Sherlock Holmes And The Alien Abduction Read online

  Here Miss Louisa stopped speaking, while the little fine lace handkerchief was nervously twisted faster than ever. She was white as a sheet, and quite unable to go on. Holmes looked at her with that peculiar fascination he had for what was coming. From experience we both knew that by far the most interesting, and probably the key part of the story, was about to be revealed. Certainly it was the most difficult for her to tell. Nothing she had told us so far was responsible for her extreme distress now.

  I knew it was Holmes’s strict policy never to interrupt at this crucial and delicate point. So he sat there with unlit pipe in hand, and giving Miss Louisa his most reassuring look, waited for her to continue. She was obviously very reluctant to proceed, and said nothing.

  Only I knew how urgent Holmes’s need was for her to go on. He sat there looking the perfect picture of patience, nothing was said, and the suspense was unbearable. Imagine my surprise when Miss Louisa turned away from Holmes, and towards me. She blushed a deep red, and then spoke directly to me.

  “Doctor Watson, being a medical man you must have seen and heard many things beyond the general experience. If this were to become public- it would be simply awful, a terrible scandal, it would bring great disrepute upon the Society, and myself. Mr. Albert Fletcher has always been a man of sober habits, a man who attends Church every Sunday, and is in good standing with the Society. There was never any idea that…” and here she stopped, her hands fluttering upward helplessly like white caged birds, quite unable to continue. Then Holmes motioned for me to reassure her. There was no mistaking his surreptitious but clear gesture. Holmes was directing me to help her continue, and I did as he indicated.

  “Yes, Miss Hotchkiss, I am a medical man, and as you rightly say, I have seen and heard many unusual things. A man of my considerable experience will not be surprised by anything you tell me. Please, by all means, please continue.”

  Before she spoke I saw written plain on her face the dreadful thing was a terrible burden, a burden of such terribly heavy weight, that she desperately needed to share it with me, to lighten the burden. And then I saw her face change, and on it was plainly writ her decision to share it with me. Holmes saw it also, and held his breath in anticipation.

  “Dr. Watson,” she said, “according to his sworn statement, admissible in a court of law, they attached a device to his sexual parts, he felt sexual desire, nature proceeded on its course, and they took his reproductive fluid.”

  I had never heard of such a thing, and said so. Holmes was deep in thought. Miss Hotchkiss waited, perplexed but relieved that the dreadful thing had been bared. Finally Holmes spoke.

  “I must see this man, and talk with him about his most unusual experience. We must be off! Watson, come with me. Miss Hotchkiss, I thank you for a most delightful evening, and now perhaps I can repay you by looking into this matter. Good evening!” And Holmes plunged out, with me doing my best to keep up.

  We left so hurriedly my head spun, but then I am accustomed to Holmes’s abruptness with a case before him. A passing coach was hailed, and we were on our way to Cheltenham jail. Holmes remained hunched over in deep thought, entirely absorbed by the matter at hand. Finally he straightened up and spoke to me.

  “What do you make of it, old chap?”

  “Obviously a pint too many. Sleep it off, and all’s good as gold by morning.”

  “Yes, that is possible, but I doubt it. The Society has strict standards for membership. If Mr. Fletcher tippled they would know it, and he would not be a member in good standing. And then there is his most curious story, and strange behavior.”

  “The story is curious enough, I give you that. But I don’t see anything odd about his actions. An angry drunk is not uncommon.”

  “Yes, Watson, that is true” Holmes replied, “but note the out of sequence events. Supposedly he became intoxicated, and then wrote a detailed, coherent statement and signed it. Only afterwards did he become angry and terrified, so much so that he was jailed. While terrified and angry he did not see anything out of the ordinary, so alcohol withdrawal, the usual delirium tremens, is not indicated. As a medical man you are no doubt familiar with the four stages of alcohol intoxication, are you not?”

