The Adventure of the Whistling Ghost
Of all the cases that I have chronicled over
the years few have been as striking as the strange affair at Vortigern House. A
tale of mystery, intrigue and tragedy, I always wished to recount it to my
reading public but I solemnly promised I would refrain from doing so to the
participants of the case at its culmination. However, this sanction has now
been lifted upon the sad death of the head of the family whose daughter has
allowed for me to release it now.
It was Christmas 1889, and London was full of
festive cheer. Although not a particular advocate of the additional festivities
that have adorned the special day of late, I could not help being moved by the
rosy glow on all the fair city’s citizens I passed. Everyone seemed to be
taking Christmas to heart. I went under this jovial supposition until I reached
Baker Street, the abode of my dear friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.
My wife Mary was away on a visit for the week
and so I had decided to stay with Holmes until she returned. When I arrived I
found Mrs Hudson had decked my friend’s rooms in colourful paper decorations
which made Holmes’s languorous figure, draped over the sofa and attired in his
favourite dressing gown, rather incongruous.
‘This Christmas has been frightfully full of
tedium, Watson,’ he told me, once I had settled back into my old lodgings. ‘Do
you remember that year when we were blessed with that case of the Blue
Carbuncle in the goose? Of course you do, you chronicled it in the Strand, I believe. Well, this year
has brought no such case. I have had nothing brought to me. No improbable
murder, nor seemingly-illogical theft, nor even a simple cipher to crack. I
curse the lack of good crime this season brings.’
‘Oh, Holmes,’ I retorted. ‘What about good will
to all men?’
‘If good will at this time of year means no
crime then I say goodbye to Christmas!’
‘You know, you sound like Dicken’s very own
Ebeneezer Scrooge.’
Holmes glanced at me with the smallest fraction
of a smile. ‘Bah humbug.’
‘Could it be, Watson, that the Ghost of Christmas Present has brought me a gift after all?’
Momentarily, the door to our study opened and a young dark-haired woman dressed in fine clothes entered. Her apparel and overall well-kempt appearance told that she was a woman with wealth in her family.
As I rose to greet her and show her to a chair, I noticed a sly smile crease Holmes’ face. ‘I trust that your problem is important as you have made the journey from Kent and left the arms of your beloved to come here.’
The young girl looked astounded. ‘I don’t understand. Has my mother sent you a telegram?’
‘No, my dear, I merely deduced it. I noticed, as you sat down, the soil on your shoes is both fresh and of unmistakeable Kentish origin – you remember Watson that I once wrote a short monograph on the subject - while your betrothal I assumed from your stature.’
‘My stature, sir?’
‘Yes. Although you recently suffered a period of strife - the slight, probably unconscious hanging of your head tells me that – you still hold yourself with that singular confidence which only those in the first throws of love have.’ I was a little astounded myself at this as Holmes very rarely touched upon the subject of love. It had always occurred to me that such feelings were alien to him but now and again he would mention something that shed a dim light on his soul.
‘Well, Mr Holmes, I see that Dr Watson does not exaggerate your genius in his stories. Maybe you can work out what on Earth is happening to my family.’ The girl paused here, as if she were struggling to speak. ‘Mr Holmes, my house is being haunted by a phantom.’
The girl saw the sceptical – almost mocking look – on my friend’s face. Regular readers of these incoherent memoirs may remember our previous client who claimed to be pursued by the supernatural in the form of a Hound which had of course turned out to be a very mortal mutt. Holmes had not believed in such superstition then and clearly was not about to now.
‘Then if it is not a phantom, how can a man disappear into thin air?’
My friend’s expression changed. ‘Pray tell us what has happened from the start. Leave no detail untold.’
‘Well, my name is Rosemary White and I am from Kent as you correctly guessed. My father, Ignatius White, came into some wealth before my birth and so my childhood was one of privilege and happiness, passing with little strife or turmoil. However, the last few weeks have contained enough for a lifetime.
‘I have lived all nineteen years of my life in
a manor house near Rochester, it is known as Vortigern House; an old place with
much history. The traditional owners, the Vortigern family ruled over the
parish for generations and are still remembered locally for their ruthless,
unkind treatment of the townsfolk. Many stories have evolved around the
Vortigerns and their house; some say the old Lord Vortigern’s ghost still
haunts it. A short while ago I would have laughed at the idea but not now.
‘Sometime during the last month, one night I
heard the strangest sound; a long, high whistling. At first I thought it merely
the wind blowing throw the trees outside my window, but it was too melodious; a
melancholic almost morose tune which left me full of dread. I left my room to
alert someone but everyone was already awake having heard the same peculiar
noise, like it had echoed through the house. We sent men around the house to
find the culprit but they found nothing inside or when they searched the
grounds. This certainly unsettled my mother and me but nowhere near as
profoundly as my father. He fell into a terrible nervous state of which was
most troubling to me for I had not seen my father, who is usually so strong and
not in the least superstitious, so terrified.
‘I see,’ interjected Holmes. ‘Ms White, could
you repeat this ominous whistling now for me? It would help to imagine the
scenario.’
‘Yes, of course,’ the girl answered, before
licking her lips and beginning the tune. If the girl’s impersonation was
correct, I can understand how a grown man may be quake from it. It was a
beautiful melody indeed, but thoroughly haunting.
‘Thank you, Ms White.’ Holmes nodded. ‘Continue.’
‘Well gradually, throughout the week, mother
and I restored him to almost full health but exactly seven days after the
first, at midnight, we all heard the same morose tune and again found no soul
anywhere in the grounds. This, of course, sent my father back to his previous
state. The whistling has been heard twice more since, my father now refuses to
leave the house. The strain of looking after my father and the fear of what
kind of power could transform one usually so stout into a nervous wreck any
time he hears it is taking its toll on my mother – we have had to call of our
visit to my aunt as she is bedridden with worry.’
The girl hesitated here, for a second or so her
youth showed and she looked most vulnerable. ‘It is all a grate strain on my
mind; it feels like the world is ceasing to make any sense. Thank God I have
Marcus. That is Marcus Adams; my fiancée of three months whom you guessed
existed earlier.’ The young woman reddened slightly in the cheeks before
climaxing her story. ‘We have called the police but they have found nothing. My
father, a proud man, wished not for you, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, to get
involved, but it is on my mother’s insistence that I come to you today as the
ghost comes every week on this day. Please, will you help us, Mr Holmes?’
Sherlock Holmes sat still in his chair a few
moments before replying; ‘How could I refuse such a most singular case with
several interesting features. We will accompany you on the first train back to
Kent.’ As I glanced at my friend, I noticed an excited glint in his eye that I
was so familiar with when Holmes had a case on his hands. As the man himself
would say ‘the game is afoot!’
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