A Slight Trick of the Mind Read online

  I.

  The Case of Mrs. Ann Keller

  of Fortis Grove

  I recall that it was in the spring of the year of '02, just one month after Robert Falcon Scott's historic balloon flight in Antarctica, that I received a visit from Mr. Thomas R. Keller, a stooped, narrow-shouldered, well-dressed young man. The good doctor had yet to take up his own rooms on Queen Anne Street, but, as it happened, he was away on holiday, lazing at the seaside with the woman who would soon become the third Mrs. Watson. For the first time in many months, our Baker Street flat was all mine. As was my usual custom, I sat with my back to the window and invited my visitor into the opposite armchair, where—from his vantage point—I became obscured by the brightness of the outside light, and he—from mine—was illuminated with perfect clarity. Initially, Mr. Keller appeared uncomfortable in my presence, and he seemed at a loss for words. I made no effort to ease his discomfort, but used his awkward silence instead as an opportunity to observe him more closely. I believe that it is always to my advantage to give clients a sense of their own vulnerability, and so, having reached my conclusions regarding his visit, I was quick to instil such a feeling in him.

  “There is a great deal of concern, I see, about your wife.”

  “That is correct, sir,” he replied, visibly taken aback.

  “Still, she is an attentive wife, for the better part. I gather, then, it is not her fidelity which is at issue.”

  “Mr. Holmes, how do you know this?”

  His squinting and perplexed expression tried to discern me. And as my client awaited a response, I took it upon myself to ignite one of John's fine Bradley cigarettes, a fair number of which I had pilfered from the stash he kept hidden in his top desk drawer. Then having let the young man dangle long enough, I deliberately exhaled my fumes into the sun's rays while revealing what was so plainly evident to my eye.

  “When a gentleman enters my room in an apprehensive state, and when he toys absently with his wedding ring as he sits before me, it is not hard to imagine the nature of his problem. Your clothes are new and adequately fashioned, but not professionally tailored. You have surely noticed a slight unevenness at your cuffs, or, perhaps, the dark brown thread used at the bottom of your left pants leg, the black thread upon the right. But have you observed the middle button there on your shirt which, while very similar in colour and design, is negligibly smaller than the others? This suggests that your wife has done the job for you, and that she has been diligent enough to do her best even when lacking the proper materials. As I have said, she is attentive. Why do I think it is your wife's handiwork? Well, you are a young man of modest means, clearly married, and your card has already shown me that you are a junior accountant at Throckmorton & Finley's. It would be a rare thing to meet a starting accountant with a maid and a housekeeper, would it not?”

  “Nothing escapes you, sir.”

  “I possess no unseen powers, I can assure you, but I have learned to pay attention to what is obvious. Even so, Mr. Keller, you did not call upon me this afternoon to ponder my talents. What event transpired Tuesday last and sent you here from your home at Fortis Grove?”

  “This is incredible—” he ejaculated, and again a startled look came over his hollow face.

  “My dear fellow, calm yourself. Your personally delivered letter arrived on my door yesterday—a Wednesday—with your return address, yet it was dated by your own hand on Tuesday. No doubt the letter was written in the night; otherwise, you would have delivered it the same day. As you urgently requested this appointment for today—a Thursday—it would seem that something troublesome and pressing had likely occurred on Tuesday afternoon or evening.”

  “Yes, I wrote the letter on Tuesday night after reaching my end with Madame Schirmer. Not only is she given to meddling in my marriage but she also threatened to have me arrested—”

  “To have you arrested, really?”

  “Yes, those were her last words to me. She is rather an imposing woman, that Madame Schirmer. A talented musician and teacher by all accounts, but with a manner that is intimidating. I would have summoned a constable myself if it weren't for my dear Ann's sake.”

  “Ann is your wife, I take it.”

  “Quite so.”

  The young man took from his waistcoat a cabinet photograph and, thrusting his hand forwards, offered it for my inspection.

  “This is she, Mr. Holmes.”

  I leaned up in my armchair. With a quick, all-comprehensive glance, I saw the features and figure of a woman of twenty-three—a single cocked eyebrow, a reluctant half smile. Yet the face was stern, giving her the appearance of one who was older than her years.

