CHAPTER ONE
Upon my return to our shared rooms in Baker Street, I found my friend, Sherlock Holmes, sitting before the unlit fireplace opposite a stern-faced woman of no more than thirty-five years of age, whose posture was determinedly casual. Her attire was a fairly plain tweed walking-suit, and though she had slung her dark cape over the back of the chair in which she sat, I saw no evidence of a hat, and her copper-coloured hair was wild and untamed. Somewhat taken aback at her presence, I turned to face Mrs. Hudson in the doorway, ready to interrogate her for omitting to mention Holmes’s visitor. Our landlady performed something in the way of a shrug of apology, then closed the door hurriedly.
Holmes raised a hand, perhaps as a greeting or simply to gesture in my direction.
“May I present to you Dr. John Watson, with whom you may find much in common,” he said to his guest. “He will no doubt extend to you his apologies for his late arrival, which is on account of his having taken an unexpected diversion to Fairfield Road. However, as I expect he will assure you, he returns much refreshed.”
His guest’s expression remained placid, yet I imagine mine became that of a gargoyle, with bulging eyes.
“How the devil could you know that?” I demanded, in my amazement almost forgetting the presence of a woman. It was only at this moment that I registered that she was sitting in my own chair. A flush rose to my cheeks. “I gave no hint of my destination when I left this morning, and did not even know it myself.”
Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Precisely so. Yet I would be remiss had I failed to observe your behaviour yesterday, which is pertinent to your behaviour to-day. You spent most of yesterday afternoon frowning at a blank sheet of paper placed upon your desk, occasionally turning to look at me as I performed my own work at my bench. Anybody might conclude that you were intending to write an account of another of my cases. Then, this morning, as is your wont when you are uncertain how to begin one of your lurid tales, you left the house without announcing your destination.”
I nodded, no less perplexed. “But surely none of that gives you any indication about my whereabouts this morning.”
“Perhaps not, but it is nevertheless a starting-point.” He waved his hand again, this time towards my feet. “This morning you set off on foot, but the scuffing on the exterior of your left shoe – which you polished only yesterday in what I presume was act of distraction from a more important task in hand – suggests to me that you then boarded a hansom. Perhaps you are not aware of your tendency to favour one leg while boarding a hansom carriage? No matter, but it remains the case. There are a number of indicators that your journey was unplanned, the principal of those being the unfavourable weather forecast in to-day’s Times as regards the late morning. I own that your luck held out, but the fact of your leaving without an umbrella is unusual considering your ordinarily punctilious character, and the faith you place in the forecaster’s judgement. Your demeanour upon leaving and now, on your return, suggests no emergency has occurred, to which I add the observation that your journey was of no more than a half an hour’s duration – any longer, and the practicalities and necessity for preparation would have overwhelmed the whim that came upon you.”
I nodded. “But still, you are dancing around your most startling conclusion. None of this supports your pinpointing of my location.”
Holmes smiled and turned to address the woman sitting before him. I blanched at the realisation that I still had not learned her name.
“I would like to assure you,” he said to her, “Dr. Watson’s customary aroma is not ordinarily so strong.”
My mouth opened and closed impotently. I turned my head subtly to one side, so as to smell my jacket, but could detect nothing amiss.
The woman spoke for the first time. “I confess I smell nothing unusual.”
“No?” Holmes said casually. “It strikes me as very strong. Rather like garlic, and if this were evening-time I might suspect the consumption of a well-flavoured meal. But any restaurant would be opening its doors to serve luncheon only now, and by my assessment, the nearest location in which wild garlic grows is far beyond the radius I have already identified.”
“I confess I still smell nothing,” the woman said, and despite her oddly clipped tone, I was glad of her statement. But then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Yet, yes, there is a trace. Not garlic, precisely. I believe it is the scent of white phosphorous when it is oxidised.”
Holmes nodded in approval, and ignored my own gasp of disbelief. “Quite so. Therefore, to avoid drawing out my method more than is necessary, I conclude that Watson this morning took it upon himself to visit the Bryant and May match factory in Bow, in the hope of performing research related to a case of ours that was completed some eighteen months ago.”
I bowed my head a little and considered interrupting my friend, but the rapt expression that transformed the face of his guest dissuaded me.
