The Adventure Of The Posthumous Apparition - Marion Smith (best mobile ebook reader txt) 📗

I followed Richard, not wishing to be captured by the landlady and engage in an endless conversation.
The Cow and Calf wad a popular boarding house, and practically bursting when we arrived, so the only room free had to be shared between us. The small bedroom contained three narrow beds, with one wardrobe between the three. I sighed, and sat down on one of the beds.
“Who were you talking about?” I asked Richard.
“My brother,” he replied, running a hand through his hair. “He comes here quite a lot.”
At that moment the door swung open, and banged against the wall. Holmes stood in the doorway, swaying unsteadily. When he saw the look of horror on my face he laughed.
“Ah, Watson,” he slurred, “The ale here... Really is fantastic. Almost as good as the Baker Street whisky.” He stepped forward, but his feet gave way beneath him, and he collapsed onto the middle bed.
“You’re drunk!” I exclaimed. “Holmes, again?! Really?”
Richard stared in horror at the Great Detective, reduced to a dribbling drunkard.
“No, no I’m not,” Holmes began to say, before rolling onto his side and falling asleep. Horrified at his behaviour, I climbed under the covers of my own bed, and tried to block out all embarrassment my fried had just caused me.

I awoke to the sound of an anxious voice calling me.
“Doctor, Doctor Watson!” Richard cried. I opened my eyes drowsily.
“What is it?” I mumbled incoherently.
“It’s Mr Holmes,” Richard replied, panicked. “He’s gone!”
“What?!” I sprang from my bed, and looked to my left. Holmes’ bed was empty, the covers thrown back.
“I awoken suddenly, and saw he was gone!” Richard explained.
“Perhaps he has gone downstairs to the lavatory,” I decided. “He was drunk.”
“I checked,” replied Richard, “And he’s nowhere to be found!”

III

The next morning, Richard and I sat downstairs at the table, sick with worry. Mrs Sorsby had laid out two gigantic Yorkshire breakfasts on the table, but neither of us had any appetite.
Holmes was still missing. We had no idea at all where he was. Every time the door of the Inn opened we jumped, hoping and praying it was him. But every time in walked a businessman, an old woman, a young mother, a fruit seller. Anxiety was an understatement.
The old woman, however, who had just entered the tavern, advanced towards us.
“Excuse me, sirs,” said she, in a croaking, aged voice, “would you mind if I sit here? This inn is so crowded.”
“By my guest,” I replied, gesturing to an empty seat. She obliged and sat.
“Why the long faces?” she asked, curious.
I was about to warn Richard not to give away too much information, just in case any unwelcome ear around heard, but he spoke anyway. “A... friend of ours drank too much last night,” said he, “and he disappeared whilst we were asleep. We haven’t seen him since.”
“Dearie me, that is a pity,” the old woman rambled. “Your friend... Did he, by any chance, go by the name of Sherlock Holmes?”
Both me and Richard stared at her in astonishment.
“Why, have you seen him?!” I cried.
“No, not as such, but... I do know where he is,” whispered the woman.
“Where?!” Richard practically shouted.
The woman leaned in towards him, so Richard and I moved closer.
“Haven’t you realized yet?” the woman said, her voice an octave lower than before. Richard gasped in shock, and Holmes smiled back at us beneath the wrinkled skin.
“Holmes, what is this, some kind of sick joke?!” I cried loudly.
“No, no,” he answered, “Just a disguise. And quite a successful one, judging by your reaction. You had no idea it was me?”
“None at all,” Richard exclaimed.
“But Holmes,” I said, “You were drunk! How is it that you have appeared the next morning quite cheerful, and dressed as a woman?!”
Holmes sighed. “I never was drunk!” he replied, irritated.
“Then why did you act so?” Richard asked, confused.
“Because you would never expect me of leaving if I was!” cried Holmes. “I needed to do complete some investigations elsewhere before I made any assumptions, but I knew that if we all went it would slow us down. Pretending to be drunk meant you would never expect me to leave.”
“But why the costume?”
Holmes smiled. “People never expect old women to be investigating crimes. It’s just a distinct advantage.” With that he held up his arm, and wiped his face with the sleeve of his rather dated dress. The make-up came away, to reveal the face of my friend amongst a wig of greying ringlets. It really was most uncanny.
“Where did you find the theatrical make-up?” Richard asked, puzzled.
“I brought it with me,” Holmes replied. “In my violin case.” That did explain a lot.
“Please, go and change into something more respectable!” I pleaded. Holmes sighed, and stood from the table, receiving many confused looks from the other inn-goers. He waved at them all nonchalantly.
“Mr Holmes, where are we going today then, if you’ve conducted other investigations?” Richard enquired.
“Oh, I have plenty more to investigate yet,” replied Holmes, amused.
“So where are we going?” I pressed.
“If we may,” Holmes announced politely, “Leeds mortuary.”


