The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “So why don’t the magistrates act on that report?”

  “Because they have a man charged and, until we can prove that the facts are not as first stated, they will proceed with the case they already have.”

  “I can’t see how we can prove my father innocent when they ignore the surgeon.”

  “Your father was out on that river for nefarious reasons, by his own admission, which makes him a guilty man. Just not guilty of murder. It is the teasing of one crime from another that is the task at hand. Those local magistrates will not act otherwise until somebody comes forward to disprove their theories.”

  “My father’s shipmates would let him dance from a noose?”

  “Colter’s band of rogues are no different from any gang in Limehouse. Has your father named a single man other than the one caught with him? Of course not. There is a code, and each man knows he is alone should he make the mistake of being caught.”

  “Meanwhile he hangs for a crime he did not commit.”

  “We may yet gain him a reprieve. Firstly, we must have a few words with the Senior Customs Officer.”

  We drove back to the farmhouse with flecks of sleet biting at our faces. Mrs. Hudson told me off good and proper for keeping Mr. Holmes out in all weathers, but she knows as well as any of us, maybe the most of us, that you can’t stop Mr. Holmes when the chase is on him.

  “There’s a good fire in the drawing room.” She took his hat and muffler and Inverness coat and bustled him toward along the short passageway. “Supper will be ready directly.”

  She opened the drawing room door with a flourish, to display a scene that made even Mr. Holmes halt on the threshold to gaze around him. I don’t know how she and Elsie, the new maid, had managed it all in the few short hours we had been gone, but the room was as close to being the old room in Baker Street as the place itself allowed: leather armchairs flanked the roaring fire, and various tables and cabinets were ranged around the walls. Mrs. Hudson steered Mr. Holmes across the carpet and sat him down in his favourite chair. “Come along, Billy, jump to it. Pour Mr. Holmes a glass of port and stoke that fire.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” She had bustled away by the time I had said even that much, and I noted that Mr. Holmes was amused at the byplay.

  “I do believe I shall miss your sparring with Mrs. Hudson,” he said, “but you’ll do well as Watson’s protégé. He’s a good man.”

  “Yes, sir, he is that,” I agreed. “I shall try to do him justice.”

  “I have no doubt you shall.” He cut my words short with a wave of his slender hand and fell to filling his briar from the familiar Persian slipper, hanging in its new customary place on the fire surround. I have no doubt that Mr. Holmes noticed Mrs. Hudson’s attention to such details, but he would never make any sign of it. I poured the port as directed, but carefully, because it had not yet settled from the move, and set to coaxing life into a fire.

  Mr. Holmes frowned at my clatter. “Leave that now,” he said. “I have a puzzle that needs unravelling. Good night, Billy.” I withdrew, leaving the great detective wreathed in smoke from his briar pipe, those sharp features outlined against the firelight as he stared at the empty chair across the fireside from him. As I settled down to sleep, the plaintive tones of his violin wafted on the night.

  I should have gone back to London the next morning, but somehow it felt as if I would be deserting my post to leave Sussex there and then. I had rung Dr. Watson’s surgery the previous evening to inform him that I would be a few days more.

  “Just to help Mr. Holmes settle in. I shall be back by Christmas Eve.”

  “Is everything all right?” Dr. Watson asked.

  “Well…” I drew breath. I felt awkward telling him the full reason for my delay.

  “Say no more.” He chuckled. “Holmes is very good at inveigling people into joining him in the chase. Take care of yourself. And take care of Holmes. We shall expect you in a few days.”

  Guilty, though I had not lied as such, I replaced the receiver.

  We set out early for the customs office in Newhaven, where Senior Officer Abercrombie took it upon himself to speak with Mr. Holmes.

  “I am astonished that you’re investing your time in this matter, Mr. Holmes.” Abercrombie carefully preened his waxed moustaches into place across the centre of each red-veined cheek and leaned back in his chair, lacing his sausage fingers across his ample girth. Looking at that pot belly, and the mottled, bulbous nose beneath which those moustaches began, I could not help wondering how much contraband passed under his desk.