Holmes steepled his fingers and directed his entire attention to the woman before him. “The case involved the apparent elopement of a young couple, though, as it transpired, it was rather more in the vein of an abduction. While the woman in question was returned safely to her family, thanks in no small part to our efforts, the young man escaped only to drown in the Channel some weeks later.
“However, what concerns us this morning is the background of this man, the culprit of that crime. The physical characteristic that was to identify him and represent his downfall was a facial deformation – the result of the earlier removal of part of the jawbone in response to a case of phosphorus necrosis, which is sometimes referred to by less rigorous journalists as ‘phossy jaw.’ This deformation indicated that rather than possessing an aristocratic background as the young man claimed, he had in fact spent several years performing menial work in a match factory. This in turn provided part of the motive for the abduction. You see, the young woman was the daughter of a man of science tasked with the development of yellow phosphorus sesquisulfide, which, by all accounts, may soon allow for the creation of friction matches that can be struck without the requirement of a specially prepared surface.”
I failed to stifle a groan. “I fear you have rather spoiled the story for Miss…” My words tailed off as I remembered that I was still ignorant of our guest’s identity.
“Miss Abigail Moone,” Holmes said.
Miss Moone rose from the chair and, without any display of emotion, allowed me to shake her hand. “Please, won’t you join us?” she said.
I cast around, once again thrown by the fact that my usual position was occupied by Miss Moone herself. After some deliberation, I moved a cane-backed chair to form a triangle of seats before the fireplace. As I deposited myself into the chair, I stifled a strange sense that I was the client rather than she.
“Well,” I said. I attempted to ignore a cloying smell that now arose from my jacket, which only magnified my displeasure. I offered Holmes a tight smile. “The sole matter that remains, I suppose, is your correct identification of the factory in question.”
“Then it was not the very same factory connected to the culprit in the abduction case?” Miss Moone asked.
Holmes answered for me. “That factory was Albright and Wilson, in Oldbury. However, even if Watson had returned to our rooms in a freshly pressed suit to disguise the pungent scent, the copy of Baedeker’s Guide to Great Britain that he left open on his desk at the chapter devoted to the Black Country would have suggested his line of thought, and his preoccupation with that tale in particular.”
Miss Moone nodded. “And yet visiting that factory in Oldbury would involve a journey of more than one hundred miles. So it seems that you, Dr. Watson, concluded that one match factory was as good as another, in order to observe its employees for the purposes of background detail for your story. Your choice of Bryant and May in particular…”
She rose from her seat and began to pace around the room. I watched in wonderment as she peered at my desk, then returned to the fireplace, whereupon she raised a box of matches from its place on the mantelpiece and gave a cry of pleasure. Indeed, the brand of matches I have favoured for many years is Bryant and May.
“There is also the fact that the Bryant and May factory itself may have lodged in Watson’s mind since the matchgirls’ strike of some years ago,” Holmes added, “but I accept that your physical evidence is more compelling, Miss Moone.”
“Well,” I said, feeling more than a little foolish, and then attempting to inject levity into my tone, “it appears that I am the only person in this room ignorant of the workings of my own mind.”
Holmes exhaled softly. “A trifle, Watson. Yet I hope that you will bear this lesson in mind when you are composing your accounts of our cases. You are predisposed to taking liberties with the truth, even if it is an unconscious process. I wonder what other liberties you will take with this particular case. A sensational title, perhaps.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together once again, and his brow furrowed. “Something related to brimstone may be lurid enough to suit your tastes.” He tapped his fingertips against his thin lips. “No. It will more likely be a phrase indirectly related to the young man’s peculiar deformation, as well as hinting at his goal of securing the formula of phosphorus sesquisulfide – whilst also obscuring each of these details behind cryptic but grand-sounding nonsense. For example, ‘The Problem of the Yellow Lucifer.’”
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. A very similar title had occurred to me on my return journey from Bow.
I cleared my throat and turned to our guest.
“I must apologise for interrupting you with this distraction, Miss Moone. I presume that when I entered you were in the process of relating to Sherlock Holmes your own story.” Willing the blood to drain from my face, I added, “Please do continue.”
