The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI

by David Marcum

  “ ‘Take this, and place it in the card-room where it will be found,’ he instructed me, opening the box containing the duelling pistols, and handing me one.

  “Naturally, I expressed some question as to why this was needed, and he turned on me with a look of fury such as I had never before observed.

  “ ‘Your task is clear. Do this, or else...’ he hissed at me. The message was clear. I would be exposed and shamed before the world if I failed to comply with his instructions. I therefore made my way down to the card-room, unobserved, and there beheld a sight such as I hope never to see again. Lord Gravesby was lying on the floor, blood seeping from a wound in the back of his neck. I could not think clearly, and merely deposited the pistol on the nearest possible surface. I left the room, and then realised that my master might have intended me to place the pistol in such a way that suicide would be suspected. I hasten back towards the room, but was prevented from entering by the sight of one of the Club servants moving towards the door. I therefore made my way back to Prendergast’s room, where His Royal Highness awaited my return.

  “ ‘It is all done,’ I told him.

  “ ‘Excellent,’ he said, and that, Inspector, is when he presented me with this devil’s tool here,” indicating the weapon that Holmes had named as the Totenkopfstock.

  “We left the Club quickly, without meeting anyone. Already, it was clear that Gravesby’s body had been discovered - but who, I asked myself, would suspect a Royal Duke of any misdoing?”

  “Who indeed?” replied Holmes. “And not only does he appear to have committed murder most foul to cover up his villainy at the card table, but he has attempted to lay the blame at the door of not just one, but two innocent men. What say you, Lestrade?”

  “It’s a puzzler, Mr. Holmes, and I don’t mind admitting that the situation’s a bit much for me. If it was anyone but His Royal Highness, we’d have the derbies on him by now. As it is...” His voice tailed off. “As for you, sir,” addressing Sir Quentin, “you’re guilty of compounding a felony, obstructing justice, and I can probably think of some more if you give me a minute.”

  Holmes held up a warning hand. “Stop there, Inspector. Sir Quentin has given us an honest, and I believe a contrite, account of events. I do not believe that society has much to fear from him in the future. Rather, he has much to fear from society should these events be made public.”

  “That is true,” Lestrade grudgingly admitted.

  “You must retire from public life,” Holmes told Sir Quentin. “I would recommend leaving the country. Paris, Aix, or Baden-Baden would be congenial, perhaps.”

  “He cannot leave England!” Lestrade exclaimed.

  “He must. It is in no one’s interest that Sir Quentin remains here. Believe me, Inspector, if you bring this man to trial, let alone his master, you will set the country by the ears. He must leave.” He turned to Sir Quentin. “You have the money to do this?”

  Sir Quentin shook his head. “I have little money of my own. His Royal Highness has been my chief financial support for the past few years.”

  “And he may continue to be so in the future, by the time we have finished with him,” Holmes replied with a grim chuckle.

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  “I have alluded before to these matters,” he said simply, but refused to elaborate more.

  A week later, we were sitting in our rooms in Baker Street, and I was reading The Times.

  “It says here, Holmes, that His Royal Highness is to leave from Portsmouth next week to serve as Governor of Grenada. Is this your doing?”

  Holmes smiled lazily. “Not mine, but the work of others with whom I have been in contact,” he corrected me. “However, it is at my instigation. We have also arranged that Sir Quentin Austin is to receive a generous annuity from His Royal Highness as soon as he is settled in Venice, which he has selected as his destination. Also a consequence of doings by those in Whitehall and the Palace.”

  “But how did you know that His Royal Highness was responsible?” I asked.

  “Your friend Prendergast, though he was obviously not telling the truth when it came to describing the card game and the events surrounding it, was clearly truthful in other respects, such as the discovery of the pistol in his room. Sir Quentin Austin was my first suspect. I felt sure that the account of Gravesby’s death we heard from Prendergast was incorrect when I remembered the blood on the ferrule of Sir Quentin’s distinctive stick that I had observed previously, and I believed that the victim had been battered to death. My first sight of the body dispelled that belief. The post mortem puzzled me. A man of Sir Quentin’s build and temperament could never have inflicted those injuries that we observed, but the evidence was strong that it was he who had placed the pistol in the room in order to falsely accuse Prendergast.

  “Accordingly, I was forced to conclude that while he was not Gravesby’s killer, Sir Quentin was in some way closely connected with the criminal, as you yourself will have remarked when you recall that he arrived in a carriage which bore the arms of His Royal Highness painted on the door. Prendergast appeared to have an easily checked alibi. His Royal Highness was the only possible suspect remaining, and when I heard that the diabolical Totenkopfstock was the property of the Prince, I was convinced. A man who retains duelling pistols in a condition where they are easily made available for use might also possess some other objects of an equally nefarious nature. I must admit that the motive puzzled me a little until we had heard Sir Quentin’s story at the Yard. The idea that the tables had been turned, and that the victim was the accuser and vice versa, so to speak, had not occurred to me. The Prince was obviously not about to let his propensity for winning at cards at all costs to be made public - we may assume that a large sum was offered by Sir Quentin to Gravesby which was refused - and not content with personally eliminating his opponent, he attempted to cast the blame on others.”

