The Disillusioned Communist- A Sherlock Holmes story

The days of war are the days when men find their hearts aflame with emotion. To serve the cause of one’s nation, one’s beliefs and one’s freedom, was to have purpose and meaning. In those trying days of the greatest war that humanity has ever seen, Holmes and I had neither. We were among the aged. Our pride was great but our aged bodies near useless. There was little we could do to contribute to the war effort. We spent our days reading every inch of the newspaper with unwavering attention looking for anything at all to hold Holmes’s interest.

Sometimes I would volunteer at hospitals, though there was never much for me to do. The young flocked busily from bed to bed healing the steady stream of wounded. But they would often ask for my advice on matters which lent me some degree of usefulness that Holmes could not attain. As a result, he surged into black moods often, unable to accept the ignominy that a lack of functionality is wont to produce.

 On one such evening in the spring of 1917, upon returning from a hospital, I found Holmes sitting in the parlour smoking his pipe in uncharacteristic calm.

I sat down on my chair and began to shuffle through the evening paper. “My word, Holmes,” I muttered, more to myself than him really, “They still haven’t caught that Alistair Snow. What a ruckus the bastard’s causing.”

Holmes began to hum in reply.

“I say, you’re awfully cheerful. What could have caused it?” By way of an answer he handed me a note.

Newminster Abbey,

Morpeth,

Northumberland

25^th March, 1917

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Upon finding myself in rather curious circumstances, I seem to be in need of your assistance. I would be most obliged if you would come and investigate the matter as it isn’t something that I can put on paper. I must apologize for not being able to call upon you myself. I am old and frail and I’m afraid my body will not be able to sustain a journey to London. However I remain very much in need of your counsel and your help.

Yours faithfully,

Lord de Merlay

“What do you make of it, Watson?” he announced, not entirely without his customary indulgent mockery.

“I see that you have a paranoid lord on your hands. But not much else.”

With a condescending puff of smoke he said, “You disappoint me, my dear Watson! Once again you see but do not understand! Tell me again what you see.”

“It is typed.” I said without much assurance.

“And what does that tell you?”

“Not very much. Why should anyone wish to type such a small note? It might have been more insightful if it were handwritten.”

“Precisely, Watson! Why type indeed? Because our writer is blind!”

“Blind!” I exclaimed bewildered, “How can you be so certain?”

“Because Watson, he is suspicious. He does not trust anyone enough to have dictated this note. He thought it prudent to write it himself. So surely, Watson, he would have written it by hand unless he was quite incapable of it. There’s nothing wrong with his hands evidently. He must therefore be blind.”

As ever, he sat smug in his armchair, knowing that the present company has been impressed. In the years that we spent in the parlour of 221B Baker Street, the furniture, the walls and the very air must have become entrenched with the heavy smell of tobacco, yet Holmes did not fail to astonish.

“How do you feel about a trip to the moors, Watson?”

“You can’t be considering taking this case, surely? Why, it doesn’t even say what is ever so suspicious!” Of late, very little intrigued Holmes enough for him to come out of his black moods, and certainly never enough for him to actually accept a case. Furthermore he had come to detest the idea of leaving London. He insisted that the bustle kept him sane and thus he continued quite vehemently, to encumber Mrs. Hudson’s existence with his ever growing eccentricities.

“I wonder Watson, if you’ve read any of Mr. Arthur Cavill’s novels?”

“Why, Holmes, I don’t believe there’s a soul in England who hasn’t!”

“Do you think that Mr. Cavill would make a reasonable detective?”

“I should think he would make and excellent one, if I were to judge by the quality of his novels.”

“Then if Mr. Cavill found something suspicious, would you not consider it worth investigating?”

“Certainly, but Mr. Cavill hasn’t found anything suspicious has he?”

And it was then that it finally dawned on me that the acclaimed Mr. Cavill and Lord de Merlay must indeed be one and the same person.

“My dear chap! However did you know?” I exclaimed.

“Watson, there is really no point in divulging my methods to you. Because when I have, you shall claim, as ever, at how absurdly simple it is.” 

“And when has that stopped you telling me anyway?” I laughed.

“Very well then. Notice the peculiar typeface. It from a Hansen Writing Ball which disappeared from the markets about a decade ago. Mr. Cavill is said to possess the very last of the Writing Balls in Britain.

 Now you may recall that a few years ago, we were required to call at the publishing house while investigating the Cornish horror for Mycroft. Mr. Cavill’s manuscript happened to be lying upon the editor’s desk when we spoke to him. I was thus able to examine it. The typeface on the manuscript and that on this note are exactly identical.  Therefore I must conclude that the famous Mr. Arthur Cavill is a pseudonym used by Lord de Merlay. So Watson, what say you? Shall we pay Mr. Cavill a visit?”

**

It was dusk by the time we reached Morpeth, the nearest town with a railway station. The vast expanse of Newminster Abbey loomed afore us by the light of the dying day, reaching into the sky alone from a bed of heathery meadows. Despite the fact that we had notified the Lord of our arrival, we had not been received at the station. As our cab came to a stop upon the driveway, darkness had fallen. A footman came to meet us. We told him that the Lord was expecting us.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I’m afraid you haven’t heard. His Lordship died earlier today.”

“Dear God! Died!” I exclaimed in utter shock, “How?”

“When was he found?” demanded Holmes.

“At about noon today, sir. His valet found him.”

 “Oh, well it’s a good thing we’re here then.” Holmes said hastily, “He summoned us from London, asking for assistance about a private matter. Would you be so kind as to show us to the Lady de Merlay, please? Say that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson have come as per her late husband’s request. ”

“Of course, sir.” Said the lad and led us in to a library to await her Ladyship. It was by far the largest and certainly the oldest library I had ever laid eyes upon, with the entirety of the walls covered in volumes, ancient and new. It was furnished with plush sofas and armchairs, and had a rather opulent looking rug on the floor, and yet they were worn and faded with age.  And of course, there before us was a shelf containing the relatively new, hardbound copies of all of Arthur Cavill’s life’s work. Holmes noticed my lingering gaze, and allowed himself a small self-satisfied smile. 

The butler came in shortly, a rotund man of great age, but still standing proud and straight in his immaculate livery. He explained that the Lady de Merlay was quite naturally, indisposed and announced the new Lord of Newminster, a young man called Buford de Merlay.

