The Verse of Death

by Matthew Booth

Those members of the public who have taken such an interest in this series of accounts of my association with Sherlock Holmes will recall that the dark affair of the Agra treasure and the revenge of Jonathan Small resulted in my own marriage to the lady who brought the case to Holmes’s notice. The natural result of my union with Mary Morstan was an inevitable yet unwelcome disassociation with Holmes. My own happiness and the domestic responsibilities with which I became endowed were sufficient to absorb all my attention but, as often as was practicable, I endeavoured to make every effort to remain in contact with him. My correspondence was seldom reciprocated, unless it was in that austere and terse manner which was peculiar to him, but when it was possible for me to visit him in his rooms in Baker Street, I think that my presence was welcome. It was on one such visit that the story of Edmund Wyke, and the sinister mystery of the verse of death, came to our attention.

It was late one afternoon towards the end of September of 1890, I have reason to recall. As we had done so often before, Holmes and I were sitting beside the fire in the familiar rooms, the smell of tobacco and close friendship hovering in the air between us. Holmes was regaling me with the details of some of his most recent exploits, the circumstances of which made me long to have been by his side. He had only that moment completed his explanation of how he had solved the riddle of the Seventh Serpent when Mrs. Hudson showed in our old comrade Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.

I had not seen the sallow official for some time and I confess it was a pleasure to shake his hand and see him sitting once again on the settee before us. Whilst my domestic happiness was not to be questioned, there was something about this familiar triumvirate in these particular circumstances and surroundings which both thrilled and comforted me.

“Well, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “what brings you to our door? I trust you have been busy since we saw you last during that little affair of the McCarthy murder at the Boscombe Pool?”

Lestrade shook his head. “A bad business that was, Mr. Holmes, I can’t deny it, but it was nothing compared to the investigation upon which I am currently engaged.”

Holmes’s eyes glistened in anticipation. “Having a little difficulty, eh?”

“It is a queer business, sir, and no mistake. You may perhaps have heard of the retired financier, Edmund Wyke?”

“The name recalls nothing to my mind.”

“He is a man of considerable wealth, known both for his ruthless sense of business and also his philanthropic endeavours. He is patron of a number of charitable foundations but, conversely, he is responsible for the ruin of many a competitor. He resides in an isolated house called Cawthorne Towers, down in Kent. When I say isolated, you may take it I am not exaggerating. It stands in its own extensive grounds, protected by any outside influence by a high stone wall. Any guest to the house is, I gather, permitted only by express invitation and after careful consideration. I hesitate to say that you could find any property or household so self-contained or cut off from outside influences.”

“This man, Wyke, is a man who craves his privacy, it seems,” remarked Holmes.

“You may say so.”

“And what has befallen him?”

“He is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was found last night, in his bed chamber, stabbed through the heart.”

Holmes considered his fingernails. “There does not seem to be very much in the way of interest for me, Lestrade. Despite our friendly rivalry, you are an able and efficient officer. Is a case of simple murder not within your own province?”

“In normal circumstances, I should not dream of disturbing you, Mr. Holmes. But, you see, the man was dead in the room and there was no trace of any disturbance, nor any means by which any human agency could have entered the room.”

“No forced entry?”

“None.”

“The doors and windows?”

“All locked. A rat could not have entered the place.”

Holmes yawned. “I have yet to investigate any crime committed by a flying creature. A locked room mystery always has an explanation. You recall the Speckled Band case, Watson? That, too, was presented as an impossible mystery, but the solution was only too evident once the facts were considered.”

Lestrade shifted in his seat and, from his pocket, produced some folded papers. “I did not think to entice you with the sealed room alone, Mr. Holmes, although that in itself is enough to beat me. But, I thought you might be intrigued by these.”

Holmes took the papers from the inspector. “What are they?”

“Mr. Wyke received them over the course of the week prior to his death. They are little poems, Mr. Holmes. But, if I am not much mistaken, they warn the man of his own impending death.”

