The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1

by John A. Little

  ‘So you didn’t go to the British Museum after all?’ I asked. In my heart I knew that I was never going to be able to quiz Holmes about that teenage affair with Conan Arthur. It might destroy our relationship forever, and I did not want that. I had to accept the possibility that it might have happened and he would never admit to it. But what did I understand about the physical attraction between man and man? Absolutely nothing. After all, he had been a veritable child, and probably didn’t know what he was doing.

  ‘No. I rang the British Museum from the bookshop to see if he was at work, which he obviously was not. They had no home address for him. It seems that he was a bit of an itinerant. Anyway, I already had my suspicions as to where I might find Mr. Doyle later that night, thanks to Scotland Yard. I waited for you in the bookshop for over an hour, and began to get worried for your safety, Watson. I called young Lestrade myself and he arrived directly from his visit to Virginia Woolf’s house in Tavistock Square, where he informed Leonard Woolf, her husband, of the neighbour’s complaints about noise and, more importantly, of the Hogarth Press paper link with the murders. Woolf became very compliant, as he was most concerned for his wife’s well-being – apparently an ongoing problem for him – and informed Lestrade in confidence about a secret club for musical men that existed in London, where they could get together and socialise. He didn’t know where it was, but said it was simply called Pyotr’s Cave, after the composer Tchaikovsky. And apparently there is to be a big party tonight.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me now that Tchaikovsky was also a musical man?’ I enquired grumpily.

  ‘Yes, Watson. Actually he was. In more ways than one. But he got married for the sake of the family name, as many musical men did in those days. And still do, of course. A deeply unhappy and tormented personal life seems to be the destiny of such men and women. But not forever, I hope. The marriage lasted two and one half months, which just about beats Edward Fitzgerald’s record, I suppose. We explained the danger to a very reluctant David Garnett, who had to be persuaded to accept a police guard. Like his cohorts in the Bloomsbury Group, I believe he thought he was above such bourgois considerations as personal safety.’

  Holmes paused to relight his pipe before continuing.

  ‘But then he had never been tested, had he? Not like you, old boy. First in Afghanistan and then so many times afterwards with me down the years, and now this latest challenge. Every examination passed with flying colours. What would I do without you, Watson?’

  He leaned across and squeezed my arm fondly.

  ‘How did you work it all out, Holmes?’ I asked. I was in no mood for nostalgia, or any of his magic trickery, where he would play his games with the truth before pulling the solution out of a hat for the benefit of an idolising client. It was one of my companion’s most annoying traits. I was too physically and mentally exhausted and just wanted to test my new bed.

  ‘It is true, Watson, that I had an intuition about these crimes from an early stage, because of that childhood friendship going rotten. Yet I failed to perceive the common denominator to each of the victims for some time. Once Partridge was killed, and Garnett threatened, it occurred to me that it had to be our old friend, the Diogenes Club. I questioned Garnett about Pyotr’s Cave and where it was. He swore blind that he had never heard of such a place, and wouldn’t be caught dead in one anyway, as he was a happily married man. But I knew he was lying. It’s the eyes that betray guilt, Watson. Lestrade seemed quite shocked even to think that it existed. So I decided to return to number 221B Baker Street and contemplate my twin problems over a pipe or two: what had happened to you, and the location of Pyotr’s Cave. I felt that the answer to one might provide me with the answer to the other.’

  Holmes blew smoke rings to the ceiling with obvious pleasure as he appeared to collect his thoughts.

  ‘I was making very little progress and well into my second pipe when Lily appeared with a package, saying that it had just been pushed through the letterbox. Inside were the genital remains of Ralph Partridge, and an envelope. I rushed to the window to see if I could recognise anyone on the street. Sure enough, Ifan Rees was there, polishing his taxi-cab as usual. But at the time I had no idea of his relationship to Conan Arthur. I placed the package on the mantel for Lestrade and checked the envelope. Inside it was yet another clue, presumably telling me the identity of the next victim. Here it is.’

  Holmes handed me a piece of the same paper that had been used in each of the other clues, folded over again. It was more of the same gobbledegook.

