THE THIRD SEQUENCE, by Sherlock Holmes (edited by Bruce Kilstein)

“Spiritualism has been so befouled by wicked charlatans, and so cheapened by many a sad incident, that one could almost wish that some such term as psychic religion would clear the subject of old prejudices, just as mesmerism…was rapidly accepted when its name was changed to hypnotism.”

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

The Vital Message

Of the myriad cases which have come before me, there are many that have gone unsolved. The readers of my dear friend, John Watson’s, accounts of so-called adventures have come to expect, sadly I must admit, a tidy conclusion to each investigation that I have undertaken wherein some dark business is exposed to the light of Justice. Lux et Lex. Watson’s publications are pleasing enough; yet his tales with satisfying endings often give short-shift to the elucidation of the process of deductive reasoning which I employ in the prosecution of any inquiry. What would seem at once baffling to the careless eye of the police force may become a mere ordering of minutely observed facts with the exclusion of theories of the impossible.

Of all the places to which our inquiries have led us, from the most rancid opium den to the luxury of royal palaces, no corner has been so darkly impregnable than that of the human mind. The question of the motivations, the manipulations of the spirit that impel some to commit the basest of acts (not to mention the ease in which the victims are willing to be manipulated) continues to elude the best investigators. I am confident that science, in spite of the stunning advances of the last century, will continue to struggle to bring to light the forces that drive the engines of inhumanity. One has only to examine the suffering imposed by the Great War to realize that as a civilization we have not scratched the surface of what lies deep in the recesses of the human condition.

And so, I relate a tale that Watson has avoided disclosing. Suffice it to say that the lover of the mystery story may be intrigued but the reader seeking a simple explanation to events had best turn away.

* * * *

It was in the autumn of 191_, the bees I had been studying had gone into dormancy, the skies had become sere and the ashen pall that covered the sensibilities of all Europeans had yet to be lifted in the aftermath of war. Perhaps with the prospect of a cold, inactive winter, I read with interest an article in the morning Times:

SPIRITUALIST MEDIUM ARRESTED ON CHARGES OF MURDER!

Confessions linked to the ghostly realm.

London—In a grisly display, renowned psychic medium, M Marcel, was found by servants in the presence of three dead clients of his séance conducted the previous evening. The victims of foul play at Spivey House included Lady Regina Spivey and Colonel Jonathan Mills. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard would offer no identity of the third deceased, citing matters of National Security, but is confident that the medium used his mesmeric influence to inflict harm upon his victims.

“What rubbish!” I muttered, tossing the paper to the floor. I summoned my housekeeper, Miss Finch, and instructed her to send telegrams to Watson and Mrs Hudson of my plans to travel to London. I penned the notes and consulted my Bradshaw’s. “Tell the coachman I would like to make the 8:15 train to Victoria.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” she said. “You could use the telephone. It might be…”

“…a buzzing hive of eavesdroppers and gossips. Thank you, no, Miss Finch.”

* * * *

The sight of my Baker Street apartments, the rose glow of the fire and the familiar countenances of my friends served to dispel the melancholy which I had been experiencing.

“Holmes, what a surprise, old man! Let me help you with your case.” Watson shook my hand vigorously and led the way into my old room.

“Wipe your feet, both of you,” was Mrs Hudson’s greeting as she finished beating dust from the sofa cushions before limping away rheumatically to fetch the tea.

I selected a pipe from the rack, scraped the Persian slipper for usable tobacco, and took stock of my aging colleague. “You look fit, Watson.”

Watson chuckled. “Put on a few stone. Married life, you know. But, I must confess, I am shocked to see you here on such short notice. What could possibly be of such urgent…?”

Before he could finish, the brash voice and tread of Inspector Lestrade assaulted our senses. “…no need, I’ll show myself in, Mrs Hudson.” He burst into the room in a sodden Macintosh, paused, and realizing the impending brunt of our housekeeper’s wrath, returned to the hall and hung the damp garment on the stand. “Well, Mr Holmes, I am delighted you have returned to London, no doubt to congratulate me on my most recent arrest.”