I confess that at these words a shudder passed through me, but Holmes remained as impassive and controlled as ever. His eyes betrayed that glimmer which told me that, despite his austere exterior, he was inwardly excited by Lestrade’s news. I moved behind Holmes and leaned over his shoulder to examine with him these strange portents of death. They were written in printed capitals and there was nothing distinctive about either the ink or the paper.

The first ran as follows:

In hatred and shame you die.

Of guilt must be made your coffin.

Lay down your head and perish.

For it comes for you as it came for me,

A death which none can deny,

Not least those souls who are innocent.

The second ran thus:

The maiden of vengeance must serve

As my cruel replevin.

Centuries of wrong will she avenge;

And to our deaths will she lead us.

Her lips will touch us both and carry on them

The kiss of the guilty.

For some moments, Sherlock Holmes read the curious verses over and over again, his brows furrowed and his eyes squinting against the tobacco fumes of his pipe. For our part, Lestrade and I remained silent, both of us more than aware that in such moments of concentration, Holmes’s greatest ally was silence.

“What do you make of them?” Holmes asked suddenly.

Lestrade shrugged. “I can make nothing of them.”

Holmes gave a quick smile. “I fancy that the author of these fascinating verses gives Shelley and his comrades no reason to fear for their reputations. But there is something very serious behind this, if I am not mistaken. Who alerted you to these messages?”

“It was Mrs. Agatha Wyke, the dead man’s wife. A stern and proud woman.”

“She knew of their existence?”

“Mrs. Wyke says she and her husband had no secrets.”

Holmes lowered his gaze momentarily. “Every man has his secrets. Who else knew of these curious threats?”

“Mrs. Wyke insists that she was the only one aware of them.”

Holmes gave a curt nod. “Now, tell me, Lestrade, who are the other members of the Wyke household?”

Lestrade aided his memory with the use of his official notebook. “There is the dead man’s wife, as I have told you, and there is their son, Sebastian, a somewhat wayward young man if I am any judge, Mr. Holmes. There is a small staff, led by the butler, Jacobs.”

“Is that all?”

“No, there is a friend of the family who is staying with them for the weekend. His name is Dr. James Lomax.”

“I have heard of him,” said I. “He wrote a splendid article in the Lancet not so long ago on the hereditary nature of disease.”

“He is a level headed man, fiercely practical from what I have seen of him,” advised the inspector. “He it was who took charge of the situation when the body was discovered.”

Holmes leaned forward in his chair. “Pray, give us the precise sequence of events.”

“I had better start with the previous night, that is to say two nights ago. The household, including Dr. Lomax, had assembled for dinner and the evening had been pleasant enough. Over the post prandial brandy, however, Wyke and Sebastian exchanged heated words which resulted in a somewhat fraught quarrel. It culminated with Sebastian asking Dr. Lomax for the hour, as he wished to retire and he could stand the company of his father no more. He wished Wyke would go to the Devil, and that if he would it would cleanse the very air they breathed.”

“Violent words which he must surely regret now,” I observed.

“Just so, Doctor, and words which you might expect me to interpret with some suspicion in light of subsequent events. But, Mr. Holmes, if I have learned one thing only from my association with you, it is to keep an open mind.”

“Very wise,” murmured Holmes with a sardonic twist to his voice.

“Well, after Sebastian had stormed out of the room, Lomax strove to convince Wyke to make it up with his son at once. He said it did no one any good to go to sleep without resolving an argument, but Wyke was defiant. ‘If the lad wishes to make up before sleep, he may do so,’ said he, ‘but I see no reason to do so. Let him calm down before I make any attempt to speak to him.’ This approach is, I believe, typical of the man.”

“What was this quarrel about?” asked Holmes.

Lestrade shrugged. “What are quarrels between father and son ever about? Love or money, in my experience. In this case, it was money. Sebastian is an errant youth, as I have said, Mr. Holmes, and he is in deep with the wrong crowd.”

“The gaming tables?”

