The Singular Case of the Unrepentant Husband

by William Patrick Maynard

Of the many adventures that I shared with Sherlock Holmes, the case I record here may well stand as the most troubling. It began, unremarkably, with a telephone conversation. My wife had come to rely upon that infernal device which so often disturbs a man’s thoughts at the most inconvenient hour for the most mundane reasons. It was not unimportant in this instance, as it happened, and my wife insisted that I pay a visit to my old friend as a consequence.

It was half past twelve in the afternoon of the following day when I arrived at the great house on Baker Street. Mrs. Turner answered the doorbell and I saw a glimmer of relief flash across her features.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner. Is he home?”

The matronly Scotswoman rolled her eyes theatrically as she stepped aside to allow me to enter.

“Where else might he be, Doctor Watson? Where else could he conduct his odious scientific experiments or pace the floor at all hours of the night? How my sister tolerates that man is beyond my ken. I’ll be the one needing the holiday once she returns.”

“Right you are. Silly of me to have asked in the first place, I suppose. Well, never mind. I’ll soon have him out of your hair.”

“You have a case for him, I hope?”

I detected the hint of anticipation in her voice and knew that Holmes must have driven the poor woman to her limit.

“If all goes well I do, Mrs. Turner.”

The last I saw of her was the smile creasing her lined face as I made my way upstairs to Holmes’s rooms.

My old friend lay sprawled upon the davenport. Street maps were unfolded and lay strewn over the table and on the floor. An empty tea cup was overturned on top of the map nearest the front legs of the table.

“What is it this time, Mrs. Turner?”

Holmes did not even glance up as I entered the room. His toneless voice betrayed his boredom with his enforced solitude. I was relieved he had long since broken his addiction to that awful drug that so often claimed him at times such as this. I cleared my throat pointedly.

“Watson! What an unexpected surprise!”

His face registered what appeared to be genuine delight at seeing me.

“It shouldn’t be unexpected, Holmes, I have rung you three times since yesterday morning. You told Mrs. Turner on every occasion that you had no wish to speak with me.”

“Did she tell you that?” Holmes asked as he sat up, stiffly. “The woman’s incorrigible. It’s high time I had her put down for distemper. Perhaps I’ll have her stuffed. I could keep her in the hallway next to the hat stand. She’d make a lovely conversation piece.”

“One must entertain visitors if one is to have conversations, Holmes.”

“That is a fair point, Watson, and a welcome reminder that you have business to attend to unless I’m very much mistaken.”

“Did I say anything of the sort?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t extend an invitation.”

“That’s perfectly beastly of you, Holmes, but also oddly appropriate.”

“Is it? Pray tell me more.”

“I have a case for you to consider taking and, coincidentally, it involves an acquaintance of mine who will not stay dead.”

“You interest me, Watson. Go on; go on... while I search for my socks.”

“Try looking at the end of your feet.”

“Not these socks, Watson!” he shot me a reproachful glance as he wriggled his toes. “I mean the socks I removed when I retired last night - or this morning.”

“Alfred Habersham is the gentleman who refuses to rest in peace.”

“Habersham... Habersham...” Holmes muttered as he leaned over to peer underneath the davenport.

“Yes, the late Alfred Habersham was a patient of mine. Not a particularly lucrative one, but respectable nonetheless. He was an author as well, although I daresay he couldn’t have made a go of it had he not been fortunate enough to come into a princely sum of money at an early age which allowed him to indulge his passion without fear of wondering where his next meal was coming from.”

I had started to wander about the room as I spoke. It was the only way to keep my concentration while Holmes continued to be preoccupied with his missing socks. I spied the stray animals resting on the small writing desk by the window. Lifting them gingerly, I brought them back to Holmes, who was on his hands and knees like a hound upon a scent, peering intently under the davenport. I dropped them on his back as I continued.

“Very conservative fellow our Habersham was. He spent precious little of his wealth except when absolutely necessary. He married well. A nice sensible girl, although I fear she left her girlhood behind quite some time ago. No children, but he did have a ward. A distant relative he sent to a boarding school in Switzerland.”

Holmes sat upright suddenly and the socks fell from his back and onto the floor in front of him.

“Ah! There they are! Darn socks!”

“Really, Holmes, such humor is beneath you.”

“Humor is beneath everyone. That’s what makes it humorous.”

“Are you paying attention? I daresay you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

Holmes’s brow furrowed in irritation at my rebuke. “Of course I have! Alfred Habersham died leaving a widow and a ward well off since he was a miserly old sod, and you have yet to get to the interesting bit about how he is refusing to stay dead. Not very respectable behavior for a chap you seem to consider so respectable.”

I smiled with unhidden amusement.

