The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters. Michael Kurland
cut off the heads of his enemies with one swipe of a sabre in the American War of Independence.
“When I confronted Tarleton with this information, and the fact that we had proof he had forged the agreement,” Holmes said, “Tarleton became enraged and lunged for one of the crossed sabres above the fireplace. ‘You know too much, Holmes, so it’s off with your head also,’ he sputtered. I dodged his advance and took down the other broadsword. He attacked, and I parried. We were engaged in this combat for only a minute when I intercepted a thrust and disarmed him, placing the tip of my blade against his chest. I asked him then what he had done with the heads of Mr Carroll and George Beidler, and he confessed that he had buried them in the family cemetery behind his home. He also acknowledged that he had taken Beidler’s life merely as a diversion to throw off suspicions in the death of Mr Carroll, as was my belief from the start.”
“That means he killed ole George for nothin’ and he killed Mr Carroll to inherit this farm,” Tex added. “Hangin’ ain’t good enough for him.”
THE TATTOOED ARM, by Marc Bilgrey
There are a number of cases that I’ve chronicled, involving my friend Sherlock Holmes that I have chosen not to publish. Some of these are of a very delicate political nature, and if they were released to the public, could seriously compromise the peace that exists between our nation and certain foreign powers. Other cases, I have also decided to keep in a locked box, in a bank vault, in Charing Cross, because, if the details of these were to come to light, they might potentially endanger the lives of a number of prominent public figures and their families.
There is one more class of case that I have kept private, due to the fact that they contain elements or events which I’ve deemed too sensational or fantastic to believe. The case which I’m about to recount, falls into this category.
It is fair to note that, in the years since these awful incidents occurred, the world has undergone many changes. While the passage of time has not dulled the impact of what transpired during those days, I believe that it has somewhat prepared the public to accept, or at least to approach, this case with an open mind. It is with this philosophy that I have decided to chance its release. Having made these statements, I must admit that, had I not personally witnessed all that I am about to recount with my own eyes, there is no doubt that I would consider myself a sceptic.
* * * *
The adventure began early one cold winter morning, while I was still residing in the rooms at 221B Baker Street. I was awakened by Sherlock Holmes, who urged me to dress immediately.
When I asked him for an explanation, he merely said, “Wear warm clothing, Watson, we are making a trip to the country.”
With that, he left me to obey his orders. I knew my friend well enough to know that it was useless to attempt to elicit information from him. He would tell me more in his own time.
I had no sooner finished shaving when the door was opened and Holmes stuck his head inside the room and said, “And do take your revolver.”
My curiosity now thoroughly piqued, Holmes and I set off in a cab for Paddington station. Once there, Holmes purchased our tickets, and a moment later, we stepped into a train car and sat down.
“How would you feel about a day at the seaside?” asked Holmes.
Though I’ve occasionally made mention of Sherlock Holmes’s bizarre sense of humour, in previous accounts, I suppose I shall never entirely get used to it.
“It’s February,” I replied, feeling like the straight man in a music hall routine.
Holmes smiled, removed an envelope from his coat pocket and took out a letter. “Our friend, Inspector Lestrade, has been kind enough to invite us to a scenic little coastal village in Cornwall, called Harbourton. It seems there’s been a murder there, one with some peculiar qualities.”
“Peculiar?” I said, knowing well Holmes’s interest in all things out of the ordinary.
It was then that Holmes began reading from the letter. “The victim was one Alvar Harris, a man of sixty-seven, who lived on a secluded farm, some five miles outside town. A week ago, a local woman, Millicent Stokes, who would periodically stop by Harris’s house to bring him groceries, found him missing. She had seen him alive only the previous afternoon, when he’d asked her to return the following day with the weekly newspaper, which she’d forgotten to bring him.
“After searching the property, Stokes discovered blood stains near the barn. Suspicion immediately fell upon Harris’s neighbour, Edmund Collier, who lived a quarter mile away. Harris and Collier had been known to detest each other. It seems that the reason for that contention is that Harris would let his cows graze on Collier’s land, despite Collier’s numerous pleas to the contrary.
“By all accounts, Harris was a taciturn man, with no living family, who seldom ventured into town. Collier, by contrast, is a retired Postal clerk, who lived with his own grown daughter, often socialized in the local village pub, and used his time to pursue his avocation, which is sculpting.”
I glanced out the window to see the buildings of London recede into the distance, as Holmes continued reading from the letter.
“Upon being questioned, Millicent Stokes was ruled out as a suspect. An extensive search of Harris’s house and grounds revealed no other evidence; nor did a search of Collier’s house. Other than the circumstances above, there seemed to be nothing to tie Collier to the crime.
“This changed two days later, when a human arm washed up on the local beach and was found by a passing fisherman. An examination of the arm revealed two tattoos, which a tearful Stokes immediately recognized as belonging to the deceased.
“Collier was promptly arrested, and another search of his house revealed a number of saws, which Collier claimed to use in his sculpting work. Due to the condition of the victim’s arm, which was severed with razor-like precision, it soon became obvious that we had our culprit.
“When presented with this evidence, Collier maintained his innocence. The matter might have ended there, were it not for Collier’s daughter, Katherine, who says that she and her father were home the entire night the crime was committed.
“It is Katherine Collier who insisted that I contact you, Mr Holmes, with the hope that you could perform a miracle and save her father from the gallows.” The letter ended there.
“It seems that Lestrade is satisfied that he has the guilty party, and that the case is solved,” I said.
“When Lestrade feels satisfaction, the world trembles,” said Holmes, with a half smile, then took a few photographs out of the envelope in which the letter had come.
“I must caution you, Watson, despite both your military and medical experience, you will find these photographs nothing short of gruesome.”
Holmes handed me the pictures. Given his usual flair for the dramatic, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but in this instance, he was not exaggerating. I stared at the photographs with revulsion.
Each was a picture of the severed arm, taken from different angles. I took note of the particularly strange manner with which the arm had been cut, then at the two tattoos on the upper biceps. The top one was of a nearly rectangular shape, the one below was an illustration of two intertwined vines. Further down, I noticed three dark circles, which were not tattoos, though exactly what they were, I wasn’t sure, perhaps wounds of some kind. Then I saw an area of blackened puffy skin, which is common among drowning victims.
“What can you tell me about Mr Harris from looking at his arm?” asked Holmes.
“It is the arm of a healthy man, if not somewhat overweight,” I said, “The fingers have calluses, so it stands to reason that he worked with his hands.”
“Excellent, Watson.”
“The tattoos, are, of course, distinctive. Perhaps he was a lover of the art, or merely a follower of fashion. Since a number of royals created the vogue, the public has, as they always do, followed suit.”