The Adventure Of The Posthumous Apparition by Marion Smith (easy books to read TXT) 📖

“Oh, come now, how may whisky bottles are there?” I asked in exasperation.
“Only the ones you see,” said he.
“Truthfully,” I pressed.
“Why do you ask?” came the reply.
I sighed. In all the years I had known Sherlock Holmes, I rarely came as close as I was now to hitting him.
Of course, he was a great man; I would never deny that, but sometimes it seemed I was the only one who saw the opposing side of him- The strong willed, addicted, cynical man he was. Particularly strong willed, in his present state.
“I speak as your doctor, and as your friend,” I replied, “And I beseech you; how many bottles are there?!”
Holmes sighed, and lifted the hem of his filthy dressing gown to reveal several more (empty) whisky bottles beneath the sofa.
“Such an amount would surely kill a man!” I exclaimed. “No wonder you are in the foulest of moods.”
Proving a point, Holmes grunted at me in reply. I thought it best to distract him.
“How about the paper?” I asked, picking it up from the untouched breakfast tray Mrs Hudson had left. I handed it to him, but Holmes-quite literally- growled at me.
“Are the letters swarming before your eyes?” I said in the most patronising tone I could manage. “Then I shall read it.” With an excessive clear of my throat I held the paper up to my face.
“This may interest you, Holmes,” said I, scanning the cover. The headline is, “Daughter of Duke missing, Detectives baffled.” Let’s see... The daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk has been missing since...”
I glanced up from the paper to find Sherlock Holmes had fallen asleep, and was snoring on the divan. Groaning, I tossed aside the paper, strode over to the sofa, and firmly shook Holmes’ arm.
“Honestly, Holmes, what is your problem?!” I cried. Holmes, suddenly wide awake again, fixed me with a look of such annoyance I had to turn away. I walked to the bay window, and stared out at the people, making their way about their business in their ordinary routines. For a moment I tried to deduce something, anything I could, about their lives. It wasn’t often the thought sprang to mind, but I was so envious of my friend’s ability. Suddenly the sight of a man making his way to our door roused me from my thoughts.
“Aha, Holmes, it seems we have a client!” I called, triumphant.
Turning to Holmes, I sighed. He was slumped on the sofa, still wearing his clothes from the previous day under his filthy dressing gown, his dark hair matted, and a worrying number of bottles clustered about his feet. He was in no fit state to receive a visitor.
“Go and change,” I said, as if to a five year old. “He’ll be here any moment.”
Holmes made no effort to move. I seized his arm, pulled him off the sofa, and gently pushed him in the direction of the stairs. Holmes groaned, but eventually gave in, and ascended.
He could not have left sooner, because at that moment came a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood Mrs Hudson.
“If you please, Doctor,” said she, “There is a man here to see Mr Holmes.”
“Of course, show him in,” I replied. Mrs Hudson nodded, and leaned in closer.
“Please ask Mr Holmes to be... gentle with him. He’s in a bit of a state,” she whispered so our visitor downstairs could not hear.
I gave her assurance, and she left. I had barely crossed the room before Mrs Hudson returned, with a young man in tow.
“Mr Richard Helmsley,” she announced. I thanked her, and Mrs Hudson, after looking around in confusion as to the whereabouts of Holmes, returned to her apartment. I turned to the visitor.
“Are... Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he asked uncertainly. His voice had a slight London twinge, but I estimated he no longer lived in the South. He was a short man, with an unruly mop of brown curls, and huge, dark eyes that stared up at me beneath. By the lines on his face he must have been about the age of two-and-thirty, but there was something about Richard Helmsley which made him seem so much younger. Moving closer, I noticed recent tear tracks glisten on his cheeks.
“No, no,” I said, grasping his hand and smiling warmly. Ruefully he smiled back.
“I am Doctor Watson.” I explained gently. “My friend will be with you shortly.” I gestured to a chair. Richard Helmsley moved across the room towards it as I discreetly kicked the whisky bottles under the sofa.
Rather awkwardly, I sat in the chair opposite our visitor. He seemed anxious, his eyes constantly flitting around the room. His fingers rested on his knee, and he tapped them absentmindedly, as if fingering the keys of some grand piano.
Thankfully, I did not have to sit in the midst of this awkward silence any longer, for at that moment Sherlock Holmes emerged. He swayed unsteadily before regaining his balance. Fortunately, Richard seemed too preoccupied in his own thoughts to notice.
When he noticed that the famous detective had materialized, Richard stood, and offered Holmes his hand. Holmes gingerly stepped over to him, but declined the handshake.
“Richard Helmsley,” he visitor offered. Holmes nodded curtly.
“Pray, would you explain your predicament?” he said slowly, taking the seat I had just vacated. Richard sat also.
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” said he. “I hail from Yorkshire, and it has been a long journey, so I hope you’ll excuse my lack of concentration. Anyway, I must confess, I am a musician by trade, and do not have that much money spare...”
“We’ll discuss payment, later,” interrupted Holmes.
“Thank you. As I was saying, Mr Holmes, I am here... about my wife. You see, she’s dead.” Richard hung his head.