“Well said, Holmes. Although I should make it clear that it is the claim of Mrs. Habersham that her husband is not resting peacefully in his grave. She claims he has appeared to her twice during the past week. The first time she thought she was dreaming. The second time she says she was wide awake and had only just retired for the night.”

“Sounds like her nerves are frayed.”

“There is little question of that, yet somehow... I believe her.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“You see, there’s more to it than just seeing her late husband. He speaks to her.”

“He speaks to her?”

“Yes, he speaks to her. Confesses might be the more appropriate word. He apparently cannot rest with a guilty conscience and has told her some rather terrible things.”

“What sort of terrible things?”

“Crimes he claims he committed when he was younger... indiscretions that she knew nothing of during their long marriage.”

“Are these claims credible?”

“Well, his wife certainly thinks so.”

“What do you propose I do about it, set a trap to catch a ghost?”

“What I expect you to do, Holmes is to restore peace to a poor widow. Prove that these ghostly visitations are the result of nervous excitement or grief. She is beside herself with the thought that the man she loved was a blackguard. Imagine her pain to hear that he wronged others when he was a young man and, worse still, was unfaithful to her for decades. She could scarcely keep from crying when she told Mary about it.”

“Ah, your scheming wife put you up to this. I might have known.”

“That is uncalled for and you know it, Holmes. Mary merely relayed the story to me and I sought your aid on my own.”

Holmes sighed and sunk back in the davenport, arms folded across his chest.

“You’re being disingenuous on that last point at the very least.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Holmes, I’ve known Alfred and Olivia Habersham for ages, and Mary and Olivia have become quite close since we’ve been married. You have only to speak with her and make her see reason.”

“Watson, the woman sees and converses with her husband’s ghost. She is not likely to be receptive to anything approaching reason.”

Silence hung over the room. I stood still and stared at the well-worn carpet beneath my feet.

“Oh, all right. I’ll come along, but not more than twenty minutes, do you understand? If she has not come round to the idea by that time, I want to hear no more about the matter.”

I shook his hand effusively.

“Thank you, Holmes. Mary will be thrilled.”

He grumbled in response, but I caught the flicker of a smile cross his sullen face.

“You know... you’re not nearly the curmudgeon you pretend to be some of the time.”

My old friend snorted derisively.

“I fear that I never mastered the art of disguising my feelings.”

“That is hardly true and we both know it, Holmes.”

He sat there silent for a moment before breaking into a hearty laugh.

We arrived at the modest Praed Street residence of the late Alfred Habersham a short while later. Olivia Habersham answered the door to their apartment. She was an attractive woman whose beauty remained undimmed by the passing years. I noted that her eyes betrayed both exhaustion and emotional fragility. Her eyebrows arched in irritation, a tell-tale sign of her Irish heritage, at being disturbed by unwelcome visitors, but her features quickly softened when she recognized my face.

“John! My word, what brings you here? Do come in. You should have telephoned first. Oh dear, I must look a fright. Is Mary with you?”

Olivia’s mouth quivered as she caught sight of Holmes standing to my left, just out of sight of the door.

“Good afternoon, Olivia. Allow me to present my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.”

Olivia stared at him a moment, her mouth curling into a look of mild repulsion.

“Oh dear,” Olivia repeated, listlessly. “You’re that consulting detective everyone talks about, aren’t you?”

Holmes responded with a slight inclination of his head.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” I asked, “might we come in, Olivia?”

She stepped aside for us to enter, but never took her eyes off Holmes.

“I can’t understand the need for it myself, what with Scotland Yard and all.”

“Yes, well that’s why we’ve dropped by you see. Mary mentioned to me this morning that you have been troubled of late, and while Scotland Yard would not be of much use, I do believe Holmes, who has considerable experience handling some fairly peculiar cases such as yours, might be of some assistance.”

Olivia blinked a few times, her mouth hanging agape.

“I don’t know what to say, John, other than you really should have telephoned first. I don’t wish to be rude, Mr. Holmes, but this is a difficult time right now, and I don’t see what you could possibly do that would...”

“Mrs. Habersham, I beg you...” Holmes’s tone was calm and conciliatory, “please at least share with me in your own words what you have experienced and then let me judge whether or not I can prove to be useful to you.”

The Irish eyebrows arched once more as her cheeks flushed with emotion.

“I’m sure you both mean well, gentlemen, but this is hardly a matter for Scotland Yard, much less consulting detectives. However, should I find myself in need of such services as you render, I would not hesitate to call. Good day to you both, gentlemen.”

Without a further word, we were ushered back out into the hallway as the door promptly closed in our faces and was bolted shut.

“I’ll be damned!”

“Oh, I shouldn’t go so far as to damn you for this wasted trip, Watson,” Holmes sighed, “so long as you listen to me and not your well-meaning wife the next time round.”

