Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders Read online

  “Of course!” I muttered before Holmes nudged me into silence. Now I knew where we were. In my haste to get here I had taken the train to Inverness and then the pony and trap to the inn Holmes had specified, all without studying the map. The loch I had been fishing in to so little effect these last few days was …

  “Loch Ness,” Moxton continued “has been the stuff of legend since the fifteenth century. The locals swear by The Great Beastie, the rest of the world has always been in more than two minds. Is it a legend of the Scots—or has it more to do with the Scotch?” Here he waited for and received the laughter he anticipated.

  “Today The Clarion says ‘Let Truth Be Heard’—and I’ve invited you all here to hear and see that truth, if truth it be. Is there indeed a Loch Ness Monster?”

  He paused to let the murmur of speculation echo around the room, rather like the small waves from the loch on the nearby shore. I whispered to Holmes—“Surely the fellow hasn’t brought all these people up here on an off chance? After all, there have only been a handful of so-called sightings in donkey’s years …”

  “This fellow, as you call him, does nothing by chance, old fellow. Be patient.”

  Having given his audience long enough to absorb his announcement, Moxton consulted a large gold fob watch.

  “Five o’clock, as near as makes no difference, and my local friends tell me that this is Nessie’s feeding time and that this particular spot in the loch is where most of the sightings have taken place in recent years. Now, some of you are probably saying to yourselves—‘What makes this American madman think that the Beast—should there be a beast—will conveniently appear to suit our convenience?’ A good question—to which I believe we have a good answer.”

  He indicated a dark complexioned middle-aged man at the front of the crowd, who looked as though he might have been more at home in the boxing ring. “Professor James here hails from the Oceanographic Institute in Boston, where they have been conducting some mighty interesting experiments with the use of sonar equipment in the tracking of shoals of fish. With The Clarion’s help”—and here he made the universal sign for money with the thumb and forefinger, which drew the expected laughter—“he has adapted that equipment in a way that we hope will engage the attention of our legendary friend.”

  By now the tension in the room was palpable. Even the other journalists Moxton had pointed out had dropped their pretence of being blasé. The man had all of us eating out of his hand. All of us, I should say, except one. As I turned to address my friend, I saw an expression on his face such as I have rarely observed. His eyes were blazing and the object of his gaze—John Moxton—seemed to pick up some sort of vibration, for he appeared momentarily uncomfortable and, I could almost swear, restrained himself from returning Holmes’s stare. Instead, he turned to Professor James.

  “Are you ready, Professor? Shall we …?”

  By now two of James’s white-coated assistants had carried out a large metal box and set it up on a table where we could all see it. It had a variety of knobs and dials and several lengths of metal cable leading down into the water. James made a series of adjustments and then turned to nod to Moxton.

  “Very well, then, ladies and gentlemen—supper time!”

  On cue James threw a red switch and all eyes turned to the loch. You could hear the silence from the indrawn breath. And then—nothing. Moxton, it must be confessed, seemed to thrive on the heightened tension.

  “Increase the voltage,” he ordered and then, turning back to as rapt an audience as I have seen outside a theatre—“I should explain the principle of our little experiment The professor’s machine is linked to a series of cells submerged in the loch at various depths and distances. The electric current sets off underwater vibrations inaudible to human ears but which we believe will be—shall we say—disconcerting to any aquatic species such as our friend, Nessie. By way of relief it is conjectured that the ‘monster’ will seek the surface, however briefly. Professor, if we may …”

  This time James threw two switches, the red one and a green one. There was a silence in which the proverbial pin would have sounded like an avalanche and then …

  “There! What’s that?” There was the high-pitched squeal from an elderly lady to my left who looked as though she had never raised her voice higher than to ask for a second cup of tea. And then I swear the hair on the back of my neck rose, as I heard a sound more frightening than any that had reached my ears since that damned Dartmoor hound. It was low and reverberating and seemed to contain within it the pain of the world.

