The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth

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  In memory of The Dink,

  forever in our hearts

  Silence speaks when words cannot.

  —ANONYMOUS

  1

  The Unannounced Visitor

  November 1915

  There are times when the forces of nature are so fierce they demand we seek immediate shelter and warmth. Such was the midwinter’s night that found us ensconced in our rooms at 221b Baker Street. Outside, the wind howled in powerful gusts and the rain pelted our window so intensely it produced a sound reminiscent of fingers tapping on glass. My father and I sat around a cheery fire and tried to distract ourselves from the inclement weather by reviewing an old case of Sherlock Holmes’s, which interestingly enough took place on a similar, dreadful night in London some twenty years ago.

  “Holmes believed the wind and rain gave the criminal every advantage,” my father remarked.

  “It certainly made the investigator’s task far more difficult,” said I.

  “Indeed it would, but in ways one might not anticipate.”

  “Such as?”

  “‘Beyond the obvious,’ Holmes had replied when I asked him the very same question. Then he said no more.” My father pondered the enigmatic answer briefly before glancing over to my wife. “Would you care to decipher that rather cryptic response, Joanna?”

  She was standing by the window and staring out intently at the thoroughfare below, for something had caught and held her attention.

  “What is it you see?” my father asked.

  “Cover,” Joanna replied.

  “From what, pray tell?”

  “From every crime you wish to mention,” Joanna said, turning to us. “Which is also the answer to your first question. The obvious reason my father believed such weather favored the perpetrator is straightforward. It removes or distorts virtually every clue and track left behind. Give it a moment’s thought and you can readily list the ways foul weather can throw the detective off.”

  “A strong wind and rain would certainly wash away any bloodstains or signs of a struggle,” I proposed.

  “But there would be other, less obvious advantages as well,” Joanna went on. “The storm, along with its lightning and thunder, would drown out cries for help or screams of terror. And a heavy mist and rain would blind any eyewitnesses. You must also keep in mind that a lengthy gale, such as the one we are facing, would delay the arrival of Scotland Yard and give the criminals abundant time to escape and conceal their tracks.”

  I involuntarily raised my hand as a new thought came to mind. “Thus far, our discussion has been focused on crimes that occurred outdoors. Would not the dreadful weather be of less hindrance when the evil act is committed indoors?”

  “The advantages, although somewhat diminished, would still hold for the criminal,” said Joanna. “A clumsy investigator, along with a throng of constables, might well track mud and water onto the crime scene, and in the process muck up or eliminate any number of clues. Moreover, the thick walls of an enclosure would further dampen cries for help or screams of terror, which clearly work to the perpetrator’s benefit.”

  “And Scotland Yard’s response would remain less than prompt,” my father noted.

  “All of which explain why foul-weather crimes for the most part go unsolved,” Joanna concluded.

  Her attention was suddenly drawn back to the window. She moved in so close her nose seemed to be touching the glass pane. “I say! It seems we have a visitor coming our way.”

  My father and I hurried over and peered down at the hansom that had stopped at our doorstep. A hatless man, small and thin in figure, dashed toward the entrance of 221b Baker Street.

  “Who would dare go out in this ungodly weather?” I asked.

  “Someone with a most urgent need,” Joanna replied.

  “Which obviously cannot—” My voice was rendered inaudible by a loud crack of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder and an even heavier downpour of rain. Baker Street became little more than a blur through our window.

  Moments later there was a soft rap on our door and our landlady, Miss Hudson, looked in. “Dr. Watson,” she said to my father, “a Dr. Verner is downstairs and wishes to see you on a most pressing matter.”

  “Please show him up.”

  As the door closed, Joanna asked, “Do you know this Dr. Verner?”

  “I do indeed,” my father replied. “He bought my practice in Kensington just prior to my retirement.”

  “Have you remained in contact with him?”

  “I happen upon him now and then at medical conferences I still manage to attend,” said my father. “As a matter of fact, I chatted with him only last month at a symposium on malaria, at which time he informed me how well the practice was progressing. He also mentioned how superbly his son was performing at Eton, which of course is the same school your Johnny attends.”

  “Are they friends?”

  “I asked, but Verner was unsure.”

  Joanna waved away that point of the conversation. “It is highly unlikely that he is here to talk of Eton or his son.”

  My father nodded. “Obviously it must concern a most serious medical dilemma.”

  “Do you believe he is here to consult on a former patient of yours?” I inquired.

  “That would be most unusual, particularly at this time of night and in this weather, unless the patient was in great distress. If that was the case, such a patient would best be served in a hospital, like St. Bart’s, where Verner has admitting privileges.”

  “Perhaps he wishes you to join him there,” Joanna suggested.