Mrs Hudson brought the tea, frowning at the pool of water collected in the doorway as we gathered at the table.

“Quite, Lestrade,” said I. “You have certainly outdone yourself this time. Pray, partake of the tea and enlighten the doctor and me on the particulars of this extraordinary act.” I trusted that the Inspector could not resist the opportunity to sound his own horn. Watson took up a plate of cakes and I lit my pipe and closed my eyes, welcoming the sounds of the old house, the repast, the smell of tobacco and dust and, I must admit, even the shrill tenor of Lestrade’s voice was a balm to my ears.

“A wonder, really,” Lestrade began, between sips from his cup. “Three found dead and one in hospital from the doings at Spivey House two days ago. The group had gathered for some silly séance.”

“I have heard of these gatherings,” Watson said, the sound of brushing crumbs from his vest. “My friend, Dr Conan Doyle, is a strong believer and investigator of spirit phenomena. Strange stuff, if you ask me: ghostly rappings, levitations, automatic writing, mesmerism…but if a respected man of science endorses the practice, well, maybe there is some credence to it.”

“Of course there is nothing to it,” I said without opening my eyes. “Continue, Inspector.”

“The servants had been sent away for the event and found the awful scene the next morning. Five people were still at the table. Three dead, the so-called spirit medium in some sort of stupor from which we took great pains to arouse him, and his assistant badly injured. The medium calls himself Marcel—we’re working on getting his real name—he’s about as French as Big Ben—but he put up no resistance to arrest. After subjecting him to close examination, I am happy to say that he confessed to the crime. Justice will be quickly served, I can assure you, as some very prominent people were victims of this fatal chicanery.”

I fought to remain calm. “He killed three people and just sat there, waiting to be discovered, until the next day. Did he, perhaps, offer a motive for such unusual criminal behavior?”

“That’s the strange part, Mr Holmes. He related that while in a trance, the malevolent spirits he conjured, or channeled within him, somehow caused the fatalities. He took responsibility for opening the door to Death.”

“Preposterous,” Watson said, spilling some of his tea and attempted to mop up the stain before he could be discovered.

“Hard to believe, I admit,” Lestrade shook his head, “yet the servants found the doors and windows to the room locked, there was no sign of violence. All were seated around the table just as casually as we are now.”

“Not quite so casually, if they had ceased to be animated,” I added. “And what of the assistant?”

“A M. Le Blanc. We were able to revive him; however he was in no condition to give a statement. He was taken to St Bart’s.”

“A fine picture, Lestrade. A locked room, three dead, the killer willing to confess, no…bear the blame for the action of what…ghosts? Seems like one of your fictional tales, Watson. It is clear that you have not scratched the surface of this case, Lestrade. I fear there is more here, much more.”

Lestrade set down his cup. “Well, I did have a few more questions…a few loose ends to tie up. Seeing as you just happen to be in London, Mr Holmes, and, as you have been of assistance to Scotland Yard on one or two occasions—perhaps you would like to accompany me and make some observations…on a purely consulting basis, mind you.”

“Consulting. Naturally. There is little time and much to do then. Where are the bodies of the victims being held?”

“At the morgue at St Bart’s. Same as Le Blanc.”

“Excellent. We shall need to examine the bodies as well as Marcel and LeBlanc, but first we must investigate the crime scene, if it has not already been hopelessly spoiled. Come, Watson. The game is afoot and our quarry has a head start.”

* * * *

Before Mrs Hudson could summon a protest at the state in which we had burst upon and rendered 221B, we were out the door, commandeering Lestrade’s driver, and heading from Baker Street through the Paddington Gardens to Marylebone High Street. We soon found ourselves at Spivey House, Westchester. A servant dressed in mourning answered the door and showed us to the parlour where the bodies had been discovered.

I surveyed the room: dark curtains covered the windows, a table with stained velvet surrounded by five chairs. A pen and a bell lay upon the table. “What has been removed from the room, Lestrade?”

Lestrade looked about. “Nothing, except of course, the bodies…oh and the drinks service set upon the side board.”

I removed my glass to closely examine the table cloth. “It seems obvious that of the three victims, two were women; both widows, one young, one old. The third person was a military gentleman. They had few close living relations.”

