The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1

by John A. Little

  Holmes recovered his nerve quickly and looked up in puzzlement at Lestrade.

  ‘Sit down, man. Where did this happen and when? And is it the same murder… method?’

  Lestrade threw his hat onto the table and slid onto a chair in exhaustion.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But I have been up all night on this latest case, and it has come so soon after the previous one in Haywards Heath. I need a moment to compose myself.’

  ‘Watson, the brandy.’

  ‘Of course, Holmes.’

  Lestrade swigged a couple of fingers greedily, leaned back and started to talk.

  ‘Yes. It was exactly the same kind of murder, with the same position of the body, and the same sort of… condition.’

  ‘Wha’ condition were tha’, then?’

  We had forgotten that Lily was still there.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hudson. That will be all.’

  Holmes was adamant about this, although I was beginning to think that we might need Lily’s intuition, if only to supplement Holmes’ razor-like logic and my shambling efforts. I had come to the conclusion that her jokey exterior masked an intelligent, questioning mind. She was really quite bright.

  Lestrade continued above the grumbling from the stairs. ‘Eh, not entirely the same condition, Mr. Holmes. There was nothing stuffed down his throat this time. The killers must have taken the… bits and bobs… away with them.’

  ‘Killers?’ queried Holmes.

  ‘Yes. Mr. Partridge had quite a large build. I think we may have to consider the possibility of there being two people involved in these murders, in order for a sedative to be successfully applied.’

  ‘There was only one set of footprints in Haywards Heath,’ said Holmes. ‘But I take your point. Perhaps they were interrupted in their work, and did not have enough time to fulfil the ritual mutilation. Where did all this happen?’

  ‘Mr. Partridge was staying with some friends in 41 Gordon Square, over near the British Museum. A Mr. James Strachey and his wife, Alix, who discovered him in their basement last evening, upon returning from a day out. He was still alive, but unconscious, and died before medical assistance could arrive. Apparently he normally resided in Berkshire, with his own wife and Mr. Strachey’s brother. What?’

  Lestrade had observed the look exchanged between Holmes and myself.

  At this point Holmes updated Lestrade with our findings from the second cipher, and the warning contained in the name Partridge, without mentioning his childhood friend or my visit to the British Museum. I shuddered at the idea of another, similar murder being carried out so near to where I had spent most of the previous day. Yet it seemed somehow that we were getting closer to the murderer. Or he was getting closer to us.

  Lestrade was particularly interested in the connection with the Hogarth Press.

  ‘Now that is something concrete, which I can follow up. Mrs Woolf and her coterie are well known to Scotland Yard, mainly due to complaints from their neighbours in Tavistock Square about late night parties and other shenanigans.’

  Holmes filled his pipe with fresh tobacco, and set it alight with a coal from the fire.

  ‘The Bloomsbury Group, I believe they are called, detective,’ suggested Holmes. ‘After the London area they live in. This man Partridge may have been a member of the gang. They are a set of bohemian artistes and intellectuals who might consider themselves to be above the bourgeois law that governs the lives of us ordinary folk.’

  Lestrade extricated a tiny yellow notebook from his pocket and scribbled down some details.

  ‘So what do we have, gentlemen?’ continued Holmes.

  ‘Two members of my family murdered, both musical men who were members of the Diogenes Club, followed by a writer called Partridge, who may or may not have had something to do with the Bloomsbury Group. And who also may, or may not have been a musical man, living in a menage a trois in Berkshire. Yes?’

  What in the name of all Jehovah is a menage a trois, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘A man living with two women, or a woman living with two men.’

  ‘Or a man living with a man and a woman,’ interjected Lestrade.

  ‘Great Heavens above,’ I said. ‘Do you mean, sharing beds? Three in a bed?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Watson. Not at the same time, that is.’

  ‘Oh, that is such a relief. Sounds a bit like musical chairs.’

  For someone whose sexual experiences had fallen considerably beneath the radar of a twice-married man like myself, Holmes really was pushing it a bit, behaving as though he himself had once been a member of a menage a trois and knew all about the thing. I doubted that he had ever been a member of a menage a deux. Certainly not with Irene Adler. But I decided to keep my mouth shut on the subject of such complicated human liaisons for the time being.