“Thank you Jameson. Could you perhaps arrange for some tea to be sent up?” said the young Lord.

“Of course, my Lord.” Said Jameson the butler, and left our company.

 “I understand that you were invited by my father?” the Lord asked with a measured degree of hostility. He was of smallish built, but rather thick, with stocky arms and shoulders and had a peculiarly burnt tone to his skin. He looked terribly ill at ease, as if his collar was suffocating him. He did not take a seat, and instead paced about the room. Holmes on the contrary, was seated comfortably upon the sofa, in his customarily cool demeanor, leaning back and smoking his pipe. I believe he did this to misleadingly give the impression of boredom, or of vague interest, when in truth, his mind was working sharper than a dagger.

With the most deliberately exhaled smoke, he said quietly, “You understand quite correctly. It is my belief that your father was murdered. If I may ask, does the scene of crime remain unmolested?”

The indelicacy of such a direct question caused the young Lord’s brimming animosity to spill over at once.   “Murdered! That is absurd! He died in his sleep! Mr. Holmes, I do not think highly of members of your profession. And given the loss that we have just suffered, I find it rather sordid of you to waltz in with such disrespect for our sensibilities.”

“I apologize if I have given offense, sir.” Holmes said in much the same tone, quite unperturbed by the outburst, “I assure you, it was never my intention. I understand that this must indeed be a difficult time to suffer the impunity of strangers.”

There was a short and efficient knock on the door.

“Ah! That will be the Inspector.” said Holmes to the infuriated little Lord, “I took the liberty of inviting him. I hope you won’t mind?”

Jameson the butler scrambled in with a large tea tray and announced hurriedly the arrival of Inspector Galbraith, who, it would appear, was threatening to enter the room unannounced, much to Jameson’s horror. Clearly, he had narrowly avoided scandal.

The burly Inspector Galbraith marched straight up to Holmes, without very much regard for his Lordship, and declared in a most impassioned voice, “Mr. Holmes! What an honour! Your reputation precedes you, sir.”

Holmes chuckled in amusement, “Is that so?” glancing toward the Lord Buford, he said, “And here I thought it was my notoriety. I hope you won’t mind assisting us with a case, Inspector? There has been..... a murder. ” he said with much flourish.

“Murder!” the Inspector boomed “Why it will be my great pleasure, Mr. Holmes!”

“Excellent!” said Holmes, with a clap of his hands. “We make for the scene of crime! Jameson, would you be so good as to show us the way? Come, Watson!”

Jameson looked uneasily at his master’s disapproving face. But his master had been cornered and thus had to nod in spite of his rage. So Jameson uttered, “Certainly, sir.” in a small, meek voice.

As ever, I was left to deal with the awkwardness. Turning to the ignored Lord, I thanked him for his hospitality before exiting the library.

**

The late Lord de Merlay’s bed chamber, the scene of crime, was a spacious room with a high vaulted ceiling. It was located in the higher levels of the eastern tower and was thus semi-circular in shape. The curtains were drawn on the glass windows facing east. They were peculiarly large and well crafted to have been part of the original medieval castle. They must have been installed later.

The furniture was rather grandiose. A large, unmade, four -poster bed was positioned upon the diameter of the semicircular room. Towards the left end of the room, there stood a great cupboard made of apple wood, with a key left in the hole. On the opposite wall, there was a large, ornate fireplace with just embers left. Before it were two large arm chairs that were equidistant from the coffee table between them. Near the window was a writing desk upon which was a peculiar curiosity: the Hansen Writing Ball. And there was a relatively austere looking chair facing outward. There was also, a couch, and a foot stool a few steps to the left of the desk, upon which the deceased lay. He was the very image of a peaceful death, lying with his eyes shut and hands folded upon his chest.

Just as we were entered the room, preparations were being made by the coroner’s men to have the body moved. The Inspector bade them to wait. The coroner, who was a wiry little man of middling age, called Dr. Moseley, believed the time of death to be between 4am and 6am. With his balding head and round gold rimmed spectacles, he demanded of us “the meaning of all of this.” Galbraith explained to him our suspicions of foul play.

“But that is ridiculous!” said Moseley. “He clearly died of natural causes! And besides, I have found nothing whatever to suggest that anything at all is amiss.”

“My dear Dr. Moseley,” said Holmes absently as he noted every little detail of the room, “I urge you to conduct an autopsy of the deceased. I can assure you that you will find a great deal amiss.”

“And how can you be so sure, sir?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Holmes and I received a letter from his lordship yesterday morning, where he confided in us his suspicions. And we arrive here today to find him dead. It would therefore be only reasonable to at least investigate the possibility of foul play in the matter.”

“Quite right, Watson.” said Holmes as he looked out of the window. “Tell me Jameson, has anything been touched or moved at all since this appalling discovery?”

“Not that I know, sir. But it does appear that things are much the same as they were this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Jameson. Besides what Watson has just pointed out, can you tell me Dr. Moseley, why, if the Lord had died naturally, he was not in his bed? It is rather cold, is it not? Can you think of any reason why he should leave the comfort of his bed for his couch where there isn’t even a cover?”

Moseley’s face began to contort to painful confusion.

“Notice also, the position of the chair. Compare it to the careful symmetry of the room. It has been used. Quite possibly by either the victim or the perpetrator of the crime. Jameson, could you please ensure that the room remains as it is till I have finished my examination?”

“Certainly, sir. If I may ask, would you gentlemen care for some supper?” And to that, everyone, with the exception of Holmes, could only rejoice.

Supper was served in a large, draughty dining hall, which, it would seem, no amount of candles could have sufficiently light. The walls of this section of castle were too old, too frail and filled with rubble. The merest disturbance would cause the entire wall to topple down at once, making  the introduction of electricity upon this room quite impossible. The family did not use this room unless there had a large number of guests. They took their meals in a smaller room that had been converted to a dining room. That was why, our aggrieved hosts had elected to remain absent from our table. They did not take kindly to our intrusion, understandably. Over supper, Holmes expressed a wish of questioning the servants. Jameson agreed to facilitate.