  “Monstrous!” I exclaimed. “Were it not for his rank...”

  “Indeed, Watson. But we cannot live in the land of make-believe. However, we have at least ensured that we no longer inhabit the same land as His Royal Highness.” So saying, he took his Stradivarius from the wall, and proceeded to play a tune of his own composition.

  “I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”

  “Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”

  John Openshaw and Sherlock Holmes - “The Five Orange Pips”

  The Pimlico Poisoner

  by Matthew Simmonds

  “I shall call it ‘The Strange Case of the Pimlico Poisoner’,” I announced to Holmes, as we sat down for a late evening smoke.

  “And who might that be?” drawled Holmes, as he slouched back in his armchair and sucked upon his unspeakable clay.

  “How can you have already forgotten? You solved the case just last week! For heaven’s sake, Holmes, sometimes I believe you are being deliberately obtuse.”

  “Oh, the business in Westminster,” yawned Holmes.

  “Pimlico,” I interrupted. “Lupus Street, to be precise.”

  “Well that hardly matters now, does it?” Holmes sighed.

  “You are incorrigible, but I shall ignore you, as you know full well to what I am referring. Barnes, the ‘untouchable’ criminal, undone by his own habits. Not the first to fall foul by such and surely not the last.”

  “An interesting exercise in inquiry, logic, and deduction I will concede, Doctor, but hardly one for your journals, I would have thought.”

  “On the contrary, dear chap, I believe that it demonstrates your powers at their absolute finest.”

  I

  It was a cold and damp September Sunday morning when we were visited by Inspector Alec MacDonald. Holmes had feigned mild frustration at the inspector’s unann
ounced visit, but I knew full well that he secretly cherished and eagerly anticipated these rare meetings with one of Scotland Yard’s finest young minds.

  “Here’s one for you, gentlemen,” began the inspector, stretching his long legs as he settled into a chair before the fire. “A group of men are enjoying a meal in a reputable restaurant in Pimlico. These are all men of a certain nature. Criminals, but of a high standing - the sort that order other men to endanger their lives and freedom with little risk unto themselves. They eat and drink for hours, and then, suddenly, one of their number collapses to the floor, mouth foaming and nose bleeding. In seconds he is dead.”

  “Stiffness of the body? Lockjaw?” I asked.

  “Yes, strychnine poisoning for sure, Doctor,” confirmed MacDonald seriously, his frown exaggerated by his large forehead and exuberant eyebrows.

  “You say ‘hours’, MacDonald. Exactly how many?” asked Holmes, suddenly taking an interest.

  “At least two, according to several witnesses. Barnes and his men arrived before seven and he dropped dead shortly after nine. And before you ask, they all ate and drank the same food, give or take. At least two others at the table, including his own son, Samuel, had the same courses and, according to the kitchen, none of the food was prepared separately. We have examined the kitchen and tested the remaining food and drink. Not a trace of the poison was found anywhere.”

  “But, surely, his own food was tainted?” I asked.

  “That is the strangest part of all. His plate was thoroughly tested and we found nothing. We even had the good fortune to discover that the dish that contained his first course had not yet been cleared from the table. This was also clean, as was his cutlery, and all of the glasses. All were still present, none had been cleared away, or ‘accidentally’ smashed, which excludes that old trick.”

  “So, the poison was not introduced via the food or drink. That leaves us few remaining possibilities,” stated Holmes, carefully tamping at his pipe.

  “And what might these be?” inquired MacDonald, hopefully.

  “Deserving of thought, Inspector. It is a shame that you have waited so long to consult me. I suspect there is little left undisturbed at the scene of the crime, but I would like to take a look anyway, if you would be so kind?”

  Inspector MacDonald was only too happy for Holmes to view the scene and, less than an hour later, we arrived at Rattray’s Restaurant on Lupus Street. MacDonald allowed Holmes to take the lead and gave him free reign to examine the restaurant, while the Scottish Inspector and I sat at a side table, gratefully accepting the owner’s offer of fresh coffee.

  After about half-an-hour, Holmes ceased his examinations and began to interview the staff. Another half-hour had passed before he finally joined us. He took up a cup of coffee and sipped at it for a while before speaking.

  “I’m informed that there are unusual aspects to Barnes’s wine. We need to know who supplied it. We need to identify everyone who handled it, from the docks to the table. We will start by ascertaining exactly who served the wine, and who originally placed it in the cellar.”

  “Well, I can answer one of those questions for you, right now,” announced MacDonald. “Barnes was a careful man, as one who has made his way to the higher branches of the criminal tree tends to be. Ruffled feathers lead to later repercussions, if you know what I mean. It seems he had a great fear of being poisoned, and insisted on always opening his own wine bottles. He would only drink from those fitted with foil over the corks, and even then he would never open a bottle without first examining it closely for signs of tampering.”

  “But what about his food?” I asked. “Surely that is just as vulnerable.”

