The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1

by John A. Little

  It is not unlikely. I will adopt your suggestion.

  But soft, she is here.

  Let us withdraw, and watch our opportunity.’

  He had just finished singing Things Are Seldom What They Seem from HMS Pinafore, as we arrived at Gordon Square and alighted from his taxi. I thought he was a rather good singer, for a cabbie. At least he had taken my mind off the journey itself.

  After Lily’s swift and rather embarrassing discovery of the meaning of our third clue, we quickly established the existence of several Garnetts in Holmes’ indexes. A few of them were published authors, but only one was also a publisher. David Garnett ran a company called the Nonesuch Press and had recently published his novel – A Man In The Zoo. Did he have a connection to Bloomsbury? We hoped that James or Alix Strachey might throw some light on this subject, so that we could mount a guard over him and thereby catch our killer. Lestrade had been informed, and would supply backup when necessary. I had my Webley with me. Unpacking my bags would have to wait.

  ‘Watson,’ said Holmes, as we stood on the steps in front of number 41. ‘We must tread softly here. We don’t want to alarm anyone. It seems these murders are no longer about my family, which makes me begin to doubt the role of Conan Arthur in them. As being a musical man is a crime, it would perhaps be wise if we focused on the male friendships of both Partridge and this Garnett character, assuming they know him. We are here to examine the Partridge crime scene, and have also received a communication from someone who might be threatening the life of a person named David Garnett. That is all.’

  ‘Right, Holmes. No mention whatsoever of music.’

  ‘Mr. and Mrs Strachey are psychoanalysts, by the way. James studied under Sigmund Freud himself.’

  ‘Oh, good. They should be able to help us, then. It was obviously the mother.’ Good grief. Holmes was right. I was getting cranky in my old age.

  The door was opened by a pretty young maid, who cringed visibly in the presence of the great detective, but gave me a cheeky smile behind his back as she took my coat. We were ushered into a drawing-room which was unexpectedly occupied by a group of eight men and three women. A couple of the men looked red-eyed, as though they had been crying. Many clutched hefty glasses of brandy or whisky. I supposed they had come to pay their respects. The atmosphere was subdued and reminded me of the airless staff room at the University Of London, full of pipe and cigarette smoke. The well-known economist John Maynard Keynes and the writer Virginia Woolf were the only faces I recognised through the haze, each puffing away vigorously on cheroots. There was silence when the maid announced ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his friend, Dr. Watson’. Several pairs of eyes subjected us to what I might call interested scrutiny, for want of a better phrase. I did hope the word friend would not be misconstrued among this band of rabid libertarians.

  ‘Ah, Holmes. Most grateful to you for your concern over poor Ralph’s demise. It’s a real boon to us that you have come out of retirement. We are all most shocked by events. I am James Strachey.’

  The speaker with the outstretched hand was a typical academic of the old school – late thirties, neatly-trimmed dark beard, plain c-bridge pince-nez, shabby tweed suit that had seen better days and the wettest of wet-fish handshakes. He looked like a nancy boy to me. To be honest, so did most of the men in the room. If I were to use Holmes’ word – ‘musical’, then they could probably have formed a small chamber orchestra.

  Holmes scanned the faces rapidly before concentrating on Mr. Strachey and replying.

  ‘Not at all. I apologise for our intrusion. I would appreciate it if you could show me the room in which Mr. Partridge’s body was found. Also I have a few questions to ask you, before I examine it.’

  Holmes nodded to the glum, shocked entourage before following Strachey out of the room. ‘Gentlemen. Ladies.’

  Having no desire to be left alone amidst all those stares, I hurried after the pair down to the basement, which proved to be entirely empty, except for a huge raft of paintings and photographs that ranged across and against the four walls. Several of them were by some chap called Manet. They looked genuine enough, but there were far too many naked ladies in them for my taste. The room smelled of mice.

  ‘First of all, Mr. Strachey,’ said Holmes coldly. ‘How did the murderer gain access to your house?’