“Precisely so. His father has been too generous with him before over money matters, and he now refuses to come to his aid. Sebastian has viewed the refusal as some form of betrayal.” Lestrade looked back to Sherlock Holmes. “Now, Mr. Holmes, we get to the core of the matter. The following morning, Mr. Wyke did not appear for breakfast. It was his custom to rise early and take a stroll in the grounds, so he was usually the first to rise. The fact he was not up and about when the rest of the house rose was sufficient to cause concern. Lomax, Sebastian, and Mrs. Wyke all went to Wyke’s bedroom, accompanied by the faithful Jacobs, and they found that his door was locked. Sebastian knocked but could get no response. Lomax made his own attempt but got the same reply. He kneeled to the lock and found that he could not see into the room, which showed that the key was in the lock. Thus, together, the three men threw themselves against the door and broke into the room.

“Once inside, they found Wyke lying on the floor. He was on his back and, in his heart, there was one of his own ceremonial daggers which was known to be one of a pair which hung on the wall of his study. The alarm was raised and the local police called in. I was summoned almost at once, and I have spent the morning making my enquiries. As soon as I heard about the threatening poems, I thought of you, Mr. Holmes, and I came straight round to see you.”

Holmes had been sitting with his fingertips together and his eyes closed, but now he rose from his chair and stood before the fire. “You did wisely, Lestrade. Now, tell me. Has anything in that bedroom been touched?”

“Nothing. I have a constable on guard by the door.”

“Excellent. Now, I have one or two other matters to attend to today. Would it be convenient if I came down to this house early tomorrow morning, Lestrade?”

“Certainly,” replied the little professional.

“Capital. Watson, you are not averse to accompanying me? I trust the redoubtable Mrs. Watson and your long suffering patients can spare you for one day?”

Having heard the prelude to this strange story, I felt unable to deny myself the opportunity of witnessing its conclusion. “I would not miss it for the world, Holmes, and my practice is never very absorbing.”

“Splendid, my faithful Watson. Be back here for seven o’clock and we shall breakfast together before catching the train. Farewell, Lestrade, and we shall be with you tomorrow morning to continue our investigation into what promises to be a most fascinating case.”

I have stated elsewhere that Sherlock Holmes had the remarkable power of detaching his mind at will. When I met him on that following morning, it was as though the whole story surrounding the inexplicable murder of Edmund Wyke had never come to his attention. For myself, I confess that the previous evening had found me distracted by the whole business, and I fear I had been poor company for my wife. She had retired early, but I had stayed up beyond a reasonable hour, trying to discover some clue in the sequence of events which Lestrade had set out. My researches, I confess, were in vain. However, when I met with Sherlock Holmes for breakfast, he was full of energy, and I had that familiar sensation that already he had seized upon some clue which remained far beyond my grasp. Not one word would he utter of the whole business, though, until we had arrived at the railway station and been greeted by Lestrade.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, have you had chance to consider the matter?” asked the detective.

“Certainly. There are particular features of interest to the student of crime which make the matter of specific interest.”

Lestrade glowed with a triumphant arrogance. “I have not been idle myself, although I confess I ought to have spared your time. With the exception of a few loose threads, the matter is at an end.”

“You do not mean that you have solved it?”

“I have my man, although he has yet to confess.”

A glance at my companion’s face showed that his anxiety had risen. To me, who knew his manner so well, his composure seemed shaken and the pale tone of his gaunt features seemed to intensify. His eyes remained as keen as ever but it was evident that he was disturbed by the inspector’s confidence.

“You have made an arrest?”

“Just so.” Lestrade reached into his pocket and produced a small envelope. From it, he dropped a ruby encrusted watch charm into his hand. “A further examination of the body has revealed that this was found in the dead man’s hand. He must have wrenched it from the culprit’s watch as he slumped to the floor.”

Holmes had clutched at the charm between his thin fingers and he had begun to examine it with his lens. “There is no sign of damage.”

“What of it?”

“Perhaps nothing,” said Holmes, with a shrug. “To whom does this belong?”

Lestrade was unable to keep the chime of victory out of his voice. “I have identified it as belonging to Sebastian Wyke.”

“The son with the gambling debts?” I recalled.

“The same, Dr. Watson, and a man whose need for money has now brought him into more troubled waters than he could have foreseen.”

Holmes handed the watch charm back to Lestrade. “You consider the murder to be the natural sequel to the quarrel of which you told us.”