  “He always insisted that a lower member of his gang watched over the chef and then tasted any food that was presented to him. This, plus eating at only a few select and trusted venues, meant that he felt safe from any tampering of his food.

  “And before you ask,” continued MacDonald, “all of the serving staff have worked here for at least two years and are well known to Barnes and his associates. All are accounted for, and nobody has conveniently ‘disappeared’.”

  “So, the crime is symbolic as well as purely criminal,” Holmes declared, suddenly. “The killer chose the one method that Barnes had worked so hard to render impossible. This was not simply business - this murder was personal.”

  “Does it matter which it is, Holmes? We still have to find out how it was achieved and then find the villain,” sighed MacDonald.

  “It matters, Inspector, as although we are clearly dealing with a most clever and cunning individual here, the fact that we now know that the killing was personal increases our chances of catching the criminal manifold.

  “We would be casting a very wide net indeed if we hoped to identify all of those in the underworld who might wish Barnes harm for criminal reasons,” continued Holmes. “However, to find those wishing him dead for personal reasons will require fishing from a far smaller pool.”

  “Someone close to him? You don’t think it could have been a family member?” I asked, quietly. “That would certainly make it personal.”

  “I still prefer the theory that it was a business rival,” contradicted the inspector. “But, please, feel free to investigate your own suspicions, I am sure that you will, anyway.” MacDonald’s thick Aberdonian accent could not quite hide his mischievous challenge.

  Once MacDonald had left us to speak with his officers, I rounded on Holmes.

  “Holmes, in whose name are we acting here? I do not recall being officially engaged by either an agent acting for Barnes, or indeed the authorities,” I questioned.

  “Why, Watson, you are quite correct. Let me see,” Holmes smiled, unexpectedly. “Should we act out of pure public spiritedness, or would you prefer a fine payday and the execution of an otherwise fine and honest individual?”

  I have to admit to being so flabbergasted by this response that I was momentarily unable to speak.

  “What on earth do you mean, Holmes?” I managed to splutter out, finally. “What can you have learned here that makes you believe that the killer could possibly be ‘otherwise fine and honest’?”

  “Oh, just the very basics. The killer’s identity, the motive, and the method by which the aim was achieved.”

  Holmes shouted a farewell towards MacDonald and headed for the door.

  “Time to head east,” he announced.

  II

  We took a hansom and set off towards Westminster. We passed the Parliament buildings, drove alongside the river for a very pleasant mile or so, and then passed through the City until we reached Whitechapel, some forty minutes later.

  “Please, you simply have to explain how you came to these incredible conclusions?” I begged, as we trundled over the cobbles.

  “Not every case is a tangled web, Doctor. Sometimes you just have to know which strand upon which to pull and all will unravel.”

  “Yes, very poetic, Holmes, but please, for once, can you just tell me clearly and simply how you have reached your conclusions?”

  “In this case, it was simply by asking the right questions of the right person,” Holmes replied, impassively.

  “But none of Barnes’ gang were there, so whom did you question?” I asked.

  “Do you remember the list of things that I wished to know, back at the restaurant?”

  “Something about the wine, I believe. Who brought it and served it? But MacDonald told us that the wine was opened and poured by Barnes himself, and that he always inspected it closely for any signs of tampering.”

  “Despite your lack of confidence, I can tell you that I have also determined the course travelled by the wine, from delivery to the table.”

  “But I still do not understand how any of this is relevant,” I muttered, weakly, feeling thoroughly stupid.

 
“Then let us alight here and find someone who can perhaps provide some illumination,” Holmes replied, as we pulled up in front of a large house on the outskirts of the borough.

  The building was substantial, of red brick and stone, and set back some ten yards from the street. The most striking sight, though, was the presence of two large men at the entrance, and one more at each corner of the grounds. The house was clearly under guard, and not by the authorities.

  We approached the front gate and stopped before the substantial duo who blocked our way. Their low brows and piggy, inset eyes identified them as low-level thugs, hired for muscle rather than any genuine skill or ability.

  “Gentlemen,” announced Holmes, with a broad smile. “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor Watson. Perhaps you have heard of us?”

  “Never heard of any Shylock, and it’s too late for a Doctor,” replied the goon to our left. “Haven’t you heard? The Boss is dead.”

  “Wait a mo’,” growled the other thug. “I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I once heard the Boss say that you were the most dangerous man in all London. He said that he went out of his way to avoid you at all costs.” He seemed to step back slightly as he spoke, as if he was troubled by Holmes’s very presence.

  To my utter surprise, Holmes then appeared to confirm what the powerfully built man had said.

  “Yes, I did have an accommodation with Mr. Barnes. As long as he kept his dealings to those already involved in the underworld, I would not interfere directly with his business.”

  “Holmes, I am outraged,” I whispered angrily, my blood beginning to boil at the thought that my friend, whom I admired more than any other man, had come to an “accommodation” with a career criminal.

  “Later, Watson.” Holmes spoke with such seriousness and authority that I stopped immediately and pushed my disgust to the back of my mind, to be brought up at a more appropriate time.

  “Could we please pass?” Holmes asked, returning very much to the issues of the present.