Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird
am afraid I have wasted your time,’ said the lady. ‘And my own.’
Mrs McLaren took her leave, and as soon as the front door closed behind her downstairs, I could not contain myself. ‘Holmes! Why do you hesitate? There is so much of interest here! And Mrs McLaren—’
‘What? A servant girl has her hair shorn, servants fear ghosts, and some empty dynamite sticks may or may not have been found in a garden shed? By the way, those were not created as dummies. Someone had removed the cordite, for whatever reason. I suspect the lady herself did so, then brought these along to bring out if her other stories failed to get my attention.’
‘Holmes, that is an outrageous notion!’
He shrugged. ‘Do you not think her capable?’
‘That is beside the point! She seems far too intelligent and level-headed to resort to such trickery. Did you not find her story, indeed the lady herself, intriguing?’
‘No, you found her intriguing. I find her—’
‘Utterly fascinating.’
‘—provocative. Really, Watson, you must raise your sights.’
‘Provocative is not a bad beginning for a case, Holmes.’
‘I have decided and that is that. Besides, Mycroft has something for me and I am to meet him in the morning. Would you care to join us? It will most certainly be more interesting than the McLaren imbroglio.’
‘Yes, I will come, Holmes. Though I do not understand this decision. Ah, it is freezing in here now.’
As I moved to close the damaged window, I stole a glance outside. The snow was coming down hard now and the air was growing opaque. But across the way, I saw something that made me stop short.
‘Hullo! Your man is in trouble down there!’
In the deepening shadows, the hulking Butterby was struggling with a tall, well-dressed stranger, who wielded his walking stick like a club. The attacker was clearly at an advantage, and suddenly struck the larger man in the face. Butterby fell back into the shadows.
Holmes bounded to the window, took one glance and ran for the door shouting, ‘Stay here! On no account come down. Do as I say!’
In a moment I saw him dash into the snow sans overcoat and dodge the traffic, across Baker Street to where Butterby had arisen and was now locked in combat with his attacker. From the distance I could only discern a gentleman of about our own age, who was fighting with a particularly vicious energy. Butterby was taking a beating as Holmes ran towards them.
But the attacker sensed his approach, broke free from Butterby and whirling at the last instant aimed a fierce blow at Holmes with his walking stick, striking his shin with a crack I could hear from across the street. Holmes shouted and went down. Two pedestrians nearby fled.
I was down the stairs and into the street without a thought.
By the time I reached the trio, Holmes had regained his footing, and the three were struggling on the slippery pavement, the snow swirling wildly about them. Butterby fell and the attacker turned his attention full on Holmes.
But perceiving my approach and sensing the odds were no longer in his favour, the assailant broke free and started to flee, his camel hair coat billowing behind him. Fate, however, intervened and he suddenly slipped on the icy pavement and fell, striking his head against the base of a lamp post as he went down.
He lay still. We stood gasping, Butterby still splayed on the curb next to us, holding his head.
‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I shouted over the rising wind.
‘Yes, see to that man, Watson,’ Holmes replied, helping Butterby up.
I turned to the downed attacker. His was a handsome face, chiselled and refined. The eyes remained closed and he was still. I knelt, checking his pulse and his pupils, They were not dilated, a good sign. The wind continued to whip snow around us in a flurry. Holmes and I were without our coats.
‘Get him inside,’ I shouted. Holmes hesitated for only a moment, but then nodded.
With Butterby’s clumsy help, the three of us managed to transport the fellow up to our sitting room, and minutes later, the mysterious attacker was stretched out unconscious on our settee, his hands secured behind him with Butterby’s handcuffs. Holmes grabbed a second pair of cuffs from the mantle and secured his feet to one leg of the settee. I was shivering from my brief exposure to the elements but applied myself to examine the man further. I placed a pillow to raise his head where it had tilted back over the edge of the settee.
My patient was a tall, well-built fellow. His coat was of the finest Savile Row tailoring, now dirtied and torn from the fight. He had suffered a nasty cut on the forehead, and remained unconscious, but his pulse was strong and regular, his breathing normal. I called down to Mrs Hudson for hot water and towels and blotted the wound with a clean handkerchief and some of Holmes’s clear spirits.
A silent and glowering Butterby stood like a plinth in the corner of the room. Melting snow dripped from him, splashing lightly onto the rug. He held a dirty handkerchief to a bleeding cut on his cheek and grimaced. I handed him a clean one. Holmes looked up and, finally noticing him, suggested he fetch Lestrade and be quick about it.
‘Right-o, then,’ Butterby grunted, and lumbered off. Holmes shook his head in annoyance.
Our man on the sofa was struggling to regain consciousness. He groaned and his eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, closed, and opened again. I turned to my friend.
Holmes was pale with exertion and cold, snow still visible on his hair and the shoulders of his dressing gown. He rubbed his shin and grimaced.
‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I asked again.
‘It is just a bruise. Our man here has been in training since last we met. I underestimated him. What is the damage?’
‘You know him, then?’
‘The damage, Watson?’
‘He will live. I would ask for brandy, but—’
‘Here, give him some of this. My best whisky, though he hardly merits it.’ He handed over a bottle. McLaren Top!
I held the drink to the assailant’s lips, supporting his head. He squinted and took in his surroundings and then suddenly jerked his limbs only to discover his restraints. With a splutter he pulled away from the drink, but clipped it with his chin and several drops spilled over his damaged coat.
He shook his head to focus and suddenly noticed Holmes standing above him. He emitted a deep-throated cry and jolted violently towards me. Struggling against his bonds he began making a series of strange, garbled sounds.
‘Now that is a waste of perfectly good Scotch, St John,’ said Holmes. ‘Not to mention you have further damaged your rather fine coat. I see you have retained your excellent taste in tailoring.’
‘How do you know this man?’ I asked.
‘It is a very long story,’ said my friend, his voice strained.
Another set of unintelligible sounds emerged from the fellow. Turning to stare at him I discovered why. As he continued to make noises, I remarked in horror that the man had lost his tongue! The wound was not recent. There was not a trace of blood, just a dark space where a tongue would rest.
St John glowered.
Holmes turned to me. ‘This is Mr Orville St John. A distinguished member of the St Johns of Northumberland, titled landowners, enormously wealthy from their logging endeavours. We were undergraduates together at Camford. Shall I tell Dr Watson what happened there, St John?’
The man said nothing.
‘I shall presume that was a yes. Mr St John and an equally well-placed friend, both of whom enjoyed great prestige at Camford, took top honors in mathematics and chemistry, until