  ‘Good question. Neither the police nor I could find any sign of a break-in. The only logical conclusion is that poor Ralph let him in by the front door.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Holmes. ‘So he probably knew Mr. Partridge. Secondly, do you know a Mr. David Garnett of the Nonesuch Press? The writer? Is he one of your… group?’

  ‘Bunny? Oh, yes, indeed. Everybody knows Bunny. But we are not a formal ‘Group’, Holmes. That is merely a media construct. We are a selection of close friends who share similar views on many subjects, both intellectual and artistic. There is no movement, as such.’

  ‘Can you tell me where Mr. Garnett is living? Where he might be now?’

  ‘Indeed. He lives with his wife Rachel in Hilton Hall. It’s near Huntingdon in Cambridgeshire. But most days he works in his bookshop, Birrell & Garnett at 19, Taviton Street, off the end of the square. He should be there now, if you want to find him. What’s this about, Holmes? I thought you were here to help find Ralph’s disgusting murderer.’

  ‘That is very true, Mr. Strachey,’ said Holmes. ‘Look, what I have to tell you must go no further than this room. Can I trust you?’

  ‘Most certainly. Of course I shall respect your confidence.’ James Strachey positively bridled at the thought that a public schoolboy and Cambridge graduate like him might be considered untrustworthy.

  ‘Good. Your friend Partridge is not the first victim of this killer. In fact he is the third, that we know of. And the first two were my own brother and father.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Yes. Eh, we also received a communication from the killer that his next target would be someone called Garnett. We believe that he is a member of the Bloomsbury… set.’

  ‘But why in God’s name is this lunatic killing people? Do you even know that?’

  ‘Not entirely. Although I have formed an opinion on it, I am not prepared to conjecture without more evidence. By any chance, do you happen to know if either Mr. Partridge or Mr. Garnett are members of the Diogenes Club, over in Pall Mall?’

  At this question, James Strachey’s face turned a delicate shade of pink. He looked as though he was searching desperately for an acceptable lie that would enable him to avoid answering Holmes’ question truthfully. Then his stiff upper lip ceased to tremble and he decided to give up altogether.

  ‘Yes. Both of them. Actually, quite a few of our set are members there, and have been for some time. We value the peace and quiet it provides immensely. I knew your brother, Mycroft, you know? He used to attend our little soirées over here. His contributions were much appreciated for their wit and erudition. I was deeply saddened to hear that he had passed on. I had no idea his death had anything to do with Ralph.’

  ‘Mycroft knew a lot of people. Mr. Strachey, I have no time to beat about the bush. Not only do we have the warning about Garnett, but we also have some evidence that the serial killer himself might come from within your bohemian set.’

  If Holmes had intended to take the sting out of James Strachey’s arrogant tail, he succeeded admirably. Strachey staggered slightly and leaned against the wall for support. But not for long. As became his class, he recovered quickly and was quite belligerent on the subject of Bloomsbury. Loyalty to the group was obviously high on his list of qualities.

  ‘No. No. No. I refuse to believe such a thing, Holmes. You must be mistaken. Serial killers, indeed! We are the enlightened Bloomsberries, members of an ancien régime. Civilised life and friendship. We have no secrets from each other. Some of the best minds in the world are upstai
rs in this house. They are geniuses. Woolf, the great writer. Keynes, the great economist. Grant, the great painter. Do you understand? What exactly is this infernal evidence?’

  I was fully prepared for the explosion that followed. There was nothing on this planet more inclined to resurrect Holmes’ inner monster than the suggestion that other people were more intelligent than he. But I had no idea how deep the sword had gone. He was like a python in heat.

  ‘Paper, Strachey. Paper,’ spat Holmes. ‘The exact same kind of unique paper that is used by the Hogarth Press to publish the drivelling nonsense that spouts from the mouths of your kin. That paper is being used to threaten my life. The life of Sherlock Holmes. And if you really wish a definition of the word genius, I suggest that you study the list of crimes that have been solved by Watson and myself in the past, and the criminals who have been brought to justice. Perhaps at the same time you might ask the question as to whether you and your band of troubadours would have been allowed to live the kind of lives that you are living without me. Now, leave. I wish to examine the scene of the crime. Go. Away.’

