The Darlington Substitution (From The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD) Read online

  “His immediate family consists of merely the one son, considerably younger than himself – he married late in life, and his wife died in childbirth. The son, Lord Hareby, married about eighteen months back. It was a fashionable wedding – the talk of the town.”

  “The news would appear to have passed me by,” commented Holmes drily. “Though Hareby was a member of my College at University, we hardly ever passed the time of day. We had little in common.”

  He picked up his violin and started to saw away at it, producing a melody that was, to my ears, not untuneful, but slightly discordant at times. When he had finished, I asked him the name of the composer, and was astounded to be informed that this was one of Holmes’ own improvisations. Though I could never claim to be any kind of expert in the field, it would seem that music lost a composer of some talent when Sherlock Holmes turned his attention to crime.

  A ring at the front door announced the arrival of a visitor, and there was soon a knock at the door of our rooms. A liveried footman stood without, who bowed slightly to Holmes as he opened the door.

  “Lord Darlington requests that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson join him for luncheon at his club, since his lordship’s gout is troubling him, making it difficult for him to make a visit in person,” he announced.

  “We are pleased to accept his lordship’s invitation,” replied Holmes. “We will be with him presently.”

  The servant coughed. “His lordship has dispatched his carriage, which is waiting in the street. I was asked to inform you that there is no need for formality. His lordship’s words to you were, ‘Please come as you are and do not trouble yourself overly about your appearance or dress.’”

  “That is most kind of him,” replied Holmes.

  In a few minutes, we were seated in the Darlington carriage, which drew up outside the Athenaeum Club.

  “His Lordship informed me that he would be waiting for you in the library,” the footman informed us as he held open the door to allow us to alight.

  It was the first time that I had entered the hallowed precincts of the Athenaeum, and I looked about me with interest, but it seemed that Holmes was quite accustomed to the place, and strode across the entrance hall, hardly acknowledging the welcome of the porter.

  The Earl of Darlington was seated in a chair near the door of the library, and half rose in his place as Holmes and I entered the room, but Holmes motioned to him to keep his seat.

  “Please do not trouble yourself,” Holmes assured him. “Your man informed us that you were suffering from gout. My sincere sympathy.”

  “Thank you, Holmes,” replied the Earl. “It is a confounded nuisance, to say the least, but I trust it is not too much of an inconvenience for you to come here. Please take a seat, and you, too, Dr. Watson. Might I trouble you to speak up a little? I suffer somewhat from deafness. Age creeps on, and the result of my service in the Navy as a gunnery officer has also afflicted me, I fear.”

  We seated ourselves in armchairs facing the elderly nobleman, whose white hair framing a lined, but honest, countenance, told of a life well spent in the service of his country. He called for two glasses of sherry for Holmes and myself, contenting himself with a glass of water. “All that the medicos will allow me these days before a meal nowadays, Watson,” he told me. “What is your prescription for your patients in my condition?”

  “Much the same, I fear, sir.”

  He sighed. “I suppose it was too much to expect a second opinion with which I could find agreement,” he answered, with a somewhat roguish grin. “But before luncheon, let me advise you more fully of the matter.” The Earl turned to Holmes and spoke more gravely. “I should warn you that what I am about to say may seem almost fantastical, but I would ask you to hear me out before passing judgement.”

  “I will endeavour to keep an open mind,” replied Holmes, stretching out his long legs, and adopting an attitude that appeared somnolent, but betokened, as I knew from past experience, the utmost in mental attention.

  -oOo-

  THE peer proceeded with his speech. “The whole matter started some three hundred and fifty years ago and is recorded in an ancient manuscript to be found in the library of our Hall at Hareby in Northumberland. One of my ancestors, a certain Edward, the second of our line to bear the title of Earl, was constantly engaged in one of the countless border skirmishes against the Scots, who were, as you will remember, ruled by their own monarch at that time, having yet to come under the rule of England. This was, of course, not a formal war declared by sovereigns against each other, but, to speak frankly, was more in the nature of brigandage carried out by gangs of robbers on both sides. In one of these raids, one of those captured from Scotland was an old woman, shunned by her own folk as a witch, and a bringer of bad luck to those who crossed her path. My ancestor laughed at this superstition, as he termed it, and scorned those who feared the woman as a witch.

