’s shop—’
‘You just returned? Just now? There are no shops open at this hour!’
‘That is true, but Goldstone opened his doors for me,’ Holmes beamed, ‘And he was just the man. Here is a present for you.’ Holmes pulled from his pocket a small, thin volume which by the dim light appeared to be an illustrated book for children. The title page read:
Albion’s King
Tales of King Arthur
by
H.C. de Leighton
1860
Tales of King Arthur
by
H.C. de Leighton
1860
‘Wait, Holmes, weren’t you going to test the medicine?’
‘I did. The pills were as advertised: a mild sedative; perhaps stronger than what Hodges indicated, but not enough to be suspicious. Ah well, there are plenty of less obvious ways to poison a man, if he is indeed being poisoned at all.’
‘But you think this book is important?’
‘You don’t have to read it tonight, dear boy. Take it with you to Moorfields and look it over when you get a moment. It’s a simple read yet it may prove to be illuminating. I look forward to your insights tomorrow evening. I should very much like to hear what Professor de Leighton’s former colleagues have to say about him so I’m off to Cambridge in the morning.’
‘It IS morning, Holmes,’ I made no attempt to stifle my yawn or mask my annoyance.
Chapter 10: What The Cambridge Scholars Had To Say
Holmes had a productive day in Cambridge and he returned satisfied that his time had not been wasted. He found out that Professor de Leighton had become obsessed with the original roots of the Arthur myth; a very elusive pursuit due to the Old Gaels oral tradition of story-keeping being superseded by wave upon wave of more recent adaptations; from the early Christian influence to the European retellings by the French and the Germans. At first his colleagues thought that de Leighton was just becoming engrossed in his research, then in 1881, his son, called Arthur, injured by the war, came home. By then the Professor's friends realised that he was actually losing his mind. There was an incident involving some embarrassment to his college but nobody got hurt. His friends convinced him to leave and he retired to Lewisham to care for his son.
‘This incident; did it involve his daughter perhaps?’ I inquired.
‘No, there was no mention of her. It concerned the carving of a pagan phallus into a local farmer’s field on the night of the winter solstice.’
‘Oh dear!’
‘The professor was naked at the time.’
‘Oh my!’
Chapter 11: A Children's Book
‘I must thank you for the charming book, Holmes. I had no idea de Leighton was so creative. The tales he tells of magic and high adventure are so vivid. Did you know he illustrated it himself?’
‘No, but did you examine the dedication?’
‘It said ‘for Arthur’. I’m guessing he meant his son, and not the legendary king.’
‘Quite. It was a self-published limited run of forty-eight copies which were given out as gifts, primarily to Arthur’s playmates and their families. No mention of the daughter?’
‘Come to think of it, no. Not even as a character in the stories. That’s strange. Perhaps he wrote other stories for her. Anyhow, the squire, Hwerd, features as a clumsy lad who shirks his menial duties in favour of learning swordplay and raiding the food stores. Here’s a picture of him with King Arthur hiding under a round table whilst evading some enemy invaders. They’re trying desperately to cover Arthur’s sword because it insists on glowing and giving their position away.’
It was a charming picture. The mixture of fear and comedy truly matched the scene of the story.
‘And yet, no Guinevere,’ mused Holmes. I confess this detail made me a bit uneasy.
‘Watson, I admit this case is quite intriguing. Separating fact from delusion is just the kind of challenge I crave.’
‘I know you like a good puzzle but please try to remember that your client is very vulnerable. You cannot treat him as cavalierly as is your wont.’
‘Because I am willing to communicate with him on his level? Tsk, tsk! You better mind that you do not treat him as if he is already beyond hope. The professor was a brilliant man when he was healthy and I have to believe some of that remains.’
That night I lay awake contemplating my approach to Professor de Leighton’s condition and asking myself if I was doing my best in this situation.
Chapter 12: The Clue of the Rhododendron Hedge
We returned to Ivyleighton two days later. Holmes bid me visit with the professor intending to examine the other upstairs rooms unobserved.
I open the door and entered. Professor de Leighton sat looking down upon the neglected garden. Tears streamed down his face. He did not turn to face me. I reintroduced myself and noted how frail he had become.
‘It’s sad: too many houses, too many neighbours,’ he decried. ‘We scar the land with our hedges and our walls. To what end? The walls crumble and the hedges wither and die.’
I spotted shoddy workmanship in many sections of the garden wall, and the rhododendron hedge looked lifeless and neglected except for one corner near the potting shed where the leaves were full and green.
‘Will Merlin come today?’ he asked at last.
‘Maybe later, or perhaps tomorrow.’ I replied.
‘Can we walk in the garden?’ de Leighton asked after another long silence.
‘Yes. I’ll help you manage it.’ I assisted him with his slippers and dressing gown and he was as light as a bird as I carried him down to the garden.
Professor de Leighton ran his fingers along the lush portion of the rhododendron hedge with a look of abject sorrow.
‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
‘This cursed curse…’ He snorted realising he had made a joke. ‘It is important. I just cannot remember why. I would ask Merlin if he were here.’
