Hemlock Thrones: Dulcy, and ‘The Case of 6’

By Mark Druck

Hemlock Th rones, he who discerns
Let us say you are a detective in the Victorian
age of 1899 how do you go about solving
a crime? Well, lets see: you do not have a
telephone, an auto, fi ngerprints, crime labs,
computer but you are blessed with the ability
to read people, and undress their body language
even before they themselves,
know what they are wearing. Is that enough
for Th e Case of Six? It is very complicated! Are
you able to analyze what was done, how it was
accomplished, and put it all together with your
ability to.discern the motive, fi nd the parts, fi t
them into the puzzle?
If you can do all those things you are
Hemlock Th rones. And your friend, Doctor
Marco Marconi, told this story about lovely,
tormented Dulcy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479793396

Mark Druck

Mark Druck is a playwright produced Off-Off-Broadway, author of four novels, film scriptwriter, director for stage and camera Established MARK DRUCK PRODUCTIONS, 1969, producing Industrial films/videos & TV commercials. Listed in ‘Who’s Who In Entertainment,’ ‘Who’s Who In America,’ & ‘Who’s Who In The World.’ Flew with 38th Bomb Group, in B25s, coming in on missions at altitudes as low as 20 feet over targets at 350 mph. He served in the Air Force Reserve through Korea and Viet Nam, retiring as a Major. One of the first officers to land on Kyushu following the surrender to find Japanese civilians terrified, for they had been propagandized for years that US troops were monsters. He was arguably one of the first Americans to visit the original Geisha Houses in Fukuoka. The characters in this story are based on his experiences, & upon a story he heard at that time, which was probably not true, but fascinated by the revealing relationships between the two peoples in those earliest days of American soldiers in Japan.

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Copyright © 2013 by Mark Druck.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013902571

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-4797-9338-9

                Softcover     978-1-4797-9337-2

                Ebook           978-1-4797-9339-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. Date: 05/28/2013

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Contents

Foreword

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Hemlock Thrones, Prince of Discernment

Foreword

Before the days of telephones, automobiles, airplanes,

fingerprints, crime labs, DNA, there was the famous

sleuth, who studied body language, clues, motives.

He became world-known as "The Prince of Discernment."

He could read people, discern what they did, predict what

they wanted, even how far they would go to accomplish it.

Hemlock Thrones, alive in 1899, a gentleman of

manners, speech, clothes; he discerned – with a

skill and finesse that astounded even his enemies.

He was created to dramatize the solving of crimes

in the most fascinating empire since the Roman Empire,

when Victorian Age England ruled the world, when ‘the sun

never set on the British Empire.’ His unique skill as "The Prince

of Discernment" was tested when met with the challenges of "The

Case of six,’ and the dilemma of Dulcy and her father who loved her.

*     *     *

 1

I WOKE TO FIND Hemlock Thrones standing near my bed. He was fully dressed. I sought to blink sleep from my eyes. I looked at the clock. Seven fifteen, Thrones.

Seven sixteen, Marconi.

Is something amiss? I said. Although Thrones often was an early riser, I was accustomed to sleeping in.

Mrs O’Brien knocked me up to tell me there is a young woman waiting in the sitting-room.

There is often some person or other waiting to see you.

According to Mrs O’Brien, the young lady was terribly anxious, while all the while trying valiantly to pretend that she was completely calm.

I shall be ready. Give me fifteen minutes.

Try to cut that to twelve, Thrones said. He often found persons who were in a considerable state of excitement, waiting for him. When a young lady knocks up sleepy people at this hour, I can only presume there is something pressing. Thrones read my thoughts: reading swiftly efficiently a person’s thoughts, body movements, attitudes, had become the hallmark of the genius of Hemlock Thrones. I wish to have you there, when I meet her. As I entered the sitting-room, he was standing by the window with puffs of smoke dancing from his pipe. How he was smoking, generally indicated to me how intrigued Thrones was. What are you thinking, Thrones?

It is raining. Steady rain.

Something on your mind is tweaking you. And I perceive it is not the rain.

I feel, Marconi, he looked out the window, that this matter will be complex, in the utmost.

Having heard our voices, Mrs O’Brien opened the door. Mr Thrones. The young lady. There entered a young lady, perhaps 25, average height. Dark hair. Pretty face with brown eyes, which were red with crying. Her appearance could best be described as clean and neat, presenting a well-turned-out person of genteel life. I could not ascertain whether she was terribly sad, or seething with anger.

I am Doctor Marconi, and this is Hemlock Thrones.

