Chapter One . , "The Message Is Quite Clear"
FROM THE NARRATIVE OF DR. JOHN WATSON:1
The beginning of what I do not hesitate to call the most challenging case ever to present itself to Sherlock Holmes may be dated to the afternoon of July 3, 1900, when a most curious letter arrived at our flat on Baker Street. We had spent the morning uneventfully-a not uncommon occurrence, or so it seemed, since the conclusion of the affair of the Napoleons in early June. Despite the drought of new cases, Holmes was in a surprisingly agreeable mood, for he had been hard at work on his latest monograph. It was devoted to a namesake, Henry H. Holmes, the notorious Chicago murderer of women. Sherlock Holmes believed that Henry Holmes and others like him represented a distinct species of murderer because of the serial nature of their crimes, and that certain characteristics might be common to all such killers.2
Holmes was descanting at some length and with much enthusiasm upon his theory when Mrs. Hudson brought up the mail. Like a hungry tiger pouncing upon its prey, Holmes quickly tore through the pile of letters, tossing aside those that appeared to offer no hope of satisfying his endless appetite for adventure. He had nearly completed this ritual when an envelope suddenly caught his attention. Holmes stared down at it, a look close to shock on his face, and then, without a word, handed it to me.
I saw at once why the envelope had produced such an electric reaction in Holmes, for in lieu of the usual return address was an inscription in the cipher of the "dancing men," as Holmes had dubbed it. We had first encountered this secret code two years earlier in the case of the Chicago criminal, Abe Slaney, who murdered Hilton Cubitt of Ridling Thorpe Manor. Holmes had easily broken the cipher, which employed a system of stick figures to signify letters of the alphabet. He then captured Slaney, who was in love with Cubitt's wife, Elsie. Slaney later admitted to his crime and was sent to Dartmoor prison, but he died not long thereafter while attempting to escape. There the case had ended, or so I had assumed.
"Well, my dear Watson, what are we to make of this?" Holmes asked as I handed back the envelope. "It would seem the dancing men are up to their old tricks."
"Perhaps it is from Elsie Cubitt herself," I noted. "After all, your relationship with her-"
"Is not a matter we shall discuss at the moment," Holmes said curtly. "Now, let us see who has written this singular missive."
Holmes slit open the envelope and found a sheet of common paper bearing a brief message written in the cipher. It did not take Holmes long to translate the chilling message, which he read aloud: "You are not finished with me, nor I with Elsie. Catch me if you can. I will be waiting. Abe Slaney." Holmes also translated the brief inscription on the envelope, which said simply: "Greetings from Chicago."
Holmes picked up his favorite pipe, lit it and said, "Well, Watson, do you still believe Mrs. Cubitt is the author of this letter?"
"Of course not, but it must certainly be someone's idea of a bad joke. Abe Slaney is dead, as is well known."
"Perhaps," said Holmes. "Yet if it is a joke, it is a very clever one, Watson, for who except Slaney-or one of his associates-would know of the dancing men? As you may remember, Slaney pleaded guilty to his crime, and the specifics of the cipher were never entered into the public record. Nor have you as yet committed the case to paper. I am therefore left to wonder how the cipher became a matter of general public knowledge."3
"I am sure I do not know, but I must remind you again that Slaney is dead."
"No, he is presumed to be dead, Watson, or have you forgotten?"
Before I could answer, Holmes began rummaging through one of the several stacks of yellowing newspapers that littered our quarters. He soon found-how I cannot say-the story he was looking for.
"Ah, here it is in the Daily Telegraph, from last March 15. I will read you the first few paragraphs: 'Authorities in Devon have abandoned their search for Abe Slaney, the Chicago criminal serving a long term at Princetown Prison for the murder in 1898 of Mr. Hilton Cubitt in Norfolk. It is now believed that Slaney, who escaped from the prison two days ago, was drowned in Plymouth Sound, which he apparently attempted to navigate in a small rowboat stolen from a local fisherman. The search for Slaney had concentrated in Plymouth following the discovery of several articles of prison clothing in a trash barrel near a small inlet where the boat was kept. Inspector Barrington of the Devon constabulary said Slaney "could not have survived" the storm, even though his body has never been found.'"4
"So you believe Slaney might still be alive?"
