Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 13

by Marvin Kaye

I could not see his reasoning so I asked him to explain.

  “Ah. You see, if Lord Fletcher were ambushed from behind, as I expected, then the murderer would have directed the blow to the left side of the face. Since the wounds were not concave in nature, the strike would have to come from the flat surface of this golf club, and thus it would have to be a left-handed club wielded by a left-handed man.”

  We walked directly to the caddie master.

  “May I ask whose bag that is?” asked Holmes.

  “That belongs to Mr Arthur Andrews, sir, a member for thirty years now and one of the Nine Hole League.”

  “Nine Hole League?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. Seven, excuse me, six gentlemen who play only nine holes on the weekend, being their ages are a bit up there. Some are in their eighties, gentlemen.”

  “You said seven, at first,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, sir. I forgot Lord Fletcher. He was a member, also the youngest of them all, but no other league would have him because of his confrontational manner and, of course, the accusations.”

  “Cheating,” said I.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Quite a bit.”

  “Thank you,” Holmes said, handing him a crown. “May we borrow this club for a short time?”

  “It’s not mine to give, sir.”

  “We will ask Mr Andrews then.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  We strode away, club in hand.

  “Oh, sir?” asked the caddie master.

  “Yes.”

  “The Nine Hole League. They are in the Rose Room now. Meeting, as they do, for tea.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, and we walked briskly towards the clubhouse, to the Rose Room. Soon, we were there. The six men remained seated and looked our way as one.

  “Gentlemen. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr Watson. May I ask which one of you is Andrews?”

  A man of, say, sixty or sixty-five stood. “I am he. And what may we do for you? We are having a private meeting.”

  “You may tell me if this club belongs to you.” Holmes held it in front of him.

  “It is mine,” said Andrews.

  “Yes. It is, indeed,” said Holmes. He pointed at seven portraits adorning the wall. “I assume these are all the members of the Nine Hole League?”

  “They are,” said Andrews.

  Holmes walked over to the wall. He stopped sharply and stared at one, in particular. Several seconds went by, but Holmes did not move. Somewhat embarrassed, I touched his shoulder. Startled, he turned quickly to me.

  “What is it, Holmes?”

  “Lord Fletcher,” said he. Holmes’s face seemed drained of blood and he displayed an almost frightened expression. I was most concerned.

  “Yes, Mr Holmes,” said Andrews, “that is the bastard. I do not wish God to rest his soul. And I do not regret my actions, except that an innocent man was charged with my crime.”

  I was not sure Holmes heard any of it as he had turned back to stare, once again, at Lord Fletcher’s portrait. Soon I had Holmes sitting and taking tea. When he spoke, his tone and demeanour were that of one bereaved. What in that portrait had changed him?

  “It was not you alone who plotted this,” said Holmes to Andrews.

  An older man spoke. “I am Lord Castor. You know Andrews. The rest of these gentlemen are Messrs. Wallace, Baker, Branigan, and Smyth. Yes, we are all guilty of conspiring.”

  Holmes looked up from his tea.

  “I knew you were all involved. The footprints at the crime scene. Some of course belonged to the police, but the others were indented by shoes with nail pegs similar to what you gentlemen use on the golf course. Would you like to explain to Watson, or shall I?”

  Andrews spoke.

  “The man was a cretin. When he first joined our league, he bullied his way to be in charge of our group. He cheated and lied at every turn, making it miserable for the rest of us. Without the other members’ permission, the man gave our tee time away to another group, which left us with an early morning start. We are too old to play at such an hour and the cold air would surely affect our health. The management refused to expel Lord Fletcher, so we took it upon ourselves to have him thrown out of Blackheath. He then threated to Buy the damned club, as he said, and have us thrown out. The final straw was when he bullied Smyth.” Andrews pointed to the one among them who I believe was the oldest and frailest of the League. “Lord Castor and I served under Captain Smyth in the Crimean and we would let no man bully him. I challenged Fletcher and demanded an apology. The man laughed and slapped me to the ground. I could not let that lay, gentlemen, and so with the help of the others, we concocted our plan.”