Lord de Merlay’s valet was the first to be brought in, naturally. Brunting was a man in his thirties, who had upon that morning, we gathered, been rather unwell, by which he meant that he had a bit too much to drink the night before. As a consequence, he had been rather late for work.

“And are you ‘unwell’ often?” Holmes enquired.

“No sir. Fact is, Lord Buford came from town yesterday and said there was a fair. Some of the servants wished to go, and Mr. Jameson saw no harm in it, if we went after dinner. Lord Buford was also going and so he drove us there too.”

Thereafter Brunting indulged in petty vices and we gauged that he spent the better part of the night passed out in a ditch. All the others had come back with Lord Buford. When they could not find him, they presumed that he must have gotten caught up somewhere.

 He reached the Abbey only at about ten thirty in the morning, and he was quite relieved to find that Lord de Merlay had not rung for him since morning. The Lord customarily broke his fast by himself in his tower, and the family only saw him at lunchtime, so that he had not been missed in all this while. By the time Brunting was washed and dressed, and had been sufficiently berated by Jameson, it was eleven thirty. The Lord had not rung still. So he decided to see if his lordship was quite all right. But when he found the door locked, he went to find the housekeeper, Mrs Trevor, with whom all the spare keys were kept. A worried Mrs. Trevor had fretted and fussed that an old, ill and sightless man shouldn’t be in the habit of locking his door and accompanied him to his Lordship’s room. Here they both found him lying still, upon the couch. Once the discovery of his lack of breath was made, Mrs Trevor wailed in despair. She herself was older than the hills and had known the Lord since his youth.

When asked where this Mrs. Trevor was, Brunting said he had not seen her since he left the room to inform the family of the tragedy. As it appeared, neither had anyone else. The maid we sent to look for her came back and informed us that Mrs. Trevor appeared to have packed and fled. Her room was empty. There was no note to offer an explanation. It was most puzzling.

“Do you know if she has any family or friends nearby?” Holmes asked the maid.

“No sir. She used to have a nephew, but he died in the war last year. And I don’t think she ever married. But we called her a Mrs. just the same.”

“And this Mrs. Trevor, did she go to the fair with you all?”

“No sir. She never went to town. I’ve been here six years and didn’t see her leave once.”

Holmes thanked her and dismissed her. Then quite suddenly he said, “Why Watson! You must be tired! Forgive me, my dear friend. In all this hullabaloo, we entirely forgot to arrange for accommodation.” Galbraith said he could be of assistance. He could drive us to the town of Morpeth where there were a couple of comfortable inns. He had stationed two men outside the crime scene to ensure nothing was disturbed so it was quite alright for us to call it a day. He would fetch us from there the following morning.

We were taken to the first inn, the Half Hoof. Holmes asked me to wait in the car for some time and disappeared into the building. He came out a while later and declared that it was not to his taste. He should like to be taken to the other inn.

**

When we arrived at Newminster the next morning, Holmes insisted on seeing the Lady de Merlay. Once again, Jameson ushered us into a parlour where her Ladyship was seated in the company of Lord Buford, and two other gentlemen who turned out to be lawyers. Mr. Fox and Mr. Mandel were here to discuss matters of inheritance. The Lady de Merlay was a small, frail creature, much younger than her late husband.  Yet her face showed signs of spirit and strength her body did not. She spoke sparingly, but with poised authority, and she made her displeasure towards us quite apparent.

 Holmes, of course, disregarded it entirely, and intruded upon their conversation till he was able to discern that Buford de Merlay was not Lord Buford de Merlay, and that it would take a while for him to attain the title. The Lord de Merlay had disowned him, when twelve years ago, in a fit of revolutionary zeal, Buford had denounced the aristocracy, his birth, title and wealth. Thereafter he had escaped to the continent to fight for the plight of the proletariat. The family had not heard from him thereafter, till just the beginning of March when he returned, claiming to have been disillusioned by the “communists and their savagery.” The reinstatement of his title was expected to be a long and tedious legal process,  given that he had been disinherited.

“How unfortunate for your son, madam.” I exclaimed with genuine sympathy. To my great surprise, the Lady de Merlay tightened her lips in discomfiture.

“I am not her son.” said Buford. “She is my step-mother. My real mother died when I was much younger.”

“Quite right.” said the Lady stiffly. “I’ve not been fortunate enough to have had children of my own.”

As I began making apologetic noises to have brought up such an uncomfortable topic, Holmes began to sniff at the air. I had never known Holmes to take the slightest interest in any matters of domesticity, yet quite suddenly he asked, “My Lady, your parlour smells so exuberantly of cinnamon! It is most delightful to the senses! If I may ask, how have you achieved this?”

With a look of bewilderment she said, “The furniture. It is rubbed with cinnamon oil.” In an afterthought, she added, “It reminds me of my childhood, in the Spice Islands. Now, if you will excuse me gentlemen, it is time I saw to the funeral arrangements.”

With that our meeting was adjourned. Holmes insisted that we renew our questioning of the servants. But the only member of staff who wasn’t occupied at the time was the boy who ran errands. We found him loitering around the back gardens in blissful abandon and not a care in the world. I asked him to recount his experience of the last two days. In tedious detail he informed us of his rows with the cook for sneaking scraps out of the kitchen, his misadventures in the empty parts of the castle. Holmes was dismissive of him mostly, till he said that earlier, on the night that the murder was committed, Jameson had given him a list of things to fetch in the morning. He produced this list with great eagerness and on it there was written in precise little letters, ink for the writing ball.

At once Holmes rushed up to the Lord’s bedchamber. I followed him a little belatedly, having thanked the boy for his account. I found Holmes seated upon the desk dismantling the writing ball.

“How fortunate for us that the ink ran out Watson! Look! We have a message from the late Lord!”

And so it was! A handful of letters had no ink on them whatsoever. I noted them quickly: OSTIERMP. 

“Someone has removed the paper on which the message was written, Watson. Lord de Merlay wrote this as he was dying. Happily for us, the ink finished!”

We descended to the servant’s quarters. Holmes in great impatience asked Jameson to bring him Buford’s valet at once. Buford le Merlay’s valet was brought. He was a nervous boy of twenty, who stood as straight and stiff as a lamppost before us. We urged him to sit, but he declined quite insistently.

