Tales From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD Read online

  I should add here that the world-famous personage I allude to in these pages as “Professor Schinkenbein” bore a different name in reality. To spare his surviving family further embarrassment, I have employed this pseudonym throughout.

  Holmes spoke light-heartedly, but yet with some asperity. I happened to know that his work on a recent case had been the subject of some controversy in the columns of the Morning Post, where he had drawn the fire of a writer who seemed determined to denigrate his efforts, and I was therefore unsurprised to hear him speak this way of the press.

  “Come, Holmes,” I expostulated. “Duelling is the practice of an older and more barbaric age, and it is well that we of this country have outgrown the practice. Persano, whatever his origins—”

  “Argentinian,” interjected Holmes.

  “—should learn that we are a civilised country and do not tolerate such practices here.”

  Holmes cocked a quizzical eye at me. “Then it would surprise you to learn that I have had at least seven such meetings in the past three years?”

  I started from my seat. “Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea of these activities of yours. On what grounds have you been engaged in these affaires d’honneur? You must promise me that this practice must cease. Obviously, since you are here and we are conversing together, you must have come out as the victor on these occasions. I hardly like to ask, but...”

  “What happened to my opponents?” Holmes finished my thoughts. “I am happy to say that they still walk the streets of this fair city, chastened, and sadder, but yet wiser men. I have yet to make a permanent disposition of any of them, but it will be a long time, if ever, before they repeat the follies that led them to meet me under those circumstances.”

  “These were not personal insults that led you to this course, then?”

  “By no means, Watson. Though I am not without my share of self-regard,” (I smiled inwardly to myself at this, for if Sherlock Holmes suffered from a fault, it was one of excessive pride in his admittedly considerable abilities) “I do not regard insults against my person as being worthy of the death of the utterer of the same. These conflicts were, if you will, an attempt to force a course of self-reflection on those individuals who prey on and abuse those who are weaker than themselves, and possess no means of self-defence.”

  I was pondering the singular morality of this position, when we heard a ring at the front door.

  “A client?” I asked Holmes.

  “I am not expecting any such,” replied Holmes. In a few minutes, however, there was a knock at the door of our rooms, and Mrs Hudson ushered in a heavily built elderly gentleman, with a shock of white hair atop a round, somewhat cherubic face. When he removed his hat and overcoat, he revealed, despite the earliness of the hour, formal evening wear, albeit in some disarray. A scarlet cravat at his throat, secured with a gaudy jewelled pin, and a corresponding scarlet patch of lacy cloth that I took to be a handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket, added splashes of colour to the otherwise austere black and white of his formal attire. A breath of fresh air somehow seemed to fill the somewhat tobacco-laden atmosphere of our room.

  “Sit down,” said Holmes, waving him to an empty chair. “Pray indulge your habit of taking snuff if you wish. I will content myself with my pipe, with your permission. I trust your night in the Bow Street cells was not too uncomfortable?”

  I noticed the tell-tale smudges on the sleeve which told of our visitor’s habits in the matter of tobacco, but I was at a loss as to how Holmes had arrived at the second conclusion. So, apparently, was our visitor.

  “Mr Holmes,” he exclaimed in a heavy German accent. “I had heard of you as a magician, but how do you know of where I spent last night? Why, I have not even told you my name! I regret, by the way, not having being able to present you with my card upon my arrival here.”

  “My dear Professor Schinkenbein, I would be ignorant indeed if I did not recognise one of the great composers of the age. And as to your whereabouts, they are, I fear, a matter of public record,” picking up the newspaper, and displaying the relevant article to the astonished musician.

  The professor put his head in his hands. “My contract,” he wailed. “Now the management of Covent Garden will never ask me to conduct there again. My career in this country is ruined. Maybe in every country in Europe. And all because of that damnable Persano.” His voice rose to a shriek. “I should have never challenged him! I should have shot him down on the spot like the dog he is!” His voice cracked, and I had actually begun to fear for his sanity as he continued to rave in this manner. Indeed, I had risen from my seat, prepared to restrain him, should it become necessary to do so, when Holmes spoke.

  “And with what reputation would you have emerged from such an affair?” Holmes’ quiet words acted like a glass of water thrown over the seemingly near-hysterical German, who suddenly ceased his ranting.

  “You are quite correct, Mr Holmes,” he admitted, in a perfectly calm voice. “Of course it would be to no-one’s advantage had I acted in such a fashion.”

  “Nonetheless,” replied my friend, “though you acknowledge the truth of what I have just said to you, you still yearn for revenge, do you not?” The German nodded. “And you are wondering if I will be the one to administer the revenge on your behalf?” The German once again gave his silent assent to Holmes’ proposition. “My dear Professor, I have to tell you that, much as I may sympathise with you, and much as I may find myself in agreement with your position, it is neither my pleasure nor my place to go about the streets of London doling out summary punishment on behalf of my clients. Your work, Professor, when you stand on the concert platform in front of an orchestra, is carried out in here.” Holmes tapped his head. “And so is mine. I am, as Watson here will tell you, not a man of action, but of thoughts.” (Again I smiled inwardly, given the nature of our previous discussion.) “Should you wish me to solve a mystery for you, or should you ever do me the honour of inviting my violin and myself to take our place under your baton, I would be delighted to serve you in those regards, but I am not willing to put right your petty jealousies regarding matters which are, after all, a matter of artistic interpretation.”

