Exclusive extract: The Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

The Loss of Chapter Twenty-One

By Mark Hodder

Throughout my long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes I was frequently astonished by the insights I gained into his remarkable mind and the wholly unique manner in which it functioned. Over the years, as these revelations accumulated, I slowly came to understand how his great gift of observational and deductive intellect was also a terrible curse, for it robbed him of those warmer aspects of personality which we depend upon for the establishment and maintenance of friendships and emotional attachments. Indeed, Holmes often appeared to be little more than a machine built to gather and compare facts, calculating probabilities and interconnections until some final set of correspondences was revealed in which lay the solution to whatever problem had been set before him. I found this heartless efficiency disturbing, not only because it so separated him from society, but also because it caused me to often feel regarded as little more than a functional component of his existence. Admittedly, this might be regarded as insecurity on my part, but Holmes did little to assuage it, and I never felt it more deeply than during the case of The Greek Interpreter, when he finally revealed to me that he had a brother.

One night, shortly after the completion of that affair, Holmes and I were sitting up into the early hours, reading and smoking, when I found myself unable to hold my tongue any longer, and, out of the blue, blurted, “Really, Holmes! You are positively inhuman!”

My companion sighed, shifted in his armchair, put aside his book, and levelled his piercing eyes at me, saying nothing.

“Why did you never mention Mycroft before?” I continued. “All this time we’ve known one another, and you kept your brother a secret from me!”

Holmes glanced into his pipe bowl, leaned over and knocked it against the hearth, and set about refilling it. “I didn’t mention him, Watson, simply because there was no reason to do so.”

“No reason? Do you not see that the sharing of personal details about one’s family, upbringing, past and associates establishes deeper bonds of friendship? Is that not reason enough?”

“Do you not consider us friends, then?”

“Of course we’re friends! You purposely overlook my use of the word deeper. Friendship is not a static thing. It must be continually strengthened if it is to survive the naturally degenerative effects of time. You make no effort!”

Holmes waved a hand dismissively. “I have detected no lessening of my attachment to you, despite my apparent neglect.”

“Ha!” I cried out. “Detected! Not felt, but detected! Even in your choice of words you reveal that you do not operate as a normal person. You are thoroughly cold and dispassionate!”

He struck a match and spent a few moments sucking at the stem of his pipe until the tobacco was burning and plumes of blue smoke were curling into the air, then murmured, “An advantage, it would seem. I am not dependent upon the fuel of emotive displays and reassurances.”

I threw down my newspaper in exasperation, jumped to my feet, and paced over to the sideboard to pour myself a drink. “For all your criticism of his sedentary ways, I found Mycroft to be a warmer fellow than you are. Your only passion, Holmes, is the solving of puzzles!”

“Not passion,” he responded. “Vocation. Look out of the window, would you? If I’m not mistaken, a carriage has just pulled up outside. The sound is somewhat muffled. I’ll wager a fog has got up while we’ve been sitting here.”

I frowned, annoyed that our conversation had been interrupted, and pulled aside the curtain. “A peasouper. I can’t see a blessed thing. Great heavens!”

My exclamation came in response to a high-pitched screeching that penetrated both the pall and our windowpane, the words plainly audible. “Absurd! Absurd! It’s a shilling, I tell you! I’ll not be swindled! A shilling! A shilling and not a ha’penny more, confound you!”

I looked back at Holmes, who arched an eyebrow and said, “Down the stairs with you, there’s a good fellow. If paying a cab fare engenders such hysteria, then our street door is about to suffer a dose of unrestrained hammering. Answer it before Mrs Hudson is roused, would you?”

Laying aside my untouched brandy, I left the consulting room, hurried down the staircase, and yanked open the front door just as the first knock impacted against it. A man of about fifty was on our doorstep. He was tiny, barely touching five feet in height, with a fragile-looking slope-shouldered body upon which was mounted a ridiculously outsized head, its bald cranium fringed with bright red hair that curled down around the jawline to form a small unkempt beard.

Waving his bowler in the air, he hopped up and down and shrieked, “Help! Help! Sherlock Holmes!”

“Calm yourself!” said I. “Mr Holmes is just upstairs. Allow me to show you up to –”

Before I could finish, the visitor pounced through the door, ducked under my outstretched arm, and scampered up the staircase. “Holmes! Holmes! Murder! Theft! Murder! Help!”

“Hey there! I say!” I protested, setting off in pursuit.

The intruder reached the landing and pounded on the first door he came to, which happened to be that of the consulting room. Holmes called “Come!” and the little man plunged in.

I followed. Holmes hadn’t moved from his armchair and was looking curiously at the apparition that stood twitching and gesticulating wildly in the middle of the room.

“Murder! Theft! Murder! Hurry! We can’t delay the police for much longer!”

I opened my mouth to speak but Holmes stopped me with a small gesture, lay down his pipe, rested his chin on steepled fingers, and continued to watch the bizarre performance.