I knew Richard was not happy with this visit, and in the cab on the journey there, I begged Richard not to accompany us.
“Please, Richard,” said I, “You’ve already seen everything there, why put yourself through the pain twice?”
“I promised myself I would do everything I could to help solve what’s happened to my wife,” Richard insisted, “So therefore wherever you and Mr Holmes go, I shall follow.”
I was concerned, for Richard’s sake.
Upon our arrival at the mortuary, I gave one last attempt at persuading Richard to stay outside. The man had been so much more strong willed than I first thought, and refused to give in.
“I’m coming,” he said grimly.
We were shown into a small, dinghy room with a table in the centre. Slowly, we advanced towards it. Slowly, carefully, Holmes drew back he sheet that covered the body. Richard stood, wincing, preparing himself for the sight that lay beneath.
It took all the will power I could master not to gasp at the sight that lay before my eyes. There was the corpse of Marie Helmsley, but, just as Richard had said, her face was utterly unrecognisable as anything human. The flesh was torn and mangled, it was not hard to imagine the hooves of the horses, the sickening sound of the contact... I could not suppress a shudder. I turned to Richard, who had his nails dug tightly into his wrists, trying his hardest not to show any emotion.
Holmes, however, did not seem to be affected at the sight that met him. He circled the body, scanning over for any abnormalities, for anything that he could deduce from it. Suddenly, he stopped, and lifted the pale, perfect hand of the corpse.
“Richard, did your wife wear a ring?” Holmes asked.
“Yes,” said Richard slowly, his head in his hands. “I was sent the jewellery she wore back after she was examined. Why?”
“No reason,” Holmes answered. He carried on his investigation.
Once I managed to recover from the shock of seeing corpse in such an appalling state, I began to make some observations. The body, although I could not seethe face, appeared to be young, not yet twenty-five. It was, in a word, heartbreaking, to see what had been a beautiful young woman, laid out, her face torn to pieces, on a mortuary slab.
Another thought suddenly came to me, but I pushed it from my mind. That would make this case even more disturbing than it already was.
“Right, I’ve seen all that I need to see,” announced Holmes. Richard breathed a deep sigh of relief, and walked as quickly out the room as he possibly could. I did not blame him. The corpse was that of his wife.
As I turned to exit, Holmes caught my arm. I leaned in closer.
“How could Richard possibly have been so stupid?!” he whispered.
I turned in horror. “Holmes, you can’t say that!”
“I just did,” said Holmes petulantly. “Besides, isn’t it obvious?”
“Is what obvious?”
Holmes groaned. “The fact that her ring finger has no tan line, that there are no calluses on her fingers from playing the violin, that any facial skin exposed has no freckles, and that woman was certainly not pregnant!”
Being a doctor, I had also noticed that the corpse, in life, had definitely not been with child. Now that I had faced up to that doubt, I knew what my friend was trying to say.
“Holmes,” I breathed, “Surely you can’t mean...”
“Yes,” he answered. “That body is not Richard’s wife.”

IV

When we joined Richard outside the mortuary, he was bent double, his hands on his knees, and his face pale. It was obvious he had been retching. When he noticed the two of us he straightened his back, and the colour rushed back to his cheeks with embarrassment.
“Richard, would it be possible to visit your house?” Holmes asked. I was pleased to catch a slight hint of sympathy in his voice.
“Yes, of course,” Richard replied, wiping his face with his jacket sleeve.
“And am I right in thinking that you have not been home since the death of your wife?” Holmes asked.
“Indeed. I... couldn’t face the thought of returning home without her,” Richard began. “I’ve been staying with Marie’s brother, Michael, in Otley.”
“I see,” replied Holmes. “Let us hail a cab then. We have no time to waste.”
We did so, and were soon journeying towards Richard’s cottage. He had told us he lived in a small cottage near to Ilkley, and after what had seemed an incredibly long dreadful journey across uneven Yorkshire roads we arrived at the charmingly named Hermit’s Retreat.
We opened the gate, and advanced up the path. As Richard approached the door, and drew his key, Holmes stepped in front of him to stop him, and knelt down towards the lock.
“Scratches around the keyhole,” he announced, turning to Richard. “Do you drink?”