"I believe nothing, Watson, as I have insufficient evidence to form an opinion one way or the other. Slaney could indeed be dead, though I would point out to you that, insofar as can be gleaned from the newspapers, his body remains unrecovered to this day. Or, he could be very much alive and the author of the letter we have just received. Or-"
"Someone else could have written the letter," I said. "But why?"
"Perhaps to attract my attention, Watson. If so, the writer's strategy must be accounted a success. I would also point out that the postmark on the letter is in many ways as intriguing as the letter itself."
I looked at the envelope again and saw that it had been sent from North Walsham, a small Norfolk village seven miles from Ridling Thorpe Manor, where Elsie Cubitt-who had attempted suicide after her husband's death but ultimately recovered-now lived as a wealthy widow.
I knew at once what Holmes intended to do. "I will begin packing," I said, "since I imagine we shall be gone for several days."
"Be quick about it," Holmes said, "for we have not one moment to spare. It is entirely possible that Elsie Cubitt's life may again be in great danger. Now, if memory serves me correctly, there is a train at five o'clock, which will take us to North Walsham. We should just have time to catch it."
We reached North Walsham just before dusk and hired the first carriage we found. Once we had settled into our seats, Holmes instructed the driver to proceed "with all due speed" to Ridling Thorpe Manor. Our driver, a stout young fellow with a firm grip on the reins, was happy to comply, and we went tearing off through the broad green countryside of East Anglia just as the sun slid beneath the horizon. We had hardly gotten clear of town when the driver aroused our curiosity by asking if we were with the police.
"What leads you to believe that might be the case?" Holmes asked.
"You haven't heard then," said the driver.
"Heard what?"
"Well, it's all the talk around here. Mrs. Hilton Cubitt is missing and there are some what think she was snatched. Others aren't so sure. Most of the Norfolk constabulary is out at the manor as we speak."
"I see," said Holmes, his face going pale. "Tell me everything, sir, and there will be a handsome reward in it for you."
The driver now related a most singular story, which he had heard from a servant at Ridling Thorpe:
Early that morning, an upstairs maid at the manor had gone to Mrs. Cubitt's bedroom to offer breakfast. The maid found the door open and went in. She found a note by the bed. Written in what appeared to be Mrs. Cubitt's hand, the note stated that she had awakened early to go riding. This was unusual as she was not an early riser by habit and generally rode her horse in the evening. Still, the maid saw no cause for alarm and went about her normal business, as did other members of the household. By early afternoon, however, Mrs. Cubitt had not returned and her absence began to be troubling, as she was supposed to meet at two o'clock with a friend. A check of the stables revealed that Mrs. Cubitt's mare and saddle were indeed gone but turned up no other evidence.
"Do you know if Mrs. Cubitt was accustomed to saddling the horse on her own?" Holmes asked the driver.
"No, I'm sure that job was left to one of the stable hands, but I expect she could do it in a pinch if she had to."
"Very well. Pray, continue."
The driver now related that two stable boys and the manor's chief groom decided to search for Mrs. Cubitt, fearing she might have fallen from her horse or suffered some other mishap. Soon thereafter, the groom made a disturbing discovery. Just outside the manor's main gate, along a road coming up from North Walsham, he found Mrs. Cubitt's mare, idly grazing in a field. The horse was still saddled. There was no sign of Mrs. Cubitt, however, although the groom carefully searched the area.
"A most curious situation," said Holmes. "What happened next?"
"Well, as you can imagine, the folks at the manor started to get very worried. As they have no telephone as yet, they sent a lad out to the village to fetch Inspector Martin."
"Ah, and is the inspector at the house now?"
"Last I heard, he is."
"Good. I shall want to talk to him at once."
