The Loch Ness Affair

In one of my notebooks which cover the latter half of 1895 I recorded the following fairly inconsequential adventure which offered no real solution or at any rate it offered a solution which was open to doubt. We found ourselves in the Highlands of Scotland after Holmes acceded to a request from a certain gracious lady to look into some problems which had gravely affected the running of her household. The request had been made by intermediates, but Holmes was in no doubt that the petition originated directly from the noblest lady in the land. Even at this remove I am unable to furnish details of the nature of the investigation that he undertook nor its resolution save to say the solution came speedily to Holmes and consequently we found ourselves with some time on our hands.

I expressed a desire to visit nearby Inverness, a city I had visited and admired in my youth, but had not made its acquaintance since. Rather surprisingly Holmes fell in with this suggestion of mine and within hours of completing our task in a certain fine Scottish castle we found ourselves ensconced in the lounge bar of the Caledonian Hotel in Inverness.

‘We have a couple of hours daylight left to us, Holmes, shall we take a quick tour of the city. I am eager to see how my childhood memories of the grandeur of the city measures up to the reality.’

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you insist.’

My friend always displayed a certain amount of restlessness when away from his familiar haunts, but I hoped that our visit to Inverness would prove to be the exception to the rule, but the signals he was sending out by his words and body language made me doubt that. However he did join me and seemed reasonably content as I pointed out buildings of interest.

On our walk that evening we encountered a news vendor in the street, shouting out the latest headlines with gusto, hoping to entice would be purchasers, ‘MONSTER SIGHTED AGAIN... READ ALL ABOUT IT... LOCAL POLICE URGE CALM... READ ALL ABOUT IT... MONSTER... MONSTER.’

‘That must refer to the Loch Ness monster, Holmes.’

‘Pshaw, the so-called monster. No doubt a figment of someone’s over active imagination and a lack of proper observational technique.’

‘But there have been witness reports stretching back over the centuries. All these reports attest to the fact there is something strange and inexplicable in the waters of the loch.’

‘None of those reports turn a theory into a fact, Watson. You know my dictum on seeing and observing and the differences therein. I have had reason a plenty to chide you on previous occasions on precisely that. These witnesses of yours, they see, they look, but fail to observe correctly with resulting misinterpretations.’

‘Holmes, you are not familiar with these witnesses or their statements so how can you question them or attempt to deride them?’

‘If the end result of their watchfulness is their belief that there is a monster in the loch then I rest my case.’

Ignoring Holmes, I bought myself a copy of the newspaper. Once back at the hotel I settled down to read the account and never once so much as glanced at Holmes despite the occasional ‘nonsense’ or ‘poppycock’ which emanated from his direction. The leading article related how an Angus McShane had spent an evening fishing from his boat just two days ago, some ten miles south of Inverness. He noticed large ripples on the surface of the previously calm loch. Further, the rippled appeared to be heading straight towards him. The boat rocked violently and he tried to steady it he was with a most fearful sight. Bursting out of the loch and towering over him was the head and elongated neck of a huge sea serpent. Mr McShane is quoted as saying, ‘It looked like dragon out of an old story book I read as a child.’

To his relief the creature then swam off, revealing undulating humps as it did so. He estimated the length of the creature as upwards of one hundred and fifty feet. The pleasure paddle-steamer, the Jacobean was close by on its evening excursion and several passengers claimed to have seen violent disturbances in the water without being clear as to what had caused them. Unable to keep silent any longer I thrust the newspaper under Holmes’s nose in a forceful fashion.

‘There, what do you make of that? Surely he could not have been mistaken about seeing an abomination such as he describes.’

‘I make nothing of it, Watson. I have no data to enable me to do so. I merely observe that the whisky available here is of a particularly strong vintage and no doubt Mr McShane would have been glad of its warmth during a chilly evening on the loch.’

‘He may not be a drinking man.’

‘Oh come now, Watson, he is a Scotsman!’

