AN ARCHETYPAL PETRARCHAN SONNET
Miss Allerthorpe paused briefly before resuming her account. I took the opportunity to help myself to some of the brandy, for restorative purposes. Holmes observed the action with a wry smirk. He might not have been unnerved by the events being related to us, but I certainly was.
“Tell me more about this figure, Miss Allerthorpe,” he said. “In which direction was it travelling?”
“Away from the castle, towards the north shore of the lake,” came the reply.
“So you did not see its face?”
“I did, and I did not.”
“Elucidate.”
“As I watched, the thing turned round to look back towards the castle. It was only a brief backward glance, but enough to reveal that its face had no features, save for eyes. The eyes shone bright, seeming almost to glow, but the rest was just empty blackness. It was then that I knew, once and for all, that it could not be any man. It must be the Thurrick.
“Onward it went, while I, trembling, rooted to the spot, could only stare. Then, gathering myself, I flung the curtains shut and scurried back to bed. The effects of the sleeping draught must still have been in my system, for though my blood was racing and my thoughts were a terrified whirl, I fell asleep again soon enough. When I awoke the next morning, it was late, nearly ten o’clock. I came to a hasty decision. I had to leave Fellscar Keep. I could not abide at the castle an hour longer. I packed a bag and ordered the coachman to take me to Bridlington station, where I caught the York train and thence to London. I have been in the capital for three days now, staying with friends in Primrose Hill, and only today have I felt even close to rational again.”
“I trust your family know you are here, safe and sound,” I said.
“They do. I have wired them to that effect.”
“But do they know what precipitated your abrupt departure?” asked Holmes.
“I have mentioned nothing to them about seeing the Black Thurrick. They are under the impression that I have come down for a couple of days to do some Christmas shopping. It wasn’t until today, however, that I was able to stir myself to go out and face the crowds in the West End. That is how I chanced upon the two of you, and now here I am. I have told you everything that has befallen me. You know the predicament I am in. The only question that remains is will you help me, Mr Holmes?”
“No,” said Holmes.
Miss Allerthorpe was understandably crestfallen, as was I.
“No?” she said.
“No. We will help you. That is, Watson and I. Provided, of course, Watson, that you can take time away from your practice.”
“My caseload is invariably heavy at this time of year, what with all the seasonal maladies,” I said, “but arrangements can be made. How is your caseload, Holmes?”
“Comparatively light. There is the problem of the disappearance of the butcher’s apprentice at Smithfield Market, but I am confident that that has none of the gruesome connotations the rumours ascribe to it. Indeed the matter should resolve itself within a day or so, regardless of my involvement, and the outcome will be positive for all concerned. As to the perplexing affair of the Conte di Ruspoli and the vanishing hansom, it is a case of mistaken identity, nothing more. I will send my notes to Gregson or, failing that, Athelney Jones. Either of those doughty bloodhounds will be adequate to the task of following the case through to its conclusion. The business of the Bishop of Chichester and his collection of rare Amazonian butterflies is more worrisome, but I strongly doubt there will be a second attempt at a burglary, the first having been so successfully averted by our cleric-cum-lepidopterist’s bull terrier. What about your wife?”
“What about her?”
“You will need to square things with Mrs Watson, I am sure. Your absence so close to Christmas will not, I imagine, be welcome.”
“I shall talk to Mary. She is usually amenable when it comes to my accompanying you on an investigation. She has family coming over on Christmas Day. Provided I am home by then, to do my part as host, all should be well.”
“And I,” said Holmes, “have no plans of my own. On the whole I find Christmas fatuous and tawdry. I would rather do something – anything – else.”
“Oh, thank you!” Eve Allerthorpe exclaimed. “Thank you, both.”
Holmes raised an admonitory forefinger. “I am minded to think, Miss Allerthorpe, that you require the services of a priest more than you do those of a consulting detective. I have still to be convinced that a crime has been committed, or that there is any danger of such. Yet there remain elements to the case that pique my interest. What are your immediate plans?”
“I intend to return to Primrose Hill, to my friends, then journey back up north first thing in the morning.”
“Excellent. Watson and I will follow on a later train. That will give you a chance to forewarn your family of our impending arrival and prepare the ground for us.”
The young woman gathered up her belongings. I escorted her downstairs to the hallway.