  My father pointed to the telephone. “That would not require an out-of-the-way journey to Baker Street. Bear in mind that when a patient is in dire straits, the smallest amount of time can be of the greatest consequence.”

  We heard a second rap on our door and Miss Hudson showed in the thin, rain-drenched visitor. Dr. Alexander Verner was even smaller than he appeared at a distance, with a height barely reaching five feet. His face had fine, gentle features, but there was distress in his eyes.

  “Here,” my father said, taking the doctor’s soaked topcoat and scarf. “Warm yourself by the fire while I hang up your garments.”

  As Verner sat in a cushioned chair, I noticed a tremor in his hands that could not have come from a chill, for our sitting room was nicely warmed by a three-log fire.

  “How long was your walk?” Joanna asked.

  Verner looked at her quizzically. “From my hansom to your doorstep?”

  “No, no. From the lengthy walk you took prior to entering your hansom.”

  “How could you possibly know this?”

  “From your soaked outer garments and shoes, the latter of which produce a watery squish with each step you take and leave behind a wet footprint on the floor of our parlor. Your shoes could not be so affected
by the short journey from your hansom to our doorstep. They have obviously been exposed to a long walk elsewhere through the rain, for the mud and grass clinging to their soles and heels are not to be found on the cobblestone streets of London. So I can deduce you were very recently about in the countryside or in some locale that was similar to it.”

  Verner’s face brightened for a moment. “You must be the daughter of Sherlock Holmes I have read of and so admired.”

  “I am indeed.”

  Verner turned to me and said, “And your resemblance to your father tells me you are the son of the good Dr. Watson.”

  “Correct, sir,” I said.

  “If you wish, my husband and I can adjourn to our room and give you and Dr. Watson total privacy,” Joanna offered.

  “Oh, please stay,” Verner implored. “For I am certain it will require all of your minds and wits to make sense of the harrowing adventure I have just experienced.”

  “Harrowing, you say!” my father exclaimed as he drew up a chair.

  “I do not exaggerate, my dear Watson. When I give you the particulars, you will understand how unnerving my journey was and continues to be. It all began with a late-afternoon caller to my practice who had a most unexpected request. He introduced himself as the representative of a distinguished personage who had a seizure disorder and was now suffering with abdominal pain. The visitor had learned of my knowledge in gastrointestinal disorders and implored me to come with him and see the patient. I of course agreed and closed my practice for the day, believing there was nothing peculiar about the caller or his request. But this changed the moment I stepped into the carriage awaiting us. Its windows were covered with thick cloth that allowed in only streaks of the late-afternoon light, which was quite dim because of the approaching storm. It was therefore impossible to see out and determine our direction. The visitor explained that it was necessary to keep the whereabouts of the ill patient a secret because neither his identity nor location were to be disclosed under any circumstances. Such measures, I was told, were required for high-profile, distinguished individuals for whom public disclosure of illness could have unwanted consequences. This suggested to me that the patient to be seen was either royalty or a governmental official of considerable standing. Despite these assurances I remained uneasy, for there was something foreboding about the caller. He projected an air of cruelty that indicated he was not a man to be trifled with.”

  Verner paused, as if to gather his thoughts. But the expression on his face turned more ominous. “I assumed the patient resided close by, but this was not the case. Our journey lasted at least thirty minutes, but it was not straightforward by any means. I had the distinct impression that at times we were traveling about in circles, followed by a series of sharp turns. It was impossible to tell where we were or our direction.”

  Joanna interrupted. “Were you moving over cobblestones or a paved road?”

  “Both. While riding over cobblestones, the wheels produced noise that muffled the sounds outside our carriage. When we rode over smooth, paved streets, I occasionally heard motorcars passing by or the screech of brakes being applied.”

  “Were the brakes loud, such as those made by a bus or similar large transport vehicles?”

  “I could not tell, for the rain was beginning to fall heavily and it muted other sounds. Is that important?”

  “It could be, for we are dealing in darkness here and any glimmer of light might be most helpful.”

  “I did see streaks of light intermittently at the edge of the cloth curtains covering the carriage windows.”

  “For the entire journey?”

  “For the first half or so.”

  “Which indicates you were on a major thoroughfare.”

  “But then it became quite dark.”

  “Which tells us you had most likely entered a residential neighborhood.”

  “And so we had,” Verner concurred. “When the carriage came to a final stop, we were in a neighborhood that was quiet, with large, two-story houses belonging to the upper middle class. I should mention it was very dark indeed because the path leading up to the house was lined with trees and covered with shadows. I was hurried into a foyer that contained a small table with unopened mail stacked upon it. Unfortunately I was not near enough to read an address. As soon as my hat and coat were removed, I was led into a large, sparsely furnished bedroom. There was a single bed upon which rested a heavyset man, with a protuberant abdomen and the look of distress on his face. At this point I was told that the patient was a mute and could communicate only in sign language, with which I am unfamiliar. Thus, the patient had to write down his symptoms using chalk and a small blackboard.”