We spoke no more about it, both respecting our opposing views on the matter. Instead, our conversation during dinner ranged across topics as diverse as the burial practices of the Ancient Romans, the Wars of the Roses, the fate of the princes in the tower, the deplorable rise of the noisy dog racket and the equally deplorable rise in the cost of tobacco. Holmes spoke on all these subjects as though he had made a special study of them. His knowledge, apart from one or two areas, was unrivalled. Relaxing, perfectly sated after the meal, I noticed the hotel manager in an animated conversation with a sharply dressed man who seemed to have all the cares of the world heaped on his shoulders.

‘A police officer if I’m not mistaken,’ said Holmes.

‘My dear fellow, have you now acquired eyes in the back of your head?’

‘No, but I do have a well-polished coffee pot in front of me.’

‘Some trouble in the hotel do you suppose?’

‘I suspect his destination is this very table and our most convivial evening together is about to be interrupted.’

Holmes surmised correctly and after threading his way through the tables he stood before us.

‘Inspector Robertson, how may we assist you? I must warn you however that if you wish us to join you on a monster hunt you are liable to be disappointed.’

‘You know my name then, sir?’

‘Much to my friend, Watson’s surprise I did sneak a glance at his discarded newspaper and an Inspector Robertson was mentioned as urging calm on behalf of the Highland Police, an action I heartily endorse by the way. The manager of this establishment is also named Robertson. Although certain of your features differ somewhat, your frontal development is a match. Your brother then and of course he told you of our presence here.’

‘Aye, sir. All very clear to me now. Now, sir I am the last person to believe in monsters, ghouls and the like although even some members of the force have been swayed to that view...’

‘But?’

‘What I do have is a missing person.’

‘You have my attention, Inspector, a missing person is much more to my liking than a present monster. Could you take some notes, Watson? Ah, you are already. Good man. Now, tell us of your missing person.’

‘The missing man is a Barnaby Whitcombe. He has rented a house by the side of the loch these past few months, well it’s more of a shack really, but that’s by the by. He is a loner and spends all his time rowing his boat to various points of the loch then diving in search of God knows what.’

‘Presumably the monster,’ I ventured.

‘Most likely, yes although it is awful dark and gloomy in the loch, impossible to see anything really. He was seen yesterday evening from the shore rowing off towards the centre of the loch. His boat has been recovered and brought back to the city, it was of course empty.’

‘The news regarding this alleged sighting of the loch’s resident monster has apparently only just been made public, but presumably Whitcombe would have known of it.’

‘Aye, Mr Holmes, without a shadow of a doubt.’

‘It would not have deterred him?’

‘Spurred him on I reckon.’

Holmes was looking distinctly bored and surveyed the room lazily.

‘Inspector, much as I regret the passing of a human soul, tell me what it is you would wish me to do? Surely the solution is a simple one and has already occurred to you. He dived, got himself into difficulties and there his body resides until such time as the loch gives it up.’

‘I dinnae disagree, but with all this talk of monsters I would be glad of having an expert who could allay the fears of the public.’

‘My expert skills are largely redundant here. There is nothing to be gleaned from the site of his disappearance, nothing to be gained from examining his boat. I can suggest nothing save for what I said a few moments ago. In short, there is nothing I can do for you and I am not in the habit of allaying baseless fears of the general public when they choose to believe fanciful tales over the more mundane truth. Good night, Inspector.’

The inspector stared at Holmes dolefully for a few moments and then took his leave.

‘You were a little hard on the fellow, Holmes.’

‘I am a little weary of folk who come to me with problems they are perfectly well equipped to deal with themselves. I am seen as some kind of universal panacea. If the Inspector uses his imagination he can solve the problem of his missing man and allay those fears he mentions in one fell swoop. I cannot always be expected to supply imagination to all and sundry who lack their own or possess it, but are unwilling or unable to use it.’