  “Indeed, so little did he heed this belief that he took to inviting the woman, whose name is recorded as Margaret Harris, and sometimes is referred to in the records as ‘Mad Maggie’, to share his table in the Hall, though whether this was done in a spirit of bravado to show his contempt for the beliefs of others, or as an act of mockery against the poor woman, is uncertain.

  “One night, Edward, who is reported to have been drinking deeply, challenged Mad Maggie to demonstrate her powers of witchcraft. For answer, she withdrew from her clothing a curious wooden object, apparently fashioned from the twisted root of a hawthorn tree.

  “ ‘Mark ye this,’ she croaked. ‘This is the Mace of Succession, and mark ye well its purpose.’

  “ ‘And its purpose is what, old woman?’ mocked my ancestor.

  “ ‘See ye here,’ she replied to him. ‘In the head of the Mace are set eleven silver pennies, each marking a generation from now. When your first-born son comes to be born’ (for at that time Edward was unmarried and had no heir) ‘within seven days of his birth, ere he be christened, then must ye remove one of the pennies from the Mace and throw it down the well that stands in the courtyard. When his heir is born, then do ye remove the next penny and do the same. And for his son, the same, until all the pennies be gone.’

  “ ‘And then?’ asked Edward of the crone, still mocking her.

  “ ‘Then will your line come to an end.’ A hush fell over the assembly at these words, which were uttered in a tone of finality.

  “ ‘And if we should fail to do this thing at the birth of an heir?’ asked Edward, much of his mockery now gone.

  “ ‘Then will the new-born die,” replied Mad Maggie simply. ‘His head will be crushed by the Mace. You and yours cannot escape the doom I have laid upon your line. One generation shall live for every month that ye have held me captive and made sport of me. For nearly a year ye have done these things to me, but tonight is my last night of life, and I present the Mace to ye as my final act upon this earth.’ So saying, she handed the curious knobbed root with its burden of silver pennies to Edward, and seated herself at the table opposite to him, staring at him with a fixed glare, and making no answer to his queries, which became more and more enraged as she sat silently facing him. At length, wearying of her silent obstinacy, he fetched a blow to the side of her head. Mad Maggie slipped to the ground, lifeless, and it was then obvious to all that her silence had not been the result of obstinacy, but of death.

  “So far, Mr. Holmes, the story has contained nothing of the unnatural, though it is certainly an unusual and macabre tale. But now comes the report of an event which I, as a rational modern man, can hardly credit, but is recorded in the same vein of sober fact as the rest.

  “Edward, shaken by the words of the old woman, and by her sudden demise, gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Am I a foolish peasant to be moved by the words of an old woman such as that, and to be frightened by a stick?’ He seized the Mace, as it had been termed by the hag, and flung it into the fire. As the stick touched the flame, there was a loud report, and burning logs from the fireplace were
scattered about the room, causing those in the hall hurriedly to douse the number of small fires that were thereby started. As for the Mace itself, it lay alone in the middle of the fireplace; all other coals and wood there having been dispersed by the explosion. I notice your scepticism, and am merely reporting the events as described in the chronicle, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Your story is most interesting,” replied Holmes, “to antiquarians who collect such tales. However, there would appear to be some sort of prophecy involved that has a relevance to the present day. If there were to be eleven generations from that date, when will the eleventh be?”

  “That is the heart of the matter, Mr. Holmes. My son is the tenth generation. His wife is now with child, their first, and should the child be a boy, he will be the eleventh heir, and the last of the line. There is now but one silver penny in the head of the Mace.”

  “Could you not simply ignore the ritual, and leave the coin where it is?” I asked.