Holmes then questioned the driver closely regarding other details of Mrs. Cubitt's disappearance but learned little else of interest.
Night was about to fall as the margin of the German Ocean suddenly appeared like a broad dim stripe on the eastern horizon. Moments later, the manor house came into view. Tucked within a small island of trees, the house displayed two exceptionally high, steep gables of half-timbering and brick, but was otherwise unremarkable. In the deepening darkness, as wind clattered through gnarled old trees, the house presented a somber and melancholy aspect, just as it had in August of 1898 when we first visited it to unravel the deadly mystery of the dancing men.5
We went inside and found Inspector Thomas Martin sitting in an overstuffed chair in a large, oak-paneled hall at the center of the house. Martin was the same police officer who had investigated Hilton Cubitt's murder, earning Holmes's respect in the process. A tidy little man with a meticulously maintained black mustache and quick brown eyes, Martin was quite astonished to see us. He rose at once from his chair and shook our hands with great enthusiasm.6
"My God, this is an unexpected pleasure," said the inspector. "How on earth did the two of you get here so quickly?"
"You might say, inspector, that we were invited," Holmes replied.
Holmes now showed the inspector the letter we had received purporting to be from Slaney.
After examining the document, Martin said, "It is not a thing I wish to believe, Mr. Holmes, and yet I am beginning to think that I must. The authorities at Dartmoor were very certain that Slaney drowned, but without a body-"
"Without a body, we must leave open all possibilities. You are absolutely right, inspector. Now then, I should be interested to hear what you have learned to this point."
Martin gladly complied with Holmes's request. Upon arriving at Ridling Thorpe late in the afternoon, the inspector had begun by organizing a team of constables and locals to search "every square inch" of the manor, including the house itself, for some sign of Mrs. Cubitt. Thus far, they had found nothing. Martin had already talked at length with the servants, who noted that Mrs. Cubitt had been somewhat distracted over the past week but had given no indication why this was so. The servants also stated that no suspicious visitors had been seen recently at the house or in the vicinity of the manor.
"As far as I can tell, the lady's disappearance came out of the blue," Martin told us. "Nobody in the house seems to have thought anything was seriously wrong."
"You have, I presume, inquired as to whether she received an unusual letter or other type of message recently?" Holmes asked.
"Of course. It was my first thought, given what happened here two years ago when Slaney sent those messages. The butler, who takes the mail to Mrs. Cubitt every day, was here at that time and would certainly have recognized a new letter using the dancing men, as you call them. He saw no such letter, nor have I found one in the library or elsewhere in the house."
"You are to be commended for your thoroughness, inspector," said Holmes. "I also imagine you have sent men to check nearby villages and railroad stations to learn if anyone saw Mrs. Cubitt today."
"Yes, and I have just received a most curious piece of information from one of my men, who spoke earlier with a banker in North Walsham. It seems that yesterday Mrs. Cubitt withdrew five thousand pounds, in cash, from her account."
Not even Holmes, I think, anticipated this development. "Did she say why she was withdrawing such a large sum?" he asked.
"No, she said nothing to the banker," said the inspector. "Naturally, we are looking for the money here but I have a suspicion we won't find it."
"I fear you are correct," Holmes said.
"Still, we will keep searching, both for the money and the lady," said Martin. "I've already wired Scotland Yard, and more officers will be coming up in the morning."
"Good. They will be needed. Now, I should like to see Mrs. Cubitt's bedroom."
"By all means. I have only had time to take a cursory look at it and saw nothing amiss. However, I shall be happy to avail myself of your practiced eye, Mr. Holmes."
Mrs. Cubitt's bedroom was at the rear of a long hall on the second floor. The room was large, airy, well-lit by two casement windows and handsomely furnished with a canopied bed, two tall oak chests, a vanity and a pair of side chairs. What I took to be family photographs adorned the walls. One picture in particular-of a grim-faced old man in a plain shirt and suspenders who stared with unnerving directness at the camera-seized my attention. The picture seemed almost alive, so powerful was the man's gaze.