“Astounding, Holmes, but how can you have known this from such a cursory evaluation of the premises? We have not released any information as to the identities of the victims.”

Watson shot me a knowing glance and stated, “You will find that nothing Sherlock Holmes does is of a cursory nature, Inspector.”

“Thank you, dear friend,” I said. “You know my methods, Lestrade. We have little time but I am sure that you would have noticed that Spivey House is a venerable old place, yet modern conveniences have been laid on. Note the electric lights and modern furniture and flowers in the foyer: a young woman’s touch. However, we sadly note there is not a hint of the masculine upon entering the home. No study off the main hall, no lingering aroma of late night cigars, no trophies. Moreover, one has a clear path to the parlour without avoiding the inevitable accumulation of disarray or toys left in the wake of children. This was a home inherited by a young man who went to war and was lost. The young couple had no time to bear children.”

“Lady Penelope Spivey,” Lestrade stammered.

“Yet, an ornate sword rests in the umbrella stand in the hall. The black scuff of the boot left upon the floor, admits that a military man was present last evening. The servants could hardly have had time to wipe the mark away. The sword indicates a man of rank, the boot mark shows that his foot drags a bit, the result of some wound to the nerves of the leg, wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?” Watson nodded absently. “This must have been one of Spivey’s superiors, sent for by his widow to attend the séance. I am speculating here, my knowledge of such things is sparse, but he may have wished to contact either Spivey or other lost comrades through the conveyances of the medium, M. Marcel.”

“That would be Colonel Mills,” mumbled Lestrade.

“And finally, we come to the hint of perfume in this tightly sealed room. The subtle bouquet is somewhat masked by other odors, but one cannot help recalling a bygone era.” I remembered our faithful spaniel, Toby, as the men sniffed about the room in hopes of acquiring the scent. “The aroma is too passé for the lady of the house—hence we detect the presence of an older woman.”

Lestrade threw up his hands in resignation. “The Dowager Tsu Ling. Here on a diplomatic errand for the Chinese Consulate.”

“Ah, that is why the reluctance to release the names of the victims,” Watson observed, still wrinkling his nose above a grey moustache. “To avoid international scandal the police will want to pin down a perpetrator as quickly as possible.”

“I fear nothing has been avoided, Doctor. Lestrade, I will beg your leave for a time. Watson and I will venture to the hospital and then rendezvous with you to interview, with your permission, Monsieur Marcel.”

“He’s not French,” Lestrade shook his head and wandered out of the house.

We left Lestrade to rumble off in his motorcar—the offensive thing belching smoke and hemorrhaging noise. I was fortunate to hail one of the few surviving hansom cabs, instructing the driver to avoid the Strand and head north along the river to the hospital.

* * * *

“What do you make of it, Watson?”

“Hard to say. Lestrade has found a man at the murder scene who has already confessed.”

“Convenient for Lestrade, I’d say. Most inconvenient for the accused, if he swings for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“But surely, sir, you don’t give credence to the ranting of charlatans, magicians, and mumbo jumbo men.”

“It’s not what we believe at all, but if the mesmerist and his subjects are convinced of the reality of a phenomenon.…” I let the thought trail and we proceeded in silence to our destination.

One would assume that the sight of the dark, rain-soaked institution housing the sick and suffering would promote feelings of melancholy to anyone approaching, but a return to the place where Watson and I first made acquaintance so long ago, did seem a bright ray in the cloud of gloom. We left the cab and made our way through the receiving hall, down back stairs and through a low corridor that wound past my old chemistry laboratory to the morgue. A young attendant sat at a desk reading a newspaper and jotting notes on a pad.

“Help you, gov?” he said without looking up.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson here to examine the recently murdered.”

“Got a lot of bodies, here, man,” the clerk said.

“See here!” Watson exclaimed, his grip stiffening on his stick.

“It’s all right, Watson. This man suffers a loss and sits confined amongst the dead, wondering if he will ever meet another woman equal to his late wife. We will grant him leeway in his lack of courtesy.”