“Very well then,” said Holmes, “I have only one question to ask of you: have you ever noticed any peculiar habit that your master has? Anything at all?”

“Well sir, not meaning to speak against him sir, Lord Buford is most kind, but there is indeed something. A peculiarity that is. It’s just that ever since he came back sir, he’s worn the same waistcoat. He never lets me wash it, or take it. He wears the same one every day, sir.” And then he hastily added, “Not that I presume to comment upon his toilette or his hygiene, sir, begging your pardon.”

“How extraordinary!” said Holmes, “You have my thanks.” With that the boy scarpered off in great relief. “Well, Watson? Do you have any theories yet?”

I didn’t so I was glad when Jameson interrupted us to inform us that the coroner had arrived with news. We went up to the library where we found the family and Galbraith and Moseley waiting for us.

At once Moseley declared “Well Mr. Holmes, you were right! It is indeed murder! Some sort of poison that has paralyzed both his nerves and his muscles. Unfortunately, I cannot identify the poison itself. It will require a better man than I.”

Everybody looked towards Holmes to say something insightful. Holmes for his part, remained seated with his eyes shut and his hands together under his chin. The better part of a minute had passed when Holmes jumped up and said quite brightly, “Gentleman! What say we go for a drive? A bit of air ought to give us some perspective.”

Rather to my astonishment, Holmes expressed a wish to drive. Normally he detested it, and quite rightly so. He was a terrible driver. We rode around the country, the five of us men: Holmes driving and whistling and the rest of us baffled out of our brains as to the point of this sudden excursion. It had rained the night before. The soil was damp and the inner tracks were downright muddy. Presently, we came upon a muddy bend. Holmes quite successfully managed to get the tyre caught in the mud, as I knew he would. There was much disgruntlement as we got out of the car and took off our coats and rolled up our sleeves to heave the tyre out of the mud. As soon as the car was free, we elected to return and get ourselves cleaned up before luncheon.

**

“Gentlemen, I have solved the case.” announced Holmes in the parlour where we had gathered before luncheon. “Jameson, would you be kind enough to request Lady de Merlay to join us?”

“What is the meaning of this? How can you have come to a conclusion so soon?” demanded the Lady as she entered.

“Calm yourself, madam. And take a seat please. It will become clear quite soon.

“The instrument of murder was the poison known as fugu in Japanese. The puffer fish. I was able to identify it from the effects described by Dr. Moseley earlier today. It is commonly found in the South China Sea. Now, Mr. de Merlay, you claim to have spent the last twelve years upon the continent?”

“Yes.” he replied gruffly.

“And which continent would this be? Certainly not Europe if your tan is anything to go by. I think it is more likely that you were in Indonesia.”

“That is ridiculous! What proof have you of these absurd allegations?”

“There is your tan, as I said, which one can acquire if enough years are spent under a tropical sun. Then there is your built, which suggests that you have spent time working on ships. You are uncomfortable in these horribly proper English clothes. But the most telling evidence I have to offer is your waistcoat. If you would kindly take off your coat and raise your arms, sir, it would be most helpful.”

De Merlay’s face turned white. There was little he could do but oblige.

“If you look upon the seam on the right,” said Holmes, “You will see there is a small button, very well hidden, just near the edge of the sleeve. Mr. de Merlay, I wonder if you could take it off and hand it to the good Inspector.”  Once again, he obliged.

“Good god, Holmes! Was this the point of the driving excursion? Absolutely brilliant!” I said in amazement.

“Indeed. Inspector, if you would just undo the button, you ought to find some way that the seam will open easily.” It did and out fell several small sealed envelopes.

“Opium!” exclaimed Galbraith, “How ever did you know?”

“I was alerted about an imposter by the late Lord de Merlay. Earlier today, the errand boy told me that he had been asked to fetch typewriting ink. Which naturally means that the existing pad of ink is nearly finished.

Now consider the Lord le Merlay, who has written several brilliant detective stories. The effects of the puffer fish poison can begin anywhere between half an hour later and three hours after consumption. It begins slowly and can take hours to paralyze the entire body. The final effect is upon the lungs, after which the victim’s life is extinguished. When Lord de Morley realized he was dying, he knew he had to leave a clue. He must have made his way to the desk where he typed the word IMPOSTER with his failing hands. The letters Watson noted, OSTIERMP. How fortunate for us that no letter repeats itself in that word, or we would never know. The Lord then made his way to couch where he knew he would be found dead. That was the final teller. If it wasn’t murder, why should he have gone to sleep on the couch uncovered in the cold when his bed is but a few steps away?

The imposter was quite obviously Mr. Buford here, who arrived just a few weeks back. He is really Mr. Alistair Snow, the smuggler that Scotland Yard has been hunting for in the past few weeks. His misadventures as a smuggler upon tropical waters would have given him easy access to puffer fish, which I presume he brought here in powder form. And now gentlemen, we must ask ourselves how Mr. Snow and the Lady de Merlay became accomplices in murder, because it was Lady de Merlay who administered the poison. Either one of them, or both could have removed the paper saying IMPOSTER from the Writing Ball yesterday morning.”

Ever a lover of drama, Holmes took great satisfaction in seeing the shock on the faces around the room. “After the members of this household had left for the fair that night, Mrs. Trevor brought coffee for the Lord and Lady, following which she was dismissed. It was naturally quite an easy thing for Lady de Merlay to have slipped the poison in her husband’s coffee.”

“But how did you know that Mrs. Trevor had brought them coffee?” asked Galbraith.

“Why I had the fortune of meeting the good Mrs. Trevor last night, Inspector. Seeing as she left by foot she could have only travelled as far as the town, given her great age. In the absence of friends or family, it was quite natural that she should seek the hospitality of an inn. And of those there are only two. If she wasn’t there in one, she therefore must have been in the other. She was the only one among the staff to have been here before Lady de Merlay so she knew things. She feared her knowledge would cost her life and so she fled at once.

