The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI

by David Marcum

  Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice - that of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness.

  Dr. John H. Watson - “The Engineer’s Thumb”

  ... and ...

  I made no remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg. I had a Jezail bullet through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

  Dr. John H. Watson - The Sign of Four

  The Adventure at Bellingbeck Park

  by Deanna Baran

  My friend Watson, upon his bereavement, had returned to the familiar lodgings at Baker Street which we had formerly shared prior to his marriage. But while some grieving men self-medicate with the bottle, or find solace in any other number of personal crutches, Watson went through a period where he buried himself in work, departing before the rising of the sun and returning long after its setting, which is no insignificant undertaking during the long days of summer.

  That deliberate distraction is the only excuse I have as to why I must needs chronicle my own doings. For anyone familiar with the newspapers, August of 1888 had no lack of lurid and sensational goings-on splashed across the headlines, bold black type upon yellow paper, and those goings-on quite overshadowed anything else. But whilst the outré is most certainly within my purview, I do not have a penchant for sensationalism for its own sake. Rather, I look upon the strange and the singular of crime much as a medical man may find himself observing a peculiar series of symptoms. It is not the symptoms themselves that are of interest, but rather, they provide clues as to what to expect in a given series of circumstances, all the better to treat the disease underneath. But like most physicians, the overwhelming majority of my cases take place in private, dealing with the secret misdeeds of anonymous men, far from the scrutiny of the public. And lacking the company of my most valued ally, my isolation was felt; and lacking the company of my most enthusiastic chronicler, so many of my cases disappeared without a ripple into the shadows of the past.

  And thus I take the time to jot down some facts of one such case during that August - not the sensational, but the surreptitious.

  It began in Baker Street, as most of my cases do. I had finished a solitary tea, and was working in fits and starts upon a monograph regarding the microscope and its relation to crime. The bell heralded the arrival of a visitor. I had received his letter in the morning mail, and Mr. Thomas Deering was shown in.

  “Pray seat yourself,” I said, indicating the chair nearby. He set a large leather bag by the door - solid, well-made, straps, a brass lock - and sat, somewhat nervously smoothing his hands across his trouser knees in an unconscious fidget. A monogrammed signet ring glinted on his hand, but he was moving too erratically to get a good glimpse of the letters. By way of putting him at ease, I inquired, “You appear to have come straight from your cricket match. Did you win?”

  “Quite! Er, rather!” he said, brightening up. “We won by a run. The jacket told you, I suppose? Or the bag of sports equipment? I haven’t been back to my rooms to drop them off properly. I came straight here.”

  “I would be sadly ignorant if I did not recognize the colours of the Burleson Cricket Club,” I said, gesturing to his summer suit, which he had not yet changed. The jacket with its bold sky blue and navy stripes and matching cap would have been acceptable either upon the stage or upon the turf, but in few other places. “But even had you come hatless and clad merely in white, your shoes are too sturdy for tennis, and golf does not require pads strapped to one’s legs. Their presence has left behind distinctive creases in your trousers.” It was unnecessary to allude to however one may discern a man who has spent the better part of the day outdoors in the August sun. Instead, I continued, “I am pleased that, whatever troubles you, it has not interfered with your ability to enjoy a healthy day of sport. This morning’s letter was very vague. Many people are disinclined to put down in writing the specifics of their fears or suspicions. Now that we are in private, pray feel at ease, and elucidate.”

  “I need a cracksman to break into my grandfather’s safe,” said Deering abruptly.

  “You’re in the wrong neighbourhood to hire a task like that. Baker Street is hardly the equivalent of Grosvenor Square, but it is also hardly the equivalent of the Old Nichol. Wouldn’t it be easier to politely ask your grandfather to open it?”

  “He won’t see reason, and will be robbed this week-end because he ignores my warnings. There’s a grouse shooting party at his country house, Bellingbeck Park. Except the grouse shoot is merely a pretext. What’s really about to happen is the field testing of a secret miniature camera.”

  I inclined my head slightly to encourage him to develop this point a little more thoroughly in his narration.

  “It takes photographs, you see. From the air. It’s a miniature camera, strapped to the breast of a pigeon. The pigeon is released. The pigeon flies home to its roost, with the clockwork automatically snapping an exposure every half-minute or so along the way until it runs out of film. The pigeon lands, the recipient removes the roll of paper film, and develops it. And you develop them in a dark room with a jolly old set of chemicals, and have a jolly old series of photographs of the terrain the pigeon flew over on its journey.”

  “A clever device,” I said, with an approving nod. “I can see how it would be a valuable resource in wartime reconnaissance or aerial surveys of difficult terrain.”

  “Exactly,” said Deering, sitting on the edge of his chair. His hands were now still. The monogram looked as though it read TAD. “My father is something of an inventor, having nothing else to do, being a younger son. He ought to race horses, or collect incunabula, or play cricket, or something. But no. He putters about, inventing tiny cameras to buckle on to birds.”

  “And so...” I said, steering him back on course.

