The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “And the supposed burglary?” I said.

  “It was my idea,” said Wargrave. “I hoped to suggest that the killer came from the outside, so that the police would search amongst the masses rather than within the closed household.”

  Holmes nodded. “And so they would, if it had not been for the bad luck of Collins seeing you.”

  “Even if I had looked him in the eye, I would never have known him.”

  “No, your nature shows that much is evident, sir,” said Holmes. “Of the murderers I have confronted in my career, you pair are amongst the worst. Your indiscriminate disregard for human life in all its variety disgusts me beyond your greed. You may have appeared to cheat death once before, Wargrave, but I promise you that you shall not do so once that rope is around your neck.”

  He moved back to the window and opened it. Within seconds, the shrill cry of his police whistle declared that there would be no more words spoken on the matter and that the wheels of justice must begin to turn.

  Late that night, we sat together on either side of the fireplace in our Baker Street rooms. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke, and we sipped our brandy with the comfortable silence of a close comradeship. At last, as we were knocking out the ashes of our pipes, Holmes turned to me.

  “It seems to me, Watson, that the motives and desires of mankind are very possibly insoluble mysteries, although these little problems which come to our door offer an opportunity to attempt to understand those larger questions whose answers will only be known when our time of grace has come.”

  The Case of the Waterguard

  By Jan Edwards

  There had been little chance to approach Mr. Holmes in the hurly-burly of packing. For a man who claimed not to care about the past, he was mightily attached to all of the knick-knacks and gee-gaws picked up in his years as a consulting detective; and as he kept reminding us, his intention of writing on the science and logic of crime would require reference material. Finally, however, as evening came around, some sort of quiet returned to Baker Street.

  I waited until Mrs. Hudson had served supper and the maid was clearing away before I approached Mr. Holmes for his advice.

  He puffed at his pipe and regarded me carefully. “So, young Billy, what is this burden you are carrying?”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Yes, you. You have been distracted all afternoon. I assume it has something to do with the letter in your pocket?”

  My hand strayed to the envelope without thinking. “How did—”

  “I can detect the outline quite clearly. You’ve developed brawn, as a young man should, but your button-boy livery was sewn for a stripling.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Hand it over.”

  I did so, hardly daring to breathe, and pondered on the fact that I would be the last in a long line of people who had sat or stood in this very room waiting for the judgement of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as he read.

  Dear Billy.

  I’ve no easy way to say this so I’ll be quick. Your old dad’s banged up in Lewes Gaol. Murdered a waterguard from the Customs Service, so they say, though he swears he never done it. We knows you don’t owe Caleb nothing. The Lord knows he’s not been any kind of father, but I heard your Mr. Holmes is going down that way soon, and if he can’t help then your pa’ll be dancing on a rope come the new year.

  I haven’t told your grandma as I think it’ll finish her off. If you can you find it in your heart to ask Mr. Holmes, at the very least the Good Lord will bless you for all your days.

  In hope.

  Your loving aunt,

  Violet Thomkins

  “You’ve never met your father?” Mr. Holmes said at last.

  “He went to sea when I was in the cradle.”

  “Yet your family are convinced of his innocence?”

  I shrugged. “Aunt Vi thinks so.”

  “Then perhaps we should go and see for ourselves.” He smiled at my surprise. “I suspect Mrs. Hudson will oversee the carriers moving our belongings far more efficiently without our help. We can catch the six-fifteen to Eastbourne, alight at Lewes, where we shall ascertain the basic facts, reboard the noon train, and still be at the farmhouse before Mrs. Hudson and our furniture arrive.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I can’t tell you how much—”

  “A parting gift for all of your years of service, my boy. I promise nothing at this juncture, but we can at least speak with your wayward father.”

  When we stepped through the doors of Lewes Gaol, it was the stench that struck me first. A pall of old mutton and cabbage that almost, but not quite, covered the stench of humanity at its worst. As we moved further in, it was the noise that assaulted my senses—the clanging of doors and the clattering of buckets and cries of fear and pain laced with a large helping of anger.