It occurred to me that our visitor’s face was somewhat familiar, but he was so wildly animated I found it impossible to place him, so waited patiently – as did my colleague – for the histrionics to end.

Three or four minutes of almost incomprehensible jabbering passed before the man threw his hat onto the floor, spread his arms wide, and said, “Well?”

“Well,” Holmes echoed. “Shall we begin with your name, sir?”

“What?” our guest squealed. “What? What? What? My name? Don’t you realise the urgency of the situation? My name? Swinburne. Algernon Swinburne. It’s murder, Holmes! Murder!”

I gasped, and Holmes looked at me enquiringly.

“Mr Swinburne is one of our most accomplished and admired poets,” I said, knowing where that particular art was concerned, my friend’s oddly compartmentalised knowledge didn’t extend far beyond the Petrarch he habitually carried in his coat pocket. “His work is extraordinary.”

“Poetry be damned!” Swinburne shouted. “By heavens, this could kill Burton! You have to help, Holmes! Get up! Out of that chair! We must leave at once! It’s life or death!”

“Who is Burton?” Holmes asked.

Swinburne let loose a piercing scream of frustration, leaped into the air and landed with both feet on his hat, completely flattening it. “Burton! Burton! Sir Richard Francis Burton! Who else would I mean?” He bent, picked up the bowler, punched it back into shape, and suddenly became calm and earnest. “Mr Holmes, please, you must come with me to the St James Hotel right away. I will explain all en route. We cannot lose a further moment!”

Sherlock Holmes stood, cast off his threadbare dressing gown, and kicked the slippers from his feet. “Sir Richard Francis Burton, you say? Very well, Mr Swinburne, Watson and I will accompany you. I ask only that, on the way, you give a full and detailed account of the affair in the most rational manner you can muster. By that, I mean less of the dramatics, if you please.”

“Rational?” Swinburne exclaimed, slapping the dented hat onto his bald cranium. “I assure you, I’m as rational as I’ve ever been!” He turned to me. “Dr Watson, do you have your medical kit?”

I nodded. “Is it required, Mr Swinburne?”

“It may be. Please bring it with you.”

I left the room and entered my bedchamber, where I donned my shoes and jacket and took up my bag. When I returned to the consulting room, Holmes was ready to depart. Swinburne hustled us down the stairs and out into the swirling fog of Baker Street, where he emitted another of his shrill squeals. “Gone! The Brougham! Blast that driver! I knew he couldn’t be trusted! He tried to charge me two and six!”

“That is the approximate fare from the St James Hotel,” Holmes noted.

“Nonsense! A cab ride is a shilling!” Swinburne protested. “The distance is immaterial!”

Holmes and I exchanged a glance. I felt slightly disorientated by the poet’s eccentricity. The detective, by contrast, appeared to be rather amused by it.

Despite the hour and the awful weather, we were able to hail a four-wheeler and were soon rattling southward toward Green Park.

“It is a short journey, Mr Swinburne,” Holmes said. “Please start at the beginning and be concise. What has happened?”

“Murder! Theft!” The poet twitched and jerked spasmodically. It was plainly apparent to me that he suffered a congenital excess of electric vitality, but he managed to bring himself under control, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and continued, “Sir Richard, his wife Isabel, and their personal physician, Doctor Grenfell Baker, arrived in London three days ago, having travelled from their home in Trieste, where Burton is consul.”

“Physician?” Holmes asked. “Are the Burtons unwell?”

“Yes. Sir Richard’s heart is giving out. He suffered an attack a few weeks ago and remains frail. But he pushes himself so. He absolutely refuses to rest.”

“And Lady Burton?”

“She’s generally strong but suffers the minor and multiple ailments one must endure with old age.” Swinburne shook his head and murmured:

“Time turns the old days to derision,

Our loves into corpses or wives;

And marriage and death and division

Make barren our lives.”

Holmes clicked his tongue in irritation. “The facts, sir. Nothing more. No embellishments required.”

The little man shuddered from head to foot, slapped his own cheek, tugged at his beard, then went on, “It so happens that our mutual friend, Thomas Bendyshe was putting up at the St James, too, so the Burtons took a room next to his. Earlier tonight, Isabel went to meet with her sister –”

“Where?” Holmes cut in.

“At Bartolini’s Restaurant in Leicester Square. Doctor Baker, meanwhile, visited with his family in Islington, while Sir Richard, Tom Bendyshe and I dined together at the Athenaeum.”

I asked, “For how long have you known the Burtons?”

“Nigh on thirty years,” Swinburne replied.

Holmes muttered, “Immaterial. Do be quiet, Watson.”

I glared at him, but my colleague’s attention was wholly focused upon the poet, who said, “At about nine o’clock, Tom – whose heart is also weak – complained of slight palpitations and left us. Sir Richard and I stayed on at the club until half past eleven. I then accompanied him to the hotel, where he intended to show me a manuscript, of which I shall say more in a moment. When we arrived, the manager was waiting for us in the lobby. He rushed us up to the Burtons’ suite. Apparently, Isabel had returned shortly before us and found Tom Bendyshe lying dead inside it. The aforementioned manuscript was missing. It appears a thief had entered through the window, which had been left open, was interrupted in his work by Tom, and murdered him before fleeing the scene.”