Mirth flickered over the hard lines of Miss Moone’s face, but she was kind enough not to voice her observations.
“In fact, I had not yet begun,” she said.
“Indeed, I had simply had time to remark that it was a shame that you were not present to hear Miss Moone’s case first-hand,” Holmes said.
Perplexed but gratified, I turned to our guest and said, “I would urge you to explain your reason for visiting, then.”
Before our visitor could speak, Holmes held up a hand. His lips were pursed and all his earlier amusement had left his face. “Miss Moone, I would be grateful if you would summarise your case as concisely as possible. I feel confident in placing my trust in you, of all people, to include all pertinent details.”
Miss Moone bowed her head in acknowledgement.
“I come to you this morning concerning a death,” she said. “It is my first association with death in the real world, as opposed to those in fiction. You have read this morning’s newspapers, I trust? If so, you will have read of the unusual death of Ronald Bythewood.”
Holmes only inclined his head subtly, so I took it upon myself to reply, “Indeed, Miss Moone. A suspected poisoning, was it not?”
“That appears to be the case, Doctor. And I am bound to tell you that I was responsible for devising the manner of Mr. Bythewood’s death.”
I leaped from my seat in alarm. “What?” I exclaimed. “And you are content to come here and confess as much?”
I spun around to see that Holmes’s posture had not changed in the least.
“I suspect Miss Moone is not offering a confession, Watson,” he said, “any more than you would confess to having killed more than half a dozen men this year alone, or having stolen countless riches. If you will be seated, you may discover that you and Miss Moone have much in common.”
“I’m afraid you both have the advantage over me once again,” I stammered. My mind reeled as I tried to resolve my friend’s statement. “Are you a medical practitioner of some description, Miss Moone?”
“I am not.”
“Then I am at a loss.”
She drew herself up to an even more straight-backed posture. “Like you, I am a writer. And like you, I am preoccupied with mysteries and, frequently, murder.”
I frowned and then spoke her name under my breath, but it agitated no associations.
“Do you read very many books written by women, Dr. Watson?” Miss Moone said lightly.
I suspected that my cheeks had coloured again. “I confess I do not.”
“Neither do many men, I find. As Mr. Sherlock Holmes has already deduced, I deploy a pseudonym when publishing my work. You may have heard of his name. Damien Collinbourne.”
“Damien Collinbourne!” I exclaimed. “Is it true? Indeed, I have read and enjoyed more than one of his – that is, of your – novels. In the name of professional research, I should add, and yet I own that I found myself engrossed. And even fellows at my club speak highly of him – of you.” I took out a handkerchief and mopped my brow, then fell back. Once again, I found myself yearning for my usual seat rather than this cane-backed chair.
“Please, Miss Moone,” Holmes said. “You had only begun your account.”
“Indeed. Since the rise to fame of my stories, the success of which Dr. Watson has demonstrated, I have found it increasingly difficult to conjure new scenarios – at least, scenarios that satisfy me as to their complexity and interest. Furthermore, I admit freely that I have become ever more occupied with the workings of the criminal mind rather than the often-plodding procedures of investigating police officers. Perhaps that is a revealing admission? Regardless, it has been my custom during this last year to devise mysteries by first considering the actions of the culprit, and only then introducing an investigator to unravel the knot I have already tied.”
I found myself nodding as I followed this account with interest. Such a manner of producing fiction had not occurred to me. I stifled the urge to turn in my seat to look at the bookshelf behind me, upon which it now occurred to me were copies of at least two novels attributed to Damien Collinbourne.
“I have become quite the daydreamer,” Miss Moone continued, “as well as something of a voyeur. My custom each morning – I always work at my desk in the afternoon – is to watch people, and, invariably, select a likely looking victim, and then…” It struck me that her pause was in order to gauge my temperament rather than resulting from any true hesitancy on her part. “…I conjure a method of killing them.”
Sherlock Holmes nodded sagely at his guest, as if this admission was a common one.
“Yet this occupation is entirely for the purpose of devising stories, I take it?” I said, feeling foolish at my need to secure this clarification.
“It is,” Miss Moone replied without inflection. “And in this case, I selected Mr. Ronald Bythewood as a victim. I learned his name only this morning, when I received my Times, but my close observation of him this last week would have made him immediately recognisable to me from his description, even if I had not witnessed his death.”
