The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1

by John A. Little

  Holmes placed his head in his hands. It was a gesture that I recalled from our previous life together. It usually meant that he was getting bored and losing interest.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he cried. ‘Without facts, we have no case. It is a capital mistake to theorise before we have all the evidence. We need… information!’

  ‘What about the note left by the murderer?’ enquired Lestrade. ‘Have you made any progress with it?’

  Holmes indicated with his pipe that I should explain our findings to the young policeman, which I duly did. When I had finished, I noticed that my old friend had descended into the sort of silent reverie that used to indicate a profound concentration, but I rather fancied from the shade of sadness on his fine aquiline features, that he might be contemplating his dead brother and their childhood together. The only sound in the room was the steady ticking of the clock, until I became aware of a familiar clumping from the direction of the stairs.

  Like clockwise, at one o’clock a grunting Lily Hudson banged open the door with her backside and entered the room carrying a sizeable tray with a steaming bowl and several dishes. She slammed it pointedly onto the table beside Lestrade, who leapt out of his seat in alarm.

  Holmes chuckled.

  ‘Won’t you stay for lunch, Lestrade?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I must be getting back to the station. I’ll see you both this afternoon at the club. Three o’clock alright?’

  ‘Excellent,’ replied Holmes.

  ‘There’s ’nough fodder fer three, sur,’ cackled Lily wildly.

  Lestrade grabbed his hat and backed out of the room hastily. It occurred to me later that he might have gone all the way down the stairs backwards, just to keep an eye on Lily as she chased after him.

  Holmes seated himself at the table, flicked his napkin over his trousers, and picked up his knife and fork.

  ‘Hmmm. This smells delicious. I must remember to award Lily the fulsome praise she will no doubt be expecting. Tuck in, Watson. What do you make of young Lestrade?’

  ‘He seems genuine enough, and a lot brighter than his father,’ I replied, a forkful of pie pausing on its way to my mouth.

  ‘Hhmm. Seems being the operative word. There’s nothing wrong with being a careerist. Or a diplomat. I shall reserve judgement also, until we see how much help he can give us. Eat up, old fellow. After our lunch we must away to the scene of the crime. By Beardmore taxi-cab, of course.’

  I groaned.

  Chapter IV. The Stranger’s Room.

  ‘Did you know, Watson, that Diogenes was a Cynic, who believed that personal happiness was satisfied by meeting one’s natural needs and that what was natural could never be shameful or indecent? He was determined to follow his own inclinations and not adhere to the conventions of society. Living a life of extreme simplicity, he slept in a tub on the street and survived on a diet of onions. He became notorious for his philosophical stunts, such as carrying a lamp around Athens during the day, claiming to be looking for an honest man. The story is that he held his breath in order to commit suicide. When asked how he wished to be buried, he left instructions to be thrown outside the city wall so that wild animals could feast upon his body.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s the matter, old man?’

  As if he didn’t know.

  ‘If you expect me to work with you on this case, we will have to find a different mode of travelling, Holmes. This hackney rattletrap is intolerable. And if you think the old broughams were odorous, then I rather think your exposure to Royal Jelly has destroyed your own sense of smell. For petrol and oil, anyway. And they go so fast. There are bound to be serious crashes in this incessant London fog. We could be killed!’

  ‘I believe you’ve become a bit of a grump during our separation, Watson.’

  ‘But Holmes, don’t you miss the musical clatter of hooves and the screech of the carriage wheels?’

  ‘No. Not at all. But I accept that you do, Watson. You are, after all, the one fixed point in a changing age. Ah, here we are. Thank you, Mr. Rees.’

  He leaned forward and pushed some coins through a window to the cab driver. I caught a glimpse of a shiny, bald head above an angelic cherub-like face that looked far too young to be driving a murder weapon like the Beardmore through the dense fog of wintery London.

  ‘My pleasure, Mr. Holmes.’ The voice was a sing-song Welsh accent.

  ‘Holmes, before we alight from this fireball, can you satisfy my idle curiosity on one subject?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll certainly try.’