Holmes came up behind me and said, "Ah, I see the late Eban Patrick has caught your eye, Watson. He was not only Elsie's father but also led one of the most vicious gangs in Chicago. As you may recall, Mr. Slaney told us that it was Patrick who invented the code of the dancing men. He must have been quite a clever fellow."7
We now continued our inspection of the bedroom, which was orderly in every respect and showed no signs of a struggle or other unusual activity. A door at the far end of the room led into a large closet in which numerous dresses, skirts, blouses and other items of apparel hung with military precision. The closet also contained a long shelf where dozens of pairs of shoes were arrayed in an equally fastidious manner. Holmes seemed particularly interested in the closet and examined it closely before returning to the bedroom.
"I note that the bed is made," he said to Martin. "Was that the way the upstairs maid found it this morning?"
"No, she says she made it up after finding that Mrs. Cubitt was already gone."
"I see. I would like to speak briefly with the maid, if you don't mind."
The maid, named Agnes, was quickly ushered in. She was perhaps eighteen, short, with a broad peasant build and a doughy face most notable for its shrewd, close-set black eyes.
"Agnes, I am working with Inspector Martin and would like to ask you a few questions about your mistress," Holmes began.
"Certainly, sir," said the girl. "She's a very fine lady, she is, and I am very worried about her."
"As are we all. Let me start by asking you about Mrs. Cubitt's bed. It was unmade when you came in this morning, is that correct?"
"Yes, though I guess you could say it was neatly unmade, as far as such things go."
"Explain yourself please."
"Well, what I mean is, sir, the sheet and blanket were turned down and the pillows moved about a bit but it didn't really look like anybody had slept in the bed. At least that was how it appeared to me."
Holmes smiled and said, "Ah, I can see you are a most observant young lady, Agnes. Now, tell me this: Do you normally take care of Mrs. Cubitt's wardrobe?"
"Well, I put things out for her, if that's what you mean. The laundry's done by someone else, of course, and as for any mending-"
"Thank you. That is what I wanted to know. Since you put out Mrs. Cubitt's clothes, and presumably hang them up as well, I imagine you are as familiar as anyone with the various elements of her wardrobe."
"I am, sir. Mrs. Cubitt will even ask me sometimes if I like a certain dress or if such and such a blouse looks nice with this or that skirt. I've a very good eye for such things."
"I have no doubt that you do. Now, since I am told you did not see Mrs. Cubitt before she disappeared this morning, I suppose there is no way you could tell what she might have been wearing, is there?"
This was an odd question, I thought, but its brilliance soon became apparent, for Holmes had in effect issued a challenge which the clever maid was more than ready to meet.
"Oh, there might be a way, sir, if you want to know the truth."
"And what might that be?"
"Well sir, I could look and see what's missing. I know everything Mrs. Cubitt has got. I've even organized her clothes by color to help find things more quickly."
"Agnes, I knew you would be a splendid help to us," said Holmes, whose talents included the skillful use of flattery. "Very well, go to it! We shall patiently await your findings."
The maid went at first to the two chests, opening every drawer and carefully examining the contents. Then she disappeared into the closet. She emerged some minutes later with a quizzical expression.
"Well, what have you discovered, Agnes?" Holmes asked.
"There are two outfits missing, some underthings and two pairs of shoes," the maid replied.
"Describe these items if you would."
"Well, there's a set of riding clothes gone, which is to be expected. Her best riding boots are missing, too. What's queer is that she also took along a very nice gray and white dress she sometimes wears and a pair of matching dress shoes."
"Is anything else missing?" Holmes inquired. "A suitcase, perhaps, or a small bag?"
"Come to think of it, there is a small canvas bag she usually keeps. Let me look again."
She returned to the closet, made a brief search, and came back shaking her head. "It's gone all right," she said. "Why, if you don't mind me saying so, sir, it's almost like Mrs. Cubitt decided to take a short trip."