  “Murder,” said I.

  “Yes. And it was too good for him.”

  Holmes stood suddenly and spoke.

  “So one of you gentlemen would lie in wait on the eleventh, in the expectation Lord Fletcher would hit once again into the woods. I observed from the number of golf shoes that you took turns waiting for the ambush.”

  Andrews spoke. “It happened to be my turn and when the opportunity arrived, and he was in a position of vulnerability, I struck him four times with my brassie.”

  “And what of Fletcher’s spoon?” I asked.

  “I took it with me, hoping the police would assume it the murder weapon. We are very sorry for young Daley’s predicament. This meeting today was to come to a consensus and admit the crime so that the boy would be set free. We are old and have lived well. He is but young and with an unknown future, lest we free him.”

  Holmes’s expression did not change, remorseful as it was.

  “I would suggest you not admit the crime to the police, gentlemen. Mr Daley will be set free on my evidence alone. The police will search here for the murderer, though they may not look for gentlemen of your status to be the perpetrators. Now, how well do you know this caddie master? Can he be trusted?”

  “Jenkins?” asked Andrews. “He is loyal to a fault. I know of no better.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “May I ask how much money you gentlemen have with you?”

  “Money?’ asked Andrews. He looked at the others. “I am not sure, seventy, perhaps a hundred pounds amongst us.”

  “Then give me what you have and ask no questions. Andrews, I suggest you find another set of clubs to use and you should destroy Fletcher’s spoon as soon as possible. Good day, gentlemen.”

  And with that oration, we left.

  We walked quickly to the caddie house where Holmes struck up a conversation with the caddie master, Jenkins. I was some distance from them but still able to discern parts of the conversation. Jenkins nodded frequently, saying to Holmes, “Yes, sir. I never cared for the man,” and, “I will dispose of them right away, sir,” and, “It will be a joy to have Charlie back, sir.” Holmes handed the man the hundred pounds and bid him good day.

  Outside the caddie house, I confronted Holmes.

  “You would let them not be charged for a crime they freely admit to performing?”

  “Yes, Watson. This case is complete. I ask you say nothing to Inspector Gregson or anyone else of this. Let us be sure of Daley’s freedom and then return to Baker Street. Please, sir, I suffer a tremendous headache.”

  Inspector Gregson met with us at the police station. Holmes handed him Andrew’s brassie.

  “So is this the murder weapon?” asked Gregson.

  “It is,” said Holmes.

  “And may I ask where you gentlemen found it?’

  “We found it a some distance from the clubhouse on Footscray Road. We then brought it to you. The splinter I removed from Lord Fletcher’s wound fits the scar on the club. Daley is innocent of the murder, Gregson. If he had pummeled Fletcher with the club, the blood would be all about him and not restricted to his hands, and it is unlikely he would travel
to Footscray to dispose of the club.”

  “Yes, Holmes. We have decided to release Daley for the moment though he is still a suspect. There is a matter of some new information surfacing about Lord Fletcher. We still have not determined his true identity, the lead from Scotland a false one, but now it seems his lordship was in great debt to some gentlemen of less than stellar character. We are pursuing that possibility as we speak. I will find the murderer, Holmes, whether he is from Royal Blackheath or the underbelly of London. You can be sure of that, sir.”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes.

  As we traveled home, I wondered again what Holmes had seen in Lord Fletcher’s portrait that so troubled him.

  * * * *

  18 June, 1892

  Baker Street, London

  I opened a window to rid the room of that blasted opium odour. Holmes alternately sobbed and puffed on his clay pipe. Was I too late? Was his mind so dramatically altered by the narcotic that he had damaged his brain? I dearly hoped not.

  “Tell me, what causes your melancholy?” I asked.

  He placed the pipe on the table and held his head in his hands. Then he looked up to me and spoke quietly, his eyes rheumy, purple crescents under them.