  ‘Why were you expelled from the Diogenes Club?’

  ‘Hah! For talking to other members, of course. Three times. I grew bored and suggested to one fellow that he could sleep much more soundly at home, as he was obviously single and without family. Another objected to my assertion that his wife might not appreciate his intense perusal of the pearls of wisdom in the Times agony columns. The third was snoring so loudly that I simply said, shush. That finished it. Mycroft was on the committee that made the decision, poor chap. He never forgave me.’

  Once we had managed to find it through the gloomy swirl, number 15 Pall Mall proved to be nothing more than an innocuous plain wooden door lodged between the more grandiose Atheneum and Reform Clubs. Neither plaque nor notice existed to identify the Diogenes Club. Far too exclusive for ex-army surgeons, I decided.

  And Holmes seemed nothing less than a senior policeman, with his stove-pipe hat, black Inverness cape, bushy eyebrows and fine spread of bristling mutton-chop whiskers. He hammered his cane authoritatively upon the door, which was opened by a liveried doorman, dressed exotically in broadcloth, linen and silk stockings and with long, plaited blonde hair, like someone straight out of Harriet Beecher Stowe. Except that his features were purely white. His eyes shifted rapidly from side to side before focusing on us. When Holmes asked for Detective Lestrade, this throwback to another time and country, who was obviously Joseph, grinned continually as he ushered us into a narrow colonnaded hall, wherein Jasper Lestrade paced up and down, as though we were late. Which we were not.

  ‘Mr. Watson. There you are. And Mr. Holmes?’

  ‘Inspector Holmes to you, Lestrade,’ said my friend sternly.

  ‘Ah… yes, indeed. I hardly recognised you, sir. Well. We can sign the Visitor’s Book over here, Inspector.’

  Once signed in, we deposited our cloaks and were asked to place socks over our shoes. Then Lestrade led us up a flight of stairs to a richly-carpeted balcony that jutted out in a semi oval shape from an elongated glass panelling, with a door at either side. I peered through this window at the strangest sight. It was like a monastery. Men were sitting alone in tiny cubby-holes, reading newspapers or sleeping. They were like wax dummies in a motionless ballet by Diaghilev, set to the gentle music of… snoring.

  ‘This is the main room, Inspector. I must ask you not to make any noise when we move through it to the Stranger’s Room, as all conversation is frowned upon.’ Lestrade actually placed a finger to his lips.

  We threaded our way carefully through the silent members, some of whom turned away from the intruders, until we reached a single door to the rear. This led to a small passage, like that between the two carriages of a train, and through to another door.

  The Stranger’s Room showed few signs of the recent murder. It was comfortably furnished, with book-cases lining the walls and a huge log fire that roared hospitably from within a wide fireplace. Comfortable chairs ranged in front of it, with periodicals spread across them. Two luxuriant aspidistras spanned the doorway. A long case grandfather clock ticked away beside a wide bay window that looked out over Pall Mall. The bottom half of this window was delicately engraved with items of fruit and different family crests on each pane, against a background of fluted glass, which prevented anyone seeing into the room from the outside. It w
as flanked by a pair of step-ladders, presumably for use against the book-cases.

  ‘Where was Mycroft’s body found?’ demanded Holmes, whipping out his pocket lens.

  ‘Over here,’ replied Lestrade, pointing to a small area beside the fire. ‘He was bent over forwards, with his head between his knees. He… he was undressed. He had no clothes on. Oh, and he was tied up.’

  Holmes appeared disinterested in this news. I tried to imagine the scene, but without luck. My life with Beatrice had been a happy one, but I doubt if we had ever disclosed our naked bodies to each other. True, there were attempts to have children – several, actually – but they came to nothing, and after a lot of giggling, we decided to leave well enough alone. Nevertheless, I still missed our nights together, when we could snuggle up to one another for warmth on a cold winter’s night. Enough. My leg was giving me gyp again.

  ‘I see. And was he definitely killed here?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Holmes. There is no sign of blood anywhere else. We have checked.’