  “Thank you,” I said, looking up from the photograph. “She has a most unique quality about her. Now pray explain, from the beginning, what it is exactly that I should know about your wife's relationship with this Madame Schirmer.”

  Mr. Keller frowned miserably.

  “I will tell you what I know,” he said, returning the photograph to his waistcoat, “and I hope that you will be able to find reason in it. You see, since Tuesday my brain has been muddled with this problem. I haven't slept very well the past two days, so please be patient with me if my words are unclear.”

  “I shall attempt to be as patient as possible.”

  It was wise of him to forewarn me; for if I had not expected my client's narrative to be, mostly, a rambling and inconsequential statement, then I fear my irritation would have cut him short. As it was, I readied myself by reclining into my armchair while bringing my fingertips together, and tilted my head towards the ceiling so as to listen with the greatest concentration of attention.

  “You may begin.”

  He inhaled deeply before proceeding.

  “My wife—Ann—and I were married just over two years ago. She was the only daughter of the late Colonel Bane—her father having died while she was still an infant, killed in Afghanistan during Ayub Khan's uprising—and she was raised by her mother in East Ham, where we met as children. You cannot envision a lovelier girl, Mr. Holmes. Even then I was taken with her, and, in time, we fell in love—the kind of love which is based on friendship and partnership and a desire to share both lives as if they were one. We were married, of course, and soon moved into the house at Fortis Grove. For a while, it seemed that nothing could disrupt the harmony of our little home. I do not exaggerate by saying ours was an ideal, joyful union. Obviously, there came a few rough periods, such as the protracted illness of my own dying father and the unexpected passing of Ann's mother, but we had each other, and that made all the difference. Our happiness increased when we learned of Ann's pregnancy. Then six months later, she had a sudden miscarriage. Five months after that, she was pregnant again, but soon miscarried once more. This second time, there was an excessive amount of bleeding, a haemorrhage, which nearly took her from me. While in hospital, our doctor informed her that she was probably incapable of having a baby and that any further attempts at childbirth would likely kill her. Thereafter, she began to change. These miscarriages upset and occupied her obsessively. At home, she turned somewhat morose, Mr. Holmes, despondent and indifferent, and, she told me, losing our babies was her greatest trauma.

  “My antidote for her malaise was the therapeutic activity of a new preoccupation. For mental and emotional reasons alike, I thought she should take up a hobby to fill the void in her life—which I feared was growing deeper. Among my recently deceased father's possessions was an antique glass armonica. It had been a gift from his great-uncle, who, my father claimed, had purchased the instrument from Etienne-Gaspard Robertson, the famous Belgian inventor. In any case, I took the armonica home for Ann, and, with a fair amount of reluctance on her part, she finally agreed to at least give the instrument a try. Our upstairs attic is quite roomy and comfortable—we had once talked of making it the bedroom for our child—and so it was a natural environment for a tiny music den. I even polished and refurbished the armonica's casing, replaced the old spindle so the gl
asses would nest more securely inside each other, and fixed the foot treadle, which had been damaged years earlier. But what little interest Ann had summoned for the instrument waned almost completely from the start. She didn't like being alone in the attic, and she found it difficult creating music on the armonica. She was also bothered by the curious tones produced by the glasses as her fingers slid across their brims. The resonance of them, she explained, made her all the more sad.

  “Except I wouldn't have it. You see, I believed that the advantages of the armonica were in its tones, and that these tones far surpassed the beauty of any other instrument's sound. If performed properly, its music can increase and diminish at ease by just the pressure of fingers, and its wondrous tones can be sustained for any length. No, I wouldn't have it, and I knew that if Ann could only hear the instrument played by another—a person with training and skill—then she might feel differently towards the glasses. As it happened, an associate of mine remembered attending a public recital of Mozart's Adagio and Rondo for Armonica, Flute, Oboe, Viola, and Cello, but he could only say for certain that the performance was held in a small flat above a bookstore on Montague Street, somewhere near the British Museum. Of course, I didn't need a detective to help track down the place, and so, without much footwork, I found myself inside Portman's Booksellers & Map Specialists. The proprietor then directed to me a flight of stairs which led to the very flat where my friend had heard the armonica played. I have since regretted climbing those stairs, Mr. Holmes. At the time, however, I was rather excited about who might greet me after I knocked on the door.”