The incident left me in a foul mood the rest of the day. I was sullen and ill-tempered with Mary and retired for bed early, instead of staying up late reading as was my fashion. I awoke dreadfully early the next morning to an unexpected phone call.

“John?” the voice on the other end trembled.

“Yes. Who is this, please?” I asked, bitterly rubbing my bleary eyes.

“It’s Olivia.”

“Olivia...” I repeated the name, momentarily puzzled, “...of course, Olivia! Good morning! What can I do for you?”

“Your detective friend...”

“Holmes?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Yes. I need him. I don’t think I can stand another night in this house. I don’t know whether I’m going mad or whether Alfred really is speaking to me.”

I scratched my uncombed hair, absently.

“Olivia, please try to relax...”

“John, do me the favor... the tremendous favor of bringing your friend round right after lunch or sooner still. I must know what is happening. I must know the truth. I cannot bear the thought of another night of Alfred coming to me and telling me those ghastly things he’s done.”

Her voice trailed away in uncontrolled sobs.

“Keep your spirits up, Olivia. We will get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”

I returned the receiver to its cradle and sank back in the bed.

“What was that all about?” Mary rolled over and asked, groggily.

“Poor old Alfred is still appearing to Olivia and confessing his misdeeds. She wants me to retain Holmes’s services to set things to right.”

“Well isn’t that a good thing?” Mary asked.

“I don’t relish the thought of convincing Holmes to make the trip a second time. You know how he is about having his time wasted. Add to the fact that Olivia treated him as if he were a leper and you can imagine why I am dreading speaking to him.”

Mary clicked her tongue at me as she rolled back over in bed, “I don’t know why you insist on sticking your nose in other people’s affairs, darling.”

I sat there a moment, dumbstruck, before replying, “It is what a doctor is paid to do, dearest.”

“I am not paid to be insulted, Watson.”

To say that Holmes was obstinate this morning was a considerable understatement.

“If you have nothing further to say to me,” he said burying his eyes in the newspaper, “then I suggest you return home and leave me to my own work.”

I sat there a moment, considering the best course of action before settling on righteous indignation.

“What work, Holmes? You haven’t taken a case in weeks. You told me so yourself!”

Holmes slapped the newspaper down on his table in irritation.

“You bring up an excellent point, Watson.”

“Thank you,” I nodded my head, hopefully. “Olivia Habersham personally requested that I ask for your help. I’m sure that you won’t be insulted in any way now that...”

“... now that she knows she needs me,” Holmes finished my sentence, ruefully.

“We could still make lunch if we hurry,” I said quietly.

Holmes stared at the newspaper again before sweeping it off the table with a hurried gesture, “Oh, botheration! I’ll never enjoy a moment’s peace until I agree.”

He wiped his mouth clean of the crumbs from his morning toast as I clapped my hands together jubilantly.

The Olivia Habersham who quickly ushered us into her apartment that afternoon was a very different woman from the one we had last seen. Her hair was in complete disarray, and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed the fact that she had slept very little. She had a haunted look about her, and her lower jaw trembled a bit as she spoke.

“Thank you so much for coming, Doctor Watson... Mr. Holmes. I feel as if I’m coming apart at the seams.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Olivia?” I asked as we sat down at her kitchen table.

“Well... the beginning of it all or...”

“The beginning of when your husband’s ghost first appeared to you, Mrs. Habersham,” Holmes said, bluntly.

I blanched as I watched Olivia visibly wince at his words.

“I am not a hysterical woman, Mr. Holmes nor am I given to flights of fancy involving ghosts. If I appear rattled today it is because I have good reason to be.”

“Quite. Now kindly explain what occurred the first night.”

Olivia gave vent to a deep sigh and shut her eyes, composing herself before speaking.

“It isn’t so simple, Mr. Holmes. It started with voices... or maybe they were just thoughts... or dreams while I was still awake. I would hear Alfred speaking to me as if he were in the room chatting as we are now. He would speak of a specific incident, a memory we both shared only... it would go all wrong.”

“All wrong... in what way?”

She placed her hands before her on the table and played with her wedding ring in nervous agitation.

“He would say to me, ‘Remember the time we did such-and-such?’ A picnic or a holiday or something... and then he would tell me how he went off with the maid or... or with some other woman he met in passing. It was... it was awful.”

She was fighting tears, but Holmes stayed focused.

“These were dreams you say where you were not quite asleep?”

“Yes, it was as if he were whispering in my ear. No, that’s wrong. Not as intimate as that. It was more as if he were in the room with me... speaking softly.”

“Did he apologize to you for what he had done?”

She paused for a moment and appeared lost in thought before answering.

“No, no, he didn’t. He was rather matter-of-fact and detached about it all. It was as if it were some horrible joke he was choosing to share with me now that he is... gone.”

