I feel compelled to write this story. I hope that by doing so, I will have peace of mind. Already, I can feel the guilt lift with each word I write. It began one morning in Baker Street.
"Holmes, what is the meaning of this note?"
"I was hoping you might be able to tell me. It arrived a few minutes ago. The delivery boy could provide no information of its origin. So the meaning must be obtained from the three words alone. Unfortunately, despite your efforts, I'm still not up on my Shakespeare. Please eat your morning eggs and tell me the significance of Ophelia."
"Is there more to the note? 'Ophelia. Today. Ewell.' Awfully cryptic, isn't it? Why would anybody bother sending such a note? Seems to defeat the whole purpose of communicating."
"Unless the purpose is to intrigue me. I have to admit, I am curious. The note seems to be trying to communicate an event that is assumed to be of interest to me."
"What event? Maybe you can ask this Ewell fellow."
"I have a theory. Ewell is not a person, but a place in Surrey. Does Ewell have any significant meaning to you?"
"No. I haven't the foggiest idea what this is about. Ophelia is a character in Hamlet. She was an innocent young girl who was betrayed by both her father and Hamlet. Tragically, she goes mad as a result."
Suddenly, I felt as if I was hit by a train. I dropped my fork and I felt the blood drain from my face.
"Watson! Are you choking? Shall I get you some brandy?"
I shook my head. I took some deep breaths and felt my heart's pounding slowly return to normal. Regaining my composure, I looked up to see Holmes staring intently at me.
"I guess the note is not so cryptic after all, Watson. You seem to understand its true meaning."
"Holmes, we must go to Surrey right away, before its too late. I'll fill you in on the way."
"Calm down. We have a few minutes to spare before we need to leave to catch the next train to Surrey. Please let me in on your secret."
"I believe that I understand the message. A young girl will kill herself in Ewell today. If we leave right now, we may still be in time to save a life."
"What makes you so certain?"
"The key is Ewell. This is the place where the Pre-Raphaelites
painted their masterpieces."
"Pre-Raphaelites?"
"Holmes, you need to get more exposure to culture."
"I care not about culture. My head is a cluttered attic full of information necessary for me to apply my trade. I have no desire or need for what passes for culture."
"Culture, by its very definition, is an important fabric of everyday life. It would have helped you in this case."
"Touché, Watson. Now please inform this cultural simpleton about Pre-Raphaelites."
"The Pre-Raphaelites were artists who strove for realism. Their founder was John Everett Millais. He painted his masterpiece 'Ophelia' in the 50's in Ewell at the same time and place that William Hunt painted his masterpiece featuring a shepherd. I will never forget seeing the painting 'Ophelia.' As a doctor and as your companion on many adventures, I have witnessed many dead and dying. Yet, none of those have had the same impact as the painting. It is so realistic and haunting that its image is engraved forever in my mind."
"The painting sounds impressive, Watson, and
I understand your fears, but think rationally for a moment. What
would be the reason for sending me this note? If it was to stop
a young lady from killing herself, then surely there are better
ways than sending me this cryptic note. I don't see how your hypothesis
could be true. Yet, your instincts are probably right. There is
something sinister at work here. Something that I have never encountered
before." Nodding to me with a serious frown on his face,
Holmes stood up. "We best be off now. Please take your copy
of Hamlet with you."
We arrived at the station just in time to take the
train to Surrey. The journey was uneventful. Holmes spent most
of the trip reading Hamlet, starting from the death of Ophelia,
which I read aloud.
We arrived in Ewell in the early afternoon. We went straight to the local police-station where we were met by a young policeman.
"Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. Watson. Can we meet with the chief constable?"
"He's on a case today and is unavailable," the young man replied gravely. His demeanour concerned me. A peaceful village like Ewell would rarely have a case of such obvious importance.
"Does the case have anything to do about the death or suicide of a young lady?" I asked.
"How did you know? This information isn't supposed to be generally known at this time," the man replied suspiciously. Then his eyes opened wide and he stammered, "Did you say Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson? You two are everything they say! How did you make that deduction?"
"If I told you, you would think it was obvious. But the case is precisely why we are here. Could you provide the directions to where we may find the chief constable?"