  Mr. Thomas R. Keller looked like the sort of man who it would be tempting to bully for fun. His boyish manner was sheepish and his wavering, soft voice carried a slight lisp as he spoke.

  “And here, I take it, is where your Madame Schirmer is introduced,” I said before lighting up another cigarette.

  “Quite. It was she who answered the door—a very solid, manly woman, although not really corpulent—and while she is German, my first impression of her was still rather favourable. Without asking my business, she invited me into her flat. She had me sit in her drawing room, and I was given tea. I believe she just assumed I was seeking music instruction from her, for the room itself was lined with instruments of all kinds, including two beautiful, fully restored armonicas. I knew then that I'd found the right place—I was charmed by Madame Schirmer's graciousness, her obvious love of the instrument—so I made my reasons for coming there known: I explained about my wife, the tragedy of the miscarriages, how I had taken the armonica into our house to help ease Ann's suffering, and how the enchantment of the glasses had proved elusive to her, et cetera. Madame Schirmer listened patiently, and when I was finished, she suggested I bring Ann in for lessons. I couldn't have been more pleased, Mr. Holmes. All I had wanted, truly, was for Ann to hear the instrument played well by someone else, so this suggestion of hers exceeded my hopes. Initially, we agreed on ten lessons—twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, full payment in advance—with Madame Schirmer offering a reduced fee because, she told me, my wife's situation was a special one. This was on a Friday. The following Tuesday, Ann would begin her lessons.

  “Montague Street isn't terribly far from where I live. Instead of taking a carriage, I decided to walk home and give Ann the good news. But we ended up in a minor row, and I would have cancelled the lessons that day if I hadn't believed they might be beneficial for her. I arrived, to find the house quiet and the curtains drawn. When I called out for Ann, there was no reply. After searching the kitchen and our bedroom, I went into the study, and that's where I discovered her—dressed entirely in black, as if in mourning, with her back turned away from the door, staring idly at a bookcase while remaining perfectly still. The room was so dim, she appeared like a shadow, and when I spoke her name, she did not move to face me. I became very concerned, Mr. Holmes, that her mental state was worsening at an accelerated pace.

  “‘You're home already,' said she in a tired voice. ‘I wasn't expecting you this soon, Thomas.'

  “I explained that I had left work early that afternoon for personal reasons. Then I told her where I'd gone, and I gave her the news about the armonica lessons.

  “‘But you shouldn't have done that on my account. Naturally, you have not asked me if I wish to take these lessons.'

  “‘I assumed you wouldn't mind. It can only do you good; I'm sure of it. It certainly can't be any worse than staying indoors like this.'

  “‘I assume I have no choice.'

  “She glanced at me, and in the darkness, I could just barely see her face.

  “‘Am I not allowed any say in the matter?' she asked.

  “‘Of course, you are, Ann. How can I make you do something you don't wish to do? But will you at least attend one lesson and hear Madame Schirmer play for you? If afterwards you'd rather not continue, I won't insist.'

  “This request silenced her for a moment. She slowly pivoted around towards me and then lowered her head to stare at the floor. When she at last looked up, I saw the faint expression of someone who felt defeated by all, and who would acquiesce to anything, regardless of her true feelings.

  “‘All right, Thomas,' said she, ‘if you want me to take a lesson, I won't fight you on it, but I hope you won't expect much from me. It is you, after all, who loves the sound of the instrument, not I.'

  “‘I love you, Ann, and I want you to be happy again. We both deserve at least that.'

  “‘Yes, yes, I know. I am awfully troubling of late. I must tell you, however, that I no longer believe that something like happiness exists for me. I fear every individual has an inner life, with its own complications, which sometimes cannot be articulated, regardless of how one might try. So all I ask is that you be tolerant of me, and allow me the time I need to better understand myself. Meanwhile, I shall take that single lesson, Thomas, and I pray my doing so will satisfy me as much as I know it will satisfy you.'