  “Oh. Yes. And so this weekend’s grouse shoot is actually a field testing of this secret camera. There will be about ten guests in attendance, most of them from the Ministry of Defence. But I suspect that one of them isn’t Whitehall. One of the guests on the list is a certain Mr. Walter Rowland-Powell, which I don’t believe is his real name, either. But I must say, wherever he goes, something goes wrong behind him. A fire breaks out in a library. A gun misfires. Things go missing - not plate or things of that sort, but things you can’t tell the police about. People talk, yet he still gets the most plummy invitations. I haven’t figured how he does it. And I’m afraid that my father’s plans for his miniature pigeon-camera, kept in my grandfather’s safe, are going to go missing. I thought it would be a great idea to break into the safe and secretly bear away the plans. Of course, it would be obvious if they just vanished. Rowland-Powell wouldn’t find that satisfactory at all. Instead, what if they could be replaced with a false copy, something with a few subtle mistakes on it. Nothing noticeable, but something that would be utterly useless to a Foreign Power weeks later when knowledgeable people finally start studying the thing. But in between, after Rowland-Powell bears it away and everyone’s left in his dust scratching their heads, I can say, ‘Ha-ha! I knew this would happen. Here it is, safe and sound after all.’ And then reunite them with the genuine article, drop the curtain, exit stage left, et cetera.”

  “It certainly sounds tidy, the way you put it,” I said dryly. “It sounds as though all you’re missing, in addition to your cracksman, is a draughtsman. Surely drawings of the sort you refer to could not possibly be copied in less than an afternoon - possibly longer, if neatness and accuracy are to be taken into account.”

  “I managed to waylay one of his later drafts before it was committed to the fire,” said Deering carelessly. “It was the easiest thing in the world to change a few lines, alter a few figures. And the best part is
, it’s in the old man’s own handwriting, so of course, no one would suspect. Because it’s the genuine thing. Except it isn’t.”

  “So you know what is to happen, and you know who is going to do it, and you know approximately when, and you have devised a plan to prevent this misfortune from occurring. And what you require is someone to physically undertake this adventure. I suppose you’ve thought that through, as well.” I kept my voice as neutral as possible.

  “In fact, I have,” said Deering, leaning forward. “It would draw too much attention if I were to show up and say, ‘Hello, all, here is my jolly old friend from school that I just happened to pick up and invite for a jolly old round of grouse-shooting, I hope you don’t mind.’ That wouldn’t work, of course. We wouldn’t have been likely to have met at school.”

  “No, I suspect I may have been a few years ahead of your time.”

  “Contemporaries. That’s the word I’m looking for. No, that story wouldn’t do. But. Who is invisible at a house-party? Why, you could be disguised as my valet. That would give you a pretext, and everyone would treat you as the most natural person in the world. Or like furniture, depending.”

  “Except for all those who are acquainted with your true valet, seeing that this is your grandfather’s estate, at which you both have presumably spent significant amounts of time in the past,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but I can concoct a story to explain his temporary absence,” said Deering. “An ill mother. An aunt’s funeral. Nothing that anyone will think twice about, because no one really cares about other people’s relations. They just make the appropriate noises and get on with life. They’ll accept you all right, and you just act as though you belong, and hey presto! You take a few minutes of your time in Wolverly’s library, and if anyone catches you, explain that you got lost, but that won’t happen, because all the guests will be shooting grouse, or playing with pigeons, and all the house staff has something better to do than standing around waiting to catch people meddling with Wolverly’s safe.”

  “Has anyone told you what a reckless nature you have?” I asked.

  “I’m a younger son as well,” said Deering. “There are three men between me and the title, so I’d better learn to live by my wits! Too bad I can’t make a career out of playing cricket. Or inventing tiny cameras for birds, for that matter.”

  “I may very well do it, just for the amusement,” I mused aloud. “I pride myself on my acting ability. It would be a personal challenge to see if I could pass for a valet at close quarters amongst the natives. Your case has several points of interest. And it would only be for the week-end.”

  “We arrive Friday, around five o’clock, and leave Monday,” said Deering. “My valet’s name is Adams. I expect it would be easiest if they called you Adams for the duration of our visit. No use in your coming up with an alias, for you can’t use your own name, and it will make your acceptance smoother.” He scribbled an address on the back of an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to me. “If you’ll come ‘round my rooms at the Charing Cross Hotel, we can do this. You’re a jolly sport. I’ll pay you ten pounds for your effort, up front. I pay my man twenty-five-per-year - not bad for a weekend’s work, eh!”

  “I’m intrigued by this Rowland-Powell,” I said thoughtfully. “I wonder if he’s as much a rascal as you suspect. I’ve always wondered what makes men tick. Selling secret mechanisms to Unnamed Foreign Powers! I say, Mr. Deering. If you were to do such a thing, how would you go about doing it?”

  Mr. Deering stared blankly at me for a full minute before responding, “I... I really have no idea.”

  “Not to worry,” I reassured him. “It was merely a hypothetical question.”