  Holmes knelt down to explore the carpet with his lens. It was heavily stained with black blood, while the hearth and wainscoting were sprinkled with crimson splashes. Lestrade and I wandered about the room, trying to picture what might have happened there four nights ago. I was at a complete loss even to imagine Mycroft without his customary illustrious garb, and so I sat down and waited for Holmes to do his thing.

  ‘Most interesting,’ he said, standing up. ‘The weapon, Lestrade, is a conventional farming implement, used for killing animals. A well sharpened slaughter knife with a straight blade twice the neck width is outlined within the blood marks on the carpet. The killer wiped the blade on it.’

  He looked around the room. ‘It seems we came through the only door. There are also the two doors on the landing, one of which leads to a bathroom and the other to the Main Room. What else is on the ground floor, Lestrade? Is there a basement?’

  ‘Just the kitchen and restaurant, Mr. Holmes, with more toilet facilities. And a single guest apartment behind them which is rarely used, apparently. There’s no basement. A double garage at the rear of the garden opens unto Carlton House Terrace.’

  ‘And no secret doors into this room either, eh?’

  ‘Not that we know of, sir.’ Lestrade smiled at the idea.

  Holmes walked slowly around the room, tapping each oak wall panel with his lens, checking, I imagined, for any variation of sound that might indicate a hollowness, behind which there could lie a magical passage to the street. But there were none.

  ‘Hmmm. I’ll check the other rooms on the way out. Now, the window’.

  To my eyes, there was no certain way of opening it, or climbing through it into the room. The only aperture was a ventilation fan in the middle, with a long string attachment. Having examined it closely, Holmes climbed onto one of the ladders and peered through the clear glass at the top. First to the left, then to the right.

  ‘A busy day in the Mall. Lots of Beardmore Mark Ones, Watson, choking their filthy fumes up into the atmosphere. And many nags on old hansoms, spreading their heavenly ordure onto the road. Ah, that musical squish, squash! There goes Joseph into Huggett’s shop. He must have a sweet tooth. Quite a queue outside the butchers. Fresh meat today! Oh, well. If one wished to study mankind, this might be the spot. But no one could have come through here, unless they were invisible or disguised as a whiff of smoke,’ he declared as he turned to step down.

  Just then I heard a loud cracking sound, followed by the splintering of glass, and Holmes’ body was falling to the ground off the step-ladder. I rushed over to him.

  ‘Holmes, are you hurt? Holmes!’

  My old friend lay still on the carpet while Lestrade ran from the room, presumably to chase after the person who had fired the bullet through the window. My only agonised thought was for Sherlock Holmes.

  There was a significant amount of blood, but a swift examination of his body proved that only his left ear had been grazed. His pulse was steady and his pupils seemed normal in size. I concluded that he had knocked himself out when he had fallen to the ground. I sacrificed my handkerchief to staunch the impressive flow of blood from his ear, and waited patiently for him to come round.

  Lestrade had returned by the time Holmes opened his eyes and stared up at me.

  ‘Watson, we must find that chair of yours. Mycroft is dead, you know. Aaaaaagh, Moriarty, get away, get away! You evil genius! MRS. HUDSON!’ He smiled weakly at me and closed his eyes again. It took him another minute or so to recover properly and realise where he was. His momentary hysteria had vanished.

  ‘What happened? Why am I on this damn floor?’

  ‘Steady, Holmes. Someone tried to kill you, and the bullet nicked your ear.’

  He grimaced. ‘Ah, yes. Our potter friend from the Rubayait, no doubt. He must be losing his touch.’

  He sat up and I helped him over to a couch in front of the fire, keeping his ear covered.

  ‘I believe he fired at you from across the road, Mr. Holmes. A couple of bobbies and I searched the houses and their rooftops, but we could find nobody,’ said Lestrade.

  Holmes took my handkerchief and held it to his ear.

