The detective was standing at the window with his hands behind his back, listening to the howling of the wind between the casements. He did not so much as glance in my direction when I greeted him.
“I trust that you buried me with all honours,” he said, his gaze fixed on the glistening leaves in the garden.
“You and your charades. Are you aware that the Countess Framboise was in attendance? It almost broke her heart. I presume that you are enjoying yourself?”
“No indeed, Watson. My enemies have already buried me so many times that I fear no one will notice when I finally do pass on. I will personally visit the Countess once this matter has been resolved.”
“Enemies?” I cried. “You have arranged most of your funerals yourself!”
“But only in order to confuse the criminal element and take advantage of their reduced vigilance. But this time it is different, my friend. This time it is personal.”
The last time I had seen Holmes express such hatred was after the death of Professor Moriarty. Back then he had disappeared and been considered dead for three years.
In his retirement Holmes never would have anticipated such an attack, and if the murderer had been provoked merely by the request of the deceased Minutti, something big must have been afoot. For this reason the detective decided to “succumb” to the poison that was hidden in the tobacco and arranged his funeral so that his unknown enemy would lower his defences.
Only I, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft knew the truth.
For several days Holmes lay concealed and recovered under my careful watch. In less than two weeks I managed to restore his blood pressure and heart rhythm to normal. I adjusted his regimen so that he would gain strength and return to the world of the living.
Today was his first day out of bed, and while I participated in the tasteless theatre for the outside world, he conducted an analysis of the poisoned tobacco.
“My suspicion has been confirmed, it indeed contains traces of digitalis,” he said dryly. “Somebody wanted to prepare a sweet death for me.”
“It was ingeniously planned,” I said, nodding.
Like every man of medicine I was well acquainted with the digitalis plant family, and I had to concede that mixing the dried leaves into Holmes’s tobacco was brilliant. Except for a slight sweetness the herb is practically tasteless. The symptoms which the detective suffered also suggested its use: headaches, lack of appetite and irregular pulse. From my medical practice I knew of cases where people had made tea out of digitalis, mistaking it for the harmless comphrey, or children who had been poisoned by drinking water from a vase containing the plant. Fortunately Holmes’s murderer had endeavoured to use subtlety and had prepared the deadly tobacco in such a small concentration that my friend’s heart was only gradually weakened.
Thus Holmes had succeeded in uncovering the plan at the last moment.
“We have confirmed how,” I said. “Now all that remains is to determine who and why.”
“Yes, I admit that I am overwhelmed with curiosity,” said Holmes, rubbing his chin. “Well then, we might as well start with our dear Barlow.”
“But there is one more thing...”
“Which is?”
“Who will conduct the investigation? You are officially dead and cannot appear in public. And I can hardly catch the murderer by myself.”
“My dear fellow!” laughed Holmes. “It is but a trifle!”
The next morning, a certain Mr Cedric Parker of Stone Terrace, Weston-Super-Mare appeared in the vestibule of Holmes’s house. The detective had selected the identity of his cousin, coming to arrange his estate, as the ideal disguise to assist him in moving freely and inconspicuously during the investigation without being disclosed.
He had not shaved for several days and he trimmed his full beard into an elegant grey-flecked point. He stopped brushing his hair straight back and instead parted it to the right and smoothed it with brilliantine. He left the greying in his temples, but coloured his eyebrows in order to give his face a different expression. He also donned round spectacles with transparent glass. His attire consisted of a summer suit with a vest, which was quite a contrast to his usual rather homely clothes. Taking into account the family resemblance, which nobody would think twice about, an entirely different person now stood before me.
“Holmes, I do not recognise you!”
“Then I am satisfied,” said the detective, studying his new appearance in the mirror. “But I still do not much resemble the real Cedric. Let us hope that no one takes it into their head to look for his photograph.”
“This cousin of yours really exists?” I asked. “I thought you had invented him! You never mentioned him before!”
“Indeed, Cedric Edward Parker is an actual member of my extended family[9]. I wanted to give my alter ego a certain measure of credibility in case Barlow or any other curious soul decided to confirm my family circumstances at the register office. One can never be too cautious.”
Once Mrs Hudson had approved the detective’s disguise we were finally ready to attempt a dress rehearsal. It was time to pay a visit to Pastor Barlow and untangle the circumstances of his role in the unsuccessful attempt on Holmes’s life.
We walked out into the front yard, where Holmes again felt the sunshine on his face after so many days confined to the house. He paused for a moment, spread his arms and inhaled deeply.
“It was rather tiresome staying indoors so long,” he said. “But for a dead man I feel wonderful!”
I admonished him for this blasphemy and headed to the coach, but Holmes stopped me.
“Better to walk,” he said. “The exercise will do me good and it will be excellent if people see me. I don’t have anything to hide.”
I agreed and followed the detective. We left the estate and headed to the pastor’s farmstead along the dusty path by the south slope of the local coastline with its magnificent view of the Channel. Beneath us cliffs extended to the pebbly beach below, from where we could hear the cries of seagulls.
We walked through the outskirts of the town, bidding good day to several villagers, and even passed by the cemetery, where Holmes took a morbid delight in his grave. The flowers that people had brought and which practically covered the gravestone gave him pause, but the expression in his eyes was neither sad nor regretful, but shone with satisfaction.
People had come from near and far to pay tribute to the greatest of detectives, a legend in the battle against crime and injustice, who helped everyone regardless of their station.
“They have buried me a hundred times, and a hundred times I have risen,” said Holmes. “As long as there is crime in the world I will continue to rise.”
“We could not hope for more,” I added.
Talking thus we arrived at Barlow’s rectory.
Everything indicated that the pastor was at home; but not alone, as we deduced from the automobile parked before the gate to his house, a magnificent Silver Ghost that shone in the sunlight. Local children were gathered about the car with reverent expressions on their faces.
“We have come at an inconvenient time,” I said. “Perhaps we should return later. We could come for afternoon tea.”
But Holmes appeared not to be listening. His attention was completely captivated by the Rolls Royce with its elegant open silver body and black seats. For a moment he was like one of these small rogues as he admired the luxurious vehicle. In those days automobiles were already becoming a relatively common sight in the city, but in the countryside they attracted much attention.
“Have you never seen an automobile?” I teased.
9
Sherlock Holmes was the son of Siger Holmes and Violet Sherrinford, the youngest of the three daughters of Sir Edward Sherrinford. We can assume that Cedric Edward Parker was the son of one of the elder of the two Sherrinford daughters.