  Mr. Holmes smiled and settled his gloves carefully on his crossed knee. “I am always interested in cases where the facts are at odds, Mr. Abercrombie.”

  “At odds, sir?” The moustaches quivered as he worked his upper lip. “No odds to be at, I’d say. Chap was found standing over the body, pistol in hand. Waterguard said he chased Thomkins halfway across the marsh.”

  “Did he, indeed.” Mr. Holmes glanced at me, sensing my anger. He shook his head minutely. “I am told Thomkins’s gun was fully loaded when he was arrested.”

  “Was it?” Abercrombie scowled at us both. “I was not aware of that.”

  “Mr. Waite didn’t seem to know it either, so you are in good company,” Mr. Holmes replied. “You had waterguards standing watch, I understand?”

  “By pure chance there was a small patrol of customs officers in the locality,” Abercrombie mumbled, his emphasis on the rank of his officers, a part of the newly emerging customs service, expected soon to reach beyond the old Admiralty waterguards. “They were going about their usual business.”

  “So they happened across the event?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Was the victim part of that patrol?”

  Abercrombie hesitated. “Hutton? He works…worked at this port,” he said at last. “But he was not on duty that night.”

  “And you can’t explain what he was doing down there?”

  Abercrombie shook his head. “I’ve wondered that myself. Hutton was known to fish, but…” He spread his hands.

  “Not on such a stormy night?”

  Abercrombie sighed. “I am told he may have been checking nets up-river. Not all of them for fish.”

  “Poaching? So it could have been sheer misfortune that he happened on the villains as he did.”

  “That would seem to be the case.”

  “Poor chap,” Mr. Holmes agreed. “Fortunate the coastguard was also on hand, or the murderers might have got clean away.”

  The customs man shifted uneasily. “The Revenue cruiser Adeleine was keeping the smuggler’s ship in sight, but we did not imagine they would offload anything at Cuckmere.”

  “Just so. I hear the coastguard was instrumental in arresting the second man.” Mr. Holmes looked down to check his gloves, to hide a smile, I am fairly certain.

  “He assisted my men.”

  “And you believe you have the correct suspect under lock and key?”

  A steam whistle sounded somewhere out in the docks, and Abercrombie rose abruptly. “We are quite sure. Now, if there is nothing more to add, Newhaven is a busy port and I am a busy man.”

  “Of course. Come, Billy, we must leave Mr. Abercrombie to his duties.”

  I was aware that Mr. Holmes was pleased with himself from the melody he hummed as we made our way back to our pony and trap, but far from sure why that would be. “You think you may have solved it?” I asked as we drove away. “You’ve proof of my father’s innocence?”

  “There is a final piece to this puzzle still to come. I have Lestrade making enquiries, since it’s obvious the local constabulary are not willing to be of any real help.” He turned to look at me, grinning like the hunter that he was. “I’m confident we shall have the real culprit in our grasp very soon.”

  We arrived back home just as dusk was f
alling. Mr. Holmes made sure that the pony was settled for the night before we went into the house to be met by Mrs. Hudson. She was not in the best humour. “Your friend Inspector Lestrade called on the telephone and left you a message,” she said. “And a rather scruffy sort of creature came with that.” She pointed at a grubby envelope on the hall stand. “I thought you were retiring,” she grumbled. “Leaving all this malarkey behind us in Baker Street.”

  “That was my intention, but could we ignore young Billy’s cri de coeur? I am very sorry.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You are an excellent woman, Mrs. Hudson.” He smiled after her as she left the room muttering under her breath. He handed me his coat and hat before scanning Lestrade’s message and slitting the envelope open to read its contents. “It would seem our victim was not all he appeared to be, my boy, and we have our quarry at bay.”

  “Yes, sir.” I knew better than to expect him to explain further. Perhaps he still needed to sort the facts for himself. Or, as Dr. Watson often complained, Mr. Holmes gained as much pleasure in revealing a denouement fully formed as he did in arriving there. I left him to peruse the note and letter and went in search of my supper.