“Do you not agree?”

Holmes shrugged. “Possibly, but I prefer to reserve my position until such time as I have had the opportunity of seeing for myself all that there is to see.”

Lestrade chuckled. “You will have your little ways, Mr. Holmes, and no mistake. If you will come this way, I have a dog cart waiting, for it is a fair drive along this country track to the house.”

Despite the invigorating briskness of the breeze which assaulted our faces, the weather was not inclement and there was a shadow of the summer sun still in the sky. The surrounding countryside and its rolling green hills was a treat for the eye, and were it not for the memory of the dark crusade upon which we were engaged, I would have admired it with the fond eye of a man who is proud of his country. And yet, the track along which we rattled was sombre and uninteresting. Lestrade was not guilty of exaggeration, for the narrow lane leading to Cawthorne Towers seemed to me to make the journey seem interminable.

Lestrade had spoken of its isolation but I had not been prepared for the extent of it. The high wall of which we had heard was sufficient to discourage visitors, so forbidding was it, and the huge iron gates which formed the entrance to the fortress itself were no less relentless in their obstruction. Beyond these imposing fortifications, the Jacobean manor house glared at us from its incongruously beautiful lawns. The windows were like malevolent eyes peering at us maliciously, as though daring us to approach. It was as though the house had shunned any form of social activity, and as though no external influences were desired or to be permitted, save the passing of time which had left its mark in the lichen and faded colours of the bricks.

We drove up the winding path to the house, and we were ushered inside by a lean, cadaverous old man whom it was impossible not to identify with Jacobs the butler, of whom we had heard. Holmes exchanged a few words with him, but nothing of any further importance could be added to the account which Lestrade had given us in Baker Street, and we made our way upstairs to the bedroom which had been the scene of the tragedy. We were halfway up the stairs when a man’s voice called out to Lestrade and halted us in our tracks. Looking to the foot of the stairs, I saw a man of rather more than forty racing up towards us. He was a handsome man, with hair as black as the most fearful twilight, and eyes which betrayed a keen intelligence.

“Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of whom you spoke?” he asked of our official companion.

It was Holmes who spoke. “That is my name, Dr. Lomax.”

The man stared. “How do you know my name, sir?”

“The inspector here advised me that there was a man by the name of Dr. James Lomax in the house, and your watch chain bears the initials “J.L”. If any doubt remained, it is not difficult to discern a doctor from the trace of iodine on his left forefinger.”

The doctor let out a wry chuckle. “For a moment, I thought you had done something extraordinary, Mr. Holmes, but I see that it is nothing more than a conjuring trick.”

“Just so. Now, gentlemen, perhaps we can continue to the bed chamber.”

The room in question was along a dark, oak panelled corridor on the second floor of the house. It was furnished opulently, if in a somewhat old fashioned style. A large four poster bed with delicate veils tied to each post was the central, imposing figure of the room, and the dark crimson stain next to it, which was so familiar a sight to us in our dark investigations, showed where the man Wyke had fallen down dead. The body had been removed, but the mark on the carpet at our feet gave the unmistakable impression that it still lay before us, its horror displayed for us all to see.

“May I examine the weapon?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, I have it here,” replied Lestrade, handing over the blade. “It is of a rather ornate design, as you can see.”

It was a beautiful object, although its present purpose had diminished its splendour. The handle was carved ivory, decorated with a number of emeralds of the most vivid green. The guard was carved into two claws of advancing menace, and the blade itself curved slightly to its deadly point. There was still the trace of the dead man’s blood smeared across the blade.

“A fascinating object,” said Holmes. “And it is one of a pair, I believe.”

“That is correct.”

“It was no secret that they were kept in the study, as I understand it?”

“No, they were displayed on the wall.”

“It is certainly a dramatic choice of weapon,” remarked Holmes. “It is of course a ceremonial dagger, used by a certain ancient cult of assassins for specific forms of executions.”

Lomax nodded his appreciation. “It is a dagger of the El-Khalikan Cult of ancient Egyptian assassins. They used it to execute those members who had transcended the code of conduct.”