The clerk put down his paper. “How could you know that? What is this?”

“The evidence is clear. I observe you have a mark on your finger where a wedding ring once resided. Your laboratory coat has been poorly pressed—either from neglect or lack of a woman—you are reading the agony column of the paper, searching for a new mate while taking notes, likely preparing to compose your own advertisement. You write this next to the scrawled name Lestrade on your house phone log, hence we can assume that the inspector has phoned ahead, and your supervisor, Dr Butlin, alerted you of our imminent visit.”

While the baffled attendant attempted to process these revelations, a bearded man in a white smock entered through a side door. “Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! What a surprise, it’s been a long time.”

“Still at the game?” Watson asked.

“Don’t know what else I’d do if I retired. Probably go mad reading books and smoking alone. I could do the same here in better company.” Dr Butlin laughed, gesturing to the silent drawers containing the recently departed. “You came to see the bodies.” He snapped his fingers and the attendant jumped from his desk and ran to locate the requested victims. Shortly he had the cadavers laid out for our inspection. “Not a mark on them. No sign of violence or struggle.”

“Poison, then?” Watson asked.

“It would seem the obvious conclusion, Doctor, yet it would have had to have been an agent with a rapid onset of action to kill three at once. We have analyzed the drinking glasses from the room for arsenic and strychnine but not a trace did we detect. Moreover, those agonizing potions would have left the faces of the deceased in a contortion of pain. Look upon their faces.”

“Perfectly calm,” I said, “as if in a peaceful slumber.”

The doctor continued, “I have tested the stomach contents, naturally, but I detected no unnatural odors on postmortem. In fact, the cause of death eludes me.”

“Some sort of death of the mind then?” I mused. “Would you say that these unfortunate people died of fright or in some sort of trance or stupor?”

“It would have to have been a very powerful state induced, to have killed all of the people at once, Mr Holmes. The dowager was elderly, as was the colonel, but he was a man in robust health.”

“Military man to the end,” Watson said.

“But Mrs Spivey was in the full bloom of youth.”

“Broken hearts? Visits from the spirit world?”

“I don’t know what to say.” Dr Butlin shook his head.

“And yet…this powerful force that brought about the instantaneous death of three also spared both the mesmerist and his assistant. A spiritualist awakens from his trance and finds those about him dead or incapacitated and so naturally assumes that he was somehow the culprit. Tell me what you know of the assistant,” I said.

“The man was in bad shape when he came in: stuporous, lividity about the face, quick pulse, which is not unexpected as he was discovered face-down on the table next to the mesmerist. He responded quickly to treatment with brisk massage to the face and extremities and restorative liquors.”

“We should waste no time in questioning the fellow,” Watson said.

“That will be hard to do,” I said. “The man will have left the hospital by now, and as I am sure that he was using an assumed name, will be difficult to track.”

Dr Butlin used the telephone to call the hospital ward attendant and confirmed that the patient had fled.

“Scoundrel!” Watson said.

“To be expected,” I replied. “Lestrade, complacent in the assumption that he has apprehended his murderer, has let LeBlanc slip away.”

“Ghastly! What next, Holmes?” Watson asked.

“We must interview M. Marcel, the only witness to the crime. Watson, be kind enough to telephone your friend, Dr Doyle. He will find this matter of interest and may be of use to us.”

* * * *

Dr Doyle met us at the prison. “A pleasure to see you, gentlemen. I must say that I am unfamiliar of an instance with a séance or mesmeric trance resulting in the deaths of the participants. Most concerning.”

“Yet you are convinced of the authenticity of these sessions?” I asked.

“As a man of science, I was initially skeptical but I have witnessed first-hand the power of the spirit realm and the ability of certain persons to channel this energy into an earthly plane. I am certain that the phenomenon is as real as the invisible energy of X-rays or radio waves or the flow of electricity or magnetism.”

“Arthur has written extensively on the subject,” Watson said.

“Of course, the science will be corrupted by quacks and mountebanks looking to profit from the grief of the bereaved: the nefarious are everywhere. I look forward to assessing the abilities of M. Marcel. I am sure, John, that you have witnessed the power of mesmerism in medical use.”