  The governor declined to see us himself, but Mr. Holmes and I were guided to a small room close to his office, a mean and grubby space without any windows. At its centre was a table at which sat a small, wiry man. His ankles and wrists were shackled; his rough-spun prison garb was torn and spattered with blood—old brown patches mixed with fresh bright reds. His head was bowed so that I could see scabs and bruises on his shaven scalp. It was obvious that he had been ill-used, and I glared at the two guards standing over him, their billy clubs drawn.

  “That will do,” said Mr. Holmes and, as he waved the uniformed thugs away, I was not entirely sure he had meant me to stay. He took the only other seat, opposite the prisoner, placing his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled together against his chin. “Mr. Caleb Thomkins,” he said, “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  My father grunted, still staring fixedly at his shackled wrists.

  “I have been asked to look into your case on behalf of your family. I am told that you are charged with the killing of a customs service waterguard. Your sister insists you are not guilty, and I suspect your son here would like to hear that from your own lips.”

  Mr. Holmes sat back as my father slowly raised his head to look at us both. Caleb’s skin was leathery, burned by years of salt and sun. His features were lean and pinched and would have been thinner still had his face not been swollen from a half-dozen livid bruises. “William?” he whispered.

  I could only nod. The man was a stranger to me, yet I could not help but see the family resemblance, despite the injuries, most especially in those silver-grey eyes so like Aunt Vi’s.

  He seemed to recognise my feelings, and the momentary hope that had lit his eyes fell away as he switched his attention back to Mr. Holmes. “I’ve a few mates back in the old streets. They said as the lad works fer you.”

  “Almost ten years now. A bright boy. He’ll go far.”

  “I’m glad of that.” The shackles clattered on scarred wood as he reached as if to touch Mr. Holmes’s hand.

  “Say no more on that. Tell me about this murder.”

  “I never snuffed that waterguard, sir. I swear. I’m no angel, but I ain’t no killer.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “I do not, Mr. Holmes. God’s honest truth.”

  “Yet you were found standing over his body.”

  “I’ll not deny that.” He sighed. “A smuggler I am and I’ll expect time for that, but I’ve never killed that man.”

  “Why Cuckmere Haven? It might be isolated, but there is a coastguard station right there in the shore, is there not? What was your cargo that it was worth such a risk?”

  “Dunno. The captain just told us he’d had special orders.”

  “And the customs office had a squad of waterguards waiting for you that night.”

  “They allus seems to know.”

  Mr. Holmes fixed Caleb with an acid stare. “Tell me what happened. Miss nothing out.” He sat perfectly still, eyes closed now.

  My father glanced at me, and I nodded.

 
; “Well, sir. The beach was quieter ‘n a cat’s paw. Not a soul on the beach, nor along the river. We only had two trunks. Big an’ fancy. Leather-bound, like a toff would have. No idea what was in ’em as warranted the trip.” He shook his shaven head. “It were the dark of the moon, and thick cloud with it, and we could barely see hand to hand, so we come ashore a bit downstream from where we should’ve. Dorrin were at the tiller. He’d said he knew the river, but the lads were cussing him for havin’ to haul those big trunks up the bank and across the marsh a ways.”

  Mr. Holmes didn’t move, nor open his eyes. “And you?” he murmured.

  “I was standing lookout. When I heard whistles and shouting, I knew the lads were in trouble. I started to run. And I tell you this—” he raised his shackled hands to point at Mr. Holmes, his chains rattling like a ghoul’s “—that poor cove was stone cold afore I ever tripped over him.”

  “You could not, perhaps, have shot him in error?” Mr. Holmes’s eyes snapped open. “It was dark after all.”

  Caleb returned the detective’s glower. “I never fired my weapon, Mr. Holmes. Not once.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Rozzers never gave that any thought. They had me there with a pistol in my hand and one of their own layin’ dead. They never looked no further.”