  “Yes, of course I am. First pleasant euphoria, then anger and the desire to fight, next maudlin sadness with crying, and finally unconsciousness in alcoholic coma, with resolution by either waking or death.”

  “Right you are, old boy, right you are. Note that in this case Mr. Fletcher became emotional after his daze lifted, and experienced terror with anger, a combination unknown in alcohol poisoning. This plus the fact he never experienced the frightening hallucinations of delirium tremens, argues strongly against alcohol intoxication. We must speak with this most unusual man, or more likely, with this not uncommon man who has had a most uncommon experience.”

  Then a strange, faraway look came into Holmes’s eyes, a look I had only seen before with his most puzzling cases, and he said, “Watson, this promises to be a most interesting case. By all means we must speak with Mr. Albert Fletcher as soon as possible. Driver! Make haste!”

  Except for one question Holmes asked me, the rest of our trip was made in silence. He asked me what the distance was between Woking and Cheltenham. One of the maps I carry showed a distance of exactly 20 miles. Holmes directed me to recheck the distance and I found it on another map, which also said 20 miles. There was no doubt about it, the distance between Woking and Cheltenham was 20 miles. When I told Holmes this he gave a little grimace, and said nothing, but I could see the news displeased him, and left him agitated.

  The driver did his best to follow Holmes’s order, and made haste over so many pot holes and ruts in the road, that when we finally arrived at Cheltenham jail, it was none too soon for me; my rear end was sore from the bouncings it had received.

  Cheltenham jail was a gloomy old place, dark and foreboding, lit on the outside by a single lantern whose feeble rays, obscured by the dirty glass, gave only a weak, crepuscular light. We entered and identified ourselves to the single jailer on duty, who seemed an eager enough to please fellow, and then asked to speak with Mr. Albert Fletcher. The jailer surprised me by saying, “happy to oblige you, governor, but you can’t speak with him.” Holmes immediately said sharply, “what do you mean?”

  To which the turnkey replied in a regretful voice, “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t speak with the prisoner, because he’s not able. He’s dead.”

  Holmes’s face showed nothing of the disappointment he felt, and he spoke at once.

  “Well then, we must see the body. My associate is a physician.”

  The turnkey led us to the small cell, and after lighting a candle for us, he unlocked and opened the cell door.

  Holmes asked but one question.

  “When was his death discovered?”

  “About a quarter of an hour ago,” was the jailer’s reply. “If you need something just call out,” and as he was leaving said a local physician would be notified. Then he was gone.

  “So recent!” said Holmes. “If only we had arrived a little earlier.”

  I searched carefully for a pulse, but found none. I put my ear to his bared chest above the heart, and heard nothing. When the small mirror I always carry was held close to his open mouth, there was no sign of condensation on it. Evidently his heart had stopped beating, and he was not breathing. No doubt about it, he was dead.

  My investigation of Mr. Albert Fletcher’s body showed a middle-aged, somewhat corpulent man. His face showed no sign of grog blossoms, and when at Holmes’s request I removed his clothing and examined the body, I saw no alcoholic petechiae. Evidently Mr. Fletcher had not been in the habit of imbibing to excess. I saw no wounds, no blood, or any other signs of foul play. The cause of death was unknown.

  “Examine his sexual parts carefully, Watson. No doubt you are much more familiar with their anatomy than I am.”

  I brought the candle close and made an inspection. All appeared normal; there was no sig
n of disease. On more careful inspection I did see something not normally present, several small scratch marks, Holmes examined them carefully, but said nothing. Then he stood up.

  “Time of death, Watson?”

  “Within the last hour, I should think. Post mortem lividity is not yet evident, the limbs are still supple, and most important, the body is still warm. Yes, death occurred quite recently.”

  “And the cause, Watson?”

