The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI

by David Marcum

  The detective looked into those pleading brown eyes and patted the hand that lay upon his sleeve. “I shall do what I can, Mrs. Forrester. I must ask some questions that may be painful, or even seem inconsequential to you, but please trust me that your truthful answers are essential to my investigation.”

  The beleaguered woman dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then refolded her hands, sat up straight, and bid Holmes to proceed.

  The detective questioned her about her husband’s clients, any cases that had proven difficult lately, or that he had lost. Also, about his recent behavior. Did he appear worried or secretive or distracted? How was their financial situation? Were there any overdue bills or significant payments coming due? Then, those of a more personal nature as to the state of their marriage, and how did he feel about fatherhood? Finally, he came around to Cecil’s relationship with Barclay. Did they get along, were they close or estranged, etcetera.

  Other than admitting that her husband seemed distracted recently, and ensuring Holmes that such was not unusual when his caseload was heavy, none of her answers caused any great concern to the detective.

  At last, Holmes asked if he might examine two areas of the house: The bedroom, and the study or desk where her husband might have done work at home.

  In the bedroom, he examined those sections of the closet and dresser drawers where clothes and jewelry were kept. The desk in the parlor where the solicitor sometimes did his work was bereft of any current case documents.

  Gibson and Holmes bid Mrs. Forrester, “Good day,” with a promise to keep her up to date on any new developments.

  In the cab on the way back to Forrester’s office, the constable questioned his old school mate.

  “Did ye learn anything significant, Holmes?”

  “Quite possibly, old friend. But it is all still in the realm of speculation. I need more data. If what I suspect comes to pass among the requests I made of Mr. Duncan, then I will have a working hypothesis to test.”

  “Can ye at least tell me if there’s been foul play?” queried the concerned constable.

  Holmes laid his elbow upon the cab window and looked out at the passing scenery, almost as if the answer would spring out from one of the shops they drove past. Finally he spoke, barely loud enough for his friend to hear. “Too soon. My mind still reels with possibilities.”

  Chapter III

  It was just before four o’clock when the detective and the constable arrived back at Forrester’s office. As they ascended the stairs, the sound of raised voices echoed down the stairwell. The high pitched tenor of young Duncan was easily discerned. The other voice was deeper, raspy, and certainly louder in its demands.

  Upon their entrance, they found Duncan, standing behind his employer’s desk, looking down upon a stout, middle-aged man of perhaps five feet and seven inches, with a receding brown hairline streaked with grey at the temples. The older fellow did not seem intimidated by Duncan’s height and was, in fact, raising his walking stick in a threatening fashion, the lamplight flashing off a ruby ring on the hand that held it. Gibson rushed forward and yanked it from his grasp.

  “There’ll be none of that, Barclay Forrester!” ordered the constable who, at six-and-one-half feet and two-hundred-fifty pounds, was most intimidating. “What’s yer business here?”

  The older man turned with a huff. “That’s the whole point, Officer. It is my business, and I need to see my brother’s papers!”

  “Ye know better than that!’ declared Gibson. “The court hasn’t declared your brother dead, and isn’t likely to for some time. Until then, ye need to stay away from yer brother’s property, both here and at his home. If ye bother Morna Forrester, I’ll lock ye away for sure!”

  “What more proof could you want?” cried the brother. “His ship was wrecked with no survivors! Bodies could float around out there for days without being found, or become waterlogged and sink.”

  “A fine way to talk of yer own brother! Have you no feelings at all?” denounced Gibson as he tossed the walking stick back at the smaller man, who attempted to snatch it out of the air but dropped it to the floor. He had to stoop to pick it up, much to his chagrin.

  “My feelings are my own. But the police will hear them loud and clear if they keep dragging their feet on this!”

  Holmes at last spoke up, “I assure you, sir, this matter could well be settled in just a few days. Interference on your part at this stage would serve no purpose, and could possibly even delay proceedings.”