  ‘Obviously, my policeman masquerade was not good enough. He must have followed us from Baker Street. I believe that I shall have to be somewhat cleverer in my disguises from now on. We must keep our eyes and ears sharply open, gentlemen, as we are in deep waters. Would you be kind enough, Lestrade, to consult with the Diogenes powers-that-be, and see if they can rustle up a single adhesive bandage for me? Good man. I shall collect it on the way out, as we check the other rooms. And please send the details of the autopsy report when you have them, to 221B Baker Street. Watson, I believe that we can do no more here. It is now four-thirty. We might just be in time to catch the five o’clock showing of the new Buster Keaton film, Go West. The man’s a veritable comic genius. We are both in need of a little humour, don’t you think? Then afterwards, perhaps a bite to eat at Simpson’s might be called for.’

  Unbelievable. His life in real danger. Almost killed. On the day of his brother’s funeral. Buster bloody Keaton.

  Whatever happened to Wagner?

  Chapter V. The Train Journey.

  Despite my protestations, Holmes insisted on working alone over the next few days, without disturbance from anyone. He wished to apply his analytical skills to breaking the ‘cipher or code within the cipher’, he said. I returned to my practice in Paddington but found it difficult to concentrate on my patients’ problems while my friend’s life was in such danger. At night I dreamt of being chased by a herd of angry elephants up the Khyber Pass. I took this as an indication of my concern for him. That phrase about the potter reverberated through my head. I could make no sense of it in the context of Mycroft’s murder. I even bought a copy of the Rubaiyat poem, and tried reading the section on pots over and over again, looking for some clue as to why the killer should send such an encrypted message to Holmes. All in vain.

  I telephoned Lestrade, but he had made no progress. When I asked him about the autopsy, he stated that Mycroft Holmes had either taken, or been forced to take, a significant dose of veronal, a strong sleeping aid, shortly before his murder. There were also traces of cannabis resin in his system, enough to suggest that the dead man had been an habitual user of the substance. This was quite a shock to me, and I found myself wondering if any of us had really known Mycroft Holmes at all.

  Against my friend’s wishes, I decided to make a record of the case in my diary. I hereby beg forgiveness from any reader who finds my style somewhat wooden and lacking in pace, as eleven years have passed since I put pen to paper for anything other than a simple prescription. Where possible, I have endeavoured to inject some little humour into the text to counteract the horrible details of the killings. Also my memory is not quite as good as it once was and I am not gett
ing any younger. Unlike Holmes, it would seem. I must confess that his example caused me to change my diet and to purchase a jar of Royal Jelly. For my own health, you understand. This had nothing whatsoever to do with Lily Hudson.

  My mood lifted on the morning of the fifth day, when I received a telegram from the great detective himself: Victoria Station. 3.30pm. Bring weapon. At last something was happening! I rescheduled my single patient and spent the remaining hours in a state of nervous trepidation, worrying that I might be too old for the job. I searched for my rusty Webley RIC revolver, (it needed some maintenance) while wondering if Holmes had solved the Potter code, or if he had found some other hidden meaning in that threatening note. A clue to the killer’s identity, perhaps?

  Having braved a filthy day of shrieking wind and horizontal sleet, which almost made me wish that I had taken one of those damn cabs rather than a growler, I arrived outside the station at 3pm, not wishing to delay Holmes in his lofty work. But after forty frustrating minutes of searching through the restless buzzing crowd in the central concourse, I was beginning to give up any hope of finding him. Slightly relieved, I patted the ancient gun in the pocket of my ulster. Still there. Loaded. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder, and looked around to face a strikingly decrepid old lady, complete with wide-brimmed feathered cloche hat, curly blue perm, brown mottled skin, rouged cheeks, bright scarlet lips and a colourful pince-nez perched on the end of a bulbous nose. Her fur coat must not have been out of storage for very long, as it issued forth a faint patina of dust whenever she moved.

  ‘Excuse me, young man,’ she said. ‘Can you direct me to platform ten, and the four o’clock train for Brighton?’ Her voice was shrill, tremulous and excited, as though it had been years since she travelled on a train.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. It’s over there to the right. Through the stile and… the porter will help you then.’