Watson had to admit that he had seen the fakirs of India place themselves in profound states of transfixion. “Yes, and that fellow Dr Eaisdale felt that the mesmeric influence was some sort of animal magnetism that could be transmitted from one person to another. On the other hand, Dr Freud posits that the phenomenon is all in the power of suggestion; he claims that he could place patients into a state of coma such that he could perform amputation of limbs without the sick man sensing any pain whatsoever.”

“Regardless of the source, the operator’s influence on the mind of the subject must be some force of nature. We must admit to its veracity.”

I wasn’t convinced.

Lestrade led us to an isolated cell where we met a forlorn Marcel. I attempted in vain to put the man at ease by introducing myself and my colleagues as strict believers in his innocence and of our benevolent intentions to be of assistance.

“I am honored by your attentions, Mr Holmes. But really, I can see no explanation other than that the people who had trusted themselves to my powers, people who had come to me to contact departed loved ones, to ease their suffering, were irrevocably harmed by the process. Mrs Spivey had contacted me in a distraught state after the loss of her husband in the war. His commanding officer, Colonel Mills, friend of the family, had been under a cloud of deep depression due to the loss of so many of his men.”

“And what of the Oriental lady?” I inquired.

“Madame Tsu Ling. She was here on a diplomatic mission of some sort. She too had recently lost a loved one, but she was wary and astutely inquired as to how the spirits of dead Chinese could communicate through me in English.”

“Yes, that is a bright question,” Lestrade added.

“I cannot explain it other than to say that the spirit plane is universal. I assure you that the information that passes through me is almost always confirmed by my subjects as being authentic and containing facts that could only be known to themselves and the departed.”

I had no doubt of Marcel’s utter sincerity and his beliefs in his gifts, and his motivations to use them for the good. His innate honesty, however, had run him afoul of the law and his confession had placed him in imminent danger of the gallows. “Would you be so kind, Monsieur, and take us through the events of the fateful evening.”

Marcel shook his head woefully and seemed to stare vacantly as he recalled the séance. “It won’t bring the poor folks back…I am able to place myself in a state receptive to spirit communication. My assistant, M. LeBlanc, is an accomplished mesmerist but remains awake. We have found that by LeBlanc acting as liaison to the sitters, they are guided and made to feel at ease by the experience of contact with the dead. He directs the activities while I am channeling the spirits. That evening, as usual, we sat in a darkened room around a table bare except for a bell to announce the presence of the spirits. Mr LeBlanc had the sitters write the names of the loved ones and any questions that they might wish to ask after I had entered the trance state. In this way, I might add, I can have no foreknowledge of the circumstances of the deaths, or as in the case of Madame Ling, I cannot possibly understand her question as it was written in a language unknown to me. Each sitter affixes their signature to the question and folds the sheet of paper so there can be no tampering.”

“You can see, gentlemen,” Conan Doyle said, “the use of the scientific method. The medium remains separate from all influences and preconceived notions.”

“Lestrade, you no doubt recovered the sheets of paper from the crime scene,” I stated.

The inspector seemed ill at ease. “No, Mr Holmes, we did not.”

Marcel had begun to perspire. I offered him my kerchief and as he blotted his face I lifted the small lamp that sat on the table and held it above him.

“Doctors, would you witness the markings on M. Marcel’s forehead and temples. Note the symmetry of these indentations of the skin.” Watson and Doyle leaned in as did Lestrade so that all five of our faces were in close proximity like the weird sisters of Macbeth.

“How did you come by these abrasions?” Watson asked.

“I am sure that I do not know,” Marcel said, touching his face absently. “Sometimes there are physical manifestations brought about by spirit contact.”

“Yes, I have seen emissions of ectoplasm and physical manifestations,” said Doyle.

I set the lamp back upon the table. “I think that in this case the markings were made by someone very much alive. Gentlemen, I must inform you that I suspect the sitters of the séance were victims of gas asphyxiation and that M. Marcel is innocent.”

“What? Gas!” The four exclaimed nearly in union.