  I could feel my own emotions echo around the makeshift room. And then out of the loch—perhaps two hundred yards away in the fading light—something rose from the water and was gone again.

  Holmes is fond of telling me that I see but I do not observe but that image was burned into my brain right enough. It was dark, a sort of greyish black, and appeared scaly and shiny with the water running off it. Before I had time to do more than grip my friend by the arm, it appeared again a few yards further away. Or was that a second hump? The whole episode was over so quickly it was impossible to tell.

  The room was in a state of pandemonium. It was like being in a human aviary. Finally Moxton stepped forward and raised both hands for silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he repeated until the hubbub had somewhat died down. “I hardly think we can expect our aquatic friend to entertain us further this evening, so I propose we leave him—or indeed her …” and he bowed courteously in the direction of the lady who had cried out first, earning a nervous laugh from his other guests. “I propose we leave—whatever—to enjoy its dinner without further interruption.”

  “Thank you for sharing this historic moment when a centuries old legend became fact. Tomorrow The Clarion will tell the world the truth about the Loch Ness Monster. And, as we newspaper folk like to say—you heard it here first! Now, ladies and gentlemen, please continue to enjoy yourselves and join me in a toast …”

  As he spoke the servants were circulating with trays of filled champagne glasses. “To Nessie!”

  “To Nessie!” the cry went up and then the decibel level rose again as the guests broke up into groups talking excitedly among themselves.

  “Good heavens, Holmes,” I said turning to my friend and taking a good gulp of Moxton’s excellent champagne, “did you ever see anything like it?”

  “No, old fellow,” said Holmes, looking strangely sombre, “I don’t believe I ever did.”

  “You mean one legend has managed to surprise another?”

  The voice came from behind us and suddenly a heavy hand was briefly rested on both our shoulders. I sensed rather than saw my friend recoil involuntarily from unwelcome physical contact, then the hands were removed. We turned and found ourselves facing a small group with Moxton at the front of it.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, I should have remembered to keep my cultural distance. You British require your personal space. It’s something we New World arrivistes have still to lean.”

  “And I’m sure you will absorb it with the same impressive speed that characterises your entire enterprise,” Holmes replied smoothly, offering his hand to the magnate, who hesitated for a moment, before shaking it warmly, using the American habit of covering their linked hands with his free one.

  “Coming from you, sir, I choose to take that as a compliment, although I sense there may be a touch of that good old British irony lurking in there somewhere. And this, I have no doubt, is your good friend and associate, Dr. Watson …?”

  I was treated to the same handshaking routine. Now why, I wondered, was I left with the feeling that I was watching a carefully-orchestrated performance? Even the handshake seemed calculated in the degree of firmness one might expect from an extrovert virile man. Then my social sense overcame my instinct and I let the thought drift away.

  Moxton was now introducing the rest of his group. At his shoulder, like the lead dog in a pack, was a tall, slender man with a small moustach
e clipped short and glossy black hair slicked back and worn rather longer than the current fashion. Sleek was the only way to describe him, as if he had so designed himself that nothing should impede his forward progress. Even his features seemed to be questing and his eyes, I observed, were never still. Right now Holmes was the focus of his attention and it was as though he were devouring the man.

  “Mr. Holmes—Dr. Watson—may I present my good friend and—if he doesn’t mind my saying so—The Clarion’s new protégé, Mr. Royston Steel?”

  When Moxton mentioned the name, the pieces suddenly fell into place and I knew where I had seen that face before. In the last few months that slightly reptilian stare—I could sense I wasn’t going to warm to the fellow—had challenged the country from newspaper pages and poster hoardings alike, most particularly from the pages of The Clarion. I even remembered the slogan that accompanied it …

  “THIS COUNTRY NEEDS A TOUCH OF STEEL!”