“In particular, those assassins who knowingly murdered innocent people who were not political targets, if my memory serves me well.”

“It serves you perfectly well. You are well read, Mr. Holmes.”

“I have been told that I am an omnivorous reader with an immense knowledge of sensational literature. You, sir, are not so far behind, it seems.”

Lomax blushed at the compliment. “I have listened to Edmund talk about the ancient history of Egypt many times. It was one of his passions.”

Holmes handed the knife back to Lestrade and walked over to the door of the room. He bent to his knees and, with his lens, examined the lock and the hinges. Finally, with his lens close to his eye, he picked up the key from the carpet and examined it in minute detail.

“This key fell to the floor when the door was forced, no doubt,” said he.

“I suppose it must have done,” said the doctor.

Holmes rose to his feet. “I believe, Doctor, that you attempted to look through the key hole but were unable to see into the room.”

“The key was in the lock. We had tried the door several times.”

“Quite so. Did anybody else look through the hole?”

“No, I decided it was best to get the door down as soon as possible.”

“You acted wisely,” said Holmes. “When you rushed into the room, did you ascertain at once that Mr. Wyke was dead?”

“It was perfectly obvious in any event,” said Lomax. “Sebastian said, ‘My God, he is dead,’ and I went over to confirm it.”

“You had remained by the door until that moment?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, that is very clear.”

“It is a terrible thing, a son murdering his father in this fashion,” said Lomax with some sadness.

“You are sure of the young man’s guilt?”

Lomax looked at my companion with the expression of a confused man. “Do I take it you are not?”

“I form no biased judgment, Dr. Lomax. I walk where the facts lead me and draw only those conclusions which the facts allow. Now, Lestrade, perhaps I might be permitted to speak to the widow.”

In spite of her obvious grief, Agatha Wyke was a stoic and proud woman of perhaps sixty years of age. At Holmes’s request, he and I interviewed her alone. Lestrade offered no objection, for he had already spoken with the lady and he had other matters to which he had to attend. When we entered the drawing room, Mrs. Wyke greeted us with dignity and a demure elegance which only seemed to increase my empathy for her. Her features were blanched with sadness, but they retained a delicacy of expression which must once have been captivating, but which the passing of time had slowly sought to eradicate. She took my friend’s hand in hers and spoke to him in a voice which was soured by tragedy.

“Can any woman say she has suffered more than me, Mr. Holmes,” said she, “to discover that my husband is dead and my son thought to be responsible for it?”

“Might I ask whether you believe that he is truly guilty?”

A flash of colour rose to her sallow cheeks. “Bless you for giving me hope! Do I take it from that question that you believe in his innocence?”

“I have reason to believe so.”

“Might I enquire what those reasons are?”

Holmes shook his head. “If I am to be of service to you, you must possess your soul in patience and allow me to act as I see fit, including permitting me to disclose my thoughts when I consider it appropriate.”

“I am at your service, Mr. Holmes. I wish only to have justice for my husband and vindication for my son.”

“I hope I shall be able to bring you both, madam. You have told Inspector Lestrade of these strange verses which you husband received. I believe they mean nothing to you?”

“I cannot explain them.”

“Were they delivered by hand?”

“No; they came through the post.”

“Did your husband keep the envelopes?”

“I am sorry, he did not.”

“That is unfortunate. An envelope can tell many secrets to the trained observer.” Holmes paused for a moment. “I believe no one else knew about these verses.”

“No one.”

“Not your son?”

“Certainly not. Edmund was at pains to keep them secret from Sebastian.”

“How long has your husband known Dr. Lomax?”

The lady thought for a moment. “Perhaps five years.”

“How did they meet?”

“A mutual friend introduced them. I am not aware of the details, alas.”

Holmes nodded and sat for a moment in serious thought. “I have one final question, Mrs. Wyke, and then I may leave you in peace. Did your husband ever mention a woman by the name of Violet Usher to you?”

The question took the lady by surprise and for a moment she could find no words of response. Finally, with her hand to her cheek in surprise, she gave her answer. “Do you suggest that there was another woman in my husband’s life, Mr. Holmes? How did you come by this information?”