  The Earl turned his gaze towards me. “Would that we could,” he replied sorrowfully. “Believe me, there have been attempts in the past to cheat the prophecy. The sixth Earl, my great-grandfather, believing no more in these matters than he would in the existence of a mermaid, for example, declined to follow the custom. The morning after he announced his decision to do this, his new-born son was found dead. He had apparently slipped from his cradle, and had fallen on his head, crushing his skull. There is a similar family tradition, though it is not recorded in writing, regarding the third Earl, Edward’s son, and his first-born boy, who likewise died in a fall from his crib following his father’s refusal to perform the ritual. Since my great-grandfather’s time, our family has felt it expedient to follow the ceremony as laid down by Mad Maggie. Though, as I say, I consider myself a rational man, I nonetheless would not care to abandon the custom.”

  “Could you not simply dispose of the Mace?” enquired Holmes. “No, I see by your face that the idea is unthinkable to you. I see. I fail, however, to understand exactly what it is that you require of me.”

  “The problem, Mr. Holmes,” replied the other, “is that the Mace has disappeared.”

  “And when is the birth of your grandchild expected?” asked Holmes. “Forgive my indelicacy in asking this question, but it is important to know these things if I am to take any action in this case. It would seem that there is some sort of restriction with regard to time here.”

  The peer flushed a little, but answered, “I believe that the blessed event is due within the month. Naturally, we do not know whether it will prove to be a male heir, but should it transpire to be so, we should expect to complete the Ritual of the Mace. It would be a sorrowful event, because according to the prophecy, the next male heir would be the last. And it would be even more sorrowful, if the old tales are true, if we were to omit this, as it would result in the death of the heir.”

  “Surely, you as a modern man of a rational age, cannot seriously believe this ancient superstition?” I burst out.

  The Earl seemed a little astounded at the temerity of my statement, but answered me courteously enough. “Dr. Watson, I could quote the old saw about there being more things in heaven and earth and so on, but your question deserves more than that glib answer. My answer is that although I do not believe in the literal truth of Mad Maggie’s prophecy, I do not disbelieve it either – at least, not to the extent that I wish to disregard it. I may add that my son entertains a much firmer belief in the old tales than do I.”

  “And his wife?”

  “She laughs at the whole business, and refuses to take it at all seriously.”

  “So my brief,” Holmes broke in, “is to recover the Mace, and to hope with all my heart that I find it. Alternatively, in the event of my failing to retrieve the missing artefact, I should be hoping with all my might that your daughter-in-law is delivered of a baby girl.”

  “That would seem to sum up the situation admirably, Mr. Holmes. I take it from that you are prepared to serve me in this matter?”

  “There are one or two trifling affairs that must be cleared up before I can make the trip to Northumberland, but you make take it for the moment that I will assist you. I would be grateful, however, if you could provide me with more information regarding the disappearance of the Mace.”

  “With pleasure,” replied the Earl. “Shall we adjourn to luncheon? I assume you have no objection to discussing the matter while we eat?” On receiving the required reassurance from Holmes, he summoned a club servant, who assisted him into the dining-room, Holmes and myself following.

  “You must understand,” he began, between the oysters that formed the first part of our meal, “that despite the title I bear, and my reputed wealth, I live a relatively simple life. The staff at Hareby Hall are few in number, and have been with me for years. I often protest to them that they deserve more in the way of wages than I currently pay them, but they are content to stay on, claiming that they are used to the Hall, and to my family and myself. Bouverie, the butler, is the chief of the indoor servants, and he is supported by his wife who acts as housekeeper. They entered my service some thirty years or more. The cook is assisted by two kitchen-maids, and Mrs. Bouverie supervises the activities of a parlour-maid and three housemaids. Believe me, given the size of the Hall, this is a modest establishment. The outside staff consists of three grooms who also act as coachmen, and a head gardener who employs local lads as the seasons demand. To be frank, the grounds are somewhat of a wilderness, a state that I prefer to an over-manicured and artificial garden. Ah, the salmon,” he broke off, as the waiters brought our next course. “It is truly excellent here.”