She told me of a horrible scandal that had been contained many, many years ago. The Lady de Merlay, by her own admission had spent her childhood in the Spice Islands where I understand, her father’s business was based. She had been involved in an affair with her father’s estate manager, Mr. Ludlow, who had a mop of the most brilliant fiery red hair. But she was to marry Lord de Merlay. Mrs. Trevor soon noticed that if ever Mr. Ludlow happened to be in the country for business, Lady de Merlay would suddenly have urgent business to attend to in London. Now, being fiercely dedicated to the Lord de Merlay, she found this disloyalty terribly cruel. Yet soon after, the Lady de Merlay was pregnant, and the Lord was beside himself with joy. He would have an heir at last. So Mrs. Trevor decided that she would not spoil his lordship’s happiness. But it would appear that the Lady de Merlay was to have a miscarriage. The very day of the tragedy, the midwife who had been assisting the Lady disappeared. She had been a friend to Mrs. Trevor. They had been schoolmates as children. Many months later, she received a letter from the Spice Islands. It was from her friend, the midwife.

Now that the story has been told, let us fit the puzzle pieces together and tell it again. The miscarriage was staged to smuggle out Mr. Snow, whose natural hair colour, I believe, is not this common opaque black, but the same bright red as that of Mr. Ludlow. Afraid that her husband, whose eyesight was as good as anyone’s then, would discover her secret, Lady de Merlay arranged for the midwife to take the baby away to Mr. Ludlow, who then arranged their passage to the Spice Islands where Mr. Snow grew up. In any case, once I was aware of Lady de Merlay’s roots, it would require the most alarming of coincidences for them to not share some link. Especially since Mr. Snow has been a constant sensation over the newspapers this past few weeks.

When Lord de Merlay grew blind with age, Lady de Merlay saw a chance of advancement for her son. She had heard, of course, of the child of the Lord’s previous wife, the real Buford de Merlay. The true Communist. If her own son were to come back in his place after so many years, who would be able to tell? Certainly not the blind Lord. And yet somehow you aroused his suspicion and he wrote asking my help. As a consequence, Watson, I now have the satisfaction of having done something! I have caught us a smuggler!”

***

Mr. Archibald Life

I

Do you ever feel old? I certainly do.

Why?

I suppose it’s because there are things that I regret. Things that I couldn’t have possibly anticipated and things that I certainly couldn’t have changed.  Much like my mother’s regrets infact, when she says, “Ah, but alas! Circumstances were thus in those days, what could I have done?” A victim of her time. A victim of Life. What indeed could she have done and what indeed could I?

 Everyday, I find myself  adding to the list of do’s and don’ts for any future children that I may have. A list that seems to be ever populating by my own mistakes, by those dreadful regrets. It is rather absurd, and you will be quite within your rights to laugh. But you must admit that this incessant plodding on with Life can grow to weigh on you. Especially when Life seems to have a mind of his own, added to a rather cunning sense of humour. I must admit, I’ve grown quite weary of Life’s fascism.

And no. These aren’t pretensions to existentialism that them, unripe adults, seem so susceptible to these days. I’m sure you know the ones I am talking about. Say what you will, but I’ve had quite enough of Life and his mysteries. I must insist on putting my foot down. I simply haven’t the strength to submit to Life’s puppetry any further.

My father always said that I am rather pig headedly stubborn, sometimes with affection and sometimes with affliction. His advice to me was, “Work hard, boy. Work hard, and see to it that you find yourself in a place where you don’t have to answer to anyone. You certainly won’t be able to survive the ignominy of obedience. Take it from somebody who’s already tried.”

While I definitely am not a boy, I thought it was sound advice. My father didn't seem to care very much about what he called me, and I suspect that he preferred to think of me in neuter terms. While it was potentially perturbing, I decided to graciously accept it as his rather peculiar way of respecting my individuality.

But I digress. That’s forever been a fault of mine. For the better part of my existence, I've wholeheartedly believed in my own agency to be decisive of my fate. So much so, that for a time, I truly believed that if I wanted something bad enough, and if I worked hard enough, the obvious outcome was that I would unquestionably achieve it. It was like math to me. Want+Work=Result. It simply couldn't be any other way. But I was young, and failures were few, if at all. Variables were few too.  And I didn't know about this dastardly fellow, Life.

Then came the first failure. Of course, there were tears, and sorrow. I shan't bore you with those. What was truly disconcerting, however, was that my infallible equation had failed. Naturally, after much consideration and grave introspection, I concluded that this singular occurrence was most definitely an anomaly. How terribly naïve I was! I was convinced that this horrifying turn of events must have been the consequence of some sort of  lapse on my part, some small detail that I had foolishly overlooked. Thus resolved, I made a solemn vow to never allow this sort of thing to happen again.

But then, I hadn't yet had the pleasure of getting acquainted with our friend, Life.

II

This is story of how I met Life. I was, as I told you before, an unsuspecting youth, spry upon some baseless confidence and fuelled by a staunch, even moralistic belief in the finality of justice. I can see now, how I was simply begging for Life’s attention. Such easy prey I would have seemed.

I shall never forget that afternoon.  I had in my hand the invitation to a rather prestigious, if elitist, luncheon as I walked along the streets. The day was uncharacteristically cold for April, although there wasn’t  a cloud in sight, and you could see the glass towers of the city rising high and reaching for the sun, who upon this day bathed the world in her generous light.

 I should have known then, that the day held irony. And what a brutal and cruel irony it was. 

As I arrived at the venue, my coat and bonnet were taken by some immaculately dressed servants. Thereafter, I was ushered into a large pillared hall, whereupon my arrival was announced for the general benefit of the present gentility. My own invitation here was rather suspect given that my social standing was by far inferior to several here that I could recognize.

The place on the whole was rather opulently decorated, as you can imagine. Not being of a terribly sociable disposition I wafted about a bit till I found a plush looking couch piled high with cushions to rest my rather sore posterior upon. As we waited for all the guests to arrive I felt a gaze upon my back. You know? A sort of prickling at the back of your neck? I turned to find a certain gentleman, staring unabashedly at me. I would go as far as to call it bold, and certainly rude. He seemed to have that ageless quality of some elven king, one that gives the impression of great age but entirely fails to show any physical effect. 

With my attention effectively in his grasp, he made his way across the room in a swift and elegant stride and sat on the armchair adjacent to my couch. He then insisted upon studying me with that unnerving gaze of his for at least a minute, much to my annoyance, till quite suddenly he said, “Do you know why the chicken crossed the road?”