  The musician flushed. “Mr Holmes, I fear I have made a mistake in coming here. I had not expected to find the great detective so averse to a little practical matter.”

  “I fear I, too, was mistaken,” replied Holmes, coolly. “When you came through the door, I was anticipating with pleasure the start of a friendship with a civilised man of culture. I regret that I, too, appear to have misjudged my acquaintance.”

  The professor flushed an even deeper red, and the veins on his forehead stood out as he rose to his feet. “Sir,” he proclaimed in ringing tones. “I demand that you give me satisfaction.”

  Holmes’ reply was a lazy laugh. “Professor, consider your reputation and your contract with Covent Garden,” he sneered. “If you are worried that one challenge to a duel could have an adverse effect on your reputation, just consider what two such challenges in as many days would do.”

  “Pah!” replied the other. “Upon reflection, I withdraw my challenge and wish both you gentlemen a very good day.” So saying, he replaced his hat, and marched out of the door, closing it behind him with a definite bang.

  “There! That will hardly endear him to Mrs Hudson,” chuckled Holmes. “He did little to endear himself to me, I must confess. Why is it that men of such genius – and I freely admit that the man has the best grasp of any composer now living regarding the development of the theme of an aria – are such children when it comes to other matters?”

  “What was his true motive in visiting, do you think?”

  “Ah, so you remarked that, too? ‘Pon my word, Watson, you are coming on admirably.” Such words from Holmes were not an everyday occurrence, and I felt myself well praised. “Your thoughts first, then?”

  “It is obvious that he is no physical coward. I noticed the scars of the German school of fencing
which they practise at their universities, known as Mensur. I have witnessed such duels, and no man who is a coward would take part. I would therefore see no reason for his requesting you to take his place in this affair on that account, at the least.”

  “Good, Watson, good,” he replied, rubbing his hands together. “So far, we are in complete agreement.”

  “But beyond that, I fear I am puzzled,” I confessed.

  “Yes?” replied Holmes. “So was I, I admit, until I noticed the direction of his gaze while he was venting his spleen towards the unfortunate critic.”

  “I failed to notice that. I was more concerned with his words and the state of his mental equilibrium.”

  “As he intended you to be,” commented Holmes. “He was scanning my shelves, and his eyes came to rest on the portion of my bookcase that deals with the effects of poisons. No doubt you observed his spectacles?”

  “Gold-rimmed pince-nez,” I confirmed.

  “Indeed they are. But maybe you failed to remark the thickness of the lenses? With such glasses, it would be easy for him to read the spines of the volumes on the shelf. Schinkenbein needs such in his work to observe the minute subtle details on the stage of the operas he conducts from the orchestra pit. I would venture to suggest that they are especially designed in some way to magnify his vision. Not only that, but Professor Schinkenbein’s memory is renowned throughout Europe. He never conducts with a score, but keeps the whole of the opera, the notes and the libretto, in his head. It would be a trivial matter for him to commit to memory the titles and authors of the books there.”

  “To what end?”

  “Can you not guess? The professor, as we have both observed, is no stranger to the art of the duello. He feels himself insulted by the unfortunate Persano’s criticism, or maybe for some other reason as yet unknown to us, and requires satisfaction in the manner to which he is most accustomed. However, he has come to a country where such practices are frowned upon, and he finds himself in a position of public notoriety as a result of his impulses. I do not believe that this will result in the withdrawal of his contract with Covent Garden – indeed, I venture to predict that there will be no seats available for the next few weeks at least, as the public will want to view this fire-eating maestro with their own eyes. However, he still seeks his revenge, and, having heard of my reputation as possessing some small knowledge of the methods by which criminals achieve their ends, he decides that he will take advantage of my reputed expertise, without, as he fondly imagines, my being aware of his doing so.”

  “You mean that the critic Persano is now in danger of being poisoned by Professor Schinkenbein?”

  “I mean that Professor Schinkenbein currently believes that he will poison Persano. Whether he will actually attempt the deed or not is a matter for conjecture. In the event that he does so, I would venture to suggest that the attempt will fail. You will remember the Twickenham case last year, where the husband somehow failed to administer what was to have been a fatal dose of strychnine to his wife, missed his mark, and accordingly disposed of the neighbours’ cat? Poison is not the almighty tool that mere dabblers in crime believe it to be.”

  “But the professor is a man of learning and intelligence,” I objected. “Surely it is unlikely that he would fall into the same error as the late Mr Mallinson, whose wits, you must admit, were not of the sharpest?”

  “That is true,” admitted Holmes. “All the same, I do not consider Persano to be in immediate danger from the quarter of the Professor.”

  “Why,” I asked, as the thought occurred to me, “is Professor Schinkenbein currently at liberty, since he was taken into custody last night? And do you believe that Persano is also now released from the cells?”