  The first time I’d spotted it in my Chronicle, I’d complained to Holmes about the way these newspaper chappies were vulgarising our perfectly good language but he’d been too immersed in his favourite Agony Column to do more than mutter something about it being a living language or something such. Anyway, here was the man Britain apparently needed as large as life and for my money—as my old nanny used to say—twice as ugly.

  I returned from my reverie to find Holmes and Steel exchanging what passed for pleasantries but I noticed Holmes distinctly did not offer his hand this time. Nor did Steel seem to expect it My friend’s personal space remained inviolate—until into it stepped one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. It has always amused Holmes to tease me that “the fair sex is your department, Watson.” I should never have made the mistake of boasting to him on one over-excited occasion that my experience of women extended over many nations and three separate continents. However, I suppose I have had my moments. Certainly, I have always been far from immune to a pretty face or a delicately turned ankle. But this young lady was what I believe might be called a nonpareil.

  The face was a perfect oval but her beauty was not of that empty passive kind that only exists to be admired by others. Those eyes could sparkle and that mouth had humour etched into its corners. Her dark hair was loosely swept up now and held in place with an antique silver comb but, left to its own devices, would have cascaded down her back. I put her somewhere in her mid-twenties and was just wondering how Burne-Jones or Millais might have done justice to her on canvas, when I felt a tug on my sleeve.

  “Have you forgotten your manners, Watson?” It was Holmes and I could see that he was smiling faintly for the first time since the encounter began.

  “Mr. Moxton was just introducing us to his ward, Miss Alicia Creighton …”

  Slightly flustered, I turned to take the small hand that was offered in my direction. For the briefest of moments her eyes met mine. They were a fine blue-grey but, instead of indulging myself in further admiration—as I fully expected—I experienced a shock of reality. This lady was deeply unhappy. It was something to do with the tiny gap between the look and the accompanying smile and then the sensation was gone. If I thought I was the only one to notice it, it soon became clear that Moxton at least was sensitive to the atmosphere, for he rapidly filled the conversational gap.

  “Yes, Alicia is my sister’s only child and when her folks unfortunately—well, we don’t want to dwell on that, do we? Well, naturally, I took her under my wing …”

  Was it my imagination or did the image cause Miss Creighton to shudder slightly? Moxton continued: “Not that we know each other all that well yet. Alicia’s only been home from her travels for a few weeks but I think she’s arrived in time for a little excitement. A lot is happening in this country, don’t you agree, Mr. Holmes? As we say where I come from—‘You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet’. And that’s the truth …”

  “Indeed, one sincerely hopes it will be the truth we shall see and hear, Mr. Moxton,” Holmes replied. “But then, people have such different definitions of the word, don’t you find?”

  “‘What is truth?’ said Jesting Pilate …” Moxton declaimed the line like an actor in a voice loud enough to cause several other nearby guests to turn in our direction.

  “‘… and would not stay for an answer’ was, I seem to recall, the end of Bacon’s quotation,” Holmes replied.

  “A literary man, to add to your other accomplishments, I see, Mr. Holmes? This is too intriguing. May I test you with one more? ‘When I use a word … it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more or less.’”

  “Humpty Dumpty … ‘The question is,’ said Alice, ‘whether you can make words mean so many different things.’”

  “‘The question is,’ said Humpty Dumpty …’” And now Moxton looked positively triumphant—“‘which is to be master—that’s all.’”

  Then, almost as if he felt he had given too much away, he added in a lower tone—“I see you are a fellow aficionado of the great—and recently late—Dodgson?”

  “Dodgson?” I interrupted. “Who’s Dodgson? I could have sworn that came from that fellow—what’s his name?”

  “Carroll, old fellow,” Holmes came to my rescue. “Lewis Carroll, the nom de plume of the late—and, as Mr. Moxton rightly says, great—writer, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, author of Alice in Wonderland and its sequel, Alice Through The Looking Glass …”

  “I’ve often wondered why he chose that particular name. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

  This from Steel. “Elementary. Dodgson simply translated his first two names into Latin—‘Carolus Lodovicus’ and then anglicized them into ‘Lewis Carroll’. He literally invented himself—a practice in which he was not the first nor, I suspect, will he be the last.”