"I can do better than that! I'll take you there myself."
Soon we were travelling down small roads, past mills, and railroad tracks to green pastures with grazing sheep. We stopped after crossing a bridge over a small stream. Here we walked upstream as it bordered a pasture. The water in the stream was clear and slow moving. The stream was perhaps six feet across and four feet deep. The water was cluttered with water plants, algae and twigs. The far side of the stream was a steep embankment with ferns, trees and wild flowers. On our side of the stream, grass gave way to slippery mud as it sloped steeply for a couple of feet to the water below. After only a few minutes of walking, we heard voices carrying around a bend up ahead. The voices belonged to three men. Two on the grass were evidently the chief constable and the village doctor. The third, possibly a farm hand, was about to reenter the stream. His trousers were already wet to the thigh and he was wearing knee-high rubber boots.
"Please do not enter water!" Holmes shouted. "I need to examine the scene."
After a brief introduction by the young constable, the chief stated "There is no need to worry, Mr. Holmes. I have thoroughly examined the scene. It is clearly a suicide. There was only one set of footprints leading up to the stream. In the stream, we found this vial, which the doctor here has identified as a powerful narcotic. She drank it while standing in the stream. The drug soon took affect and she drowned."
"A very plausible explanation. Nevertheless, I would like to examine the area myself."
"Very well."
Holmes was soon off examining the mud on the shore. Meanwhile, I was spellbound. Shivers went up and down my spine as I stared at the scene below. It was exactly the scene from the Millais painting. The girl, in her late teens, stared opened eye to the sky. Her mouth was slightly opened and water filled in and drained out as her head gently bobbed in the incoming current. The drug must have been effective because she had a eerie, dream-like expression. Her hands were held out in a Christ-like pose. In her right hand, she held a small bouquet of wild flowers. Some of the flowers had pulled away from her grasp and had floated in a scattered path downstream. Her ornate old-fashioned dress was spread wide so that it covered half of the breadth of the stream. Air pockets kept the dress afloat. My trance-like gaze lasted the entire duration of Holmes's investigation.
Addressing the chief constable, Holmes said, "Your analysis was correct, as far as it goes. However, you neglected to mention that she had been here before with a painter who has expensive shoes."
Jumping to the policeman's defence, the doctor spoke up, "That was well known in the village. Emma was the model for Mr. Holman. Mr. Holman is a wealthy man with a desire to paint like the masters. He is good, but he is over his head with Ophelia. After a full month on it, he finally finished his painting yesterday, and he returned to London." The doctor sighed. "Emma is - err, was - a bit daffy and not too bright. She was also a hopeless romantic. She was infatuated with Mr. Holman, although he was always the proper gentleman."
"Yet, I have reason to believe that this was other than a suicide." Holmes asserted.
"Oh, it was a suicide all right. I mentioned that she was a hopeless romantic. She had attempted to kill herself before using a slow-acting poison. Her mother discovered it in time and I was able to save her. This time, she was not so lucky."
"She may have killed herself, but it was murder just the same. Do you have the London address of Mr. Holman?"
"No, but her mother might."
We thanked the doctor and the policemen and left
to talk to her mother. The mother was distraught and the conversation
was difficult. The mother did not have Mr. Holman's address, but
she did provide us with other useful information. Mr. Holman had
taken Emma and her mother to London to see a matinee production
of Hamlet and to see the Ophelia painting. This was a perfectly
innocent exercise, as Mr. Holman had explained that it would help
Emma appreciate what he was trying to achieve. The painting sessions
themselves were lengthy and Emma was often left alone with Mr.
Holman. Emma was well paid, allowing her to temporarily give up
her position in an Epsom carriage house. The dress that Emma died
in was the one given to her by Mr. Holman. The dress was fashioned
after the one in the original painting. The mother also confirmed
the previous suicide attempt after another imagined affair with
an unknown supposedly wealthy man. Having learnt everything we
could at Ewell, we returned to London to find Mr. Holman.
Holmes continued his investigation into the suicide. I didn't see him at all the following day. It was again at breakfast when I saw him next.