“Was your husband given to such ill humor?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Most assuredly he was not.”

“Have you considered the possibility, Olivia, that this is simply your grief manifesting itself in this queer fashion?”

She looked at me sharply and I felt compelled to explain myself better.

“You and Alfred had a good life together. It would not be uncommon in your sadness to experience... doubts... about his integrity. Fears perhaps that you have harbored over the years and kept silent and unspoken that may now be coming to the fore.”

“You should give up medicine to follow Doctor Freud, Watson,” Holmes chuckled.

“There were no doubts, John,” was Olivia’s stern response. “I understand why you might suggest that and I would be half-inclined to agree with you, if only to offer some form of rational explanation, but I assure you it is a theory without basis in fact. These... experiences continued on this way for some time... not every night, but most of them. Then... I started seeing him.”

Her voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell if she was fearful of the memory or doubting her own sanity. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

“I heard him calling my name. I lay there for a few moments, hoping it would stop, but it didn’t, so I got out of bed and went out into the corridor. He was at the opposite end, by the stairwell. He stood there looking at me and said, ‘Olivia, I have been a sinful man. I have ruined others for my financial gain’. And then he would proceed to tell me the most... heartless stories imaginable.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do, Mr. Holmes? I cried. I told him to stop. I asked him why.”

“Did he approach you? Did he take you in his arms and reassure you?”

Her jaw quivered terribly and I marveled at her endurance.

“No, Mr. Holmes. He simply backed up a step and vanished into thin air.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“I don’t know. I lost count. Seven, maybe eight times if we count the dreams where he only spoke to me... four times now that I have seen him... last night was the worst by far.”

“What was different about last night?”

“He stood over my bed, leaning near me. He was young again. Younger than I had seen him in years... and he said, ‘Olivia, I killed a man. He threatened to ruin me so I bludgeoned him to death in his stable and doused him with kerosene and threw a lit match upon his body and let him burn. I am not sorry, Olivia. I am glad I did it.’ Oh, God, Alfred, how could you do such an unconscionable thing?”

She put her head down on the table and sobbed. It was clear she had been fighting for too long to keep her emotions bottled up, and now she gave vent to tremendous pain. Her sobbing was so great that she took in great gulps of air in order to breathe and appeared to rock back and forth as she did so, like a child in its cradle. For half a minute, I worried she might require medical attention, but presently she regained her composure and sat upright in her chair.

“There you have it, gentlemen,” she laughed humorlessly. “Now tell me, what am I supposed to do?”

“Wait until nightfall and let us see your ghost for ourselves.”

“You mean to stay here all day?”

“I suggest no impropriety, Mrs. Habersham, nor have I any intent of causing a scandal. Watson and I will depart for now and we shall return later... discreetly, I might add. Certainly there is a servants’ entrance in the rear.”

Olivia’s face flushed with relief.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, most sincerely.”

“Oh, one more thing before we go, ma’am.”

“Yes?”

Holmes smiled for a moment as he considered his words carefully.

“Have you any photographs of your husband that I might see.”

Olivia paused, clearly disturbed by the request.

“Yes, of course. I’ll get them. I won’t be a moment.”

When she returned, she set a large dust-covered picture book before us. Holmes turned the heavy pages and studied the photographs closely. Seated across the table from him, I glanced at the faded sepia prints wrong side up. I always found picture books rather unsettling. It is a bit like looking through other people’s stolen memories. Holmes was engrossed in the images and appeared to be studying them with great care.

“You certainly enjoyed quite a few holidays together.”

“Yes, we were very fortunate in that respect. Alfred was very frugal, but we shared a passion for travel.”

“Yes,” I added, “Mary was always quite envious.”

“And now it is I who envies her,” Olivia added forlornly.

I exchanged a glance with Holmes. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Well, I think we will be going now, Olivia. Brave heart... we will return soon.”

As we stepped outside, Holmes took me by the arm and steered me in the direction of the nearest cab. Climbing into the back seat, he barked an unfamiliar London address to the driver.

“Do you have business in the City, Holmes?” I asked.

“I have business with a solicitor, one Basil Carruthers. I need to see his files on the late Mr. Habersham, specifically his last will and testament.”

“That is a most irregular request, Holmes.”

“Isn’t it? It is also crucial that Mr. Carruthers comply with the request immediately. We haven’t the time to spare.”

It was extremely rare for Holmes to use his brother’s name and position within the government for influence, but in this instance he felt justified in doing so. His request was quickly granted, and a private office afforded us in which to pour through Alfred’s files. Several hours later, he closed the last of the large stack of folders and rose from the table with a sigh.

“It is ten minutes to five o’clock, Watson. We must make haste.”

“Is there an appointment I have forgotten?”