  “You saw nobody other than your compatriots?”

  “There were only me and Dorrin on the bank.”

  “The rest of the crew had made good an escape?”

  My father slumped forward for a long moment. “Took off like rabbits. I place no blame. I’d’ve done the same in their place.” It was Mr. Holmes to whom he spoke, but my eyes that he stared into, as he added, “I’m not a good man, but I’m no cutthroat.”

  I saw full well this man expected some reply. My understanding, perhaps, or even forgiveness, and I felt a hot anger slicing through me. Under the shrewd gaze of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, however, it seemed wise to keep silent.

  My father seemed to know that, and he sat back, rubbing filthy hands across his face, clattering his chains as if he were a phantom already. “I’m a dead man, I know,” he groaned at last, “but I got to meet my son afore I left the world, an’ that’s worth it, mebbe.”

  Mr. Holmes rose abruptly, his chair scraping across the stone flags. “I believe you are an innocent man,” he said, “of murder at least, and I intend to see that justice is served.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Caleb looked to me. “And thank you, lad. Thank you for bringin’ Mr. Holmes, though thou don’t owe me nothing.”

  My mouth opened, but yet again, I was unable to speak. There was a great deal that I could have said. I could agree that he was right, that I owed him nothing but I owed his mother and sister a great deal; that I came because it was wrong to allow any man to go to the gallows for a crime he did not commit; that the fact the accused was the man my mother had married was nothing to me; that looking at this pitiful wreck was frightening because he was me. The same eyes and nose and way of jutting his chin. Without Mrs. Hudson lifting me off the street, this could so easily have been me twenty years hence. I nodded without uttering a word and hurried after the sounds of Mr. Holmes’s brisk footsteps vanishing down the corridor.

  We caught the midday train to Eastbourne, as Mr. Holmes had planned, and arrived at the new house a full hour before the carriers. Looking around the place was an odd experience. The house been empty for some time and our breath hung as cold mist as we entered the hallway, so I busied myself lighting fires in the kitchen and drawing room, and in all that time neither or us said more than four words together. I recognised Mr. Holmes in full thought and knew better than to disrupt his ruminations. Besides which, I had no idea what I could possibly say.

  When Mrs. Hudson arrived with the carriers, Mr. Holmes was prowling from room to room, trailing pungent clouds as he smoked pipe and cigarettes in turn, barely aware of the chaos around him. I recognised the signs. Had all his possessions been unpacked, I have no doubt he would’ve been scraping away on that violin of his, and, as he was still pacing at past eleven that night as the rest of us staggered off to our beds, I suspect Mrs. Hudson had secreted the instrument somewhere safe for that very reason.

  Knowing when he bought the farmhouse that there would be no hansom cabs at his disposal, Mr. Holmes had purchased a trap and sturdy pony and hired a local lad as groom and assistant gardener. So on the next day, we were able to set off under our own steam for Cuckmere Haven. It was no more than a couple of miles as the crow, or perhaps I should say the gull, flies, and some seven by road. Seven miles with a freezing wind whipping in from the sea was quite far enough, however, and I was glad of the good coat Dr. Watson had bought for me, but I still had my collar turned up and muffler wrapped tightly around my face.

  The Cuckmere coastguard, one Dick Waite, and his son Robert, led us to the spot where the body had been found, just a short way up the tiny Cuckmere river. I stood between them watching as Mr. Holmes flitted across the scene in fits and starts.

  Customs and police officers alike had trampled the grass flat, and a full week had passed since the murder; I could not help wondering what Mr. Holmes might gain from being here. But he searched—and we waited. My feet were frozen, and I could not even stamp them when we stood ankle-deep in seeping mud. All I could do was slap my arms around myself against a biting sea wind that the Waites seemed not to notice beyond sinking their chins deeper into knitted mufflers.