"I think you are right, Agnes, although I fear the lady's trip may prove much longer than she expected. Now then, I have but one more question: Who was Mrs. Cubitt's closest friend here, the person she would go to first if she were in trouble and needed help?"
The girl thought for a bit and said, "Well, if you'd asked me a month ago, I would have said Mrs. Allenby over at Whitefield Manor just down the road. Lately, though, Mrs. Cubitt spent a lot of time in the village with that crazy French woman-the one who calls herself Mme. DuBois."
"Who is this woman?"
"Why, she claims to be one of those spiritualists, she does. Says she can see into the future. All nonsense if you ask me. Mrs. Cubitt didn't see it that way, though. She was going into North Walsham two or three times a week to have 'readings'-that's what she called them-with the madame."
"Did Mrs. Cubitt ever say what she hoped to learn from these readings?"
"No. You'd best ask the madame herself."
Holmes smiled again, handed the girl a gold piece and said, "Thank you for your help, Agnes, and be assured that I will talk to Mme. DuBois as soon as possible."
Holmes was as good as his word, and less than an hour later we were in a carriage, riding across the dark plains under a sparkling canopy of stars toward the village of North Walsham. Martin came along and there was much animated discussion, during which Holmes made a surprising observation regarding Mrs. Cubitt's mysterious disappearance.
"I think it entirely possible," he said, "that Mrs. Cubitt left Ridling Thorpe of her own accord, to meet someone nearby, and that she is already some distance away."
"What leads you to that conclusion?" I asked.
"Her clothes, Watson. The riding apparel missing from her closet was to be expected, but as the observant Agnes noted, why did she take along a dress and shoes as well unless she knew she would be traveling somewhere?"
"I see what you're getting at, Mr. Holmes," said Martin. "The outfit was to be her change of clothes once she met up with her confederate outside the manor. And, of course, there's the money, which also suggests she was preparing for a trip-perhaps even a very long one-though if that were the case, you'd think she would have brought along more clothes."
I was still not convinced that Mrs. Cubitt would have left of her own free will. "But why would she decide to take a trip without notifying anyone here?" I asked.
"Ah, my dear Watson, that is indeed the question," said Holmes. "Perhaps Mme. DuBois will have an answer for us."
We were informed by our driver, one of the manor's groomsmen, that Mme. DuBois maintained a small parlor at an establishment called Smythe's Inn, where she also lived. We arrived at the inn at eleven o'clock, engaged rooms and rang at once for Mme. DuBois, despite the lateness of the hour.8
She appeared within minutes, descending the inn's narrow staircase rather like a very large rubber ball bouncing downhill. She was wide and fleshy-nearly two hundred pounds, I judged-and quite short, with no neck to speak of, so that her huge round head seemed to sprout directly out of her shoulders. Coal black eyes, sly and observant, lay in deep wells above her cheeks. Her long, equally black hair was flecked with gray and adorned with pink and white flowers. She wore a tentlike dress of dark silk, cut low enough to reveal her formidable bosom. Silver chains dangled from her plump wrists and jeweled rings adorned her fingers. I guessed her to be perhaps sixty years of age, although ten years more or less would not have surprised me.
Her appearance, I thought, was altogether remarkable, made more so by two small tattoos-a sun and a crescent moon-on her puffy cheeks, which were heavily rouged. Oblivious to my stares, she approached, looked us over with her piercing eyes and asked in a heavily accented contralto, "You are interested in a reading, gentlemen?"
"You might say that, madame," replied Holmes, "although we are not inclined to look to the stars for answers. We are seeking information about Elsie Cubitt."
Martin now introduced himself. At Holmes's request, he went on to present us merely as "assistants in the investigation."
"I have heard the strange news from Ridling Thorpe," Mme. DuBois said. "I knew this would be a day of evil. The heavens, they are unsettled and even the stars, I fear, are wobbling with doubt. Now, you will tell me please what has happened to Elsie?"
"That is what we are hoping to find out from you, madame," Holmes said, "since it is our understanding that you possess powers of foresight beyond those of mere mortals."