  “Did he have a good command of the English language?” Joanna asked.

  “Quite.”

  “Did he write like an Englishman would or was there evidence of foreign influence?”

  “Definitely an Englishman.”

  “Pray continue.”

  “And so my examination began. He complained of abdominal pain of a day’s duration, with some nausea and lack of appetite. I next went to palpating his abdomen and it was at this point I felt something was amiss. He had motioned to the umbilical area as being the area of greatest pain, and when I pressed upon it he moaned loudly.”

  “Nothing unusual there,” my father remarked.

  “What was unusual,” Verner continued on, “was that he made no hand sign to express his pain. I have seen a number of mutes in my practice over the years, and when you press on a tender spot they automatically make a hand sign, indicating pain and telling you to stop. And they do not groan, but cry out with a high-pitched utterance. The patient did neither and I began to wonder if his complaints were those of a feigned illness.

  “Now, I realize my conclusion thus far is based on subjective findings, but what I am about to disclose is not. When I asked the patient to point to the exact location of greatest pain, he took my hand and placed it to the right of the umbilicus. Then I inquired if the pain radiated away from that site and he slowly moved my hand to the left and surreptitiously spelled out the word HELP, which was written in letters.”

  “Are you absolutely certain of this?” Joanna asked at once.

  “At first I was not, but then I asked the patient to again demonstrate how the pain radiated. Once more he carefully guided my hand and wrote the word HELP. I next adjusted the position of my body so the other man in the room could not visualize my hand, and I spelled out the word NAME on the patient’s abdomen. He responded with the letters TU and was adding a third but did not continue, for the other man moved in for a closer look. Thus, no further messages could be transmitted between us.”

  “Could you make any meaning of the interrupted third letter?”

  “It seemed to be a straight vertical line, with a curvature at its top, but it was indecipherable.”

  Joanna furrowed her brow in thought and began to softly utter a string of letters to herself. She would nod at one, then shake her head at another.

  “Any ideas, Joanna?” I asked.

  “Too many,” she replied. “A straight vertical line with the beginning of a curve at its top could be a b, d, p, or r. And we do not know if it is a complete three-letter word or simply the start of a longer one. The possibilities are too numerous.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Verner said.

  Joanna waved away the problem for the moment. “I take it the other man in the room watched your every move from then on.”

  “Like a hawk. Something I had done had obviously aroused his suspicions.”

  “Perhaps it was your prolonged examination of the patient’s abdomen,” my father surmised. “Or your movement to obscure the man’s view of your hands.”

  “It could have been either or both,” Verner said. “In any event, I completed my examination and pronounced the diagnosis to be acute inflammation of the gallbladder that demanded immediate hospitalization. The other man stated this was not possible, for it would surely e
xpose the patient’s identity. Thus, all treatment would have to be done at home. I explained the risks if we followed that course of action, but it seemed to make no impression. Thus I had no choice but to prescribe laudanum for pain and asked to be notified if the patient’s symptoms worsened.”

  My father asked, “Did you mention the possibility of peritonitis, which could be a death knell in this instance?”

  Verner nodded. “I did, but to no avail. It was made quite clear that hospitalization was out of the question. Despite my dire warning, I was ushered out of the house and into the carriage with all of its windows still covered. I was instructed not to mention my visit or the patient to anyone, for to do so could result in incalculable harm. I was further told that if I did not follow these instructions, the consequences could be very unpleasant for all concerned. As I noted earlier, his voice was cold and menacing, and left no doubt whatsoever to whom the threat was directed. Trust me when I say I could not wait to separate myself from that man and his carriage. We proceeded to ride in silence over cobblestone and paved roads, with no sounds to be heard or sights to be seen. After nearly twenty minutes the carriage stopped and I was let out without a single word, although I was paid two pounds for my services. So here I was in the midst of a storm, with the cold wind howling and a pounding rain soaking me to the marrow. I walked a good mile before I came to Hampstead Station where I was able to hire a hansom that brought me to 221b Baker Street. I know my story sounds strange and most peculiar and at times farfetched, but I swear to you it is true in every regard. And although no crime can be proven here, I fear a man’s life may be in danger.” Verner took a long, worrisome breath before adding, “Perhaps I should have gone to Scotland Yard.”

  Joanna flicked her wrist at the notion. “They would have paid little attention to your story. They would have demanded evidence that a crime had been committed or was in progress, and you had none.”

  “But the poor mate was crying out for help,” I argued.