Ellery Queen: A Study in Terror

But he was not listening. Again, he had stooped over the case, inserting his tweezers beneath the velvet lining. It gave way, and he peeled it off.

“Aha! What have we here? An attempt at concealment?”

“Concealment? Of what? Stains? Scratches?”

He pointed a long, thin finger. “That.”

“Why, it’s a coat of arms!”

“One with which I confess I am not familiar. Therefore, Watson, be kind enough to hand down my copy of Burke’s Peerage. ”

He continued to study the crest as I moved dutifully towards the book-shelves, murmuring to himself. “Stamped into the leather of the case. The surface is still in excellent condition.” He came erect. “A clew to the character of the man who owned the case.”

“He was careful with his possessions, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. But I was referring to―”

He broke off. I had handed him the Burke, and he leafed swiftly through the pages. “Aha, here we have it!” After a quick scrutiny, Holmes closed the book, laid it on the table, and dropped into a chair. He stared intently into space with his piercing eyes.

I could contain my patience no longer. “The crest, Holmes! Whose is it?”

“I beg your pardon, Watson,” said Holmes, coming to with a start. “Shires. Kenneth Osbourne, the Duke of Shires.”

The name was well-known to me, as indeed to all England. “An illustrious line.”

Holmes nodded absently. “The estates, unless I mistake, lie in Devonshire, hard by the moors, among hunting-lands well-regarded by noble sportsmen. The manor house―it is more of a feudal castle in appearance―is some four hundred years old, a classic example of Gothic architecture. I know little of the Shires history, beyond the patent fact that the name has never been connected with the world of crime.”

“So, Holmes,” said I, “we are back to the original question.”

“Indeed we are.”

“Which is: this surgeon’s-case―why was it sent to you?”

“A provocative question.”

“Perhaps an explanatory letter was delayed.”

“You may well have hit upon the answer, Watson,” said Holmes. “Therefore, I suggest we give the sender a little time, let us say until―” he paused to reach for his well-worn Bradshaw’s, that admirable guide to British rail movements “―until ten-thirty to-morrow morning. If an explanation is not then forthcoming, we shall repair to Paddington Station and board the Devonshire express.”

“For what reason, Holmes?”

“For two reasons. A short journey across the English countryside, with its changing colours at this time of year, should greatly refresh two stodgy Londoners.”

“And the other?”

The austere face broke into the most curious smile. “In all justice,” said my friend Holmes, “the Duke of Shires should have his property returned to him, should he not?” And he sprang to his feet and seized his violin.

“Wait, Holmes!” said I. “There is something in this you have not told me.”

“No, no, my dear Watson,” said he, drawing his bow briskly across the strings. “It is simply a feeling I have, that we are about to embark upon deep waters.”

Ellery raised his eyes from the manuscript. Grant Ames, III, was at the scotch again.

“You will be cut down eventually,” Ellery said, “by a pickled liver.”

“Killjoy,” Ames said. “But at the moment I feel myself a part of history, son. An actor under the Great Proscenium.”

“Drinking himself to death?”

“Bluenose. I’m talking of the manuscript. In the year 1888 Sherlock Holmes received a mysterious surgeon’s-kit. He trained his marvelous talents on it and began one of his marvelous adventures. Three-quarters of a century later, another package is delivered to another famous detective.”

“What’s your point?” grumbled Ellery, visibly torn between Dr. Watson’s manuscript and the empty typewriter.

“All that remains to complete the historic rerun is to train the modern talent on the modern adventure. Proceed, my dear Ellery. I’ll function as Watson.”

Ellery squirmed.

“Of course, you may challenge my bona fides. In substantiation, I point out that I have followed the Master’s career faithfully.”

That pierced the fog. Ellery studied his guest distastefully. “Really? All right, wise guy. Quote: ‘It was in the spring of the year 1894 and all London was interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of the―’? ”

“ ‘―Honourable Ronald Adair.’ Unquote,” said Ames promptly. “ The Adventure of the Empty House , from The Return of Sherlock Holmes. ”

“Quote: ‘She had drawn a little gleaming revolver and emptied barrel after barrel into―’ ”

“ ‘―Milverton’s body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt-front.’ Unquote. The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton. ”

“You scintillate, Watson! Quote: ‘These are the trodden, but not the downtrodden. These are the lowly, but never the low.’ ”

“Unquote.” The playboy yawned. “Your efforts to trap me are childish, my dear Ellery. You quoted yourself, from The Player on the Other Side. ”

Ellery scowled at him. The fellow was not all overstuffed blondes and expensive scotch. “ Touche, touche. Now let’s see―I’m sure I can stick you―”

“I’m sure you can if you stall long enough, but that’s exactly what I’m not going to let you do. Go into your act, Mr. Queen. You’ve read the first chapter of the manuscript. If you don’t come up with some Queenian deductions, I’ll never borrow a book of yours again.”

“All I can tell you at the moment is that the handwriting purporting to be Watson’s is precise, firm, and a little crabbed.”

“You don’t sound like Holmes to me, old buddy. The question is, is it Watson’s? Is the manuscript the McCoy? Come, come, Queen! Apply your powers.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ellery said, and he went on reading.

In his later life, as I have recorded elsewhere, my friend Sherlock Holmes retired from the feverish pace of London to keep bees, of all things, on the South Downs. He thus terminated his career with no regret whatever, turning to that husbandman’s activity with the same single-mindedness that had enabled him to track down so many of the world’s cleverest criminals.

But at the time Jack the Ripper stalked London’s streets and by-ways, Holmes was a whole-hearted creature of urban life. His every faculty was keyed to the uncertainties of London’s dawns and dusks. The sinister stench of a Soho alley could set his nostrils a-quiver, whilst the scent of spring stirring a rural countryside might well put him a-dozing.

It was therefore with surprise and pleasure that I witnessed his interest in the passing scene as the express hurtled us towards Devonshire that morning. He gazed through the window with a concentrated air, then suddenly straightened his thin shoulders.

“Ah, Watson! The sharp air of approaching winter. It is invigorating.”

I for one found it not so at the moment, an atrocious cigar between the teeth of a dour old Scot, who had boarded with us, befouling the compartment. But Holmes seemed not to notice the reek. Outside, the leaves were turning, and flashes of autumnal colour streamed past.

“This England, Watson. This other Eden, demi-Paradise.”

I recognised the near-quotation and was doubly surprised. I knew, certainly, of the sentimental streak in my friend, but he rarely allowed it to show through the fabric of his scientific nature. Yet, pride of birthright in the Briton is a national trait, and Holmes had not escaped it.