Holmes held out a hand of calming gentleness. “Have no fear, madam, I am suggesting no infidelity of that nature.”

“Then who is this woman of whom you speak?”

“A woman of great sadness, like you, madam.”

“I have never heard the name.”

“The fact that you have not may well have kept you alive, Mrs. Wyke,” said Sherlock Holmes. With those cryptic words, he ushered me out of the room and we left the lady to her sorrow.

“Come, my dear Watson,” said he in hushed tones when we were in the hallway once more. “Let us find a quiet corner and consider the position.”

We spent half an hour in each other’s company, strolling around the beautiful stretches of lawn which surrounded the house in which these dark deeds had occurred. Holmes walked in silence, and I did not dare to break it for I knew that his mind was turning over all the facts of this strange business into which we had walked. Instead, I allowed the soothing song of the birds and the gentle balm of the breeze to seep into my soul. So peaceful did those gardens seem when contrasted with the dark mystery inside the house that I was startled when Holmes’s voice invaded my reverie.

“Your gift of silence is invaluable to me, Watson,” said he, “and your presence by my side is always a comfort as well as an aid.”

“I did not like to interrupt your thoughts.”

“It is well you did not. My mind is now quite made up on the matter.”

“You have solved it?”

“The identity of the murderer was never in question. It was the verses which piqued my interest, for in their solution we hold the key to this crime and a serious error of justice.”

“I am afraid I do not follow you.”

“That is understandable, my dear fellow, and no cause for shame. Come, we must find Lestrade at once. It is time to bring this matter to a close.”

We made our way back to the house. Holmes sent at once for Jacobs and requested that the butler find Dr. Lomax and bring him to the study. The request made, Holmes made his way to that very room, where we found Lestrade, collating his reports of his investigation. Holmes sat on the corner of the desk and peered at his professional colleague. “I wonder, Lestrade, whether you may wish to amend those reports in due course. I must advise you that Sebastian Wyke is innocent.”

“Why do you say so, Mr. Holmes?”

“The watch charm is a clear indication of his innocence.”

Lestrade scoffed. “It is the clearest indication of his guilt!”

Holmes shook his head. “And yet, you gave me the proof that the charm cleared the son yourself.”

“How so?”

“In your statement to us in Baker Street, you said that Sebastian Wyke asked Dr. Lomax for the hour as he wished to go to bed. Now, why should he need to ask the time if he was wearing his own watch with the very same ruby watch charm attached to it? Furthermore, is it not inconceivable that he would put his watch on before he stepped out to murder his father? Why on earth should he do such a thing?”

“But the charm was found in the dead man’s grasp,” protested Lestrade.

Holmes waved aside the objection with an impatient gesture. “Then it was placed there. That much is also evident by the lack of damage to it. If it had been wrenched off, as you claim, the link attaching it to the watch chain would surely be bent out of shape. No, Lestrade, the charm was removed from the chain and purposefully put in the dead man’s hand. “

“But who could have placed it there?”

“Someone who wished to implicate Sebastian Wyke, naturally. Someone who saw in the argument between father and son a possible motive for murder and a means of diverting suspicion.”

“But the only other person present during that argument was...”

There was a knock at the door at that instant and Holmes leapt to his feet to answer it. He threw open the door with a flourish and ushered in the visitor. “Come in, Dr. Lomax. We should very much value your assistance.”

“If I can be of service, Mr. Holmes, I am eager to help.”

“Pray, sit in this chair before the inspector, then.” Holmes indicated one of the chairs at the desk and guided Lomax into it. “Now, the best way for you to assist us, Dr. Lomax, is to explain to us why it was that you murdered Edmund Wyke.”

The doctor made a move to rise from the chair in protest but Holmes had his grip on the man’s shoulder and any attempt to move from the chair was futile. “Do not be noisy, Dr. Lomax. You have no chance at all.”

For a moment or two, Lomax considered his options, but he must have seen that the three of us were not about to allow him to escape. The snared rat glowered at my companion. “What right do you have to accuse me?”