‘You lived here as a child. Has it something to do with that?’
He brightened.
‘The castle!’ he exclaimed, pointing at the dilapidated potting shed. We made our way over and I pried the door open. Inside was dark and smelled of mould and the leavings of mice.
‘There are likely spiders in here.’ I warned.
‘Big ones, to be sure!’ exclaimed de Leighton with more glee than I considered necessary. I retrieved and lit a lantern to better see the shed’s contents.
‘Did you bring your son here when he was a child?’ I asked but the professor’s moment of lucidity had waned. He fixated on a circle carved into the surface of the bench. I went to take his arm and lead him out but we were stopped in our tracks by Hodges who stood in the doorway blocking our progress.
‘Doctor, you should know better than to have the professor out of doors. Where is Mr Holmes?’
‘He returned to London to post some telegrams to the census office,’ I replied with what nonchalance I could muster. ‘He is trying to trace Guinevere de Leighton.’
‘I already gave him her address,’ said Hodges.
‘It proved false.’
‘I don’t know what to say. It is the only one she provided,’ apologised Hodges smoothly.
‘I have no daughter. I NEVER HAD a daughter. Merlin is on the right track!’ the professor exclaimed.
‘Please, Professor, you’re becoming upset. Doctor, can you help me get—’
‘Merlin is on to you,’ roared de Leighton, pointing an accusing finger at Hodges. ‘You killed Arthur!’
‘Professor, these fanciful tales are all in your head. King Arthur is only a myth,’ reasoned Hodges.
‘Not King Arthur; MY SON, Arthur!’
Hodges was rattled and turned to me. ‘His son was lost at sea; on his way to America. Dr Watson, please help me return the professor to his room. He’s clearly out of his mind!’
‘I’m not entirely convinced of that. Why did you move him to the rear bedroom?’ I demanded.
I knew I had struck a nerve. Hodges’ composure slipped for an instant. He lunged at me with some garden shears. There was a sickening crunch and pain shot through my arm. Off-balance I was easy prey. Hodges swept my leg out from under me and I fell, my head striking and shattering a stack of clay pots. I urged de Leighton to flee, or at least I meant to, as I fought to remain conscious.
The mind plays tricks. Time seemed to slow and I perceived with absolute clarity the illustration from de Leighton’s storybook where Hwerd and Arthur hid beneath the table. And now, there was de Leighton, aged and frail, sheltering beneath the same table he had used in that drawing, clawing up the floorboard and retrieving, not a gleaming sword, but a narrow garden trowel. With all his might, the old man plunged the blade through the soft leather of Hodges shoe, down through the metatarsus, and God-willing, deep into the floor below.
Hodges’ scream rent the air but it seemed far away. I could smell smoke. Suddenly the howling stopped and I heard the voice of Sherlock Holmes imploring me to answer him.
Chapter 13: Denouement
Holmes bound Hodges, his foot still pinned to the floor in the shed, and had Daisy, the maid, summon the police.
I was dazed and probably concussed. Some of the pottery sherds had cut into my scalp and, in the nature of such wounds, it bled profusely. I knew my arm to be broken and tried not to squawk when Holmes fashioned a makeshift sling for it.
‘I was looking out the window when I spied Hodges following you into the shed.’ said Holmes. ‘I came running the instant he picked up the shears. Watson, what did you say to provoke him?’
‘I insinuated that there never was a Guinevere de Leighton.’
‘I had not shared my suspicions with you. How did you know?’
‘Arthur and Guinevere were husband and wife. One does not call their children after two lovers. Besides, Professor de Leighton was interested in the earliest Arthurian legends. The character of Guinevere was a later, French embellishment.’
‘Ha ha! Never let it be said that the study of literature is a waste of time!’
‘What happened to Hodges? ’ I asked Professor de Leighton whilst Holmes fussed about.
‘Merlin cast a fireball. It was brilliant!’
‘A fireball, indeed?’
‘Not exactly,’ interjected Holmes. ‘I struck Hodges with the lantern. His coat caught fire and I had to spend the next instance pummelling him to put it out.’
‘Brilliant,’ de Leighton smiled wistfully.
The police took Hodges into custody leaving the three of us alone by the potting shed. Holmes helped me to my feet and once assured that I could manage he pointed to the corner of the garden.
‘Do you see that hedge? There is a reason why it thrived whilst the others wasted away. It was receiving nutrients where the others were not.’
‘You don’t mean to say—’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Holmes. ‘Professor, I believe your son to be—’
‘Dig him up, Merlin. Arthur needs to be buried in hallowed ground or else he will not be able to answer Albion’s call. I could not save him in this lifetime, but I can prepare him for the next. Our Land will have its protector once more.’
Chapter 14: The Case Concludes
No trace of Guinevere de Leighton was ever found and her existence was written off as one of Hodges’ fabrications.