  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:

  4. ‘hhkroyrqlqqurwccupslmdrnhk’.

  Love and bubbles, The Goatslayer.

  I was in no mood for breaking codes, so I passed it back to him and asked him to explain it in words of one syllable, if possible.

  ‘Of course, old man. You must be exhausted. Once she had recovered from seeing Partridge’s bits and pieces, I invited Lily to assist me in my deliberations and was pleasantly surprised again at her quick-wittedness. You were right about our housekeeper, Watson. She is a bright spark. We really must make more use of her in the future. It took us all of two hours to work out the solution to the fourth cipher. I guessed that our cryptographer friend would not use the same cipher method as before, as he would want to impress me, so it came down to either an Atbash, ADFGVX or a Playfair. Don’t worry, the explanation isn’t that complex. A swift check proved that it wasn’t an Atbash, where the letters of the alphabet are simply reversed, and Z=A, Y=B, etc., One of the clues to a Playfair cipher is the absence of the letter J in the ciphertext, which was indeed the case with our one, and so I plumped for a Playfair. Lily and I used a similar trial and error approach with the different keys that you and I did on the previous cipher. This time I tried ARTHUR and CONAN first, with no luck. But our third guess of the key was SHERLOCK, and it worked.’

  ‘You had better explain how this Playfair cipher operates, Holmes, before you go any further. I’m a bit lost.’ Lost, and struggling to keep my eyes open.

  ‘Of course. It was invented by Sir Charles Wheatstone in 1854. He named it after his friend, Lyon, the first Baron Playfair of St Andrews, who promoted its use in the field, specifically the Boer and Great Wars. I’ll write it out for you, using our previous example of HELLOLDCHAP. The Playfair cipher functions by replacing each pair of letters, or digraph, in the plaintext with a different pair. To encrypt, the key is first placed at the head of the remaining letters of the alphabet within a 5 by 5 square (although other shapes can be used), as follows:

  Looking at the Playfair square, if both letters of a digraph are in the same row, they are replaced by the letters right beside them (wrapping around at the end); if they fall in the same column, by the letters beneath them (ditto); if diagonal, each letter is replaced with the letter in the same row, but the other letter’s column. So our plaintext of

  HE-LL-OO-LD-CH-AP

  becomes the ciphertext

  ER-SS-DD-SM-FC-CT

  and the recipient can decrypt it by simply reversing the rules. Because he knows the key. Anyone who intercepts the message cannot break it without that key. Here you are. Simple, isn’t it?’

  Holmes handed me his workings. I understood broadly what he was saying, and glanced at it briefly, before handing it back. The sooner he finished talking, the sooner I could get to my bed.

  ‘Oh, a mere bagatelle. So what did our plaintext become when you reversed the Playfair ciphertext?’ I asked knowledgeably.

  ‘It became: SSAEAVETEUPTHYOOTNLRIMSTEC. I was a bit flummoxed by this, but again Lily came up trumps. It was a very simple clue, she said. All that was required was to c
reate new words from every third letter, cycling around the clue. She’d done this many times down in the slave quarters. Sure enough, this produced: SEEUHOLMESATPYTRSCAVETONIT. See you, Holmes, at Pyotr’s Cave tonight. The spelling foxed us for a while, but I decided it must have been written by a semi-literate person, possibly a sidekick of Doyle’s. I was obviously the next victim, and I suppose I knew that was coming. But where on earth was Pyotr’s Cave? Then I remembered the first rule of detection: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

  I smiled at the old cliché. How many times in the past had it proved correct? Countless.

  Holmes continued his soliloquy, amid my frequent yawns.

  ‘When we examined the Diogenes Club, Watson, we focused on the building itself, and the rooms therein. But we forgot about the garden at the back. And the twin garages. What if Pyotr’s Cave was entered from the rear of the building through the garden and into some sort of underground tunnel? Or from one of the garages? That was when I had my divine inspiration. I would disguise myself as a musical man and try to infiltrate this private club, with the help of Jasper Lestrade. That is why you see me dressed like this now.’

  ‘I did wonder at your strange get-up,’ I replied dryly.