Naturally, I was taken aback; hardly sure of how to respond, now that the safe lines of established etiquette were lost to absurdity. Undeterred he said, “No?” while I continued to look blankly back.

“Because I wanted it to of course!” he announced and left as quickly as he had come.

At the time, I didn't understand why he sounded so triumphant about it. Perplexing as the little incident was, I'm afraid my rationally educated mind presumed that it must be some sort of strange jape. The man, evidently was quite bonkers and certainly not worth another thought, especially after that luncheon which as it turned out was to honour me along with those of my profession. The food was of the most excellent quality and entirely pardoned the lacklustre snobbery of the company. However un-ladylike it is dear, I must confess that I’m rather given to a weakness for food. And so the strange man was soon forgotten and that was that.

Except it wasn’t.

III

“I will take something from you.” The barest whisper. The ageless man walked past me with his easy grace, the very evening after the luncheon. I was almost near my humble quarters upon the 5^th Avenue, having concluded all engagements for the day. As you can imagine, my rather delicate nerves did not take very kindly to this, seeing as you are quite familiar with my need to control my own destiny.

My father did always say that I wasn’t one for handling stress. I wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, but I knew there was truth in it. I worried on it like a dog with a bone, and perhaps I can admit in the strictest confidence to you, that I was just a wee bit afraid. You must understand that I had no premonition whatever as to the identity of this rather alarming gentleman, much less why he should want anything from someone as pedestrian as I.

I bolted all the doors and windows with particular caution before bed that night. I felt almost silly checking under the bed and in the closet. How was I to know then, that mere locks and bolts weren’t enough to keep him at bay? Why, a fully manned and armed fort wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would.

It started with a single stone. And then more till finally one managed to break through the glass. Then came a tide of angry voices followed by the fire. Who was it that had said to never underestimate the power of stupidity when backed by numbers? No name came to mind, but it was all that I could think of in my hysteria. The torch had landed in the room my parents slept in. My mother was away, at her sister’s. I watched the room burn in horror, knowing that my father was in it, and also knowing that it was too late.

And here’s the irony that I promised. The angry mob outside my door were the very people that I had hoped to help. It was why I was honoured at the luncheon that very day. But their ignorance kept them from seeing how I might have been their benefactress. Ignorance that I couldn’t begrudge or blame, for I knew that it wasn’t their fault. They might have been kinder, had there been a benefactor. Alas, I could only be a benefactress.

I stood helpless in a burning house. To go outside was suicide yet I could not very well stay in. In all the noise and confusion, sirens blared. When the fireman found me, I was sitting fast and stiff by the tea table, tearing the table cloth to shreds. It was as I was being dragged out of the burning house, that I caught sight of him across the street. A mere observer casually leaning on his walking stick, watching this macabre drama unfold.

He would not be suspected of anything though for some inexplicable reason it was abundantly clear to me that this was his doing. My rationally educated mind simply could not fathom how or why, but at the sight of this madman I knew in my gut that it was his fault.

The next morning I was quite prepared to forgive that momentary lapse of reason. You tend to feel better with the sun shining and illuminating the world around you. It makes you a little less prepared to believe in the monsters lurking in the shadows. Little did I know that the monsters roamed free in plain sight everyday. We simply failed to recognize them.

In the days that followed, it became clear to me that years of my efforts were not only being undermined, but were being scrapped altogether. Nobody wanted to risk another tragedy. How cruelly the crowds turned, my dear. How cruelly I found myself reduced to the ghost of the person I used to be. Hesitant, unsure of myself and afraid of society, I found comfort in little and pleasure in less. My profession soon became my torment.

The horrible injustice of it all left in me a deep sense of betrayal. It made me think: this time I was positively certain that my infallible equation remained unmolested by lacking of any sort. Infact, my efforts were on the verge of being rewarded when things went awry. It couldn't have been my fault then! It definitely was not! There was the irrationality creeping in again, that unruffled figure across the street.

What was I to do? Accept defeat and carry on? Or act upon an inkling of irrationality that I was taught to abhor so?

IV

At the time, I made several discreet enquiries about the ageless man and I must admit that I was most perturbed by his sheer non-existence. It was most strange. Several people at the luncheon remembered seeing him, and some had even spoken to him, yet no one had the faintest notion of who he was.

I however, continued to persist. Oh, certainly I was being quite obstinate about it, dear, but wouldn't you be too? If you were to be cheated of your honest work? If your family was to be taken?

Several weeks after the incident, I sat nursing a cup of coffee at a café I frequented. Having exhausted yet another lead, I was scratching away at my notebook of secrets, trying to discover another, when I felt that unnerving gaze on the back of my neck.

“It would seem that I have inconvenienced you greatly. May I sit down?”

I nodded at the little wicker chair across the table. A most horrible welling of anger, resentment and grief stubbornly stuck at my throat, preventing any flow of words. I watched him sit with some amount of ceremony, not trusting myself to speak.

“Silly girl!” he said, “You merely had to ask! Why ever did you bother to go through all this trouble trying to find me for a silly little interview?”

“But who would I have asked, Sir? It seems to me that you're quite the slippery sort.”

“Oh, you needn't have asked anybody! You should have just written to me.”

“And how pray am I to write to somebody when I don't know where to address it?”

“Why you simply write it in a bit of paper, crumple it up and throw it to the wind!”

“That’s absurd! It would simply get lost. How is one meant to find words given to the wind?”

“Ah! But if I'm right, you suspect that I'm not simply anyone.”

“Who exactly might you be, then?”

“Goodness, aren't you silly! I thought it ought to be clear to anyone with half a brain by now. I suppose you can think of me as fate, or simply as the horrid person who messes things up for no perceivable reason. Or for any reason at all, for that matter! Archibald Life, at your service.” 

“Well then, Mr. Life, did you kill my father?”

“Again with the silliness! I thought I just told you that.”

So the irrationality had triumphed to my very great surprise. It wasn't the culmination of some completely random and utterly mundane series of events that had led to that fateful night. It was entirely choreographed, leaving me with just one more question.

“Why?”

“Oh, my dear girl! Because you are so terribly amusing!”

A Case of Chronic Insubordination- I

The ship with an uninspiring name that fails to concern us

On a stormy night, somewhere in the midst of a tempestuous whirlpool in the Curiously Salty Ocean, a mighty galleon struggled against an inescapable road to purgatory. (And purgatory it would be indeed, given the occupants were pirates.)