"Holmes, I've been thinking about the death of the young lady, Emma. It must have been suicide. Since Emma was the only one who could possibly know how and when her suicide would occur, it must have been Emma herself who sent us the telegram."
"Then why would she send it to me?"
"I don't think she really wanted to die. Why else would she take a slow-acting poison in her first suicide attempt? She knew you would investigate the case and save her."
"I think you give her too much credit. The mother did not know who we were. The daughter was not too bright and from the contents of her room, she did not like to read the Strand."
"Mr. Holman could have mentioned you to her."
"Ah, Mr. Holman. I spent the whole day yesterday trying to track him down. I am convinced that Mr. Holman was not his real name. William Holman Hunt was one of the Pre-Raphealite Brotherhood. He painted 'The Hireling Shephard' in 1851 using Emma Watkins, a field hand on a nearby estate, as his model. She was also his mistress."
"Are you suggesting that our Emma was Holman's
mistress?"
"It is a possibility. The names seem to be more than a coincidence.
I think Holman came to Ewell with Emma in mind. I think he planned
her suicide. He provided the poison, the dress, the location,
and the planted the idea into her susceptible mind. She just needed
to carry out a few simple instructions."
"But why?"
"That is the question! I have a theory, but it will be difficult to prove. First, I need to track down the source of the poison. Unlike our Emma's first poison, this one was put together by an apothecary. I am planning to return to Surrey to visit the apothecaries in neighbouring villages and towns. If this fails, I have eight alternative plans of action. Six of them are in the Ewell area. Would you care to join me?"
"Of course!"
By the end of the next day, I was regretting my decision. We had visited a dozen apothecaries and covered a lot of ground. Fortunately, luck was with us in the end. An apothecary in nearby Epsom remembered selling the poison to a Mr. Loseley from Hindhead in July. The description of Mr. Loseley did not match that of Mr. Holman.
This latest success excited Holmes a great deal. "This is the break I was hoping for. Although I despise speculation, it is possible that Mr. Holman refused to personally buy the poison. As a result, Mr. Loseley had to buy it himself because he could not confide in yet another person for such a delicate task."
Having our next step laid out for us, we arranged to stay the night at a friend's house in Hindhead. That night, we conversed with my friend in front of a large fire in a magnificent stone hearth.
"Arthur," I asked my friend, "Do you know a Mr. Loseley in Hindhead?"
"Do you mean the Duke's house? It is known as the Loseley Estate. It is his summer hunting lodge."
"A Duke? Holmes, do you think Mr. Holman could be a Duke?"
"It is an interesting hypothesis. I think Mr. Holman could have been hired by the Duke. The Duke has too high a profile to be able to hide away for a month and paint. Yet, he could be the mastermind behind this."
"The mastermind behind what?" asked Arthur.
"Murder."
"Holmes," I said, "surely a Duke is above murder!"
"History is littered with murderous barons, but this one is different. In fact, I believe he is unique in the annals of murders."
"I have to admit, that I never liked the Duke." Arthur said thoughtfully. " The Duke uses his house in Hindhead for hunting and shooting. He is quite the marksman. The local gossip has it that he does not always go for the clean kill. On purpose, you understand. He is also an intelligent but ruthless businessman. My wife doesn't like him because of the way he treats the servants, especially the young women."
"Perfect!" exclaimed Holmes. "Just a few more pieces until the puzzle is complete. Does he appreciate art?"
"I understand that he is a renown collector of English art," explained Arthur.
"I think he is our man," Holmes said with resolve.
"What makes you so certain?"
"At this point, it is pure conjecture. Even if true, it will be extremely difficult to prove."
"Holmes, I fail to make sense of this!" I interjected.
"The evidence is circumstantial, but consider what we know. We have a telegram which indicates that someone knew that a suicide was about to occur and how. It was as if the suicide was scripted, much like Shakespeare scripted Hamlet. In fact, everything about the suicide was very artistic. Most great criminals have an artistic streak. It is a sign of a complex mind. But this criminal is different in that the art seems to be the overall motivation for the crime!"
"No one would murder for the sake of art," Arthur said with a combination of disgust and disbelief.
