Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that you should have spoken of these things, Dr Zyss, for I had two reasons for wishing to see you today. The first was to discus my son’s case with you. The second was to return this.” I took from my bag the little black-painted brass owl you showed me earlier. “I believe,” I said, “that Nicholas took it from your consulting-room. I found it among his belongings some time after his death. By then, you had left the country, so I was unable to return it to you, but it was the first thing I thought of when I read that you were visiting England once more.”

‘At this, Dr Zyss sprang from his chair and paced the floor in an agitated manner.

‘“But this is remarkable!” he cried at length. “Astounding! You may not be aware, Mrs Routledge, how rare it is in my profession to receive good solid verification of one’s theories. But your production of this paper-weight confirms my diagnosis almost beyond doubt! I remember missing it at the time and wondering where it had got to. I assumed in the end that the maid had accidentally knocked it off my desk and that it had fallen into a waste-paper basket and been inadvertently thrown away. But it is evident now what really occurred: your son must have taken it from my desk while my back was turned and put it in his pocket. Why he should want such a dull-looking little thing, I cannot imagine. He had never expressed any interest in it before. But, of course, to ask the reason ‘why’ in such cases is perfectly pointless. For sufferers from kleptomania, there is no reason, other than a momentary, irresistible urge. It saddens me to say it,” Dr Zyss continued after a moment, “but I consider it quite possible that it was shame at having stolen this trifle from me – his friend – that led your son to take his own life. When I go to see Arbuthnot, I shall take this little owl with me and explain to him how it vindicates my theory. Bah! That dogmatic old fool! I shall teach him a lesson in humility! I shall rewrite my notes this afternoon, and when I deliver my lecture on Saturday evening, I shall incorporate the story of this little black owl into it to emphasise my point!”

‘I left soon after that and that was the last I saw of Dr Zyss,’ concluded Mrs Routledge.

‘So presumably,’ said Inspector Gregson, ‘he called on Professor Arbuthnot, as Mr Holmes suggests, showed him the paper-weight, and no doubt crowed a little about what he felt it proved. They had a quarrel, exchanged insults, and then the professor grabbed his paper-knife and stabbed his rival through the heart.’

‘It must be so,’ said Holmes. ‘Arbuthnot seems to have been a very arrogant man, who could not bear to be disagreed with. No doubt it was Dr Zyss’s rewritten lecture notes that he wished to get his hands on at the Belvedere Hotel. I believe,’ he continued, turning to Mrs Routledge, ‘that you are acquainted with Professor Arbuthnot’s nephew, Mr Terence Chalfont.’

‘Yes. He came to see me some time ago. He was doing research for a play he was writing and we met on several occasions. We discussed Nicholas’s case and related matters at some length, and I always found him very thoughtful and understanding. One day, he introduced me to a friend of his, Martin Ferris, who he said would be playing the leading part of the young man in the play and I must say I found him a very pleasant young man, who reminded me a little of my own son. When our discussions were eventually concluded, Mr Chalfont promised me solemnly that he would never tell anyone that he had spoken to me, to avoid bringing the glare of unwelcome publicity upon me again.’

‘I don’t imagine you mentioned the black owl to him.’

‘No. It never occurred to me to do so. I was not aware then of its significance.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I think, Mrs Routledge, that you should now tell Mr Chalfont about the black owl, and suggest that he incorporates the incident into his play. He may find it is the one telling moment which, he informed us, the play currently lacks. Then, when the play at last opens, you and your son will finally receive a kind of justice, and this whole unfortunate business will have reached its conclusion.’

‘It is a singular fact,’ said Sherlock Holmes to me one morning, as we sat either side of the fire after breakfast, ‘that although mankind advances in the sphere of material accomplishments with almost every day that passes, his progress in the moral sphere is somewhat less marked.’

‘At least we are less likely nowadays to be attacked in the street by someone wielding a battle-axe,’ I responded in some amusement.

‘No doubt,’ said my friend, ‘but I often suspect that that is only because of the increased likelihood of apprehension and punishment. If it were not for the forces of law and order, we should probably have battle-axe-wielding villains bursting in upon us two or three times a week. Our modern life may seem one of civility and relative peace, but it often strikes me as but a fragile shell, beneath which the urge to evil-doing is as strong as ever.’

‘But, as you yourself have frequently observed, Holmes, human nature is much the same from one age to another and there is nothing any of us can do about that. Besides, the material advancement to which you refer, while it would no doubt have seemed like magic to our distant ancestors, often consists, when one examines it closely, of simply putting substance “A” on top of substance “B”, rather than the other way about, and discovering to our very great surprise that the result is more effective or agreeable in some way.’

Holmes chuckled. ‘That is certainly true,’ said he. ‘Nothing changes in its essential nature. We simply arrange things in different patterns and produce different results. These patterns are then recorded and the details passed on to our successors. No one trained in a scientific discipline can fail to see the worth of such records. On moral questions, however, there is no such agreement.’

‘You are too pessimistic,’ I returned. ‘The vast majority of our fellow citizens would, I am sure, agree upon most moral questions and that in itself is progress. The fact that your profession brings you into frequent contact with those who do not share the moral beliefs of the majority has surely influenced your opinion adversely.’

‘Perhaps you are right, Watson, and I am becoming a little cynical. Still, the true cynics are those – however small their number – who seek to take advantage of the moral behaviour of the majority to achieve their own selfish and immoral ends.’

It was a bright Saturday in the early spring of 1886, the sort of day that can feel as warm as summer when the sun is out, and as cold as winter when it is hidden by clouds. Our discussion was interrupted by a sharp peal at the front-door bell, and a moment later a young man in a blazer with a bright striped muffler wrapped round his neck was shown into the room, and introduced himself as Julian Ashby.

‘Excuse my bursting in upon you without prior warning,’ said he in a breathless voice. ‘You must think me very rude, but I have little time. My train only arrived about eight minutes ago, and I have run like the wind to get here!’

‘Not at all,’ said Holmes in an affable tone, pulling forward a chair for the young man. ‘Pray let us know how we can be of assistance. You have, I perceive, just arrived from somewhere up the Thames valley, but not, I think, from Oxford on this occasion, although you are of course an undergraduate there, where you spend a fair amount of time on the water. How are the daffodils by the river this year?’

Our visitor looked surprised. ‘You appear to know half of what I was going to tell you before I have even opened my mouth,’ said he.