“The conclusion is inescapable. Three dead with no sign of violence or internal poisoning with pleasant expressions upon their faces. Having already been placed in a relaxed state by the mesmeric atmosphere they would have expired peacefully with no obvious outward manifestations.”

“Ha! I have you there, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade pointed an accusing finger at me. “The Spivey House has all the modern amenities, including electric light! If there was a leak of gas, how is it that Monsieurs Marcel and LeBlanc were unaffected?”

“You will, in fact, find that they were affected in some way. Houses converted to electricity still retain intact gas connections. It would be practical for an assailant to restore the flow of gas from the electric chandelier, once a gasolier, into the sealed room. Dr Butlin will confirm that the markings on M. Marcel’s face match those of M. LeBlanc. Those pocks upon the skin have been produced by the application of gas masks so widely used in the last war. Once the gas had produced the desired effect, LeBlanc would have opened the vent located high on the wall and concealed by a grill after conversion to electricity. I am sure a search of the ventilation grill will reveal the gas masks stashed inside. LeBlanc would have needed to remain in the room to appear as a victim. Perhaps he intended to open the window to vent more of the gas but he was overcome by lingering fumes. When M. Marcel awoke he was overcome by the ghastly horror to which he thought was provoked by some aspect of his spirit trance gone awry, and as he is a man of most unimpeachable character would have been compelled to confess to a crime to which he had no direct knowledge or involvement.” As all present were too astounded to comment, I continued. “LeBlanc absconded from the hospital, no doubt in possession of the papers containing the signatures of Tsu Ling, Lady Spivey, and Colonel Mills along with personal effects such as keys to homes, safes, and bank boxes. From his haul of items it would have been easy to forge papers of any kind to gain access to a fortune in documents or cash.”

“Documents,” Lestrade conceded reluctantly. “Madame Ling and Colonel Mills were involved in the tariff negotiations between our government and the Chinese.”

“The scoundrel,” Doyle said. “Profaning the art of spiritualism for villainous purposes.”

“We will have no way to track LeBlanc at this point. He could be halfway across the continent,” Watson said.

Doyle thought for a moment and said, “Perhaps there is a way….”

“I must object, Mr Holmes!” Lestrade protested. “This is highly unorthodox.”

“Unorthodox situations often beg the use of unorthodox methods, Inspector. Unless you have a viable alternate suggestion as to how to proceed in finding a criminal whom you have allowed to escape, I suggest you let the doctors proceed.”

I held the paper out for Lestrade to sign and instructed him to include the name of a deceased loved one. He passed the paper to Doctors Doyle and Watson, who did the same. The lamp was extinguished, plunging the cell into shadow. However, the sounds of rain outside of the barred window and shouts of distraught prisoners echoing through the halls all seemed to recede as M. Marcel began the process of placing his subjects and then himself into a state of mesmerism. I intended to remain awake as vigilant observer to the process.

“We will all now concentrate deeply. Visualize a place of safety, recall times of contentment spent with loved ones who have departed,” Marcel began.

“This nonsense will never work on me,” were the last words uttered by Lestrade before his face hit the table.

Marcel continued in a commanding, yet soothing voice. “Let all cares escape your mind, you will be relaxed, yearning for peaceful rest, you are safe, you are relaxed, you are in the presence of those you have loved, you are safe…”

The repetition of Marcel’s phrases had the desired effect on Watson and Doyle and, as they surrendered to the medium’s suggestions, Marcel grew quiet and I saw a new countenance come over him. His contorted facial expression unwound and he seemed to enter into a conversation that at once seemed to be with himself but fractured into different personas.

“Father and Dr Watson, so nice to see you again.” Marcel continued in a different voice. “We are in their presence.”

“Where are you, son?” Conan Doyle murmured.

“We are so many, we are safe. The war is over?”

“The war is over,” Marcel said to himself. “Is your Colonel Mills with you?”

“He is here,” Marcel answered himself.

I felt the temperature in the room drop precipitously. Beads of perspiration appeared on Marcel’s face. Watson and Doyle seemed to listen intensely with eyes closed and grew restless. Lestrade began to snore.

“Can you help us?” Doyle muttered.