"No normal person would because no normal person is in the position to do so. I'll postulate that there is a hierarchy of needs. At the bottom of the hierarchy are the necessities required to live, such as food and lodgings. Need for these are the cause of most of the common crime in the world. Only those who have these needs satisfied will perform criminal actions based on animalistic lust. These crimes of passion are far more prevalent than generally believed because they occur in the dark alleys of the bigger cities, or because their nature encourages concealment by all involved. Crimes based on these basic human needs are commonplace and are rarely of interest to me. Higher on the scale are social and political crimes. The most successful criminals often continue to commit crimes even after they have made their fortune. They spend their fortune trying to gain social respectability. In recent years, Adam Worth comes to mind. Others, who already have social respectability, may turn to crime to maintain or increase their status. Many of my cases have involved a lust for power. This type of lust is also a powerful drug. It can turn brother against brother. Up to now, I would have claimed that this was the top of the hierarchy of crime-motivating needs. How many of us can claim that we have no more urge to gain social status?"
"I am satisfied with my position," I said.
"So am I," claimed Arthur.
"Watson, I know that you strive to become a highly respected member of the medical community. You also enjoy being in the high-society scene. Similar, Arthur, you want to be better known for your historical novels than the popular tripe that has been your bread and butter. Both of you have not achieved the pinnacle of your professions. Who knows what depth you would sink to if something threatens to take away all you have achieved? Hopefully, we will never have to find out. Conversely, what if you had reached these illustrious heights? What would you live for? What would serve as your motivation to live?"
"Artistic pursuit?"
"Correct! Artistic pursuit can come in many forms such as research, invention, poetry or painting. These are normally a positive force, but what happens if you combine the creative need with a natural tendency towards cruelty? I believe this case may be the first of its kind. It requires a unique combination of intelligence, wickedness, wealth, and high social status. The Duke is one of the few who may fit the mould. When you include the admittedly thin circumstantial evidence of the poison, we have a suspect."
"But why the girl Emma? And why the telegram?"
"I don't have all the answers. These are some of the missing pieces. But, we must continue down our only lead. Arthur, would you be able to arrange a meeting tomorrow?"
"I can try."
The next day, Arthur succeeded in setting up a social visit with the Duke. In fact, the Duke invited Arthur and his two unspecified associates over for tea and a pheasant shoot. We arrived promptly at two in the afternoon. The spacious brick and tile house was nestled in a forest of pines on top of a hill overlooking the heathland below. A solemn butler answered the door and ushered us to the drawing room. The butler then excused himself to find the Duke. As soon as the butler had disappeared from sight, Holmes was up from his seat and off to a corner of the room. A large, fancy picture frame was standing on the floor in the corner. The front was wrapped with a leather cover. Holmes peeked inside as confidently striding footsteps could be heard walking down the marble tiles on the hallway. When the Duke reached the drawing room, Holmes ripped off the leather cover with exaggerated flair. Underneath was an Ophelia reproduction. From a distance, it looked just like the original and just like the death scene we had witnessed earlier in the week.
Staring icily at Holmes, the Duke stood statuesque at the entrance assessing the situation. He was a handsome man in his late thirties. Only his cold blue eyes gave away the true nature of his heart. With a smirk on his face, he stated "I see this is not a social visit."
"Good afternoon, Lord Loseley," Holmes said sarcastically, knowing full well that was not his true name. "I see your trophy has arrived."
"I am quite a fan of Mallais. An artist visited me yesterday offering me this reproduction. Quite lifelike don't you think? I offered him a sizable sum of money for it. Do you approve?"
"Do not play games with me. I am dangerous opposition," confronted Holmes.
The Duke was not impressed. "As you know, a person in my position can be dangerous too."
"You are a coward. Poisoning is the coward's way to murder," Holmes countered.
"Murder? What do you mean by murder?" the Duke asked with mock innocence.
Although the question was rhetorical, I could not hold my tongue. "You killed the girl in the painting. You had her poisoned two days ago."
"Now why would I do that?"
I hesitated, and then blurted. "To make life imitate art!"