Whilst this rather unfortunate event unfolded, a little boy of about five, made his way below deck. Amidst the chaos of the fast sinking pirate ship, (which boasted an uninspiring name that fails to concern us) the determined little boy trudged down to the hen coops armed with a deep sense of morality and purpose. He had always contemplated vegetarianism when heard the horrific screeching of the dying fowl as these hateful pirates slaughtered the marvelous clucking wonders (Although he did unfailingly change his mind at the dinner table.) It seemed to him ever unjust that innocent poultry should be served with such a tragic death on the mere grounds of being chickens.  That, thereof, became gross discrimination of the lowest kind for our tender hearted lad.

‘This’ declared the mutinous little lad, ‘shall be my final act of virtue! I…….Barthelove Al Igor (popularly called Ali), shall forever be remembered as the just defender of the weak and clucky! I am the Messiah of the clucking coop! And I hereby proclaim now…..my dear chickens…..you are free from the face of death!!

“FLY!!!!” he yelled with much revolutionary gusto as he burst open the cage, “Fly away to heaven upon the lap of God and find peace my feathered friends!” Shining teardrops enveloped his eyes: a worthy manifestation of pain at the prospect of separation from his precious clucking coop.

"....there was one that was peculiarly cunning."

The chickens however, were not visibly moved. They stared at Ali with glassy, uncomprehending eyes and sent out a cluck or two. Ali looked back at them with sincere passion and gestured skyward. The chickens refused to budge, thereby instilling near hysteria upon our young friend.

Woe to them! They’re all going to die! Why won’t they understand that!

Now , as it happened, not all the chickens were as blissfully ignorant of their  doom. There was one who wasn’t as obstreperously clucky as the rest. If Ali had not descended to hysteria (almost) he might have noticed in sea of blank chicken faces, there was one that was peculiarly cunning. He was intelligence itself, behind the deceptive appearances of dim-witted poultry.

His name was Steal. Egg Steal.                      He was a spy of course. Maybe even a mercenary. The very elitist of combatants among the personal spies of Her Majesty, The Queen of the Land of Excruciatingly -Stubborn -Shopkeepers. His job: to make sure Her Majesty’s privateers did not cross the line.

A broody Egg Steal deemed it  time to abandon ship. The mission had been compromised. He could only hope to get out alive. He was of course under no obligation to secure the irate and irrational (by way of rum) pirates who manned the ship.

Unsurprisingly thus, he fidgeted about his feathers till a colossal pair of highly scientific, aero-dynamics based membranous metal wings unfolded. It is only to be expected of course that a high ranking intelligentsia such as him would have a few high-tech- gadgets up their feathers for quick getaways and suchlike.

Egg Steal thus, shot out of the cage (not without cursing the dim-witted, dense birds who had made his life miserable all these years! What with all the smelly droppings everywhere and the preposterous, insensible clucking!).

In the mean time the ‘insufferable boy’ Ali had grabbed hold of his pentadactyl limb (poor boy was amazed by the stately stature of the chivalrous chicken.)

Since Ali was not particularly bright, he hadn’t quite figured out that a chicken could not bear his weight. Elite lethal spy or not, it would essentially require defying gravity, which as it happened, was the one thing that Agent Steal was not capable of.

Thus, Barthelove Al Igor was successfully dropped…….overboard.

Our protagonist now found himself caught straight in the middle of the furious whirlpool that everybody was so eager to avoid. Ali however was quite amused at being hurled round and round incessantly at such alarming speed. So amused he managed to forget that he couldn’t breathe. As he neared the abyssal plain he happened to notice a perfectly still spherical bottle, glowing eerily emerald. We must now recall the infancy of our protagonist. He grew up with pirates. He had thus developed an instinctive propensity of gravitating towards shiny things.  Which of course caused the activation of certain instincts that went thus:

Shiny round object -->  like shiny round objects -->  WANT shiny round object……NOW!

So it was that Barthelove Al Igor reached for this curious artifact, even as he drew his last breath. 

*To be continued*

The Grown Up Myth

There was once a girl who lived in a veranda. She had lived in the veranda for as long as she could remember. She did have a vague recollection of being lost in space at some point, but her memory was rather obscure. She didn't know who the veranda belonged to or who lived in the house in which the veranda belonged. It didn't matter, the veranda was hers. It looked out into a little cozy garden, (if you can call a garden cozy) where she go exploring and foraging from time to time.
She was always accompanied on these adventures by her many faithful friends and sidekicks: the cats.  IThey were more of a family infact. She was the matriarch of the veranda. At the end of the day when the family returned with whatever spoils they managed to hunt or forage, she would divide it all up for everyone.

And so they lived in happy companionship for many years till one day, the matriarch woke up to find that she was no longer in a her veranda. It was a new place, quite unlike anything she had ever seen before! The floor was marble, and the walls were richly painted and the lamps were made of intricately patterned colourful glass. It must be a palace!  she decided.
Excited, she began to explore. She opened every door, looked in every broom cupboard and followed every staircase till she found a little room tucked away in a forbidden corner of the palace. In that room was another little girl, seated with her legs crossed on a comfortable looking couch, holding a curious object. The matriarch advanced hesitantly. The girl remained perched, unmoving but breathing till she discovered the matriarch leaning in so close that she yelped. Both girls fell back startled. Then both got up and stood at a distance and regarded each other with a tinge of wary. The palace girl was small and skinny with a bush for hair, and she wore enormous spectacles. The matriarch on the other hand, had wanton unrefinement about her, unbefitting any person in a palace.
"What is that?" the matriarch asked the girl, pointing at the curious object that she beheld.
"It's a book of course!" said the girl.
"A book? What does it do?"
"It tells you stories!" said the girl aghast.
"How? I couldn't hear anything?" the matriarch demanded suspiciously.
"You don't hear it, silly! You read it!"
"And how do you do that?" bespoke an incredulous matriarch.
With an authoritative huff, the palace girl declared, "Sit down. Let me show you."