  ‘You look like an aging actor who has just finished a production of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance Of Being Earnest, and forgotten to remove his make-up.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but it was necessary, old chap. If I could imitate a woman, I could surely dress up as one of your nancy-boys, complete with cravat, silk shirt, cigarette-holder, tight trousers, Cuban heels, delicate moustache, a bit of a lisp. And malacca stick sword, of course. Although he complained a bit about lack of sleep, Lestrade was surprisingly keen on exploring his feminine side. That made me wonder a bit, but I did need him as backup, so to speak. Lily enjoyed helping us make ourselves up, even using some lipstick on Jasper, with whom she was beginning to get on like a house on fire. He looked quite like a young Tchaikovsky, with his pasted-on beard. She wanted to disguise herself as a man and join us, but I had to put my foot down on that idea. After all, I was going to meet the serial killer himself, if my guess about the Diogenes Club was accurate. Danger beckoned. So off we pranced, Watson. In a growler, you’ll be glad to know. There were no hackneys about, for some reason.’

  ‘What time was this?’ I asked. Lily and Jasper? House on fire?

  ‘About ten o’clock last night.’

  Chapter XVI. Pyotr’s Cave.

  ‘It was ten-fifteen when our Clarence pulled up, clippety-clop, clippety-clop, at the rear of the Diogenes Club on Carlton House Terrace. During the trip I had updated Lestrade with the story of my childhood friend, Conan Arthur, and his difficult life. When I told him of my suspicion that he was the killer of the musical men, he smiled grimly and patted the British Bulldog Webley in his jacket pocket. I found myself wishing that his father had been his equal in strength, intelligence and character. We might have solved many more cases and relieved the British taxpayer of the cost of quite a few trials and life sentences.’

  ‘That’s vigilante talk, Holmes,’ I put in tiredly.

  ‘Of course it is, Watson. Our time together has been just that. A vigil against crime. But we are running out of years, and I have observed many recent cases where the legal process seems to favour the criminal rather more than the victim. I intend to redress the balance to the best of my ability during the rest of my life. With your assistance, of course.’

  ‘Holmes!’

  ‘To continue. The pair of delicate nancy-boys alighted stylishly from the growler and gazed through the dense, dripping fog at the sinister twin garage fronts for a possible entrance to Pyotr’s Cave. But all was as silent as the grave. We could not even hear the traffic in Pall Mall. Like Ali Baba, I willed some jinn to arrive and for a magical door to open, sesame-like. And after a few minutes, it worked. Not a jinn, exactly, but the Diogenes doorkeeper Joseph, who emerged from within the hedgerow like a wraith, lost in the dark of the night. His pale features and plaited blonde hair gleamed beneath the dim gas lighting. A pair of black round eyes finally stopped moving and stared into mine with deep suspicion. Yet I don’t believe the innocent child recognised either one of us.’

  ‘ “Password?” he asked.’

  ‘I had not anticipated this problem and was forced to think quickly. What kind of password would a club like this use? I decided that it must be something to do with Tchaikovsky’s music. A rapid mental flicking provided Swan, Lake, Sleeping, Beauty, Romeo, Juliet, Pathetic, Nutcracker…’.