‘I still say you could have been kinder to him. Besides which, it may affect how his brother treats us here.’

‘If there should be any cause to complain I will take it up with the management.’

‘Mr Robertson is the management!’

Holmes promptly announced he was going to retire so I took myself off to the warm, comfortable lounge bar where I passed an enjoyable if solitudinous hour there before I too retired.

At breakfast I suggested that we should avail ourselves of one of the thrice daily trips of the paddle-steamer. My suggestion was met with a stony silence which I interpreted as a no and I returned my attention to my ham and eggs. The silence was broken by the arrival of Inspector Robertson looking even more careworn. He paused for a few moments which led me to believe he was awaiting an apology from Holmes, but as none was forthcoming he began to speak.

‘Mr Holmes...’

‘You have a body, Inspector. Surely nothing less would bring you here today.’

‘Aye, we do. The loch was unusually choppy last night and at first light the body was washed ashore by Urquhart Castle. Tis a bad business, the body is terribly mutilated and when word gets out, folk will come to only one conclusion.’

‘And you, what conclusion have you reached?’

‘I cannae begin to conceive how Whitcombe came to have the wounds displayed on his body. I have not seen the like of it before. I fear, Mr Holmes that something in the loch is indeed responsible far-fetched though that seems.’

‘Not seems, it is.’

Holmes sat still for a short while, then rousing himself, addressed the Inspector in friendly terms.

‘Well, Inspector, we will see whether we can unravel the threads of Barnaby Whitcombe’s mysterious or not so mysterious death as it will no doubt turn out to be.

‘Thank you Mr Holmes, Doctor,’ he said, shaking us both warmly by the hand. ‘The remains have been removed to the police morgue. I feared panic would have set in had we left the body exposed for too long.’

The morgue was just a five minute walk from the Caledonian. The morgue, rather incongruously, was situated in an otherwise cheerful looking building. The body lay on a slab in a well-lit room. The inspector’s use of the word ‘remains’ was amply justified. The mutilations were horrendous with limbs hacked, mangled and missing, bones crushed.

‘Was the body washed up on a particularly rocky part of the shore?’ asked Holmes.

‘Aye, very much so. The whole area is littered with stones and boulders.’

‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘How novel. Pray enlighten me.’

I looked at Holmes blackly and decided to pass over his hurtful barb.

‘These injuries have not come about after death; they are the cause of death. I confess I have no idea what kind of creature could inflict such injuries.’

‘It is beyond my ken too,’ added Robertson.

‘I was not in fact suggesting these wounds we see were inflicted after death. Come, let’s discuss the matter over a coffee. Your brother’s establishment should suit our purpose admirably, Robertson.’

‘You see, gentlemen,’ Holmes said, as we settled ourselves down. ‘I believe the solution to be an eminently simple one. There is no monster, of that we can be sure. What then in the loch could account for the horrific wounds, the nature of we have just witnessed for ourselves?’

‘Nothing that I can think of,’ I replied. ‘We are in the dark completely.’

‘Yet you yourself have brought the solution to my mind. Can you not see it, even now? We know from Mr McShane’s account of his wholly imaginary encounter that others were nearby who testified merely to seeing a disturbance on the surface of the loch.’

‘It makes you wonder exactly what the disturbance was that they saw.’ said Robertson.

‘The disturbance is of no consequence, it was more than likely the work of collective imagination fed by subsequent sensationalism. The important fact is that they were there at all. The Jacobean makes its way down the loch each evening, gentlemen. The inference is clear is it not? Mr Whitcombe, as he ascended from his dive came into the path of the paddle-steamer or more specifically, its wheel with the terrible results we have seen. No monsters, no mysteries. Indeed, the only explanation.’

Inspector Robertson looked at us both in turn with a most curious expression on his face, possibly accounted for by the fact all the colour seemed to be draining from his face.

‘But, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson. The paddle-steamer did not run yesterday evening.’