  “An excellent question, Watson.” He scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper, and rang the bell for Mrs Hudson. “Take this to the post-office, if you would be so kind, Mrs Hudson. It should be sent reply-paid. There, that should give us our answer,” he said, as the door closed behind our worthy landlady. “That is a telegram to Gregson at the Yard. Even if he is not in charge of the case, he owes me enough favours from the past to assist me.”

  The answer was received within the half-hour. “It would appear,” said Holmes, reading the telegram that Mrs Hudson presented to him, “that charges against both parties have been dropped. Both claim that words were spoken in the heat of the moment, and the influence of the grape was not absent.”

  “That hardly corresponds with what we saw just now, or indeed with what you observed,” I remarked.

  “You are correct there. I begin to fear a little more for Persano’s safety. But there is nothing to be done at present about this matter. Indeed, I confess that it seems we are building this particular house upon sand, and there is little of import that we can do at this time.”

  -oOo-

  It was some two weeks after the conversation described above that we received a visit from an unexpected source. The artistic director of Covent Garden Opera House, Mr Daniel Tomlinson, sent a message to Holmes requesting him to visit him at his offices.

  “You are going?” I asked Holmes, who appeared to be deep in the throes of some chemical experiment when the note was brought to him.

  “Indeed we are going together,” he replied. “This analysis is making damnably slow progress.” He seized a glass beaker from the table that served as his laboratory bench, and tossed the contents into the fire, which leaped up with a brilliant green flame. “Copper,” he observed sourly. “That much I knew before I started. Come, Watson. Bring your medical kit with you. If your Army revolver is to hand, you may also wish to equip yourself with that. I have a premonition that both of these may be of some use to us.” I had no idea of his reasoning, but gripping my doctor’s bag, in which a loaded revolver now lay incongruously beside a stethoscope, I followed Holmes into a hansom cab.

  “Mr Holmes, I am sorry to ask you here at considerable inconvenience, rather than meeting you at your own premises,” apologised Mr Tomlinson. “There are, to be frank, few times when I can be spared from my post here that are congenial to those of more conventional working hours.” He was a tall slender man, whose thin ginger hair receded from a high forehead.

  “I understand perfectly,” smiled Holmes. “My own habits are not of the most regular, but I appreciate your consideration.”

  “To come to the point quickly,” went on Tomlinson, “we are without a conductor for this evening’s performance of the opera Cosimo de Medici.”

  “By Professor Paul Schinkenbein, who is also acting as the conductor?” asked Holmes.

  The other bowed slightly. “Indeed so. And it is Professor Schinkenbein who is missing at this moment.”

  “Surely the performance does not start for another two hours at least?” I objected. “Could he not have been delayed, and he will appear in good time to direct the orchestra?”

  “Ordinarily, that would be the case,” replied Tomlinson. “However, the Herr Professor, if I may term him so, is usually punctual to a Teutonic fault.” There was a faint air of mockery in his tones, which vanished as he continued. “However, today he was due to be present here two hours ago. He had expressed his dissatisfaction to Signora Cantallevi, the soprano, regarding the phrasing of some of her solo arias, and he had arranged to work with her on these.”

  “He has forgotten his appointment?” I suggested. “Or else he has simply overslept?”

  “I am afraid, Doctor, that we are ahead of you there. We have already sent round to the hotel where he is lodging. Not only is he not at the hotel, but it would seem that he never appeared there following last night’s performance. The porters do not recall seeing him enter the establishment, and when the maid went to his room this morning, it appeared that the bed had not been slept in.”

  “The name of the hotel?” asked Holmes, and made a note of the reply on his shirt-cuff. His eyes glittered as he leaned forward. “Who was the last person to see him here in the theatre, do you know?”


  “That would be myself. I am not responsible for what we term the ‘front of house’ business – that is, the ticket receipts and so on – so when the stage has been cleared and the scene set for the next night’s performance, I make a check of the green rooms and ensure that all the artistes are ready to leave, lest they be accidentally locked in the theatre. I am then myself free to leave. After last night’s performance, which, I may tell you in confidence was not of the highest standards, especially the second half, Professor Schinkenbein was the only occupant of the green rooms. I reminded him of the time, and he dressed himself in his coat and hat, and accompanied me to the stage door, where we parted company.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Sixteen minutes past eleven by the Professor’s watch, which is, as you might expect from such a man, accurate to the minute. He remarked on the time as we closed the stage door.”

  “Did you notice where he went after that?” asked Holmes.

  “I cannot swear to it, but I seem to have a memory of his summoning a hansom and entering it.” He closed his eyes in a seeming aid to concentration. “Yes, indeed, that is what he did.”

  “He summoned a cab?” enquired Holmes. “Would it not be more usual for him to make arrangements for a cab to be waiting for him?”

  Tomlinson frowned. “As you say, that was usually the case.”

  “Was he usually the last to leave?” asked Holmes.

  “By no means. Indeed, it was one of our little jokes among the staff here that it would be impossible for him to take an encore, as he would be in the cab driving home as the applause died away.”