  “Fortunately—or unfortunately now—I was proven right, Mr. Holmes. After one lesson from Madame Schirmer, my wife began seeing the armonica in a more favourable light. How delighted I was with her newfound appreciation for the instrument. In fact, it seemed that by her third or fourth lesson she had made a miraculous transformation of spirit. Gone was her morbidity, as well as the listlessness which had often kept her bedridden. I admit it: During those days, I regarded Madame Schirmer as something of a godsend, and my esteem for her was unequalled. So several months later, when my wife asked if the lessons could be increased from one hour to two hours, I agreed without hesitation—especially since she had greatly improved on the glasses. Moreover, I was pleased at the many hours—afternoons and nights, sometimes an entire day—she devoted to mastering the armonica's varying tones. Besides learning Beethoven's ‘Melodrama,' she developed an incredible ability to improvise her own pieces. These compositions of hers, however, were the most unusual, melancholic music I have ever heard. They were imbued with a sadness which, as she practised alone in the attic, permeated the entire house.”

  “This is all very interesting, in a roundabout way,” I interjected, stopping his narrative, “but what—if I may kindly press you—are your exact reasons for calling upon me today?”

  I could see that my client was dismayed by the sharpness of my interruption. I stared at him in an emphatic fashion, and then I composed myself, with my lids drooping and fingertips once more together, to hear the relevant facts of his problem.

  “If you will allow me,” he stammered, “I was just getting to that, sir. As I said, since beginning with Madame Schirmer, my wife's state of mind bettered—or at least it appeared so at first. Yet I began to sense a certain detachment in her manner, a kind of absentmindedness and an inability to engage in any prolonged conversation. In short, I soon realised that while Ann seemed to be doing well on the surface, there was something still amiss within her. I believed it was simply her preoccupation with the armonica which had distracted her, and, I hoped, she w
ould eventually come around. But this was not to happen.

  “Initially, it was just a few things I noticed—plates waiting to be washed, meals half-cooked or badly burnt, our bed left unmade. Then Ann began spending the majority of her waking hours in the attic. Often I stirred to the sound of glasses being played from above, and when I returned from work, I was welcomed home by the same noise. By that point, I had come to detest those tones which I had once enjoyed. Then, aside from our meals together, there were days that passed when I rarely caught sight of her—she would join me in our bed once I had fallen asleep, leaving at dawn, before I arose—but there was always that music, those plaintive, unending tones. It was enough to drive me mad, Mr. Holmes. The preoccupation had, in effect, become an unhealthy obsession, and I blame Madame Schirmer for that.”

  “Why is she responsible?” I asked. “Surely she isn't privy to the domestic problems of your household. She is, after all, only the music teacher.”

  “No, no, she is more than that, sir. She is, I fear, a woman with dangerous beliefs.”

  “‘Dangerous beliefs'?”

  “Yes. They are dangerous to those who are desperately seeking hope of some sort, and who are susceptible to ludicrous falsehoods.”

  “And your wife falls into such a category of person?”

  “I'm sorry to say she does, Mr. Holmes. To a fault, Ann has always been a very sensitive, trusting woman. It's as if she was born to feel and experience the world more acutely than the rest of us. It is both her greatest strength and weakness; if recognised by someone with devious intentions, this delicate quality can be easily exploited—and that's what Madame Schirmer has done. Of course, I didn't realise it for a long while—I was oblivious, in fact, until recently.

  “You see, it was a typical evening. As is our custom, Ann and I dined quietly together, and, having swallowed a scant few bites, she promptly excused herself to go practise in the attic—this, too, had become customary. But something else was to occur soon thereafter: For earlier that day at my office—as a gift for resolving some complications with his private account—a client of mine had sent me a precious bottle of Comet wine. My intention was to surprise Ann with the wine during our supper, except, as I mentioned, she went quickly from the table before I could retrieve the bottle. So, instead, I decided to take the wine to her. With the bottle and two wineglasses in hand, I proceeded up the attic stairs. By then, she had already started playing the armonica, and its sound—extremely low tones, monotonous and sustained—transmitted its way into my body.