“The Habersham residence, of course!”

“So soon?”

“We should have left already!”

“But what about the files?”

“I have finished with them.”

“You haven’t told me what you were looking for.”

“Correct, Watson, I haven’t. Now come along or I shall be forced to leave you behind.”

Holmes would not be drawn into conversation for the duration of our cab ride back to Praed Street. The rain fell in a light drizzle that left smearing wet circles on the windows of our cab. I stared through these blurred portals to the world outside while the horses’ hooves clattered against the crumbling road beneath their feet. When we arrived at our destination, Holmes had the driver pull round to the back so that we could enter through the rear entrance, as he had promised Olivia we would do just a few hours earlier.

I felt a sense of disquiet, as if the old house were staring at us in resentment as we made our way inside through the servants’ entrance. Holmes’s eyes darted furtively round the darkened corridor as we entered by the backstairs. Not a sound disturbed the silence to give any indication that our entrance had been noted. Holmes placed a finger to his lips to indicate we should do our utmost to maintain our silence.

Presently, he stepped with great caution to the rear of the staircase. A small cubbyhole was visible beneath the stairs. He indicated that I should crouch and enter the cramped space. As I stepped inside, cobwebs pulled against my face. A sense of revulsion washed over me as I watched a thick brown spider with crimson stripes on its back scurry up its web to escape through the opening between the steps above my head.

Holmes ducked into the cubbyhole to join me and smiled sympathetically in recognition that our lodging for the night was to be an unpleasant one. Soon my eyes adjusted to the gloom. We stood there crouched down and silent for what seemed like several hours until we heard it. The door to the servants’ entrance had opened.

My heart raced, but I quickly regained my composure. There was no reason to fear this unknown arrival. Admittedly, it was likely far too late to be a cleaning woman. I reached for my pocket watch to check the hour when Holmes’s hand shot out and touched my wrist. He shook his head slowly to insure that I did nothing to give away our position.

Presently, the new arrival began to quietly climb the stairs unsteadily, one step at a time. At first I feared my movement had been overheard, but I resolved it was likely only an elderly person struggling to ascend the staircase. I looked up as each step creaked beneath the weight of their shuffling step. I could make out shoes and dark pant legs in the dim light that shone between the cracks in the stairs, but nothing else. Holmes’s face strained as he listened intently, but what he was expecting to hear I could not imagine.

The footfalls quietly moved down the second floor hallway above us. A door creaked open somewhere in the distance. I had no sense where Olivia’s flat was located from the back of the building, but Holmes suddenly appeared electrified as if he’d received an unexpected jolt. He pushed his way out of the cubby hole and, before I could react, he was bounding up the stairs two steps at a time.

Excitement gripped me and I hurried to race after him. When at last I reached the top of the stairs, I found myself frozen to the spot. The disturbing sound of someone snoring unnaturally loud filled the air. I had heard it before, but I could not recall where at the moment. It frightened me for some reason. My subconscious seemed to associate the sound with terror, though I was unable to recollect the particulars of the memory.

All thought flooded from my mind as a mighty crash sounded and a man came hurtling through a doorway on the right hand side of the corridor. He smashed into the wall and slid to the floor. Holmes was upon him before he could pick himself up. My friend was not, by nature, a violent man, which made the scene before my eyes difficult to reconcile. Holmes grasped the man by the lapels with both hands and threw him forward several feet where he landed hard upon his back. Along the corridor, several doors were opening and faces of tenants were peeking out at us in concern.

“In the name of God, Holmes, what are you doing?”

“She’s dead, Watson.”

His chest was rising and falling from the exertion.

“Who is dead? Make sense, man!”

“Olivia Habersham is dead. He killed her.”

He gestured toward the cowering figure on the floor before him.

“Olivia is dead? How did this happen?”

“He frightened her to death. Meet the unrepentant Alfred Habersham.”

My mind reeled from this revelation. It could not be, but as I stared down at the face in the dark of the hallway, I recognized my old friend’s features.

“Good Lord, Alfred, how could you?”

It was only then that I had moved close enough to my old friend to be startled by what I saw. The man before me was indeed Alfred Habersham, but as he must have looked thirty years ago!

Holmes and I found ourselves ensconced a short time later at the Metropolitan Police Department. Inspector Jones was somewhat less than welcoming to find that we were already involved in a matter that had just been called to his attention.

“So let me see if I understand this correctly, Doctor Watson. The deceased was a friend of your wife whose late husband was also your patient. The deceased confided in your missus that her late husband’s ghost was paying her nightly visits. You took it upon yourself to contact Mr. Consulting Detective here to sort the matter out and, in short order, your friend ends up dead while our Consulting Detective assaults the man he claims scared her to death. A man you believe, incidentally, to be the deceased’s late husband as he appeared thirty years ago. Is there anything I have missed?”