  Forrester turned with a fury and voiced his displeasure. “Who the blazes are you to be telling me my business? What’s this man doing here anyway, Gibson?”

  Holmes, calm as could be, answered for himself, “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am here from London on behalf of Mrs. Forrester to investigate her husband’s disappearance.”

  Forrester looked at him sideways and asked, “What are you, some Scotland Yard Inspector?”

  The detective smiled to himself and merely replied, “I have been known to work for the Yard, and I am currently here at the recommendation of Inspector Lestrade. I assure you that, once my investigation is complete, the courts will ensure that you will be receiving exactly what you are due.”

  Having swallowed the impression that Scotland Yard was now involved, the little man backed off slightly, but parted with a demand on his lips. “Then get on with it man and be quick about it!”

  He pivoted on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” piped up Duncan, now that all was quiet. As his fingers habitually found their way to run through his hair, he let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. “That man has been pestering and threatening both poor Mrs. Forrester and me with his demands. I’m glad you showed up before things got violent.”

  “I’ll see that ye’re not disturbed again,” offered the big constable.

  Holmes turned his attention to the young clerk and asked, “Were you able to assemble the documents I requested?”

  “Aye, Mr. Holmes,” he responded. “Everything you asked for is on that table.” He pointed to a worktable on the opposite side of the room from the desk. There, in neat stacks, were the most recent cases of Cecil Forrester, as well as his account books. Holmes rubbed his hands together, removed his coat, and sat down, informing Gibson that he would likely be working well into the night and would report to him in the morning.

  The constable left, Duncan stoked the heat stove, and the world’s first consulting detective began sorting the puzzle pieces to solve his case.

  Early the next morning, Holmes had Gibson meet him at the dockyards to catch the next steamer scheduled to stop at Eyemouth. En route, his old schoolmate enquired, “Did ye learn anything from those papers?”

  The detective adjusted his scarf against the morning chill and replied, “Some of them were of moderate interest. The most telling fact lies in the ones that were missing. I’ve left a note for Duncan to make a further search and carry out certain enquiries on our behalf. Of course, it all may prove moot, based on what we discover regarding the apparent wreckage of the Harmonique.”

  Upon arrival at Eyemouth, the two investigators immediately sought out the Harbor Master, a heavy-set, older fellow named Angus Brodie, who showed them the evidence of the life preserver and hull planks.

  Holmes used his lens to examine the items closely. As he studied the wooden planks, he asked Brodie, “Were these found by a fisherman or the Coast Guard?”

  “A fisherman found the preserver. A Coast Guard Lieutenant Commander Niven and his crew on board the HMS Darrow, retrieved the planks.”

  “Hmm,” answered the detective as he continued to examine both sides of the wooden boards. “I’d like to see the current charts and the location where these were found. Then I need to speak with Niven.”

  “Aye, Mr.
Holmes,” answered Brodie, his thick Scots burr filtered by a heavy grey beard and moustache and winding its way around the short stub of a pipe in his teeth. “I’ve charts marked out for ye. The Darrow is out on patrol, but should be coming in within the hour.”

  Gibson, unable to contain his curiosity, asked his old friend, “What do ye see, Holmes? Is there any evidence one way or the other?”

  In response, Holmes handed the magnifying glass to the constable and said, “Look for yourself. Note especially the edges and what would have been the inner surface of the hull. Tell me what you observe.”

  Peering carefully through the powerful lens, Gibson worked his way along the edges and reverse side of the longest plank, which was about four feet in length. He spoke as he inspected the wood.

  “One end is sawn clean and straight, obviously in its original condition. The other end is broken and jagged. The outer surface is painted yellow and the Harmonique was known to be yellow and white. The edges are smooth and straight, such as is common for hull planks.”

  Turning it over and peering along the inner surface, especially the jagged end, Gibson finished his examination and declared, “There doesn’t seem to be anything remarkable along this side. Just plain unpainted wood.”