The rhododendron was cut down and found, entangled amongst its roots, were the skeletal remains of a human adult male. The surviving fabric was consistent with clothing Arthur de Leighton had worn on the night he was to depart to Southampton. The remains of a leather glove containing two carved wooden fingers confirmed Arthur’s identity. Apparently, the lieutenant had adopted the prosthetics to mask his injury. The cause of death was attributed to a crushed skull, although other soft-tissue damage would have been possible.
‘But Arthur was seen by many witnesses boarding the S.S. Atlantica. He disappeared at sea. How could he end up buried in the garden?’ I asked.
‘Hodges confessed to assuming Arthur’s identity and using his first-class ticket to board the steamship only to double back and re-board in disguise with a third-class ticket. I suspect Hodges found the freshly planted hedge to be a convenient place to hide his body. With the roots not firmly established, the soil would have been loose enough,’ replied Holmes.
Hodges was found guilty of the assault against me but the police had to force an admission from him connecting him to the disappearance of Arthur de Leighton. The coerced confession was inadmissible in court so the blackguard only received a ten year sentence.
‘I do not understand Hodges’ motive in all of this,’ I confessed to Holmes over brandy in our sitting room.
‘He believed he could inherit the de Leighton estate. I spoke to Gillespie. Professor de Leighton had not made a Last Will and Testament and being no longer of sound mind, any will he made would be invalid. Fortunately, the old colonel’s will was still in effect. It stated that if Professor de Leighton could not inherit, everything would pass to any surviving grandchildren. That will predated their births so the grandchildren were not named individually. Gillespie was not concerned because, even with Arthur being declared dead, the estate would pass to his sister, Guinevere.’
‘Except there was no Guinevere.’
‘Precisely. There were no further contingencies. The estate would have been mired in the courts for years while Hodges would have been appointed caretaker of the property and all the other physical assets; a nice salary, light duties, and the chance to pawn a valuable from time to time.’
‘What now? Professor de Leighton has no heir and cannot write a will. A criminal cannot draw benefit from his crimes, so Hodges’ scheme has failed.’
‘Gillespie and I made an arrangement with the chancellor at King’s College, Cambridge. All of the remaining assets of the de Leighton estate will be used to establish the Arthur de Leighton scholarship for the studies of Arthurian and early English history. We may have overstepped our bounds but we thought it would please Professor de Leighton if he understood at all.’
‘That seems quite fitting. How do you suppose the professor knew about his son’s death?’
‘I suspect that he either witnessed the murder or the subsequent burial. Somehow he deduced it, and somewhere in his labyrinthine brain he found the ways and means to involve me in the case.’
‘How did he know to contact you?’
‘There was an old copy of The Strand in his original bedroom. He must have liked your article.’
I still had questions. ‘Why did Hodges move the professor to the rear bedroom, Holmes?’
‘Hodges did not want us to notice that the windows were nailed shut and that Professor de Leighton had broken the glass to send his summons. Also, although Hodges attempted a hasty cleaning, the room was filthy. The professor had not been cared for very well, I’m afraid. I do not know how the professor happened to obtain a sheet of paper, but he plucked a feather from a taxidermy raven and fashioned a quill pen, drew his own blood to use as ink, and sealed the paper’s edges with starch from his morning porridge.’
‘That sounds like something Hwerd, the character in his stories, would have done,’ said I.
‘Yes. I believe the professor had quite an active imagination when he was young. He was considered a remarkable storyteller.’
Epilogue
Professor de Leighton passed from our realm three months later. I had taken to visiting him every week, bringing Holmes along whenever he was available. Sometimes the professor recognised me; most times he did not. Even so, he knew Holmes as Merlin until the very end.
Before his death, Professor de Leighton had told Holmes that he wished Arthur to be properly buried in hallowed ground. We three visited the resting place of Colonel de Leighton in the old cemetery in Blackheath, a burial site which dated back to pre-Christian times. When the professor deemed the resting place acceptable, Holmes himself made the arrangements. Arthur was re-interred in the family plot, and when the time came, so was his father. Their names were added to to the colonel’s monument, and their resting places were marked by simple stones, one carved with “Arthur” and the other “Hwerd”.
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And I did laugh at Holmes' blush to be called Merlin! :-D
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It’s so poignant that through his confusion Professor de Leighton still knows the truth, and that Holmes understands this and believes him. I love as well Watson’s compassion for the professor. I love that as a doctor he treats the professor as a vulnerable human being, rather than a ‘madman’ to be controlled - refusing to force an unlabelled sedative on a frightened man. And it's such a wonderful use of the King Arthur myth - the way the professor views Holmes allows us to see him with a fresh pair of eyes too. It’s oddly appropriate: Holmes is a kind of magician and hero - finding out the truth when no-one else can see it, and saving the innocent. And he has indeed become a mythical character for us, reinterpreted over and over again in many different physical forms.
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Holmes cast as Merlin is just brilliant. He loves the comparison, and so do I. The entire case is so engaging with the smart use of Arthurian legend and lovely human moments. In a story with much melancholy, there are still so many touches of humor and kindness. I concur with other comments - compassionate is the word to use to describe your story, Author. I greatly enjoyed it.
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