I sighed with frustration. There was no way this was going to be a simple task.

“Yes, Inspector, that is correct.”

“I’m finished. I’m finished with the lot of you,” the Inspector said, slamming his fist down upon the top of his desk.

“Wonderful. Then perhaps you might let Mr. Consulting Detective speak for himself for a change.”

“Do you have anything to add, Mr. Holmes?” the Inspector sneered with mock politeness.

“As it happens, Inspector Jones, I have some considerable information to impart. The man you are holding is not Olivia Habersham’s late husband.”

“But, Holmes,” I cried, “you said so yourself!”

“I did no such thing, Watson. I said the gentleman in question was Alfred Habersham. That is an entirely different matter in this instance.”

“Is Alfred Habersham not the name of the deceased’s late husband?” the Inspector hissed through gritted teeth.

“It is,” Holmes replied.

“Then what, by God, are you talking about?”

“Alfred Habersham is also the name of his son.”

My head was reeling.

“Holmes, you’re mistaken. Alfred and Olivia had no children.”

“That is true, Watson. Alfred and Olivia Habersham had no children.”

Inspector Jones slapped his forehead and muttered an oath beneath his breath.

“The young man being held for Olivia’s murder,” Holmes continued, “is the son of Alfred Habersham and a woman whose surname I presume is Clovis.”

I sputtered for a moment as I followed his meaning.

“Alfred... Clovis... you mean you believe that man is Alfred Habersham’s ward?”

“I certainly am not entertaining any doubt about the matter.”

“No, no, no. A thousand times, no. Alfred Clovis was a distant relation that Alfred took as his ward because the boy had no father and would otherwise have suffered a life of destitution. We reviewed the paperwork in Basil Carruthers’ office only yesterday.”

“Yes, we did. Tell me, did Master Clovis ever live with the Habershams?”

I paused a moment.

“No, he did not. As I’ve said, Olivia was unable to have children and, if you must know, she told Mary she objected to the idea of taking the boy in. I suppose because they were an older couple at the time. I never questioned her on the matter, but I knew it was a sensitive one, of course. When the boy was made Alfred’s ward, it was agreed that Alfred would pay for his education. His school holidays were spent with his mother, I presume. To the best of my knowledge, he never once visited his benefactor.”

“Yes, quite. And one more question, Watson. Did Master Clovis benefit financially from Alfred’s will?”

“Well you read the will yourself, Holmes, you must certainly be aware of the answer. He did not. Alfred left everything, that is to say, the apartment building he owned, as well as his considerable savings, to Olivia.”

“And what arrangements did he make were something to happen to Olivia?”

“Well in that event...”

I paused as a terrible recollection of what I had read only yesterday in the will returned to me.

“By Jove, Holmes, you’re right.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

“Don’t tell me,” the Inspector covered his eyes and winced.

“In the event of Olivia’s death, his entire estate passes to his ward, Alfred Clovis. Alfred Clovis is the spitting image of his father. Alfred Clovis is Alfred Habersham’s illegitimate son!”

I would like to say that ended the matter conclusively, but sadly it did not turn out quite so well. Whilst it was true that Alfred Clovis was indeed my old friend’s son, he denied any wrongdoing in Olivia’s death. He claimed he had recently made an effort to establish a relationship with his father’s widow for the purpose of better understanding the man who had sired him. He had no idea that Olivia was suffering from nightmares of being visited by his late father’s ghost and claimed that he had only just let himself into the apartment with a key Olivia had personally given him when he discovered his stepmother dead. When Holmes set upon him, he erroneously believed my friend to have been Olivia’s murderer.

There was little we could say to counter his claims. He did indeed possess a key to Olivia’s apartment. Propriety alone would have precluded her from telling Mary about the boy. It was all entirely plausible, except for the fact that I did not believe his innocence. I was convinced he had indeed posed as his father to frighten his stepmother to death in order to get at the inheritance. The question was how to prove his guilt.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Watson,” Holmes complained bitterly one evening in his study when I paid him an unexpected visit to run through the facts with him yet again. “This is real life, not some penny dreadful. What do you expect me to do, dress up as a ghost myself to trick the murderer into confessing his wrongdoing? We accomplished our task. We solved the case, but we cannot prove his guilt. He was the cleverer of us and he’s gotten away with the crime. End of story. There is nothing more to be done with it.”

“Holmes, I cannot believe you are willing to accept defeat so easily.”

“I am a rational man, Watson. That’s why I knew there were no ghosts involved, no matter how convinced Olivia was to the contrary. I was certain that the only rational explanation for Alfred Habersham to appear from the grave seemingly decades younger was for a close relative, such as an unknown son, to be masquerading as him. That made sense, and the mysterious unseen ward fit the puzzle perfectly. There ends the matter. There is no logical way to prove our suspicions are correct. One must accept that he has earned his earthly reward by foul means and, if one believes in a Christian heaven, perhaps justice will be done there. For the present, there is nothing more to do.”