  ‘Actually, gentlemen,’ said Lestrade. ‘According to James Strachey and his wife, Reginald – he was known as Ralph, by the way – Partridge was not a musical man. The situation down at Mill House in Berkshire, is a complicated one. His wife is a painter called Dorothy…’

  Here Lestrade consulted his notebook.

  ‘… Carrington. She is in love with James’ brother, Lytton, who lives with her and Partridge. He is also a writer and a musical man, who was in love with Ralph Partridge. Unrequited love, that is. As is hers for this Lytton fellow. Hhhmm. Yes. I think I’ve got that right.’

  ‘Most interesting,’ burst out Holmes. ‘So our friend may have made a mistake in his choice of victim. I wonder why. Or does he know something about this situation that we do not? Look here. We must establish firmly whether or not Mr. Partridge was musical and if he was also a member of the Diogenes Club. And how the killer entered the premises, of course. I’m not sure that Watson and I need to examine yet another victim in the same appalling state. We will visit Mr. James Strachey’s house, however. And then we have some other fish to fry. Isn’t that right, Watson?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Indeed, Holmes.’ It occured to me that I had not yet had my breakfast, being in too much of a hurry to move digs. And kippers sounded good.

  ‘Detective Lestrade. Can you continue to keep these murders out of the daily rags?’

  ‘I think so, but not for much longer.’

  ‘Good. Was there another note with the body?’

  ‘Yes. Here it is, Mr. Holmes. I cannot make any sense of it.’

  Lestrade handed a paper to Holmes, who studied it briefly and passed it over to me, commenting: ‘Looks like a Vigenère cipher, and I imagine we must break it fairly quickly, if we wish to save the next victim. This must be our first priority.’

  I read the same message for the third time, with yet another cipher/clue inserted:

  Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.

  Think on your sins, Sherlock Holmes, as you are on the list:

  3. ‘gfhkuedixhxpnzvlyrspmpgvtvla’.

  Love and bubbles, The Goatslayer.

  ‘He might be a Russian,’ I suggested, handing it back to him.

  ‘Surely we must try to discover the link between this murder, and the two previous ones?’ suggested Lestrade, helping himself to another slug of brandy. ‘After all, Mr. Partridge isn’t your long-lost brother, born outside the blanket, is he, Mr. Holmes?’

  Holmes didn’t answer. He had lapsed into that near-catatonic state that usually indicated some deep process of ratiocination. Whereas I was used to his periodic comas, young Lestrade grew increasingly impatient. After a while he put on his gloves and grabbed his hat.

  Eventually the fog cleared, the body moved and Holmes spoke.

  ‘What? Oh. Not that I know of, anyway. And I’
m not sure what happened outside the blanket, Lestrade, as you so delicately put it.’ He drummed his fingers on the table, as though seeking inspiration from the rhythm.

  Lestrade stood up.

  ‘I shall visit Mrs Woolf and then return to Scotland Yard and fill out the usual paperwork. There’ll have to be another autopsy. No doubt it will confirm the presence of veronal, as it did in the case of your brother. Then hopefully I might gain a few hours sleep. I will be available from late afternoon onwards, if you should need me, Mr. Holmes. Goodbye, Dr. Watson.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lestrade.’ Holmes continued to drum, seemingly unaware of the young detective’s departure.

  Lestrade descended the stairs rapidly, no doubt wishing to avoid a collision with Lily Hudson.

  The drumming ceased.

  ‘Watson, we must act with more speed this time. Our friend seems to be always one step ahead of us. If I didn’t know you better, I might even begin to suspect you.’

  ‘Holmes! How could you! What a thing to say!’

  ‘I’m sorry, old man. It was just a little joke of mine, utterly facetious and inexcusable. Will you forgive me?’

  ‘Oh, well. All right. But let’s work together from now on, not separately, as we have been doing. I believe that we have always worked better when our two minds are focused on a particular crime. I also believe that we should begin to include Lily in our undertakings.’