  “There’s a mystery,” I replied. “No marks on the body, no evidence of foul play. Too young for a heart attack or stroke, though they are always possible. I simply cannot say. Perhaps the autopsy will shed light on this question”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “the autopsy. I don’t think it will be very helpful, but we will see the results. No stone can be left unturned in our investigation, which now includes Mr. Albert Fletcher’s death. No doubt Miss Hotchkiss will be pained to learn of it. Yet his death will put an end to this matter, there will be no further publicity, and therefore no scandal.”

  An end to the matter? It had hardly begun. I was indignant, Holmes’s statement baffled me, but I said nothing. Two days later, when Holmes explained how the man died, and the reason for his death, I understood that the publicity, having nothing further to feed on, would soon end. And so it did.

  Holmes made arrangements for the dead man’s statement to be copied, and the copy delivered to us. Then it was back to the coach, and after another long, but not so fast and bumpy ride, for which I was very grateful, to bed. It had been a long and difficult night. Strange unknown things, all silvery, disturbed my sleep.

  Next morning I woke tired, but eager to assist Holmes. He asked me to look into a matter related to the case, to verify the times involved. To do this I was required to visit both Woking and Cheltenham, and this took the entire day and part of the evening. After conveying my information to Holmes by messenger, I went to sleep, and this time slept soundly.

  The next day I awoke refreshed, and over scrambled eggs and bacon I asked Holmes what progress, if any, had been made on the case. I was especially interested in the cause of death, and specifically asked about it. For a man not yet old, and in good health, to die under those circumstances- the jail cell bars that kept him in, also served to keep danger out. Foul play was unlikely, and we had found no sign of it. Death due to a natural cause was also unlikely. On careful examination nothing unusual had been found. The cause of death was extremely puzzling.

  Imagine my surprise when Holmes said this in reply to my question regarding the cause of death.

  “I have it here, Watson. Here is the cause of death,” And Holmes handed me a little glassine envelope. Inside was a wet mass of dark brown shredded material.

  “Well, what do you make of it, old man?” Holmes asked cheerily, and then looked at me expectantly. I studied the material intently, but for the life of me could not make it out. Holmes said nothing. Finally it came to me that it looked like seaweed, and I said so.

  Holmes was pleased by my answer.

  “Bravo, old fellow, not bad,” he said. “You are not so far off. This material is of vegetable origin, but it has never seen the sea, though it is quite wet, as you observe. Wet with fresh, not salt water. A simple test on it with silver nitrate for chloride being negative, we can conclude it is wet with fresh, not salt water, for salt water is rich in sodium chloride, the chemical name for salt.”

  “So,” I said, “it is of vegetable origin and wet with fresh water. That leaves only a million possibilities. What the devil is it?”

  “Observe, Watson, I tease out a few pieces and show them to you. What do you see?”

  I said I saw little thin shreds, much longer than wide, somewhat uniform in size. This again pleased Holmes, and he again responded enthusiastically.

  “Capital, Watson, capital. What we have here are fine uniform thin shreds of vegetable matter soaked in fresh water. Microscopic examination shows they came from leaves. The leaves were dried before shredding. The drying employed a wood fire. “

  This last was a little too much. I asked Holmes how he could tell the drying was by fire, and a wood fire at that, rather than say by gas heat or air?

  “Watson, where there is a wood fire, there is always smoke. Smoke deposits characteristic black particles. They are not very numerous, but more than enough are present to tell the story.”

  “So” I said, “before being wet with water it was dried by a wood fire, and then finely shredded. The purpose of this process eludes me. I haven’t the foggiest. Holmes, what is it all about”

  “Think, Watson, think about it. Why was the leaf shredded so fine? The drying process was obviously to make the fine shredding possible. You cannot finely shred fresh leaf, try to do so and a gummy mass results. Why the fine shredding?”

  Here I paused to think. Like Holmes I too had been a student of chemistry, and it came to me in a flash.

  “The fine shredding, I said, increases the surface area, so the water extraction of the leaf is more efficient”.