  Holmes, now seated in a chair across from Brodie’s desk with his elbows propped on the arms, pointed at the constable with his long fingers steepled in front of his chest and spoke.

  “You see what you expect to see, old friend. But you do not observe. Examining the edges, I note no less than seven places where the yellow paint has interceded. A watertight hull would not allow paint to drip through like that. You will also note that there are no holes for fastening screws. Finally, how did this piece, or any of them for that matter, break away from the boat? There is no damage to the outside from being struck by some external force and there are no signs of indentation, nor the charring of an explosion on the inside.”

  Chastened, Gibson handed the lens back to Holmes and asked, “So, what are ye saying? This is not from the Harmonique?”

  “Certainly not from her hull, though I do believe the Harmonique left it behind, along with the life preserver, which you will note is quite old with faded letters and checked surface. Hardly in the condition one would keep for emergencies.”

  “So ye’re thinkin’ these were left on purpose?” enquired the constable.

  “That is my belief,” stated the detective.

  Brodie spoke up and offered, “If ye be expecting some shenanigans or foul play, Mr. Holmes, ye may be on to something. Alick Lusk is suspected as a man who can be bought to run contraband or criminals to various ports o’ call. He’s never been caught, but circumstantial evidence has often pointed in his direction.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brodie, that is helpful. May I see those charts now?”

  The three men gathered round a chart table where Brodie explained the tides and currents of the day that Forrester should have been arriving.

  Gibson asked a question, “I believe Holmes is on the right track, but if someone should ask, is there any possibility of an iceberg strike?”

  Brodie stroked his beard in thought, then pulled the pipe from his mouth and pointed to the chart with its stem. “T’is certainly not unheard of, though they be more common to the North Atlantic rather than the North Sea. But if ye look at where they be calved and the various currents, t’is more likely they would flow closer to Europe than Scotland. It’s also late in the year and water temperatures would be bound to melt anything afore it reached this far south.”

  Satisfied, the constable looked to his friend, “Well, Holmes, if Forrester is on the run, where do you think he would go? All English ports to the south have been notified to be on the lookout for the Harmonique or its wreckage, and we’ve heard nothing.”

  The detective peered at the charts for a long time and finally replied, “The possibilities narrow, Gibson. I should like to finish our business with Niven and return to Edinburgh on the next boat to review the missing man’s papers one more time.”

  “The next boat north won’t be ‘til the morning tide, Mr. Holmes,” offered the Harbor Master. “I can recommend a hotel for the night if ye wish.”

  Disappointed, but unable to overcome the reality of circumstance, Holmes agreed, and he and the constable set off to arrange rooms before proceeding to meet the Darrow when she came in.

  Lt. Commander Niven proved to a young man, just slightly older than Holmes, and of a lean, sinewy build with light brown hair and clean-shaven face. His pea-coat was soaked with the mist of the day’s patrol as he welcomed Gibson and Holmes aboard. Once in his cabin, he stoked the stove, shucked out of his coat, and sat behind his desk, while his visitors took the two guest chairs, merely unbuttoning their own overcoats in deference to the stove’s heat.

  The interview was short. Holmes ascertained the Darrow’s search pattern and asked what Gibson took to be an odd question, but found himself surprised at the Coast Guard officer’s reply.

  “When the fisherman reported finding the life preserver, did he note if the boat’s name was face up or down?”

  Niven replied promptly, “Face up. He was familiar with the Harmonique and was surprised when he saw the name.”

  “And the planks your own crew found - were they yellow side up?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Holmes. I noted that in my log as it seemed unusual that all of them were face up like that.”

  Holmes smiled at this confirmation of his supposition, then enquired, “One final point, sir. What was the weather like off to the east on the day the Harmonique was due?”

  Niven grabbed his logbook and flipped to the appropriate page, “Wind out of the northwest at twelve knots, waters calm, skies clear, temperature at fifty-seven degrees.”