  We arrived Friday by carriage. Bellingbeck Park was the estate of the Viscount Wolverly, Deering’s grandfather. The title had been created somewhat more than a century ago, under King George III, who seems to have been prolific in creating viscountcies, most of which had gone extinct due to a lack of male heirs, according to what I could glean from my Burke’s and Debrett’s. Bellingbeck Park was a manor house which would have done a far more ancient lineage credit as a family seat. The second Viscount had been responsible for the illuminated fountains. The third Viscount had ambitiously introduced a Doric colonnade, two extra wings, and a Palladian façade. Wolverly, the fourth Viscount, seemed to maintain the manor in a workmanlike fashion, neither spending extravagantly to further develop its aesthetics, nor scrimping and allowing it to fall into disrepair.

  I arranged with a pair of footmen to bring Deering’s luggage up to his room through a back entrance, whilst he went to the front door to greet whomever was responsible for the welcoming of guests. I knew from my abovementioned references that there was no Lady Wolverly, nor any daughters. Deering was my client’s mother’s maiden name. I found it a point of interest that he should deliberately wish to obscure his true surname, when it could be found easily enough in print.

  Wolverly, the current Viscount, had had two sons. His heir was in a regiment stationed somewhere along the Gold Coast, busily building the Empire in Africa rather than securing the family bloodline. His given name was Edward and his nickname was “Diver”. An odd name for an Army man! His second son was Deering’s father, with the given name of Ruford (and who went by the familiar moniker of “Rufftum” when amongst friends and family, I was advised). He would naturally be present at this display of his own ingenuity. Deering’s own elder brother (Fitzgerald, called “Fitzy” by his inner circle) had been stationed somewhere in India since 1881. I had asked Deering was his sobriquet was when dealing with people on a first name basis, and he looked blankly at me and said, “My father calls me Thomas.” But I was pleased that I had a rough sketch of the family tree and the relationships of those I was and was not likely to meet.

  I unpacked his things as tidily as I could, and he shortly arrived, whereby I dutifully removed all travel stains from his person and made him presentable for tea.

  “We’re in luck,” he said, as I brushed the dust from his coat. “Rowland-Powell isn’t scheduled to arrive until luncheon to-morrow. We have a bit of time yet, although most of the other guests are arriving to-day.”

  Whilst he enjoyed tea with the guests in the shade of the Doric colonnade (courtesy of the third Viscount) (the colonnade, not the tea), I made my way belowstairs to the kitchen, where I doffed my coat, donned one of the men’s aprons, and took up wiping dishes for the pantry-maid, much to her gratitude.

  “You’re a far sight more of a gentleman than Mr. Adams ever was, Mr. Adams,” she said approvingly. It took no effort at all to get her to discuss the house party, but unfortunately, she had little information about Rowland-Powell, except for the fact that this was his fifth or sixth visit, he never brought his own man with him, and one of the footmen always valeted him instead. Everyone else had also been here before, at least once - neither Wolverly nor Deering’s father were strangers to the higher circles of the Ministry of Defence. His last invention of interest to them had been two years ago, when he had created a patent camera disguised as a pocket-watch. Due to the small size and precise measurements, the plates were difficult to manipulate, and he had never attempted to commercialize his invention, but she had no doubt it was in frequent use in foreign capitals. It seemed that our Rufftum was in the habit of turning out intriguing knickknacks every year or two, usually involving optics in some fashion.

  We made our way through the washing-up of cooking for the tea things, and then the dishes from the tea things. I helped the footmen put away the glass and plate, and determined which of them usually stood in to valet for Mr. Rowland-Powell on the occasions of his visits. I mentioned that I had heard gossip about how odd happenings followed where he went. The first footman recalled a wastebasket fire in his room, (fortunately contained), and the second football reminded him of the shooting accident when they had gathered to hunt hare. (No one died.)


  I went up to help Deering dress for dinner, and then came back down to help wash the pots and pans for dinner preparation. During this period, the servants had their own dinner about an hour before the family and guests ate theirs. The butler and housekeeper presided at table. There were two other guests’ valets, in addition to Viscount Wolverly’s man, and it was amusing to see them referred to by the names of their masters. I had to conceal a smile when I asked Viscount Wolverly to pass the salt. Precedence was very strictly observed, again according to the hierarchy of one’s master. There was some debate as to whether a General outranked a fourth-in-line for a viscountcy who was merely a Mister, but I humbly ceded the higher place to him. At the end of our meal, as one of the upper servants, I was permitted to retire with the butler and the other valets to the housekeeper’s parlour for pudding and coffee and conversation.

  One of the valets, referred to as General Rocker, mentioned that he was looking forward to tomorrow’s shoot, with the prospect of grouse for dinner. He then proceeded to relay a humorous anecdote about something that had happened while loading General Rocker’s shotgun for him while hunting partridge last February. Another valet, called Lord Robert White, brought up the hare shooting episode. “Mr. Rowland-Powell said Mr. Adams had bumped him and the shotgun went off,” he mentioned in passing, and it took me a few moments to realize that the Mr. Adams to which he referred was my Mr. Deering, not Mr. Deering’s usual valet.

  The signal came, and we made our way upstairs to resume duties. I stood behind Deering’s chair at dinner and waited on him patiently. I timed it - two hours for the gentlemen to make their way through dinner, before they finally retired for cigars and brandy in another room. I helped with the washing-up once more, and then went up to Deering’s room to help him undress for bed.