She was on the point of leaving by the front door when, seemingly on a whim, she fetched her notebook out from her pocket. She opened it, rifled through to the page she was looking for, and tore out the sheet.
“For you,” she said, folding up the piece of paper and handing it to me. “A poem. I wrote it at the coffee house, while summoning up the courage to approach you and Mr Holmes. When I am in a dilemma, or ill at ease, it often helps to set my thoughts and feelings down in verse form. It gives them an outlet, and crystallises them. I should like you to read the poem, but not until I have departed. I am shy about showing my work to anyone, but more so to a distinguished author such as yourself.”
The door opened. The door closed. Miss Eve Allerthorpe was gone.
I unfolded the piece of paper, upon which I found the following handwritten lines of verse:
When all the world lies cold and empty white
And yet most folk have cause to feel glad,
My poor, drab, winter-matching heart is sad.
My suff’ring soul lacks will to rise and fight.
Evil stalks – a dark-faced, loathsome sprite
Whose presence brings offence to lass and lad.
I am sore-taxed and very nearly mad,
A bird with no safe bough whereon to light.
But here in mazy streets, ’mid giddy throng,
At last it seems that fickle fate turns kind.
There is yet one who might assuage my strife.
With handsome friend, the man sits, gaunt and long,
Renownèd far for agile wits, sharp mind –
Sherlock Holmes. ’Pon him I’ll stake my life.
I felt moved to show it to Holmes.
“A touch florid, perhaps,” I said, “but a decent stab all the same. It’s an archetypal Petrarchan sonnet, by the way.”
“If you say so,” he replied airily. “As you know, literature is not one of my fortes. Hum! The ‘handsome friend’, eh?”
“Miss Allerthorpe is no less complimentary about you.”
“So I see, although the adjective ‘long’ appears to have been chosen more for rhyme than descriptive accuracy.”
I chuckled in assent. “That notwithstanding, the poem reveals what a sensitive, intelligent girl its author is, which inclines me to wish to help her all the more.”
“You ever were a fool for a pretty face, Watson, especially when it is attached to a damsel in distress. Yet does not Miss Allerthorpe’s abundant imaginativeness give you pause?”
“Your implication being that she is the type prone to fantasy, and therefore an unreliable witness.”
“It is quite possible that a young woman with high-flown poetical tendencies might have invented some, if not all, of the remarkable events she has regaled us with. I refer in particular to the shadowy, glowing-eyed figure she claims she saw out on the lake ice.”
“Do you think she is putting us on? Hysterical, even?”
“Possibly,” said Holmes. “You must also bear in mind that she had, by her own admission, taken a dose of chloral hydrate that evening. The drug’s hypnotic qualities may have impaired her faculties.”
“You mean she was still half asleep when she saw the Black Thurrick. It may have been just part of some waking dream.”
“It is a medically plausible scenario, is it not?”
I shrugged my shoulders, as if to acknowledge that it was. Sleeping draughts affected people in different ways, and among the potential side effects of chloral hydrate, as with most sedatives, were bouts of disorientation and even hallucinations.
“Furthermore,” Holmes continued, “why has the Thurrick chosen to terrorise her and her brother? Each is an adult and has no offspring, and we are told that the creature has a particular grisly penchant for the very young. What might account for this alteration in its time-honoured habits?”
“You speak as if the Black Thurrick were real.”
“Oh no, Watson. It is not. I am merely pointing out an inconsistency which may or may not be pertinent. All in all, there is not yet sufficient data for me to make a definitive determination regarding Miss Allerthorpe’s case. Hence I have no alternative but to give the lady the benefit of the doubt, for now.”
“In some ways, I am rather surprised that you have agreed to take the case at all. As you say, there is no sign of any crime.”
“Yet a large inheritance is involved, and where one finds one of those, and moreover a vulnerable recipient, one is apt also to find malicious intent. Besides, the whole thing has a somewhat outré aspect, and you know the appeal the outré holds for me. Give me the outré over the humdrum any day! Above all else, I am curious to meet the extended Allerthorpe tribe. Large families intrigue me. They are stews of rivalry, jealousy and long-held enmity, and in the wealthy ones those qualities are only amplified.” Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Yes, old friend, I am rather looking forward to the next few days. You might consider this a little Christmas gift to myself, although it remains to be seen whether, when unwrapped, it proves to be treasure or trifle.”