  Mr. Holmes was oblivious to our discomfort as he quartered the ground like a bloodhound, bent low to the saturated landscape, all but crawling in places, his face so close to the frosted sedges that they rimed the peak of his deerstalker in spangles of glistening white. At one spot he paused to pick at something in the mud. Waite stood a little straighter, his jaws clamping impatiently on the pipe clamped between his teeth.

  “Looks like your master’s found somethin’,” he said.

  “P’rhaps,” I replied. “P’rhaps not. You never can tell with Mr. Holmes. He’s a dark one.”

  “Ah, so I heard.” Waite nodded. “I hope as he’s found what he wants. I’m fair shrammed, standin’ about here.”

  I didn’t have time to agree because Mr. Holmes finally appeared satisfied with his search and came loping across the boggy ground like a greying wolfhound. “Tell me, Waite.” He took out his own pipe and lit it, as seemingly oblivious to the cold as the coastguard. “Is it normal to have contraband ferried so far upstream?”

  Waite shook his head. “Mostly they sticks to the beach, but it was a rough sea on a high tide, so they came right up the river.”

  “And their contacts knew that would happen?”

  “They must’ve, sir.”

  “So these villains moved their rendezvous according to the weather?”

  “Most like,” Waite replied. “The crew o’ them boats don’t generally put themselves in any more danger ’n they can help.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Holmes glanced at me, his nostrils flaring a warning to stay silent. “And the vessel that came upstream: did the customs take that as well?”

  “No sir. It’d already slipped its moorings when the waterguards came down to rummage.”

  “And you?”

  Waite waved his pipe at the cottages down near the shore. “I lives here. Not much gets past as I don’t see. Owling’s not the trade it were, but we’re allus prepared fer it.”

  “The waterguards arrested just two men that night?”

  “Ahh, that’s right. First sign o’ trouble ’n the rest of the gang vanished faster than a sea mist in May.”

  “Did you know of the man who shot the officer?”

  “No sir. I knows his kind an’ they’d take a life without a thought.”

  Mr. Holmes heard my intake of breath and laid a finger on my arm. “Had you come across either of them before?”

  “I know of Sam Dorrin. Not the brightest spark.” Waite tappe
d his head significantly. “Common gossip ‘as he’s one o’ Colter’s men from way over Chichester.”

  “Colter the smuggler?”

  “Ahh,” Waite agreed.

  “Did you know the dead man? Hutton?”

  “Seen ’im. Newhaven’s a small port. You gets to know most of the faces workin’ out of there.”

  “And you?” Mr. Holmes fixed the younger Waite with sharp stare.

  The lad shrugged. “Bain’t my job, be it?”

  “No. Indeed. Well, thank you both for your help. I shall not keep you any longer.” Mr. Holmes looked out toward the sea that was as grey as the sky so that it was hard to see where one met the other. “One last thing,” he said. “Is it usual for Colter’s gang to use this river?”

  “These days they mostly ply out of Chichester and west to Dorset.” He frowned and shook his head. “It were a wild night. Mebbe they just wanted to offload at the nearest place they come to.”

  “Is that why you were abroad? Because of the wildness of the weather,” said Mr. Holmes.

  Waite laughed and shook his head. “No need. I heard ’em passing up the river so I was duty-bound to look.”

  “Just so,” Mr. Holmes said as he pulled on his gloves. “Thank you again, Mr. Waite. Good day.”

  Mr. Holmes took the reins from me as we headed home. He urged the horse into a brisk walk with a slap of the reins and we said nothing until we reached the main road home.

  “What was it you found in the mud?” I asked him at last.

  “The remnants of a clay pipe,” he replied. “Somebody had waited there some time. Alone, I suspect. I called the customs office before we left London, and they swear they had not set men waiting to claim excise on that occasion. Just as Waite’s claim that he came out because he heard the boat passing into the river has a ring of truth, yet Caleb maintained the man was cold as mutton when he stumbled across him. The police surgeon’s report bears that out.” He grunted at my surprise. “The telephone is a remarkably useful apparatus, Billy. I had the surgeon read it to me.”