  ‘What? How dare yo…’ spluttered Strachey.

  ‘And do not mention this conversation to the mob upstairs. For all we know, the murderer may be sipping your brandy as we speak. We’ll find our own way out, thank you.’

  Strachey looked apoplectic. Like a dying fish, he opened his mouth to speak again, thought better of it, swivelled abruptly and left the room. Holmes strode over to the blood-stained wooden floor in the corner and proceeded to examine it carefully with his lens. I decided to keep out of his way until he had cooled down and wandered around the room looking at the paintings. Tread softly, my holy sainted grandmother.

  After a while I plucked up enough courage to start humming to myself. The paintings seemed to be mainly portraits of men by other men, some of whose names I could identify from the photographs alongside them. I assumed both sitters and artists were members of the Bloomsbury set. Certainly Keynes was there. And Virginia Woolf. What extraordinary features she had! She looked like some kind of animal. A sheep. Not a wolf, of course. Goat? Yes. That was it. A goat. Names like Fry, Forster, Bell, Brenan meant nothing to me. Poor old Mycroft was in one of the group photographs, looking as sleepy as usual. He was lying on a blanket in someone’s back garden on a bright, sunny day. It looked like a country house of some kind. That was when I noticed the figure sitting on a bench behind him, and let out an almighty shriek of recognition.

  ‘Holmes! Gosh, I’m sorry! Here! It’s him! It’s the same man! He’s sitting behind Mycroft! Your brother!’

  Holmes looked up impatiently from his business.

  ‘What man, Watson?’

  ‘The man from the library! Doyle! Ignatius bloody Doyle!’

  Holmes rushed over to me and peered through his lens at the photograph of that rude bugger from the library while I continued to jab my finger at his image excitedly.

  ‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Is it him? Is this your childhood friend, Conan Arthur?’

  ‘Steady on, Watson. It has been well over fifty years, you know.’

  Holmes closely examined the face of the man sitting on the bench.

  ‘Hhmm. It could be him. Poor chap. People do deteriorate in mental hospitals, you know. But the coincidence is too great. And there’s nothing to be found here, except the footprints of a group of clumsy, clod-hopping policemen. I really must warn Lestrade to come to me first in future, before he involves the damn Yard. Look, I’ll pursue this photograph with the spoilt left-wing intellectuals in the room of geniuses upstairs, if you hop around to that bookshop where Garnett works in Taviton Street. Call Lestrade along the way and ask him to have a constable mount guard on David Garnett. Wake him up if you have to. Wait for me there. I’ll be over in half-an-hour. Then we might pay a visit to Mr. Ignatius Doyle at the British Museum.’

  ‘Right, Holmes. I’m on my way.’

  Frankly, I didn’t know which was worse. The prospect of the staring room, or having to face Charity Pecksniff again.

  Chapter XIII. Kidnapped.

  As things turned out, I didn’t have to worry either way. The traumatic events of the next fifteen hours happened at such a speed that even now I have trouble separating one from another and applying an accurate timeline. I do remember stepping out onto Gordon Square and turning in the direction of Taviton Street.

  Although it was a short walk, because of the density of fog I decided to respond to Mr Rees’ questioning nod as he polished his pet Beardmore taxi-cab. I felt a little sorry for him, waiting outside for another fare, and mistook his continued presence for loyalty to Sherlock Holmes. I also thought to enjoy another short stretch of Gilbert & Sullivan on my journey. But it was surely the biggest mistake of my life.

  ‘19, Taviton Street, cabbie,’ I announced cheerily as I clambered aboard. ‘On With The Motley! I have a preference for ‘The Mikado’, by the way!’

  ‘Four-fifths a king and one-fifth a God,’ muttered the Welshman as he climbed behind the wheel.

  I settled myself into the seat and prepared for Ifan Rees’ solo performance as we pulled into the road. Sure enough:

  ‘As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,

  I’ve got a little list – I’ve got a little list

  Of society offenders who might well be underground,

  And who never would be missed – who never would be missed!