The Duke laughed heartily at my accusation. "Then it is a good thing that I don't like 'Saturn's Children' by Goya!" He chuckled some more at his joke which seemed to reach only deaf ears at the time. In retrospect, it was a revealingly grotesque comment from the inner monster that resided within this man. He continued, "Anyway, I did nothing of the kind. I was hosting a party right here. I can provide the names if you wish."
"I would like the name of the artist," Holmes responded.
"It would do you no good. He was an unknown but talented artist and thespian. He has gone off to study the masters in Italy. I believe his name was Holman. Yes, that's it. Holman."
"You have an answer for everything. You think you will get away with it, but you won't. I won't let you. I'll track down every clue of this case. I'll have you prosecuted for her murder."
"No you won't. Nobody will touch the case. You think that you'll ruin me, but you'll end up ruining yourself. At least this case is anything but commonplace, don't you agree Mr. Holmes? Do you still think that audacity and romance have passed forever from the criminal world?"
Holmes jerked back, as if recoiling from a shot of a bullet. With an acrid voice, Holmes spit out each word. "You are despicable!" After regaining his composure, Holmes continued angrily. "I know where we met before. It was at the Queen's stand at Epsom on Derby Day! You had read Dr. Watson's account in A Study in Scarlet. You were also nearby when I had complained how bored I had been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers."
The Duke aloofly smiled and commented, "It was a lovely Derby."
"But my comments weren't the motivation, were they? Only the inspiration! You had met Emma before too." Holmes watched the Duke's reactions carefully. I had seen this before. He was interpreting every twitch and reaction by the Duke as he constructed his impromptu accusation. "You stayed at the Epsom carriage house where Emma worked during the Derby! You were Emma's wealthy lover. You took advantage of her innocence and then left her cold." Holmes paused. Satisfied he was on the right track, he continued. "She did not go away as you expected. Like all the others. No, she tracked you down. She told you she was with your child." Holmes paused again, and smiled. "Yes, she told you about the child. You dismissed her again, but she had become an inconvenience. You knew that she was not quite right in the head and decided to get rid of her. You heard of her suicide attempt and your plot came together."
The Duke stood silently as the three of us stared at him with accusing stares. Guilt was written on his face. Without conviction, he stammered, "It is all speculation! You don't have any proof. There is no direct connection with me and her death. I don't see how you made a connection at all."
Holmes continued confidently. "If I remember your side of our Derby conversation correctly, you were contemplating an extended trip abroad. I suggest you embark on this trip and never return."
This seemed to have the opposite effect than desired. The Duke looked up sharply, his cheeks suddenly flushed with anger. "Who are you to threaten me? Out of my house! Now!"
"We will go, for now," Holmes retorted.
"But I'll leave you with a parting thought. I am the man
you challenged to a battle of wits. I have won this duel. My friends
here know the truth. They are popular authors and your pathetic
story will be told. Even if you think you will get away with this,
enough people will believe that you will be ruined. Your life
as you know it is over. Mark my words!"
One morning, about two weeks later, I noticed that my notes of this story were missing from my desk. That evening, the notes were back where I had left them. Holmes was not around at the time and the curious incident passed from my mind.
Two days later, I read a shocking article in the Times. The Duke was dead. He was hunting pheasants on his estates when he tripped and accidentally shot himself with his own rifle. From experience, I know a good percentage of murderers commit suicide. Only one who does not value life, including one's own, could commit murder. Many unanswered questions haunt me. Was the Duke's death an accident or a suicide? Was the death unassisted? I remembered my friend's parting threat to the Duke. Deep inside, I knew that Holmes's threat had expedited the writing of my first draft of this story. In its original form, my notes were highly prejudiced and merciless in its condemnation of the Duke. A cold chill went down my spine when I realized that I may not be the unwitting accomplice that I would like to be. My notes were exactly the weapon that Holmes needed to attack this monster. Must one become a monster to destroy one?
I never discussed the article with Holmes. For his
part, Holmes only made a passing comment to this case. "Don't
worry about me, Watson. I am not bored. As one insect is squashed,
another takes his place. This one is far more dangerous; a spider,
whose far-reaching web controls the underworld!"
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