  Frost had hardened the muddy roads, and the pony and trap was able to cover the miles in good time, reaching the Cuckmere coastguard cottages a little after eleven, just as the tide was on the ebb. The cove itself was calm, but dark clouds were gathering over the sea as we took the narrow lane toward the cove.

  Waite was down on the shore, sorting the ropes of a small sailing boat half-beached at the edge of the waves. He paused as we approached, as though playing a child’s game of statues. His profile was clear as the smoke exhaled from his clay pipe whipped past his ear, vanishing in a blink. He did not turn toward us, only looking out at the murky grey-brown waves.

  Mr. Holmes halted ten yards from him, and for a half-minute I imagine we made a perfect diorama, should anything but the gulls have been watching us. “Mr. Waite.” Mr. Holmes had to raise his voice against the surf, and I wondered he did not move closer. For a moment I wondered if Waite had heard when he did not reply; he continued to gaze out to the entrance of the bay. Both his arms were draped on the gunwale of his little boat.

  Mr. Holmes took out his own pipe and packed it casually, taking his time to tamp the bowl before shielding it from the wind as he applied flame. “I had an interesting note sent me last evening.” Mr. Holmes took the envelope from his pocket and waved it briefly. “You were quite correct when you told me that young Dorrin was a part of Colter’s crew. I am also informed that your son was at school with Dorrin.”

  “Ah,” Waite agreed, nodding slowly.

  “And,” Mr. Holmes went on, “that Hutton was also on Colter’s payroll.”

  Waite knocked his pipe with his left hand against the edge of the boat and let the charred tobacco residue fall into the water.

  “You knew he was working for Colter,” Mr. Holmes continued. “You knew that a valuable consignment was coming in from Amsterdam aboard the Garamond. Sent as luggage for a passenger who, apparently, never went aboard. The unclaimed bags were then to be left on the dockside, and one of Colter’s men would collect them after a suitable time had lapsed.” Mr. Holmes tilted his head and smiled when no reply came. “Smuggling any quantity of diamonds through a port is always a risk. When Mr. Colter had word that His Majesty’s Customs were aware of his plans, he sent word to the captain before the Garamond left port to launch a small skiff close to Cuckmere. Am I correct so far?”

  “These smugglers try all sorts,” said Waite. “Like a barrel of monkeys.”

  “Indeed. You heard that such was afoot and lay in wait.” Mr. Holmes held up the broken remains of a clay pipe. “A bowl or two helped pass the time, but the wind changed and your smoke reached the nostrils of some other cove skulking in the dark.”

  Waite stared at the pipe, his ruddy complexion paling. “There’s many a man smokes a pipe,” he croaked.

  “Not many hereabouts would have a pipe stamped H&C, York. I had word from Inspector Lestrade that your wife and son visited the North just a month ago, when her poor mother passed away. He also found out that Hutton had booked passage to America—for two people.”

  “I…” Waite dropped his head forward.

  “But Hutton was not in league with you, was he, my friend? Nor was it you who dropped that broken pipe.” Mr. Holmes took a step closer, and another. “Hutton was to collect the trunks from the river, ferry them to Eastbourne, and place them on the next train to Chichester. But he was not alone…was he?”

  Waite bowed his head.

  “Hutton was to see the goods onto the train as planned. But not before he had lifted the diamonds that were at the heart of the matter. He needed a partner in his crime, however, and that man was your son.”

  “Them Huttons were always a bad lot,” Waite snarled. “I never guessed till Robert said he’d go an’ check the river for me. ‘Twas never like him to volunteer.”

  “So you followed him? And what then? You murdered Hutton? Hid on the marsh and shot him in cold blood?”

  Waite hesitated. “Hutton fired the first shot.”

  Mr. Holmes tilted his head to gaze at Waite. “No. You are not our killer. Though you are ready enough to point the finger at another man and let him hang for your son’s crime.”

  “You knew all that from a broken pipe?”

  We all turned to look at Robert Waite. He had used the swathe of kelp and detritus, left above the usual tideline by a recent storm, to muffle his approach, and stood now just twenty paces from us. In his right hand was a revolver.