Marcel reached for the pen and papers and began writing furiously. “This is what we know…” As he wrote, his voice changed and became soft with a feminine quality and he recited numbers as I quickly fed him more sheets of paper to keep up with his scribbling. “17, 11, 4, A, 3…20, 12, 9…WHI, 308, 0, 27.”

Marcel concluded the séance by writing these three sequences of numbers. Exhausted, he let the pen slip from his hand and slumped backward in his chair. All were asleep and only I had retained my conscious faculties. I went to the door, calling for the jailer, but no one came. I shook Lestrade briskly by the shoulders to rouse him.

“You see, no effect whatsoever,” Lestrade said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He then noticed the slumbering men at the table. “What is this?”

“There is no time for discussion, Lestrade.” I spread the papers across the table.

“Look at this scrawl. Looks to be a bunch of gibberish.”

“No, the numbers must have significance. The first sequence of numbers I recognize as account numbers at the Royal Bank. The second sequence would seem to be a combination to a lock.”

The close of the banking day was drawing near. By now, LeBlanc would have forged documents containing signatures of Colonel Mills, Lady Spivey, and Tsu Ling. He would have access to a fortune in money and perhaps secret treaties. Yet even the shifty LeBlanc could not be in several locations at once: he was not at Spivey House, but he would have to act fast to raid the residences of Colonel Mills and Madame Ling and attempt to access the Spivey bank accounts, knowing that once discovered he would need to make a rapid getaway. I beat my fist upon the table rousing Doctors Doyle and Watson and M. Marcel from their comas. “If the first sequence of numbers is the bank account of Lady Spivey then the second must be the combination to Madame Ling’s strong box containing the documents. But what is this third sequence? It is too long to be the combination of a lock and too short to be an account number at a bank.”

“It’s quite elementary, Mr Holmes.” Lestrade said. “It’s a telephone number.”

I cursed my ignorance of the telephone system. I snatched the keys to the cell from Lestrade’s belt, opened the door and ran down the hall with the bewildered crowd following. We burst into an office and Lestrade elbowed aside a desk sergeant and handed me the phone. Imagining that shouting would make my voice travel faster to the operator on the line, I bellowed the numbers of the exchange into the contraption.

A woman on the other end answered, her voice oddly sedate, far off, “Royal Bank, Cavendish Square, how may I help you?”

I thrust the receiver into Lestrade’s hands. “Dispatch all of your men to Cavendish Square! Have the guards at the bank lock all of the doors. Detain everyone within.”

Lestrade, to his credit, sprang into action, barking orders into the telephone and at the sergeant in an efficient, focused manner, devoid of his usual fluster.

“We will hope to have LeBlanc trapped within the bank,” I said. Lestrade nodded assent but the woman on the telephone was still speaking. He put the receiver back to his ear and seemed to become perplexed. “The party on the line requests to speak to ‘Binky?’’’

“That would be me,” Watson said, reaching for the phone.

“Well, I hope you had your fun with all this hocus pocus, Dr Doyle. It is perfectly clear that M. Marcel already knew the bank codes and phone number and this…charade…has given ample time for his accomplice to gain a head start on his pursuers,” Lestrade said.

Doyle and Marcel began to protest but I raised a hand to silence them. Watson had grown pale, and held the phone limply as a tear glistened on his pallid cheek.

* * * *

From there I must conclude my account because I have run out of facts. All else is speculation and I leave it to the reader to draw his own conclusions:

LeBlanc was caught red-handed with a draft of the Chinese treaty and the cash from the Spivey account. He was charged with both treason (Lestrade was correct in the assumption that neither Marcel nor LeBlanc were Frenchmen) and murder. Marcel was held as an accomplice for many months, but with only circumstantial evidence against him, he was released. The notoriety from the case only served to enhance his career as a spirit medium. Watson and Doyle would say little more of the experience of the séance at the prison other than to attest that the voice uttered by M. Marcel was that of Doyle’s son, Adrien, lost in the war, and that the phone conversation Watson had was with his late wife Mary: beloved, and taken early from this life years before the events described.

—Sherlock Holmes

Sussex Downs, November 1927