“Won’t you even speak with him?”

“For what purpose, Watson, to give him further cause to bring charges of harassment against us? We were very fortunate he chose to be understanding, considering the circumstances of his arrest. His level-headedness would only sway the court in his favor. I certainly would command no respect. Inspector Jones is certainly not inclined to look with favor upon our theory that Alfred Clovis killed his stepmother. Again, I beseech you to see reason. There is nothing more to be done.”

“Very well, Holmes, you leave me no choice but to follow your example with Basil Carruthers. First thing tomorrow morning I shall refer the matter to your brother.”

“You can’t be serious,” he scoffed. “Do you honestly believe my brother will lift a finger to help in this matter? I gave you credit for greater intelligence than that, Watson.”

“I’m happy to hear it, Holmes. I do not intend to enlist your brother’s aid. I merely wish to inform him of how badly you bungled the matter and how quick you were to admit you have been bested by a common swindler.”

Holmes’s features froze as he stared at me aghast.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I trust you know better than to doubt me.”

“That isn’t cricket, Watson.”

“No, it isn’t, but then nothing about this case has been. Now... how do you propose to proceed from here?”

Holmes stared at me in something resembling admiration for the first time.

“Do you know, Watson, you have a distinct touch of the blackmailer about you?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Holmes. When one heals the ill for a living, one must learn to be persuasive. Blackmail is for the uncouth layman. In any event, there is still the vexing issue of under what pretense we are to approach Mr. Habersham. His story is a reasonable one. His stepmother gave him the key with which he entered the apartment to speak to her when he found her dead...

“Found her dead,” I repeated my own words, startled by a sudden thought. “He couldn’t have.”

“Why is that? The inquest revealed nothing to suggest otherwise.”

“We don’t need the coroner’s report, Holmes; we need only to use our own senses.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Watson.”

“Do you recall the specific details when you entered Olivia’s apartment?”

My old friend paused a moment. His face appeared conflicted.

“No, I cannot recall precisely the sequence of events. Normally I’m very observant about any such matters, as you well know, but I was so preoccupied with what was happening that I rushed blindly forward in the dark.”

“That explains your confusion, Holmes, but I know for a fact that Olivia was not yet dead when Alfred entered the apartment. I should have realized it sooner.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I know because my first recollection was of hearing a terrible sound emanating from the apartment... a sound I now recognize as Olivia swallowing her tongue during the throes of a seizure. I mistook it for an unnatural snoring at the time. I have heard that same awful sound many times before a patient died. I first heard it as a boy the night my mother died. It... it has haunted me ever since. Recurrence has done nothing to accustom me to its terror. Do you recall hearing it now?”

Holmes paused a moment and shook his head.

“I cannot be certain. You may be right, but I could not swear to it. I will trust your recollection better than my own in this instance. The trouble again remains there is no proof, of course. It is simply your word against his. This is no basis for confronting him with his actions.”

“Surely, you will think of something?”

“I can but try, Watson. Leave me to my thoughts.”

The next morning, I eagerly rang Holmes shortly after breakfast, but there was no answer. I tried several more times to no avail. Frustrated, I took a cab to Baker Street, but was surprised to find Mrs. Turner did not answer the door.

“He’s not in.”

I spun and saw the bundled form of an old woman walking an ugly little dog.

“He’s in hospital.”

“Who is in hospital?”

“The detective... who else would it be? You’re standing on his doorstep.”

“What happened to him? When was this?”

She shrugged her shoulders and pulled on the lead to move her little beast along. Without wasting another moment, I hurried to the corner and hailed a cab. My heart was racing when we reached St. John’s Wood and I rushed inside the hospital. I found Mrs. Turner in the corridor outside Holmes’s room.

“Oh, Doctor Watson... I should have rung you, sir, I am sorry.”

“What happened, Mrs. Turner? What is wrong with him?”

“Brain fever, sir, like his mother before him, I fear.”

I felt my legs start to give way beneath me.

“What... what has the doctor said?”

Mrs. Turner shrugged.

“There is nothing to be done except to watch over him. It is the terrible sleep he may never wake from.”

I saw the toll this ordeal had taken on the poor woman. Mrs. Turner cared for Holmes in spite of the frustration he caused her. She was exhausted. I kept vigil with her for several hours, but eventually insisted she go home and get some rest. I had already rung Mary to tell her I would be staying the night. After several hours, I leaned my head forward and rested my chin on my chest and fell into a fitful sleep.