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “no doubt the extraction process applied to this material was in fact made more efficient by the fine shredding. And you are also correct in saying the purpose of the shredding is to increase the surface area. However the extraction process to which this material was applied, is not its intended use. The shredding’s purpose is not to make an extraction process more efficient.”

  These words of Holmes shed no light whatsoever for me on the matter. The material’s nature and function, if any other than to confuse me, remained a complete mystery, and I said so..

  “My dear Watson,” said Holmes, “you surprise me.” The material we are discussing is not rare or unusual. In fact it is an item of commerce. Common commerce.”

  Item of common commerce! I could barely restrain myself.

  “Holmes,” I said, “for the love of God you must tell me what it is at once. At once!”

  “So I shall, Watson, so I shall, and at once, as you so forcefully request. But before I do, have you anything further to add towards the solution of this mystery? Anything at all?”

  “Not a thing. If I may be allowed a pun, not a shred more can I add towards the solution of this mysterious material’s identity. Holmes, please do tell me what it is, before I burst. You must tell me at once”

  “Watson, I shall do as you demand. But rather than tell you, I will show you. Your own eyes will provide everything necessary.”

  I impatiently waited for the coming revelation. Holmes spoke.

  “Concerning this material, Watson, I believe you have some right there, in your vest pocket. Be a good fellow and check in there.”

  I did as Holmes directed. I put my finger in the pocket and found nothing unusual there. “Nothing there,” I said.

  “Not quite, old fellow, not quite. I have observed your habits for some time now, and in fact there is something there. Don’t you feel it? Come now, check again in your vest pocket.”

  Again I put my finger in the pocket. Nothing was there except my old drawstring pouch. I said as much.

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “only that. Please do take it out.”

  I removed my little drawstring tobacco pouch and laid it on the table.

  “But,” I said, “that is only my tobacco pouch. You can’t mean that-.”

  “Precisely, old fellow, precisely. That is just what I mean.”

  “But,” I said, “there is only tobacco in there. You aren’t saying that…but it’s dry, not wet. I don’t understand”

  “What you say is quite correct,” said Holmes. “The material in your tobacco pouch is dry, and this specimen of tobacco I showed you is quite wet. But consider for a moment from where I obtained this wet specimen of tobacco.”

  “May the Devil take it, just where did you get it from?”

  ‘It came from poor Mr. Fletcher’s teapot. From where he made the deadly brew that killed him. Did you not notice he had been served tea?”

  “Yes, now that you mention it,
I did see a tea service. That jailer was seemingly an accommodating fellow. Or did he poison Mr. Fletcher?”

  “No, Watson, there was no reason for the jailer to do so. There was no motive for the jailer to kill Mr. Fletcher, and murder without a motive is as likely as a hen’s egg with hair. And, there was no attempt to conceal what happened. The tea service was left out, in plain sight. No doubt Mr. Fletcher poisoned himself. His death was a suicide.”

  “But,” I asked, “how do you know for sure that Mr. Fletcher was not given the tobacco extract in his tea by the turnkey, or perhaps someone else, and drank it unknowingly?”

  “Watson, Mr. Albert Fletcher could not drink tobacco extract in his tea unknowingly, because the taste is extremely unpleasant, it is very bitter. In his agitated state of mind he must have wanted to escape the memory of his terrible experience so badly, that death was preferable. He died of acute nicotine poisoning. A fact only we will know.”

  Holmes reflected on that for a moment, and then went on.

  “At autopsy the brown liquid stomach contents will no doubt be passed off as tea, and with no signs of foul play, death will be certified as due to natural causes, and left at that. By now the teapot’s contents have been discarded, and it and the teacup are no doubt washed, and ready for service again. All the evidence other than ours has been destroyed. I was careful to leave some tobacco in the teapot, more than enough for identification, should the idea of looking there ever occur to the authorities. Oh, what fools they are! Watson, scientific crime investigation is still in its infancy.”

  However I was not yet fully convinced, and gave voice to my doubts.