Again, I emitted a sharp sound at this new revelation. “You mean you did witness it? You were present when he died? This certainly changes things.”
Holmes waved me away irritably and leaned forward in his seat. “In your arresting introduction, you stated that you devised the manner of Bythewood’s death, and not only the fact that he would die.”
Miss Moone nodded. “I suspect that I may have observed this rather unkempt elderly gentlemen in passing several times before I made the conscious selection of him as one of my victims. My recent habit has been to frequent the National Gallery of British Art each morning, due to the number and variety of its visitors. Have either of you visited the Tate gallery yet?”
Holmes did not answer, but I felt compelled to confess that I had not yet had the pleasure. The gallery had opened almost one year before, in the summer of 1897, and yet, to my chagrin, the idea of visiting it had not occurred to me.
“You must; it’s a grand place,” Miss Moone said. She inhaled deeply. “Having selected Mr. Bythewood, who at that point remained nameless to me, from the gallery’s crowd, I followed him on several occasions. He proved a satisfying case study, in part because his actions each day remained unchanged, by and large – though at a glance one might summarise his movements as meandering or even confused, a conclusion that would be supported by the fact that he sometimes spoke to himself under his breath. Of his regular activities, the one that was of most interest to me was his habit of taking a drink from a public drinking-fountain each day, following his brief tour of the galleries. This fountain is to the south of the main entrance, and placed badly, in my estimation, as locating it requires performing two about-turns upon leaving the gallery. Consequently, I have seen no other person use the fountain during any of my visits. My invented method of murdering the gentleman, therefore, concerned secreting an amount of poison within the drinking-fountain. The poison would necessarily be rather slow-acting, in order for my victim to succumb to its effects elsewhere, to avoid exposing me – or, rather, the criminal within my story.”
She turned to face me and continued, “Like you, Dr. Watson, I appreciate performing observations with my own eyes before setting pen to paper. Furthermore, as my habit is to identify myself with the criminals within my stories, I find that my own mannerisms can be as revealing as the people I study. This means that I am often compelled to enact my crimes physically, in order to record my mannerisms and movements. All of this may seem fanciful, but it remains a vital aspect of my research.”
I considered all of this. “Then do you mean to say—”
“I assure you I conduct myself in a manner that ensures both my own safety and the safety of my unknowing participants,” she said, interrupting me without so much as raising her voice. “Having determined that a soft gelatin capsule might be placed within the spout of the drinking-fountain, and once within the body would dissolve rapidly, I consulted a pharmacist acquaintance, who provided me with capsules which were unfilled and therefore harmless. On the day I instigated my ‘criminal’ plan, I followed Mr. Bythewood at a discreet distance during his tour of the gallery, and at the appropriate moment I contrived to pass ahead of him to the main entrance and then around to its south side, where the fountain is located. I placed the capsule into the spout only minutes before the time when I knew he would arrive. Then, having witnessed from a safe distance his operation of the drinking-fountain and – as far as I was able to determine – his swallowing of the empty capsule, I followed Mr. Bythewood along his usual route, across Vauxhall Bridge and into Vauxhall Park.”
I saw that Holmes was once again leaning forward eagerly in his seat.
“As you so clearly anticipate,” Miss Moone continued without hesitation, “it was in Vauxhall Park that I saw Ronald Bythewood collapse and die.”
Then she clasped her hands in her lap, apparently satisfied with her telling of the tale. “Beyond that, everything I know is derived from the Times report, including, as I have already stated, the gentleman’s identity.”
Holmes raised a finger to tap at his lips. His eyes sparkled, betraying both his interest and his amusement. It occurred to me that Miss Moone and my friend were alike in many ways, not least their detachment from the horror of such a situation, which had resulted in a man’s death.
For my part, the more I considered Miss Moone’s story, the more preposterous it seemed. “But this is an outrageous coincidence!” I cried.
Both Holmes and Miss Moone gazed up at me accusingly, as if I had spouted the ugliest oath imaginable.
“My dear Watson—” Holmes began.
I held up both my hands. “I know, Holmes, I know. There are no coincidences. ...
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