I dreamed the queerest thing as I slept slumped outside of Holmes’s hospital room. I saw my old friend appear out of nothingness on a street outside a grand estate. I did not recognize the location, but I knew it could not be England. Tropical trees filled with ripe fruit of a kind I did not recognize grew tall in the forecourt. Dust blew up from the street and mingled in the air around Holmes as he approached the large iron gates. Rather than stopping at them, he simply passed through them as if his body were immaterial. My mind’s eye followed him as he approached the grand estate and passed through its walls as easily as he had the gate.

Inside those walls, it became clear the estate was actually a castle. Alfred Habersham, or rather Alfred Clovis, for I now knew it was not my late friend, sat upon a throne at the back of the cold, expansive, stone-tiled room. His face rested in his right hand as he sat in decadent boredom before us.

“What business do you have here, detective?”

Holmes continued to walk, or rather float, toward the throne. He came to a stop, hovering just before that great chair. Young Master Clovis appeared unmoved by this extraordinary visitation.

“My business, as you say, is justice,” my friend answered. “You shall find you are still answerable to a Higher Authority than your own cunning.”

Alfred Clovis snorted in amusement, but his posture remained unchanged.

“Oh, am I now? And what authority would that be, pray tell?”

“That which none can deny when facing their Judgement. I speak of the Truth, of course. It is not a game from which the clever trickster can hide forever.”

“You have no proof,” Clovis sneered at Holmes. “These meaningless accusations are mere trifles without proof to substantiate them, and you have none to offer. Go home, detective. You are as unwanted here. Tend to your own business and leave your betters to themselves.”

“You speak of proof,” Holmes replied. “Will this suffice?”

My friend held up his right arm and a mirror seemed to appear beneath it framed by some ethereal tapestry. Upon the mirror played a series of images that I saw as if I were now staring through the eyes of Alfred Clovis. As I watched these images coalesce and recede, I obtained an understanding of what they signified.

I saw Alfred Habersham, my old friend, in his younger years looking uncannily like Alfred Clovis. I saw a young woman graced with a terrible beauty. I saw Alfred succumb to her charms. I saw my old friend, hardened with the bitterness of his falling, faced with the child that resulted from this adulterous union. I saw Olivia covered in a stony silence to mask the pain of Alfred’s betrayal. I saw Alfred Clovis grow up a privileged young man with no parents to love him, no family to nurture him, no identity to anchor him from the wayward path he chose. I saw Clovis and Olivia, but my comprehension now began to fade. I read torture upon Olivia’s face, but I could perceive nothing to indicate the nature of her interaction with Clovis. Did she know him? Was she being blackmailed or was he deceiving her into believing she was being haunted by his father’s ghost as she maintained?

The mirror went dark, and Holmes pointed a bony finger at Clovis upon his throne, “You know that for which you are condemned. Face your sins, Alfred Clovis. Accept the Judgement your actions warrant.”

Clovis’ face contorted in pain. His only response was to scream in vain like a guilty man going to the gallows.

I awoke with a start, realizing someone was shaking me.

“What is it, Sister?”

“The doctor says you may go in now,” the matron replied. “Your friend’s fever broke overnight. He is on the road to recovery.”

I was elated at the news. Holmes was extremely weak and his face was covered in sweat, but he expressed some relief at seeing me at his side. I was not allowed long to stay in the room with him, but those precious few minutes meant more than the many hours of boredom I endured as their price.

It was with the greatest pleasure that I found myself present to witness Mrs. Turner’s joy when she returned and discovered her sister’s famous tenant on the mend. Exhausted, I managed to find a cab to take me home just a few minutes before noon. Mary greeted me with enthusiasm and listened patiently to the good news about Holmes’s miraculous recovery.

“Before you go off to bed, John,” she said, patting my arm with affection, “I should let you know that Inspector Jones rang you up this morning.”

“Oh no, what did he want?”

“Now, now, don’t be ill-tempered. He only rang to tell you of the tragedy that had befallen that awful Alfred Clovis boy.”

“What tragedy? What are you talking about, Mary?”

“It seems his heart burst from shock in the middle of the night. He was asleep in his bed at the time. When the cleaning woman found him this morning, she said he looked as if he’d seen a ghost. The Inspector said to tell you that word for word. It is the queerest thing. I half-wondered whether he only wanted to make sure that Mr. Holmes and you had played no part in the matter. You know how he is about him.”

“Of course I do,” I replied, as if dreaming. “The Inspector needn’t worry. Holmes couldn’t possibly have been involved while he was in hospital suffering from brain fever... could he?”

I climbed the stairs, pulled the blinds, undressed, and retired into my soft, warm bed. Sleep soon claimed me, and I lay slumbering through the afternoon, undisturbed by dreams and feeling numb to the tragic end of a child born of sin who would not break the fateful chains that bound him to this world.