  ‘ “Nutcracker,” I replied with absolute confidence. There was a flash of white teeth from the simple-minded pickaninny as he beckoned us to follow him into the hedge, which proved to be merely a few branches at the end of a garden. Joseph disappeared through a small wicket gate at the side of the first garage, and we bent down to follow him into what appeared to be a large padded cell, whose walls were lined with thick beige cushions. Watson, if I had only known that you were in crucifixion mode next door, I would surely have rushed to your rescue then and there. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, of course, Holmes. Of course. That explains why I could not hear anyone coming or going through it. Eh, what exactly was in the other garage, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘Nothing. Except for a dirty rolled-up loop of carpet and a metal trapdoor in the middle of the floor. It was evidently quite heavy, as Joseph had to use both hands to lift it up, revealing a flickering light and a set of steps leading down to… what? Dante’s Inferno? Perhaps. Music drifted up from below. Grinning, he invited us to enter the dungeon. I clasped my stick sword firmly and stepped forward, followed closely by Lestrade. Our descent was steep and led to the middle of a candle-lit tunnel hewn out of pure granite stone. A bright crimson arrow had been stencilled onto the wall, pointing towards the left. We followed it dutifully. Rose petals were strewn along the floor and colourful balloons hung from the roof. There was an unusually sweet smell that I recognised later as incense, burnt to hide the odour of cannibis resin. It became much warmer and sweat began to sting my eyes. The music grew louder as we progressed along the twisting corridor for several minutes, passing other arrows at forks in the shadowy passage. Wherever we were going, it could not have been anywhere near the Diogenes Club. By my judgement, if we were heading for Pyotr’s Cave, it was probably underneath the Carlton Club. Then I remembered that certain private clubs in London had built underground shelters for their members during the Great War, in case of bombing from Count Zeppelin’s airships. They were dotted around the city, and some of them could still be functional.’

  ‘ “What is that awful sentimental music?”whispered Lestrade.’

  ‘ “That, young Jasper, son of the late Inspector George, is the Rose Adagio from Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty Suite for the ballet,” I replied somewhat testily. “And it is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever composed by man or beast.” ’

  ‘ “Oh, I believe you,” the youthful philistine muttered in reply.’

  ‘We had come to the end of the passage and were staring at a completely blank rockface. The music emanated from the other side at full volume, together with a low buzzing sound, like that from a hive of bees, servicing their queen. It had got quite clammy and we were both bathed in perspiration. I searched the wall in vain to find some key. Then Lestrade pointed at the floor, where a tiny button was sticking up, like a skittle waiting to be knocked down. Or a land mine? I stood on it tentatively, and the wall vanished miraculously into the roof with a soft whoosh, like a lift travelling upwards. We edged forward into a discordant blend of music and chatter. It was like any public house in Soho on an average Saturday night, crowded with drunks, dense as a smoking battlefield and hosting a central dance floor. Except that everyone inside seemed to be male, of course. And the atmosphere became instantly coole
r, as though there were vents somewhere.’

  ‘So it was definitely Pyotr’s Cave?’ I asked.

  ‘Indeed it was, Watson. A huge bunker, hewn out of raw granite and smoothed over with cement. Large holes ranged around the cavern wall for private trysts. Couples slow-danced to the music and kissed.’

  ‘All right, Holmes. You don’t have to go into that much detail.’

  ‘Poor Watson. You just will not accept the fact that some men are sexually attracted to other men. And some women to other women, of course.’

  I sat up abruptly.

  ‘What on earth do you mean, Holmes? Musical women?’

  ‘Exactly. The police informed me later on that Virginia Woolf had been caught there, with another of that Bloomsbury lot, Vita Sackville-West, indulging in the cult of Lesbos within one of the caves. Fortunately for them, there’s no law against it, unlike with men.’

  ‘Woman with woman? What? How? But there’s no…! Good God almighty!’ Now I had heard everything. It simply beggared belief.

  ‘Well. As far as the Bloomsbury Group goes, I imagine that it is not the expression of the feeling that matters, as much as the feeling itself.’

  ‘Stop. That’s enough, Holmes. You don’t have to elaborate. What happened next?’ There are some things that I would never understand.

  ‘Lestrade and I strolled up to the bar and ordered a couple of martinis. We sipped them nonchalantly and pretended to chat while examining the clientele for familiar faces, without any luck. Most of the men were quite ordinary looking people, the type who worked in offices during the day and whom you would pass by on the street without a backward glance. Sadly, they seemed much more interested in my young friend than in the great detective. Joke, Watson. Calm down. Then the music changed back to the dramatic entrance of the Lilac Fairy. There was a sudden hush, the floor cleared and a tiny hairless figure dressed only in a transparent purple tutu danced into the centre, his body glistening with some kind of oil. I nudged Lestrade in excitement. It was my little taxi driver, Ifan Rees. Suddenly many of the unlikely events of the past week began to make a great deal of sense to me. Of course. Rees and Arthur. That was how they had tracked me. Together they must be the killers.’