  “We were very young, Watson. Very young, and in love. Her name was Beatrix and she was my first cousin, but when you are in love, as we were—” Holmes wiped his eyes. “When you were in love, as we were, it did not matter of relations, and yet her father forbade us. I begged elopement, but she would not defy him, despite her declarations of love. She married Erskine McKnight, a brute of a Scot who had some royal tie, and they soon relocated to India, funded exceptionally with Beatrix’s dowry.

  “Immediately, the letters arrived from her to her father complaining of physical and mental abuse. Before action could be taken, McKnight had killed my love, had beaten her to death in a drunken rage. He was arrested, of course, but soon escaped back to Scotland, under an assumed name it now seems.”

  “Lord Fletcher,” I said.

  “The same. I recognised the portrait in the clubhouse. Perhaps—Perhaps I have found vengeance after all.”

  It occurred to me, then, that my friend’s horrible loss may have accounted for his lack of attention to the opposite sex over these years. Holmes lowered his head and sobbed. I placed my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. He held it.

  “I loved her so, Watson.”

  THE SPECKLED BANDANNA, by Hal Charles

  I

  It was early in April when Kelly Locke woke one morning to find a man, fully dressed, by the side of her bed. She sat up with a start.

  “Dad,” the usually well-poised anchor for Channel 4’s Action News exclaimed, her eyes having focused faster than her brain, “what are you doing here…so early?”

  “Very sorry to wake you up, honey, but Mrs. Watson insisted.”

  Kelly’s fox terrier leapt on her bed and began licking her face. “Well, I don’t smell smoke, so it can’t be a fire.”

  “It is…of a sort,” the sixty-ish Chief of Detectives insisted cryptically. “I know today is your birthday, and we were going to do something special, but I brought by somebody I think who needs to talk with you…even if she doesn’t. She’s waiting now in your living room.”

  “But I can’t see her looking like this.”

  “Nonsense, she’s fully dressed,” Matt Locke said with a mischievous chuckle. “And there’s one more thing about her I need to tell you.” Her father paused long enough for Channel 4 to run a commercial. “I am hopelessly and completely in love with her.”

  Kelly was glad she wasn’t in the studio with the stage manager pointing at her to speak, because she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “I’m the same way when I get around Helen.” Matt Locke laughed. “The words just won’t come out.”

  Shooing her father out of her bedroom, Kelly quickly threw on her favorite sweat suit bearing her alma mater’s colors, ran her fingers through her night hair, and headed to her living room to meet “the lovebirds.” Helen was admittedly quite beautiful, but what struck Kelly the most was the woman’s youth—looking like she had just come from the Summer of Love, the tall blonde in the paisley Boho skirt, pink scoop-neck tee, and speckled bandana must have been forty years younger than her father.

  “I’m Helen,” said the young woman, who was backlit by the French doors. “I dig your pad.” She plopped down in Kelly’s favorite overstuffed chair. “Now you need to know where I’m coming from.”

  “Helen is refreshingly direct,” chimed in her father like a Greek chorus.

  Kelly smiled, detecting the familiar sweet scent of marijuana emanating from the young woman.

  “Actually, I’m terrified,” said Helen.

  “Perhaps you need to go to the police or a psychiatrist,” Kelly volunteered a bit sharply.

  “Matt is the police, and he recommended you, though I can’t figure why a talking-head news-reader can be helpful, unless you really can channel that Sherlock Holmes guy your dad says you grew up loving so much.”

  “I met Helen a few weeks ago,” Matt quickly interjected, “when I was called in to investigate a break-in at Leatherhead, a music store where she works. We just hit it off and one thing led to another and we started having coffee, then lunches—”

  “Having lunch with my dad has terrified you?” Kelly said, intentionally misunderstanding.

  “Actually your dad has been wonderful about what’s going on with me.” Helen crossed her legs and assumed a yoga position in Kelly’s favorite chair. “Especially since I no longer have Mom and Dad to turn to.”

  “What happened to your parents, and how is that related to why you’re ‘terrified’?”