Casting a cold eye upon Holmes, she said, "So, you are one of the doubters, I see. Oh yes, there are many like you who do not feel flowing through them the hidden currents of the world. Well, about that I can do nothing, but come anyway. We will talk in the parlor."
As she led us toward a small room off the lobby, Holmes whispered to me, "She is no more French than you are, Watson. Indeed, her painfully fake accent cannot hide the fact that she is an American."
As Holmes had always possessed a superb ear for the nuances of language, I did not doubt him, even though Mme. DuBois had not sounded at all "American" to me.
At the parlor a sign over the door read: MME. SIMONE DUBOIS: READINGS AND CONSULTATIONS. YOUR FUTURE IN THE STARS. Unlocking the door, she directed us to sit at a round table in the center of room, which was painted dark red and displayed signs of the zodiac in a stenciled frieze around the walls. A large painted sun and moon, identical to those on Mme. DuBois's cheeks, looked down upon us from the midnight blue ceiling.
"I will help you, of course, in any way that I can but you must not expect too much of me, as I am but a humble servant of fate," Mme. DuBois said. "It is my gift to see the broad shape of the future but not its every detail. I am a listener and a watcher, a student of the heavens, but the heavens, they are wary of giving up too many of their deepest secrets. Now, I must ask you again what has happened to Elsie."
Martin obliged her with a brief recounting of Mrs. Cubitt's disappearance, ending with a question of his own: "We are told, madame, that she visited you frequently in recent weeks. What did the two of you talk about?"
"Why, we talked about her future, of course. She was, you see, having-what is the word?-ah yes, premonitions, that something terrible was about to happen. Naturally she sought my assistance."
"When did these premonitions begin?" Holmes inquired.
"Perhaps two weeks ago. She told me she was having dreams about a certain man with whom she had once been in love. She was worried that this man, who was very powerful and demanding, might do her great harm if she continued to spurn him."
"Did she say who this man was?"
"No, that is a thing she chose not to reveal to me."
"How unfortunate," said Holmes. "As to her frightening dreams, did she tell you what had prompted them?"
Mme. DuBois said with an air of resignation, "Who can say what it is that brings to our heads dreams in the middle of the long dark night? They are messages from the other side and they come when they wish to come. It is that simple."
"Please spare us talk of the 'other side,' madame, as it will be of no use in finding Mrs. Cubitt," Holmes said with some aspersion. "What will be of use is hard evidence. Therefore, I should like to know if Mrs. Cubitt stated a specific reason for her anxiety. Did she, for example, receive a letter or some other communication which alarmed her?"
Mme. DuBois shook her head slowly, as though preparing to correct an especially dense student, "Ah, I see that you, sir, are one of those people-so common among the English-who worship the facts. Myself, I have always found that the facts, they are useful for everything except the real truth of the world. But if it is the facts you want, I will give them to you."
She then stood up, went over to a small desk behind the table, withdrew a document from one of the drawers and returned to her seat. She pushed the document toward Holmes and said, "Here is one of your beloved facts. It is a copy, made by me, of a letter Elsie received yesterday. You will agree, I think, that it is a strange thing, which is why I copied it. Of course, I could not read its secrets but Elsie, she knew the meaning at once and told me."
Holmes carefully examined the letter, which I could see was a brief message written in the code of the dancing men.
"What does it say?" I asked.
Holmes, in a curiously flat voice, replied, "It says, 'You are in grave danger. Tomorrow morning, five o'clock, meet at front gate as per previous instructions. My man will pick you up. Tell no one and come alone.'"
"Now we are getting somewhere," said Martin. "I don't suppose it says who sent the message?"
Holmes offered a weak smile and said, "On the contrary, the message is quite clear in that regard, for it purports to be signed by the well-known detective Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps, inspector, you have heard of him."
--from The Disappearance of Sherlock Holmes by Larrry Millett, Copyright © November 2002, Viking Press, a member of Penguin Putnam, Inc., used by permission.