  Holmes rose, thanked the officer, and led Gibson back to the hotel. As they walked, Gibson remarked, “So, the weather was perfect for sailing. There’s no indication she was struck, or blown up by unstable cargo. What about pirates?”

  Holmes shook his head as he continued his long strides, then suddenly turned into a telegraph office. As he wrote out a message, he answered his companion. “While modern day pirates still exist, preying on small, unescorted cargo ships, their presence is unlikely in this case. That scenario does not explain the planted life preserver and counterfeit planks. No, my friend. Forrester has either been abducted, or fled the country on his own.”

  Chapter IV

  After the telegram was sent, Holmes and Gibson returned to their hotel. That evening, as they dined, a message arrived in response to Holmes’s earlier enquiry. He tore open the form as Gibson tore into his halibut steak.

  A brief glimpse of a smile crossed the detective’s lips and the Edinburgh constable questioned his friend.

  “Is it what ye expected, Holmes?”

  Folding the paper and placing it in his inner breast pocket, Holmes proceeded to delve into his own meal as he answered, “It is a piece that fits nicely into the puzzle we face. I now have some direction which I can use to point to further enquiries.”

  He checked his watch, “I have a good half-an-hour before my next telegram can reach its recipient. I suggest we enjoy our meal, since there will be little time for breakfast before we sail on the morning tide.”

  Afterward, the two gentlemen proceeded once again to the post office to send Holmes’s telegram.

  “Who are ye sending these messages off to?” asked Holmes’s old school chum as they left the telegrapher to walk back to their hotel.

  “The earlier one was to friend Duncan who, in spite of appearances, is a well-organized fellow. Much more so than his employer. His answer has given me what I need to make a request of a contact I have in the government, who can make discreet enquiries in certain foreign countries.”

  ”Ye suspect Forrester’s on the Continent?”


  Holmes stopped to light a cigarette before replying. “With near certainty. Whether by choice or by force, I have not yet ascertained. But an answer to my latest telegram should at least tell us where our search should continue, for I am convinced that the Harmonique did not sink as we were supposed to believe.”

  The next morning found a page knocking on Constable Gibson’s hotel room door to deliver a telegram at a quarter-to-six. As he had already arisen and was dressing to catch the early boat north, he answered immediately. Upon reading the message, he stepped across to Holmes’s door and found his knock immediately answered by the fully dressed detective.

  “Look here, Holmes,” he cried, holding the form out for his friend to read. “Someone broke into Forrester’s home last night!”

  Holmes quickly perused the telegram and declared, “The game is afoot, Gibson! I suggest you put the Forrester home and office under guard. I will telegraph Mrs. Forrester and request her to take leave to stay with her cousin in London until this case concludes.”

  Messages being sent, the two boarded ship and by late afternoon were again in Edinburgh. Holmes suggested that Gibson report in to his superiors while he made enquiries at various locations near the docks. They agreed to meet in one hour at the Forrester home.

  At the scheduled time, they were at the place of the foiled burglary, sitting with Morna Forrester to learn the particulars.

  “Mrs. Forrester,” enquired Holmes, “we have the police report, but please tell us what happened in your own words and pray, be precise as to details.”

  The lady described how she was awakened by the dog barking just after three a.m. From her upstairs bedroom, she could hear a man’s voice cry out in pain, and she rushed out to the landing with the thought of bolting herself into her children’s room to protect them. She had snatched up her jewelry box and her husband’s pistol case on the way. Seeing the dog with its teeth sunk into the intruder’s arm, prone on the floor by the open front door, she took courage and kneeled to set down her jewelry box and retrieve the gun from its case. To her great surprise, it was empty, and she dropped it and ran with her jewels to her original destination. She told her children to hide in the closet while she kept a lookout through the crack in the door, which she held ajar. Though she could no longer see the entryway, the dog’s growling and the intruder’s cries of pain carried on for about a half-a-minute. Then she heard the dog yip in pain and a door slam.