“On which floor is the Burtons’ room?” Holmes asked.

“The fourth. The window is accessible via an exterior metal staircase that runs up to the roof at the rear of the hotel.”

“I see. Why is this not a police matter, Mr Swinburne? Why consult me?”

Swinburne threw his hands into the air. “No! No! Police? Impossible! The hotel manager insisted on calling them but we asked him to delay until I could fetch you. The problem, Mr Holmes, is that we cannot admit the existence of the manuscript to the police.”

“Why not?”

Swinburne levelled his bright green eyes at the detective. “What do you know of Burton, sir?”

Holmes looked at me, said, “Watson?” then sat back and closed his eyes.

“I can speak now?” I asked in an indignant tone.

Holmes flicked his fingers.

“He is – or, rather, was, when in his prime – an explorer,” I said. “He more or less single-handedly opened central Africa, leading to the discovery of the source of the River Nile. He also examined the cultures of West Africa, was one of the first Englishmen to enter forbidden Mecca, and, I believe, was a secret agent for Sir Charles Napier in India.”

“Oh, he’s much more than that,” Swinburne interjected. “Sir Richard is fluent in at least thirty languages. He’s counted as one of the best swordsmen in Europe. He’s a scholar, a disguise artist, an author, a poet, a mesmerist, and an anthropologist.”

Much to my discomfort, a tear rolled down the poet’s cheek.

“But I fear these are his twilight years,” he said. “My friend is not the man he used to be. He’s sixty-seven years old, and the hardships of Africa have caught up with him. But, by God, he’s determined not to go without making one last contribution to man’s knowledge! Two years ago, Mr Holmes, he translated and published an Arabian manuscript entitled The Perfumed Garden of the Cheikh Nefzaoui. It is a treatise concerning the art of physical love between a man and a woman.”

I cleared my throat. “Is it – is it – decent, Mr Swinburne?”

The poet snorted derisively. “Some idiots claim it to be nought but erotica.” He leaned forward. “But do you not agree, Mr Holmes, that through the detailed study of every aspect of human behaviour – every aspect – we can gain a better understanding not only of individual motivations, but also of the racial and cultural proclivities that inform those motivations?”

Holmes opened his eyes and looked a little surprised. “That is a very astute observation, and I agree without reservation.”

“Then you’ll understand the dissatisfaction Sir Richard has felt concerning that volume, for it was published incomplete.”

“In what respect?”

“He’d been unable to locate a version of the work in its original Arabic, and so was forced to translate from a French edition from which the notorious twenty-first chapter had been omitted. That chapter, by itself, is almost the same length as the entirety of the remaining material. It deals with what we English refer to as unnatural vices – that is to say, physical relations between men.”

“Holmes,” I murmured, “I’m not sure we should involve ourselves with –”

“Nonsense!” my friend snapped. “Continue, please, Mr Swinburne.”

“Last year, Sir Richard discovered that an Algerian book dealer owned a copy of the work in its original language and with chapter twenty-one intact. He purchased it, and now intends to re-translate and annotate the entire volume, complete with the missing material. He regards it as his greatest project.”

“And it is this manuscript that has been stolen?” Holmes asked.

“Not the complete thing; just chapter twenty-one. You can see why the police can’t be informed. They couldn’t possibly understand the anthropological value of the document. To them, it would be classed as filth of the worst kind. Sir Richard would be arrested.”

Holmes grunted. “From where, exactly, was the chapter taken?”

“From a travelling trunk in his hotel bedroom.” The poet suddenly slapped a fist into the palm of his hand and cried out, “A curse on Avery, damn him! May the hound rot!”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Holmes said. “Avery?”

Swinburne shook his fist and snarled, “Edward Avery. A bookseller. The Burtons had hardly arrived in London before they learned that the swine has been illegally publishing and selling the earlier edition of The Perfumed Garden. Sir Richard confronted the rogue who, knowing that there could be no legal redress, brazenly offered to publish chapter twenty-one as a supplement. This was refused, of course, and Avery responded by declaring that, one way or another, he would see the chapter in print to his own benefit.”

The little man angrily swept the tears from his cheek. “I lost my good friend Tom Bendyshe tonight, Mr Holmes. I want vengeance. Bring Edward Avery to justice, and restore that chapter to Burton before I lose him as well.”

The carriage came to a jolting halt and the driver shouted down to us, “St James Hotel, gents!”

We disembarked.

“Two and six, please.”

“Again?” Swinburne yelled. “It’s a confounded conspiracy!”

Holmes took the poet by the elbow, dragged him away, and called, “Pay and follow, Watson!”

I fished in my pocket for change, passed the coins up to the cabbie, and chased after my companions.