Doctor Marconi, she said. Mr Thrones. The handkerchief she held was white Egyptian cotton with broidered edges. I am Mrs Dulcy Nottingham Drumhart. She kept twisting her handkerchief.

Thrones appeared to be less daunting than usual. I detected an honest effort to seem pleasant, if not actually friendly. Mrs Drumhart. He nodded his head quickly, one time.

Do make yourself comfortable, I said.

She stepped toward the chair near the door, but Thrones gestured to the armchair near the fireplace. You will be comfortable in this chair, Mrs Drumhart. She hesitated, weighed whether to follow his advice, but crossed the room to the chair he indicated. He remained near the window, studying her as she placed herself in the armchair; when she looked up at him, as he stood, with the day light from the window behind him, his image would be diffused. He was a dramatic person, always aware of how to organize instances that provided their own theatricality. In that setting, I surmised he appeared to her as a formidable, blurred image with steady rain and the London fog behind him. I am glad Mrs O’Brien had the good sense to light a fire in the fireplace. I shall order you up a cup of tea, for I observe you are shivering.

She began to speak, then paused. Took a deep breath. When she spoke, it was in a voice so soft we could scarcely hear her. It’s my father.

I waited for Thrones to speak. He did not. I asked her, What is wrong with him?

I am most reluctant to speak of it, she said. I looked to Thrones, who suddenly had become concerned for his briar. I made a promise to come to see you, she snapped off the words, but I have done so against my will!

You came in your own coach, Thrones said. I see it in the street, with a coachman sitting inside. Is that yours?

Yes.

Your father is a man of means, Thrones said, and your husband is not,

How do you know that? she said.

It has been raining all morning. Your coat is perfectly dry. Even your shoes are dry, though the street is wet. Your coachman is in your family’s employ and saw to it you were sheltered from the rain. Your father is a man of means, he loves you, which is why he offered his expensive coach and coachman today to bring you to my door, despite, as you have indicated, you and he have had a disagreement.

Oh my. She sounded like a child, discovered with her hand in the cookie jar.

Meanwhile, you wear a coat, which is of staple middle class quality, not the sort that a man of means would prefer to see his daughter wear when in London, which reveals that your husband is not a man of means.

Yes, she said.

Who was it who wanted you to come to see me? Thrones said.

It was my father.

And your husband? Did he approve?

Oh no! Heavens, no!

Friction between your husband and your father. Which means you did not marry the man your father wished you to marry.

He hates my husband.

Oh my, I said. Thrones directed a glance of disapproval at me.

Even worse, my father has placed me directly in the middle of it all! He forced me to come here! I did not wish to come to you, Mr Thrones, but my father is a man who refuses to be disobeyed! He was angry with me when I told him I would not come to see you because it would be disloyal to Henry, and I could not be a disloyal wife; I have never been disloyal to anyone in my whole life, and it was unfair of him to insist that I come here to see you!

Thrones puffed his briar vigorously, leveled his gaze at her. I feared that Thrones might withdraw his obvious interest in her problem. Thrones’ gaze caused her to feel uncomfortable. She shifted about in the chair. "Father would not allow me to refuse to come here today!"

My dear Marconi, apparently that mysterious feeling of mine has a life of its own.

What feeling, Sir? she said.

I had the sensation this morning that someone was coming to attempt to persuade me to become involved in a situation in which I have absolutely no inclination to do so.

She was on her feet! "Oh, please, Mr Thrones, you must become involved! Father would not have it any other way! She suddenly halted, and her voice was low and revealed once again that she was a well-brought-up young woman. But – but, please, Mr. Thrones, do get involved! My husband has to solve all those crimes all by himself!"

Those? I said. How many are there?

What does your husband have to do with… crimes? Thrones said.

He is a detective in Charleston Manor. She paused for another shallow breath. He has the responsibility for solving those demandable robberies! She sat down.

Puffing slower, Thrones stood before the window. Young lady, you have been unhappy for a long while. A simple disagreement with your father, would have been of short duration. You have been crying for a number of days. And nights.

Do you know Charleston Manor, Mr Thrones?

Thrones said, Charleston Manor. A community of great wealth and old families. She nodded. What brought the relationship between your husband and your father to a point where you felt you had to accommodate your father and come to ask for my help?

Not even one of the robberies has been solved! I suppose I must have registered a sort of gasp. She turned her wide eyes to me. There have been six, she told me. I felt she did not wish to look at Thrones in that moment, inasmuch as he had surprised her with information he had discerned about her so swiftly. "The Case of 6. Six homes have been burgled! My father has no faith