“I suspected you from the first, my dear doctor,” declared Sherlock Holmes. “I stated at the outset of this case that any apparently impossible crime has a solution somewhere. It is my experience that the solutions to such mysteries are invariably very simple. The answer to this particular problem lay in your own statement of your conduct, Doctor. You told us that when the door was broken down, Sebastian ran to his father and stated that he had been murdered.”

“Yes, I recall saying that.”

“Very good. Then you will also remember saying that it was at that moment that you walked over to the body.”

“I see no importance in either remark.”

“Very likely not. But the significance of those comments struck me at once. I was forced to ask myself why you remained at the bedroom door when you had previously appointed yourself commander of the situation outside. What was the reason behind your sudden passivity? It was surely natural that you would approach the body with Sebastian, especially in your capacity as a medical man.”

The sneer on the man’s face intensified. “And what conclusion did you draw, Mr. Holmes?”

My friend smiled but there was no humour in it. “All in good time. My next consideration was the key in the door. You had stated that you, and only you, looked through the key hole before the door was forced.”

“So I did.”

“And do you maintain that position?”

Lomax nodded. “I do.”

“And there is the point. The fact that only you looked through the keyhole means that we only have your word for it that the key was in the lock at all. In fact, it was not, because it was in your pocket. You were admitted to the bedroom by Wyke, where you murdered him, took the key from the door, and locked it behind you. The following morning, when the alarm was raised, you made sure that you were the man who was in control of the situation. It was imperative that it be you who checked the lock and no one else. You declared that the key was in the lock and no one had any reason to doubt your word. When the door was forced, everybody but you rushed into the room and attention was focused on Wyke’s body. Thus, no one noticed you drop the key on the inner side of the door at the approximate place it would have fallen, had it been in the lock when the door was broken down. You had to remain close by the door in order to drop the key, of course, which is why you held back whilst everyone else entered the chamber and why you did not approach the corpse immediately.”

Lestrade had listened to this exchange with increasing interest. Now, he leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk. “Is this true, Dr. Lomax? I should warn you that what you say may be used against you.”

“I see no reason to deny it,” replied the prisoner. “Perhaps Mr. Holmes can explain why I did what I did.”

Sherlock Holmes reached into his pocket and drew out the two threatening verses which had been the commencement of this dark investigation. “I would not have known your motive were it not for these. You wanted Wyke to know that vengeance had come upon him. Whether he knew from where or whether he interpreted these messages as you intended, we shall never know.”

“I will always know. The look on his face showed he had glimpsed the truth behind those poems,” said Lomax.

“What is the truth?” asked Lestrade.

Holmes pointed to the verses. “There is a hidden message in those two poems of death. In the first, you will note that the end of the second line and the beginning of the third line form a name. So too do the end of the fourth line and the beginning of the fifth line. The same pattern in the second verse also spells a name. The message is completed by the final word of each poem. Read concurrently, you will see amid these verses the messages ‘Finlay Meade innocent’ and ‘Vincent Usher guilty’.”

Lomax raved in the air. “And guilty he was, the villain!”

Holmes turned to me. “You will recall, Watson, that I asked Mrs. Wyke whether she had ever heard the name of Violet Usher. Mrs. Usher was the wife of Vincent Usher, a cruel and violent blackguard. When he discovered that his wife was seeing a man by the name of Finlay Meade behind his back, Usher went berserk. In a violent rage fuelled by jealousy, he beat the woman to death. He escaped justice by placing the blame on her lover, Meade. After the trial, Usher disappeared and was never heard of again. No doubt fearful that his crime would overtake him, he changed his name to Wyke, as we now know, and began a new life as a different person. “

Lestrade nodded his comprehension. “I remember the case, Mr. Holmes. The evidence against Meade was conclusive. There was never any suspicion that it was fabricated and the verdict was obvious.”

Holmes’s cold eyes were on Lomax. “It was a cruel miscarriage of justice. It must have struck you as a poetic justice when Sebastian and his father argued, Lomax. What more fitting revenge than to kill the villain and put the blame on his son, just as Wyke had done to Meade.”