  There’s the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs,

  All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs,

  All children who are up in dates, and floor you with ’em flat,

  And all third persons who on spoiling tête-á-têtes insist,

  They’d none of ’em be missed — they’d none of ’em be missed!’

  We had reached the far side of Gordon Square and were moving slowly into Taviton Street behind a growler when the door of the cab flew open and in climbed, to my horror and annoyance, that appalling weedy character from the British Museum, Ignatius Doyle, complete with feathery goatee and vicious grin.

  ‘How dare you, sir?’ I shouted. ‘This is my cab! Get out of here immediately or I shall call the police!’

  His response was to giggle manically and grab me roughly by the neck with his left hand while applying some kind of sweet-smelling pad to my face with his right. I struggled for my Webley but became confused as to its location in the heat of the moment. Then I began to lose consciousness, a single word floating through my head – chloroform, chloroform, chlorof…

  I awoke in darkness, not knowing what had happened or where I was. I had to wait a while for my eyes to focus and adjust to a faint yellow light emanating from a crack beneath a wide doorway in front of me. My mouth felt as dry as a desert and sharp pains shot down from my shoulders and hands to my legs. I tried to move, but could not. That was when I realised I had been shackled to a concrete wall, like Jesus Christ in the crucifixion position. My toes barely touched the ground, which was stained red in a rough semi-circle. Looking around, I saw that I was in some sort of garage, containing a single Beardmore taxi-cab. Suddenly remembering the crimes that Holmes and I were investigating, I was relieved to establish that I was still fully clothed. Stupidly, my first reaction was one of hunger. I hadn’t had any lunch. My stomach grumbled noisily. I must have been strung up for several hours. When would I eat again? If ever? Who had kidnapped me? Was Ignatius Doyle actually Conan Arthur, Sherlock’s childhood friend? What was he doing in that weird Welsh singer’s cab? I pushed and pulled against the shackles but only managed to achieve fresh spikes of torment. My groans gave me the idea of shouting for help, which I did with some gusto.

  ‘Helpm! Someonem! I’vem beenm kidnappedm bym pervertedm, murderousm serialm killersm! They’rem killingm musicalm menm!’

  The muffled words echoed inside my head, and it was on
ly then that I understood I had been gagged as well as bound. With some bandage smelling of antiseptic that almost made my gorge rise. Gagged like Mycroft and Edward Holmes. Great Heavens! Oh, yes, I had reached my three score and ten and would not have been too unhappy to join my parents and my two wives on the right hand side of God the Father Almighty. But not that way! Sweet Jesus! Not by emasculation!

  Suddenly I heard a bolt being drawn back and the huge door slid across to show two figures outlined against a dim, old-fashioned street gas lamp, one tall and thin, one very short and tubby. A light clicked on, causing me to blink.

  ‘Go ahead. Shout as much as you like. Nobody can hear your muffled grunts.’

  The speaker was the odious Doyle, who crunched his way over towards me through some dry leaves and stood, breathing his fetid garlic breath into my face, followed by Ifan Rees, whose bald head reflected the light from a bare bulb overhead. A freezing fog had followed them through the door. I determined to behave as though I could speak clearly.

  ‘Holmesm willm bem herem soonm, mym friendsm. Andm thenm them pairm ofm youm willm getm them soundm whippingm youm deservem. Followedm bym am specialm punishmentm thatm hem hasm linedm upm form youm.’

  The pair laughed at my muzzled words. Then the silly dwarf Rees started to dance around the garage and sing again:

  ‘Behold the Lord High Executioner

  A personage of noble rank and title –

  A dignified and potent officer,

  Whose functions are particularly vital!

  Defer, defer,

  To the Lord High Executioner!

  Defer, defer,

  To the noble Lord, to the noble Lord,

  To the Lord High Executioner!’

  ‘Be quiet, Ifan. Yes, I do hope the world’s first consulting detective comes to your rescue,’ said Doyle, his face white with anger. ‘That is actually the plan, Watson, old fellow. Youm arem them baitm. Then the interfering meddler can suffer the same fate as his brother and father and all of the other goats. Followed by you. Ifan has his farmer’s weapon handy, don’t you, Ifan?’