  “I did, Robert,” said Mr. Holmes. “What puzzles me is why you killed Hutton.”

  “Because he thought I was too stupid to see he were never goin’ to share. He wanted the lot fer hisself.” The younger Waite was shouting, his face contorted in rage. “But he were the one as died.”

  “And you shall pay the price for that. The police will be here very soon to arrest you.”

  Waite looked toward the lane, shaking his head, close to panic. “You should leave, lad!” he shouted.

  Robert Waite looked past him to the cottage. “I ain’t got—”

  “Never mind them. Go. While you can.”

  He stumbled down to the boat and leaned in to take a second gun from inside, which he handed his father. “Dad, I could still—”

  “No time, boy.”

  The younger man looked from his father to Mr. Holmes, indecision plain in his face.

  “They’ve sent for the police,” Waite said as he shoved his son against the stern of the boat. “You’ve no choice, Bob.”

  Robert Waite’s face crumpled as the realisation of his plight hit him, and he threw himself at the little craft, pushing it off into deeper water.

  “You.” The older Waite waved the gun at me. “Help him.”

  I looked to Mr. Holmes, wondering if he were carrying his own Webley pistol.

  “Do as he says, Billy,” the detective murmured. “Can you swim?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then be ready at my signal.”

  “No time for chatter,” Waite bellowed.

  I went forward and braced myself against the boat’s stern. Being already half afloat, it quickly rose free of the rocky beach, and Robert Waite and I were soon waist-deep in the icy Channel waters.

  “Get aboard, Bob!” Waite yelled.

  I looked back at Mr. Holmes once more. He stood ramrod-straight on the edge of the water, tense as a pointer dog, quivering with intent. Then came the crack of gunfire from the older Waite, and that that had the detective on the move, his Webley revolver in his fist now and returning the old man’s shot.

  The younger Waite used the distraction to haul himself over the craft’s gunwale and begin pulling at the sail’s rigging.

  “Leave that
, y’dummock!” screamed Waite. “Row!” His son looked at the dinghy’s sail now flapping against the mast. “No time. Row!”

  Realising the slack sail would be of no use this close to shore, Robert Waite rammed the oars into the rowlocks and began pulling away. Shots were fired on the shore, and he let go of one oar to scrabble for the gun tucked beside him.

  I heard a shout, “Now, Billy,” and looked toward the shore—at Mr. Holmes dashing along the edge of the water. I needed no second asking. Pushing hard at the boat to unseat Robert, I hurled myself backward. Icy seawater closed over my head, and the sudden immersion hit as hard as any cudgel. I couldn’t hear Waite fire his gun, nor Mr. Holmes’s returning shots. I was too busy thrashing my limbs to pull myself free of the brine that flooded my nose and mouth. The tidal wash sucked at my limbs, pulling my feet from under me, dragging me down into oily brown waters. I flailed about in blind panic, pulling myself toward the shore, driven by the power of my own terror. I was almost sick with relief when my feet grazed the beach’s shallow shelf, which stretched some twenty yards out to sea. With a final gargantuan effort, I leaned into the tide and staggered up the beach.

  A hand grabbed at my shoulder, hauling me forward, and once water no longer held me upright, I collapsed onto the shingle. That same strong hand was soon yanking me to my feet. My teeth were chattering from shock and numbing cold. Mr. Holmes’s left hand was still gripping my jacket, the Webley revolver in his right.

  Old Waite was laid out like a bedraggled starfish on the shingle, staring at the sky, his mouth open and slack-jawed. There was a hole in his forehead and another in his chest, each of them awash with his own blood.

  Mr. Holmes paid the corpse no attention, and I followed his line of sight toward the tiny dinghy rising and falling on waves that grew ever larger as the boat began to leave the shelter of the cove.

  “He’s getting away,” I said. “We should—”

  “He won’t get far,” Mr. Holmes replied. “A fit man would be hard pressed to row in those seas. A man with a bullet in his shoulder stands little chance at all. And even if he did, the Adeleine is poised to pick him up.”