Lomax nodded sombrely. “It was a temptation I could not resist. My mother’s maiden name was Meade. Finlay was her brother. I never knew my parents, Mr. Holmes, but my uncle was a great influence in my life. His death was a crushing blow to me and I could never believe the charges against him. For years, I dreamed of seeking out the truth about what really happened. My researches led me nowhere, however, and my frustrations began to pollute my mind.

“I had not known Usher, but his name was with me every day of my life. When I met Edmund Wyke in Egypt, I could have no way of knowing that the man who had taken my dear uncle from me was gradually becoming one of my best friends. The irony punishes me even now. Naturally, Wyke was unaware of my identity, and there was no reason for either of us to think what a cruel twist of fate our friendship was.

“One day, I met an old family acquaintance quite by chance. I had not seen him for many years and I barely recognized him at first, but as he spoke I began to remember him as a friend of both Usher and my uncle. His name was Harry Coombes, and what he told me shook me to my core. He said that he had witnessed the attack on Violet Usher and he knew that Finlay was innocent. Naturally, I asked him why he had not gone to the police at the time, but he had set sail for the new world soon after the murder and was not in the country for the trial. Besides, he said, he knew what Vincent Usher was capable of and he dared not cross him, even to save another’s life.

“This was shattering news to me, as you can imagine, but Coombes had still more to tell me. He had seen me in Wyke’s company on a number of occasions, and he had assumed I was unaware of who my friend was. He could not understand why I would be in close company with a man who had so wronged me otherwise. You can appreciate what a devastating blow it was to me to learn that my dear friend was my sworn enemy. It was only when he showed me a likeness of Usher that I was forced to accept it. My soul cried out for justice and my mind raged at the cruelty of truth.

“I urged Coombes to come with me to the police but he refused. At last, I convinced him but, again, fate was against me for the old man died that very night. It is easy to suspect foul play in those circumstances, but it was not. His life had been long and his heart gave out, unburdened at last from the weight it had borne all those years.

“Of course, now I had no proof of Usher’s guilt and Finlay’s innocence, but my thirst for justice had not been quenched either. I cannot say what made me do it. Perhaps it was the years of frustration and anger poisoning my mind, or perhaps it was that my faith in justice had long ago evaporated. Whatever the cause, I would have vengeance for Finlay Meade, but the law would only fail him again whereas my own breed of revenge surely would not. I wanted him to know that death was upon him. I did not want to be a dagger in the shadows. I wanted to be cruel justice revealed, shining brightly in the sun. Those messages were my advertisement of death. If Wyke, or Usher as he was, saw through them, then he would know why his end was close. If he did not, I cared little, for I would know what those portents of death represented, but I know that he did see through them.”

Holmes had listened to this statement with a keen interest. Now, he paced around the room with a troubled expression on his gaunt face.

“I have been known to empathize with criminals before now,” said he. “There are times when I have battled with my conscience at the conclusion of a case. I fear I cannot do so now. Your vision is blurred so much by this private retribution of yours that you fail to see that your plan to murder the guilty and incriminate the innocent makes you no better and no different to Usher himself. That is why I cannot show you any mercy.”

Lomax looked up at his with eyes of granite. “I ask for none of your mercy, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I neither want nor need it. I go to my death with my own conscience salved. I am ready, inspector, for whatever punishment your frail system of justice sees fit to bestow upon me.”

It is not necessary to prolong my narrative by telling how we explained the true facts of her husband’s death to Mrs. Wyke. Nor do I need to dwell on the details of the release of Sebastian Wyke and his reconciliation with his mother. How we told them of Edmund Wyke’s dark past is a matter which I feel must remain private, for I cannot help but think that mother and son have suffered enough for the old man’s sins. Justice did not fail them, however, and Dr. James Lomax was sent to his death in accordance with his crime. When I read the announcement in the newspaper to Sherlock Holmes, he turned his face towards the fire and shook his head.

“Our system of justice is a fair and honourable one, my dear Watson,” said he. “But it is not infallible. If it were, it would not be the law of mere men such as us. Instead, it would be the unfailing Court of a far greater power than ours.”