  “They were killed a few years ago in a scuba-diving accident in Aruba.”

  “Perhaps you’ve heard of them,” added the Chief of Detectives, “Ray and Lottie Moran?”

  “No,” said Kelly.

  “Understandable,” snipped Helen, gesturing at the news anchor’s outfit. “They would never have stooped to making leisure-wear.” She looked away from Kelly’s sweat suit. “Since their accident, I’ve been living with my Uncle Henry in the country, which is a real drag because he controls my trust fund until I turn twenty-five next month.”

  “And you’re terrified of all that money?” snipped Kelly.

  Helen stood straight up. “I am terrified I will not reach my twenty-fifth birthday.”

  “Easy,” said Matt Locke, his hand on her shoulder. “Helen has been in several near-accidents recently.”

  Helen hugged her protector. “My junker’s brakes failed last week. Then that garbage truck nearly hit me in the mall parking lot. Oh, and I detected the smell of gas coming from the kitchen and had to call the utilities company. They said I was lucky I didn’t go inside and turn on something electric.”

  “Don’t forget your amp,” reminded the Chief of Detectives.

  “Your amp?” said Kelly.

  “I play guitar in this retro-rock group, The Stoners, and one day down at the warehouse where we rehearse it shorted out on me. Then there’s my ex, M.C. Snake Smith. When we broke up last week, he said I’d regret rejecting him.”

  “Rock and real relationships go together like oil and water,” admitted Kelly.

  “Oh,” said Helen, “you play and sing, too?”

  “No, Yoko, I can just imagine,” said Kelly.

  “Girl, you don’t know the half of it. Listen, we have a rehearsal tonight at the warehouse. Why don’t you come by? You could meet the others and see where I was almost done in. Please.”

  Kelly took one look at the shaking young woman clinging to her father. She was either truly troubled or the greatest actress since Irene Adler. “Why not?”

  II

  Following directions, Kelly arrived at the semi-abandoned Warehouse of India j
ust before 8:00. As she stepped out of her car, she couldn’t help but hear the guitar-heavy, head-banging cacophony of “Magic Carpet Ride.” She had to admit the cover sounded very close to the Steppenwolf original.

  And there was something else she had to admit, if only to herself. Seeing Helen with her father bothered her. Why, was the question. Her mother had died a long time ago, certainly long enough for her to have accepted her mom’s passing as well as that her father might once again find love.

  Inside the warehouse the band had switched to a cover of The Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love.” At least they were versatile performers. She sat down on an old park bench beside her father to watch the five musicians, clustered on a makeshift stage beneath a huge single spotlight. Judging from the butts and broken glass on the cement floor, she decided the building had hosted its share of raves. Just as she was about to talk to her father about her strange feelings, the band broke into The Beatles’ “You’re Going to Lose That Girl.”

  Realizing she hadn’t ever attended a rock concert with her dad, Kelly shouted, “They’re not bad.”

  “Bad to the bone,” he shouted back and added a smile.

  The song ended with a few “Yeah, yeahs,” and Helen put down her guitar and dragged the keyboard player over. “This is Rocket Givan,” she introduced. “He wrote our biggest hit so far, ‘Double Run’.”

  “Which Helen tried to take credit for because she added some lyrics I think she stole from a book jacket.”

  “You’re Kelly Locke. I’ve seen you on the news,” said a short woman in an ASK ME ABOUT MY KIDS sweatshirt. “I got a story for you. ‘Lady Rockers Fight Over Snake’.”

  “I told you, Gypsy Rose,” said Helen, “The Beatles have a better chance of getting back together than Snake and I do.”

  “Back where I come from, you don’t say ‘I do’ unless you mean it,” said a tall man with drumsticks, a Tennessee twang, and hair down to his waist.

  “This is Squatch Sanders,” said Helen. “He’s got a thing for me.”

  “I guess everybody but me does, honey.” A male figure wearing a motorcycle jacket with an exotic snake emblazoned on it joined the group. “Helen of Troy, you ain’t.”