  He ceased to speak for a few minutes, presumably to show his appreciation of the fish dish, which was, as he had claimed, of a surpassing delicacy. “To continue,” he said at length, after having wiped his lips with his napkin. “The Mace is kept with what little jewellery remains in the family, following the depredations caused by the sixth Earl’s losses at faro, in a strong metal cabinet that is set into the wall in my library – a sort of ancient safe. I must confess that I hardly ever have call to open the cabinet, and before I opened it a few days ago the last time that I recollect doing so was over three months previously. The cabinet is kept locked, and I am the sole possessor of the only key in the household. As it happens, there is one other key, but I prefer to keep that in a safety deposit box at my bank. As I say, there is very little occasion for me to open the cabinet.

  “Imagine my surprise, Mr. Holmes, when I opened the cabinet the other day and discovered it to be completely empty. The Mace had disappeared and so had all the jewellery. The cupboard was bare, as the old children’s rhyme has it.”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted my friend, “can you please explain to me why you opened the cabinet at all, given that your future grandchild is not imminently expected?”

  “That is a very good point, Mr. Holmes,” replied the peer. “The cabinet makes a most distinctive sound when it is closed, a kind of metallic ringing sound, which is totally unlike any other sound in the house. I fancied I heard that sound two nights ago as I lay in bed. As I mentioned earlier, though, I am more than a little deaf, and I could not be positive that I had heard correctly. The next morning, I resolved to investigate, in the event that my ears had not been playing me false.”

  “Do you sleep close to the room containing the cabinet?” enquired Holmes, who by now had brought out his notebook and was making notes.

  “The room in which I sleep is on the ground floor, next to the library,” replied the Earl. “My gout prevents me from occupying apartments where I must climb stairs to reach them.”

  “So there is no doubt in your mind that the noise you heard was the cabinet door being closed?”

  “None. None, that is, unless I were dreaming, which I confess was my first thought. Ah, the saddle of lamb. My doctors forbid it, and my palate is far from being what it once was, but I would be obliged if you gentlemen would partake of the club claret. We have a particular
ly fine Mouton-Rothschild in the cellars that I think you will enjoy.” He summoned a waiter and gave appropriate instructions. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. I did believe it was a dream until I woke in the morning, and made my way to the library, still in my dressing-gown, and opened the cabinet. It was a shock to see it empty, I can assure you of that.”

  “What did you do upon your discovery?” asked Holmes. “I assume you raised the alarm?”

  “I did not,” replied the peer. “The jewellery is insured, for an amount that is probably above its real value, and it is in any case hideous to my eyes. We are well rid of it, if my honest opinion is to be sought. However, it was the Mace that was the true loss. Although it is no more than a tree root, and contains but one silver penny, it is, to my mind, one of the few things,” and here he lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, so that we had to strain to catch his meaning, “one of the few things that saves my poor son from total lunacy.”

  I stared at him, horror-struck, and Holmes, who had been scribbling in his notebook, stopped his writing. At that moment the waiter brought our wine, and conversation lapsed.

  “Excuse me,” said Holmes, when the waiter had departed. “I had the honour of knowing your son slightly at University. We are of an age, though our interests differed, and though I would never claim to have known him well, he had nothing of that nature about him then.”

  “Ah, it is a sad case,” replied the Earl, wagging his head. “The poor lad was, as you might recall, a sportsman. One of his chief delights lay in fox-hunting, and one day while engaged in this pursuit, he was thrown from his horse, and his head was dashed against a large stone. Though the physical injury soon healed, it was obvious that something had been damaged in his mind. While before the accident he had shown a tendency towards superstition, now it has become an obsession with him. As in many stables, the grooms keep cats to help rid the place of mice, and some of the cats that they kept until recently were black. My son one day went to the stables and ordered the grooms and stable lads to dispose of the offending felines in any way they saw fit. Since then, there are no stable cats, and there are none in the house.”