“I see. How did she die?”
Richard shook his head, and covered his face with his hands, unable to go on.
“Mr Helmsley, How did she die?” Holmes pressed with more force.
“Holmes!” I hissed. This man had been through enough. Richard finally managed to compose himself.
“She... She was run over by horses,” he choked out.
Holmes sighed in exasperation.
“Well, thank you for your short narrative, Mr Helmsley, but there’s really nothing I can do. Good day.”
“No, no!” cried Richard. “That’s not all!”
“Well, out with it, man, we haven’t got all day!” Holmes barked obnoxiously.
“I’ve seen her! On the moor at home!” Richard cried. “I’ve seen her! But how can that possibly be?!”
Holmes narrowed his eyes.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Helmsley, but I need to speak with my colleague for a moment. In private,” he added.
I followed Holmes into the hallway.
“What say you, Watson?” asked Holmes quietly. “Is the fool delusional, or does he speak the truth?”
I thought for a moment.
“Using my professional judgement, I would say that the man traumatised- that, at least, is obvious- but not to the point of hallucination. Indeed, I believe that whatever Richard has seen is temporal.”
Holmes sighed.
“Please Holmes,” I pleaded, “Treat him gently. He’s heartbroken.”
We were silent for a few moments. Holmes then gestured, and we moved back into the sitting room.
“Now then,” Holmes said briskly, sitting again, “tell me everything.”
Richard took a deep breath. “My wife Marie and I live- Lived, I mean to say- near a small town in Yorkshire. Two weeks ago, I participated in an orchestral concert in Derby, but when I returned home I was told that Marie... That Marie had been run down by a carriage.” Richard paused, regained the very ability to speak, and continued, “I saw the body. She was taken to the mortuary at Leeds.” He hung his head. “I could scarcely believe it. I have neglected to tell you sooner, but Marie was pregnant. Around seven months, in fact. I’ve lost both my wife and child.
“Five days later, I was clearing my head by walking along Ilkley Moor, when in the distance; I saw a figure in white. I moved closer, and, as difficult as it may be to believe, I saw her. Marie. I called her name, and moved closer, but she just gasped, and ran into the woods. I tried to follow her but I lost her trail. I haven’t seen her since.” Fresh tears clouded Richard’s eyes.
“Thank you, Richard,” I soothed. “Would you mind if we ask you any questions?”
“Be my guest.”
“Thank you,” chimed in Holmes. “Who told you of the untimely death of your wife?”
“Marie’s brother,” Richard replied. “He lives in the neighbouring town, and was one of the first to hear of the, the... the Accident.”
“Did your wife have any enemies?” pressed Holmes.
“No, none at all!” Richard exclaimed. “Marie was a wonderful woman who was loved by all.”
“No enemies that you know of,” muttered Holmes, unfortunately just loudly enough for Richard to hear. “And, was Marie due to... inherit anything? From her family, perhaps?”
“As a matter of fact, so she was,” mused Richard. “There is a tradition, I believe, in Marie’s family involving a certain sum of money, collected by the parents, which is passed to their children in the event of their successor’s birth.” He wiped his eyes.
“And there is only one sum of money from the parents, no matter how many siblings?” enquired Holmes.
“Indeed so,” Richard nodded. “The tradition operates on a first-come-first-served basis, if you will. The money goes to the first sibling who has a child.”
“Indeed. And did Marie have any other siblings?” Holmes continued.
“Yes, a sister. But she has had seven miscarriages, and is unlikely to ever bear a child.” Richard’s eyes suddenly widened. “Hang on!” he cried, springing to his feet. “Fortunes? Enemies? Are you implying that Marie’s death was deliberate?! That she was murdered?!”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I interrupted. I laid a hand on Richard’s arm, and once again he sat.
“Do you have a picture of your wife?” Holmes asked suddenly. In reply, Richard reached into his inside pocket, and pulled out a small photograph. Holmes and I glanced upon it.
She was a fair lady, with pale hair and light eyes. Even in the colourless print of the photograph could we see her heart-shaped face was dotted with freckles. Marie Helmsley was lovely.
Holmes returned the picture, and Richard replaced it in his jacket pocket.
“If you don’t mind me asking, who was riding in the carriage that killed Marie?” Holmes evidently was not done in questioning the poor man.
“Some Duke and his wife,” Richard answered. “But they were surely from another part of the country; they would have noting to do with this!”
“I am not suggesting anything,” Holmes murmured.
Richard sighed. “Marie crossed the road in a precarious place. The horses careered around the bend, and by the time she had seen the carriage, it was too late. Marie was right in its path.”
By this time, I could see there was another question that Holmes desperately wished to know. It was a question that I knew Richard, in his current state, would find very hard to answer.
“Richard, we know how difficult this is for you, and we very much appreciate the facility with which you have answered these questions. However-”
“There is still one more question I need to ask,” interrupted Holmes. “The body of your wife, when you saw it...”
“What I think Holmes is trying to say, Richard,” I said smoothly, is-”
“How badly was