Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [108]
I consulted the news article again, and shook my head. “There is to be an inquest this morning, but as yet there is no indication that the authorities have any inkling who the victim might be. Only that he was male, like the others.”
Holmes glowered. “And doubtless savaged, as well, features ruined.” He shook his head, angrily. “The first bodies attributed to this so-called ‘Dismemberer’ had been killed and mutilated, with the apparent intention of hiding their identities. These more recent victims, though, appear to have been killed by someone who took a positive delight in the act itself.”
I nodded. We’d had opportunity to examine the previous three victims, or rather to examine what remained of them, and Holmes’ assessment was my own. Even the Ripper had only approached such degradations in his final, and most gruesome killing.
I turned the pages of the paper, searching out some bit of news which might raise my friend’s spirits, or distract him for the moment, if nothing else. It was on the sixth page that I found what I was seeking.
“Ah, here is an interesting morsel, Holmes,” I said as casually as I was able. “It is an obituary notice of an Argentinean who, if the story is to be believed, was rather remarkable. Ireneo Funes, dead at the age of twenty-one, is said to have had a memory of such singular character that he could recall anything to which it was exposed. Witnesses are quoted as saying that Funes could recall each day of his life in such detail that the recollection itself took an entire day simply to process.”
Holmes still glowered, but there was a lightening to his eyes that suggested my gambit had met with some small success. “Have I ever told you about Merridew, Watson?” I allowed that he hadn’t. “He was a stage performer I once saw, while traveling in America as a younger man. A mentalist performing under the name ‘Merridew the Memorialist,’ he appeared to have total recall. I myself saw him read two pages at a time, one with each eye, and then a quarter of an hour later recite with perfect accuracy texts he had glimpsed for only a moment.”
Had I but known of Pliny’s list of prodigious memories, Doctor Rhys, I might have suggested this Merridew for inclusion in the rolls. As it was, Holmes and I mused about the vagaries of memory for a brief moment before our discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a guest.
Our housekeeper Mrs. Hudson ushered the man into our sitting room. Holmes recognized him at a glance, but it wasn’t until our visitor introduced himself as one Mr. Dupry that I knew him. A scion of a vast family fortune, Dupry was one of the wealthiest men in London, and in fact in the whole of the British Empire.
“Mr. Holmes,” Dupry said, dispensing with any pleasantries. “I want to engage your services to investigate a theft.”
Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his interest piqued. “What is it that’s been stolen, Mr. Dupry.”
“Nothing,” Dupry answered. “Not yet, at any rate. I’m looking to you to make sure that remains the case.”
Holmes uncrossed his legs, his hands on the armrests of his chair. “I’ll admit that you have me intrigued. Please continue.”
Dupry went on to relate how a number of his peers and business associates — Tomlinson, Elton, Coville, Parsons, and Underhill — had in recent months been the victims of bank fraud. Someone had gained access to privileged financial information and used it against their interests. The amounts stolen from Tomlinson and Elton had been so relatively small as to remain unnoticed for some time, while the funds taken from Coville and Parsons were more substantial, but poor Underhill had been rendered all but destitute. After seeing so many of his contemporaries fall victim to the machinations of parties unknown, Dupry felt certain it was only a matter of time before he himself became a target, and thus his interest in securing the services of Sherlock Holmes.
Suffice it to say, Holmes took the case.