  ‘Lily? But I thought you wanted to protect her from these vile crimes?’

  ‘I don’t mean that she should play an active part, Holmes. I wouldn’t want to expose her to any danger. Certainly not. It’s just that she has a different viewpoint on life, and may know more about these types of crimes and their perpetrators than we realise.’

  ‘I can’t accept that she would know anything about serial killers of so-called musical men, Watson. However, I agree. Provided she continues to bring me my tea and meals when I want them.’

  ‘Good. Which reminds me. Have you had breakfast yet?’

  ‘No. An excellent idea, Watson. And this also provides an opportunity to use Lily’s precious bell for the first time.’

  Holmes leaned back in his chair, picked up his stick sword and used it to press the bell.

  ‘In the meantime, we must address our minds to the problem of the Vigenère cipher and find the name of the next victim. Sit over here beside me.’

  ‘Oh, well. If I must, Holmes.’

  Chapter XI. The Third Puzzle.

  ‘The Vigenère cipher is a polyalphabetic cipher. It uses twenty-six different alphabetic sequences, each shifted successively by one letter to the right – called a Caesar shift after old Julius won some battle with it – and a keyword to move between them. This cipher was first broken by a chap named Charles Babbage using an invention called the Analytical Engine, an effective device that may have a decent future. The problem with breaking it lies in finding the keyword showing which lines in the alphabet sequence to use. This might make it clearer.’

  Holmes delved into a drawer in the table, rummaged around a bit, withdrew a document and handed it to me:

  ‘Let us continue our example. I shall use a ruler and write this out on the pad as we go along. Each letter of the keyword shows the particular line within the square to be used, so if the keyword was WATSON and the message was HELLOOLDCHAP, it is encrypted by cycling through the six lines where the first letters are W,A,T,S,O,N. So H = D in line W, E = E in line A, L = E in line T, L = D in line S, O = C in line O, O = B in line N, L = H in line W, D = D in line A, C = V in line T, H = Z in line S, A = O in line O, P = C in line N. The cipher text becomes an apparently meaningless DEEDCBHDVZOC. To decrypt, the receiver reverses the process using the same keyword. Simple, isn’t it, Watson?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, yes. It’s a complete doddle, Holmes. A piece of cake. Ah, at last.’

  Lily entered the room like my personal saviour, carrying a tray that issued forth an array of aromas, sufficient to make any mouth water.

  ‘Though’ yer gen’lemen moight loike a spo’ o’ brekkie,’ she said placing the tray on the table.

  I needed no second bidding to tuck in, even though Holmes continued to babble on about codes and ciphers while we were eating.

  ‘The sender and receiver could agree on a longer keyword, or the use of a key phrase to increase the complexity of the cipher. However, any polyalphabetic cipher has one inherent weakness, if a short key is used. It is the fact that the alphabets used for encryption are periodically repeated. That is what we must exploit, Watson. Watson?’

  ‘Hhmm. This bacon is delicious, Holmes. You really must try it.’

  No sooner had we finished breakfast than Holmes was back to the tedious French–sounding cipher, his energy re-doubled. I just wanted to snooze for a while.

  ‘Now, Watson, the quickest way to break this code is to guess the keyword, using trial and error. We should know enough about our friend’s childish mindset by now to do this successfully. Do try to stay awake, old chap, will you?’

  ‘Whu… oh, yes. Oh, indeed. I agree. Is there time for another pipe, perhaps?’

  ‘No time. A man’s life may depend upon the next few hours. Let us try the following sample keywords, to start with: SHERLOCK, HOLMES, HAMISH, WATSON, MYCROFT, MORAN, PROFESSOR, MORIARTY, SEBASTIAN, RALPH, PARTRIDGE, DIOGENES, EDWARD, SIGER, FITZGERALD, MUSICAL, MURDER, IGNATIUS, DOYLE, CONAN, ARTHUR. I’ll show you how to do it, and then we can split the work-load. We’ll know very quickly whether something works or not, as the first few letters will make sense. If they don’t, then we’ll move on to the next one immediately.’