When the girl was satisfied with the progress the matriarch had made, she got up and smoothed down her skirt and declared, "Well I'm off then. I shall need to see you tomorrow once again, to continue our lessons. Shall we meet here?"
Baffled, the matriarch looked at the younger girl. "There's more?"
"Of course there's more silly! There is loads more! Why I expect it will take us at least a month to have you read properly."
"A month? Can I live here then?"
"Here? Don't you a place to live?"
"No."
"What about your Mummy? Or your Daddy?"
The matriarch shook her head, quite unperturbed at not having any of the luxuries the girl mentioned.
"Well then, I suppose you'd better make yourself comfortable here. No one ever comes here anyway."

Months passed. The matriarch had settled into the little room full of books. Whenever she got hungry she would make a trip to the kitchen and scrounge out food enough to keep her going. No one ever saw her. The palace was always empty. It also didn't have any cats. And funnily enough a very tiny thing that could be passed for a garden. Ever since the small girl had declared her fit to embark on literary journeys unaccompanied, it was all she had been doing. The girl had given her Little Women and Robin Hood to begin with, but thereafter, she had a room full of books at her disposal. The girl would come and visit her everyday. They would read and tell each other stories and play made up games as little children are wont to do. Thus they forged a bond of fastidious friendship which was to last forever more. Even when, one day when they were much older, the small bespectacled girl went to the little room in the corner of the palace to find it empty.

For the matriarch, found herself once again, in unfamiliar terrain. Harsh halogen lights meant to illuminate, instead managed to blind her. There was a roar like nothing she had heard before: a thousand voices screaming in unison. As her eyes adjusted, she discovered that she was standing in a mammoth, monster of a room which indeed had thousands of people screaming. The centre of it had two boys, one a scrawny looking thing, and the other perfectly poised with rather oddly fashioned hair and clothes. They stared intently at a depression in the ground and gesticulated violently every so often.
It soon dawned on her that it was game they were playing, with two dangerous looking tops that spun and clashed with titanic force and at times seemed to be emitting fire. The boys were competing. The crowd was cheering them on. This was a stadium.

Soon the scrawny boy let out a terrible cry of defeat. The oddly dressed boy turned quietly with a small smirk on his lips, and walked away. The matriarch was left with a queer lurching in her tummy. She did not feel very matriarch-ly anymore. Only like a frivolous little girl.
 The enigmatic charisma of the boy was refreshingly new to her rather limited existence. It was something that she felt the need to explore at once! There were places to be explored, books to be explored, but she never knew that people could be explored too! A secret delight crept up her as she watched his effortless gravity, despite the fact that he was possibly the most weirdly exotic thing that anyone could have seen.
The minutes melted into hours before the lights were shut and everyone went home.

The besotted girl then deemed it time to have a look around. She wandered vaguely in the direction where she saw the participants go after they finished each match. Towards to end of the corridor, to her joy, she saw the swift flick of an impossibly long scarf. She ran after him and yelled for him to wait. He turned to see a rather ordinary looking girl in mismatched clothing, panting to catch her breath. Except she didn't seem to notice exactly how mismatched her clothing was. He humored her with a bemused smile.
Still panting, the girl insisted on stating the obvious, "You aren't like everybody else."
He nodded ever so slightly.
"I like it."
The amusement was clearly growing.
"You're not one to talk very much are you?"
A slight shake of the head.
"Do you want to be friends?"
"Sure." said the boy simply, to which the girl beamed.
And they walked off together into the darkness silently.

When at last there was light, it grew terribly cold. There was snow. And there was a lamp post. And four other children. The boy was no longer with her. She, however had become quite old.  Nearly a young woman. The other children didn't seem to notice her. There were two boys and two girls. One of each as old as her and the other two much smaller. The little girl was first to spot her.
"Who are you?" she asked incredulously.
"Lucy!" scolded the older boy and turning to me said, "I'm terribly sorry, my sister is just excited. My name is Peter. This is Susan....." the older girl nodded with a smile, "...and Edmund...." the sullen looking younger boy glared unpleasantly, "....and Lucy. My brothers and sisters."
The girl told them her name. Soon a story was relayed to her by all of them by which she came to understand that they had discovered a new world.

The magic of this world fascinated her! There were many adventures to be had, and she was not disappointed. It was the happiest she could ever remember being. There was talk of a lion, who they were required to find so they could defeat the evil witch who had colonized the land wrongfully. When she was defeated they children were made kings and queens by the lion, thought the girl herself was content to have more adventures. She travelled to the corners of this world and found the magical lands surrounding it. She discovered the mysteries they held and it brought within her a profound serenity as she marvelled at the ineffable wonders.
And one day when she was much, much older, already an adult, she returned to the palace of the kings and queens, Cair Paravel, to find Peter anxiously awaiting her return. She knew of course, the he would be waiting, and she did not make him wait any longer.
As all the arrangements were being made, the Kings and Queens went to hunt the white stag in the forest. It was rumoured that the stag could not be caught so naturally, an attempt needed to be made. The stag escaped them, but they had a good time all the same. They lounged about the forest for a picnic and feasted on enchanting delicacies unknown to our world.
 Amidst the merriment Lucy spotted a lamp post and ran towards it. The rest called after her and when she did not answer, reluctantly got up and followed one by one. The forest grew thick until at one point it was pitch black. The leaves grew softer until at one point it was like the forest was made of fur....

Quite abruptly then, the girl stumbled into a large grey city. Astoundingly enough, she was a young woman again. It was like she hadn't aged since the day she set foot in the other world.
Everything around her was confusion. She was standing on a pavement trying to comprehend the situation when a very tall man wearing a very large black overcoat and a scarf, wrapped fashionably about his neck,  bumped into her.
"So sorry." he said absently.
He was accompanied by a rather stocky, shorter man who walked with a slight limp. He was dressed more ordinarily in a simple jacket and trousers.
At a second glance the tall man declared, "You don't belong here. Come with me, girl." and took her by the hand.
Briskly, but not unkindly, she was dragged across the incomprehensible bustle. The stocky man gave her a reassuring pat on the back and smiled knowingly.

There was a police box. It was blue.

A door was opened. She was put in. The door was shut.

The madman of the box took her in. And it is with him that she stayed till she grew old. It is with him that she stays till this day. For the madman took her across the stars and showed her impossible things.

What he also showed her was why she could never really get old. He was a madman with a box after all.