  “Children’s books, aren’t they?” I was determined to retrieve a little lost ground with Miss Creighton watching.

  “Ostensibly written for children, Watson, but in the eyes of many incidental works of somewhat surrealistic philosophy, indicating—among other things—that few things are what they seem.”

  “Well put, Mr. Holmes,” Moxton added and seemed about to take the point further, when Steel—clearly not used to being silent when two or more were gathered together—interrupted …

  “So, tell us, Mr. Holmes—what do you think of today’s ‘scoop?’”

  Moxton, who had looked momentarily irritated at being cut off in full flow, now looked at Holmes with even greater intensity.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, were you persuaded by the evidence of your own eyes? Or will you wait until tomorrow’s headlines tell the world?”

  Holmes paused for a moment to consider his reply. Then, looking Moxton squarely in the eye: “Watson will tell you that it has long been one of my maxims that the Press is a most valuable institution—if you only know how to use it. Having now met you, Mr. Moxton, I am left in no doubt that you of all people know precisely how to use it … Now, if you’ll excuse us—Miss Creighton, Mr. Steel—until our paths cross again. Dr. Watson and I have a train to catch … Thank you for a most revealing afternoon. Goodbye, Mr. Moxton …”

  “Oh, John, please, Mr. Holmes.”

  “You wouldn’t prefer—James?”

  I sensed a distinct frisson as Moxton paused a moment. “Aren’t they one and the same thing? Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. I look forward to renewing our new acquaintance in the great metropolis.”

  A few minutes later we were in our trap—which seemed to me to be suspiciously ready for us—and leaving the marquee behind us, glowing now with candlelight in the gathering dusk.

  “What’s all this about a train, Holmes?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Watson, your supper is safe enough. It was time to make a strategic withdrawal. Besides, there’s something I want to show you before the light goes entirely.”

  “I should think I’ve seen quite enough for one day,” I replied somewhat huffily.

  Even after all these years it disconcerts me to have my routine disturbed quite so fo
rcibly. If he heard my muttered complaint, Holmes paid no attention to it, merely urging the pony to make better speed.

  Before I had time to sort my impressions of that disconcerting afternoon into some semblance of order, Holmes had steered the trap off the road into a small clearing and was even now hurrying towards the shore of the loch just visible through the autumn foliage.

  “Come along, Watson, there’s a good fellow. We have an appointment with a monster.”

  By the time I had disentangled myself from the trap and picked my way through the damp bracken, I found Holmes in an attitude I knew so well. He was spread-eagled on the bank, quite oblivious of the wet ground or the autumnal chill in the air, examining the lower bark of a nearby tree with a large round magnifying glass.

  I was about to say—‘What monster?’ but I knew it to be pointless. He would explain to me in his own good time and not a moment before. Having apparently satisfied himself that the possibilities of the tree trunk had been exhausted and laying something he had carefully removed from the bark with tweezers on his folded handkerchief, he proceeded to crouch further along the bank, murmuring under his breath, as if he were keeping up a conversation with himself. At one point he traced a finger along the ground, then put it to his lips. Finally, he sprang to his feet and walked in my direction.

  “For heaven’s sake, Holmes,” I expostulated. “What are we doing in this dismal spot? And what do you mean about the monster?”

  “Where is the poet in your soul, my dear fellow?” he replied, looking more cheerful than I had seen him all day. ‘I come from haunts of coot and hern … and monsters.’ Tennyson … Or mostly. This, Watson, is the nesting ground—or perhaps I should say ‘resting ground’ of the Loch Ness Monster. Here …” And he indicated with his boot a deep, even groove in the bank that had exposed a quantity of bare mud—“is where it entered the water and there …” pointing to the tree that had absorbed him—“it was tethered …”