  Holmes set about this seemingly impossible task with his customary zeal.

  ‘Let us start by dividing the cipher text into sets of five letters:

  GFHKU EDIXH XPNZV LYRSP MPGVT VLA

  Using SHERLOCK as a sample keyword, we must now move from the top row to the row of the key letters, cycling around the keyword again. First of all, G = Y in line S, F = M in line H, H = L in line E, K = B in line R, U = F in line L. I’ll stop there, as my Christian name is obviously not the keyword, the result being YMLBF, a meaningless combination of letters in the English language.’

  ‘Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.’

  ‘Watson! Wake up!’

  ‘Eh? What? Where am I? Take that, you fuzzy-wuzzies! Oh, dear me, yes. Sorry, Holmes.’

  ‘Now I shall have to repeat the lesson for you, using the keyword HOLMES.’

  Believe it or not, I did manage to concentrate for long enough to understand how to translate the first 5 letters of the gobbledy-gook back into a different gobbledy-gook. At least, that is what happened to both of us over the following hour or so. Only when Holmes came to the keyword ARTHUR, did we make some form of progress. And he got very excited by it.

  ‘We have it, Watson. We have it. Using ARTHUR as the keyword, the ciphertext

  GFHKUEDIXHXPNZVLYRSPMPGVTVLA

  translates into

  GOODANDREADYNICEEASYTIMETEST

  So our clue to the fourth murder is:

  GOODANDREADYNICEEASYTIMETEST

  Or, ‘Good and ready, nice easy time test.’ What do you make of that clue, Watson?’

  ‘Absolutely no sense whatsoever, apart from the keyword itself, which suggests that your theory of the childhood friend might be spot on. Is he playing games with us? It occurs to me, Holmes, that these murders must all have been planned well in advance, as otherwise how could the killer create all these complicated cipher-clues in the time between murders?’

  ‘Good point. So they always planned to kill Ralph Partridge, even though he might not be musical.’

  ‘Oo migh’ no’ be mewsical?’

  ‘Oh, there you are, Lily. Never mind that. Come over here and see what you can make of this. It has us foxed completely.’

  I was delighted
that Holmes had considered asking Lily to examine our clue, but not half as delighted as she was. Instead of removing the breakfast tray, she sat down at the table, beaming, yet striving to look serious at the same time, as though she was about to sit an important examination.

  ‘We are chasing a serial killer, Lily. He has already killed three people, each time leaving a clue. It usually tells us the name of the next victim. Here it is. Good and ready, nice easy time test. What does it mean?’

  Holmes passed the piece of paper over to Lily, who sat gazing at it for about fifteen seconds. Then spoke.

  ‘Dahn in the slave quawters, when oi’m no’ busy cookin’ for yer pair o’ so-called Flash ’Arries, oi do moicrosswoids. The easies’ clew is when oi gohha mayke a woid ouhha the foist lehhers of udder woids. Like G.A.R.N.E.T.T. Know anywun naimed Garnett? He’s in a spohha bovver, ain’t ’e?’

  Smiling with pride, she handed the paper back to the two dumb-founded, so-called detectives.

  Chapter XII. Bloomsbury.

  Number 41 Gordon Square was a pleasant four-storey over basement Georgian terraced house, with window boxes on the first level, each filled to over-flowing with bright yellow primroses. Blinds were drawn to indicate a death in the white house. The square buzzed with a variety of motor cars, taxis and growlers. An odour of horse dung lay heavy in the air, a constant feature of London streets these days. The poor animals had never quite adjusted to the noise of their mechanised competitors.

  We had travelled mercifully slowly through the London miasma in the same Beardmore that had taken us to the Diogenes Club. Holmes liked to use Ifan Rees as his regular cabbie, due to his enjoyment of the Welshman’s occasional renditions of Gilbert and Sullivan operas:

  ‘… your lordship would kindly reason with her and assure her officially that it is a standing rule at the Admiralty that love levels all ranks, her respect for an official utterance might induce her to look upon your offer in its proper light.