The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “Indeed we have,” I replied.

  Holmes then proceeded to interview each of the others in turn. When this was concluded, he took me aside. “Mark these two points well, Watson: None of the others knew each other before tonight, and each received an identical letter to that of Mr. Collins.”

  The thin man who had asked about the spectral image approached. His fear was evident, for he trembled visibly.

  On impulse, I asked. “Are you ill, sir?”

  He cringed before me. “My nerves are in shreds. It is an affliction I have.”

  It was difficult to imagine how he earned his living in such a permanently excited state, and I confess to yielding to my curiosity. “Pray, what is your profession?”

  “I am an architect.” He produced a card of the London Association, as if he felt he needed to prove his statement. His teeth chattered as he continued, looking first at me, and then at Holmes. “This appalling assault on the sentiments of those of us who came here to remember our loved and dearest is too much for me. I would like to leave now, if there is no objection.”

  “Very well,” Holmes agreed. “You may all depart. But pray do not do so before furnishing your names and where you are to be found to my associate, Dr. Watson. I will see that things take their proper course. “

  With much murmuring they filed out of the room, after the key had been retrieved from Marmion Kester. Only one person paused: Mr. Collins thanked Holmes and myself profusely and shook our hands.

  “There is something more,” Holmes called after them from the doorway. “Some of you, on returning to your homes, may find that intruders have broken in during your absence. If that has occurred, I ask that you immediately contact me by telegraph at Baker Street, and notify Scotland Yard also.”

  There was a nodding of heads and murmurs of assent, as they left.

  On Holmes’s instruction, I locked the door again. He faced our prisoners, his expression stern.

  “I really think that you could have done better, Mr. Kester,” he began. “There is really no excuse, for you have operated this and similar contemptible deceptions for some years.”

  “You recognised me. I knew it.” The midget said hopelessly.

  Holmes nodded. “I knew that you were likely behind this before I entered the hotel, and the sight of you was confirmation. You are not unknown at Scotland Yard, by reputation, though you have not been caught until now.”

  “What will happen to us?” Mrs. Kester asked in a shaky voice.

  “Prison, of course.” Holmes shrugged and waited while they absorbed the probability. “There is, however, a single alternative.”

  The midget’s eyes widened and a faint hope lightened his wife’s expression. Their daughter seemed about to weep.

  “For your daughter’s sake,” my friend continued, “I will give you two hours start before I inform Inspector Lestrade. If you leave here directly for Paddington, to catch the next express from the capital, you will have a fair chance. I advise you, Mr. Kester, to seek honest work and to pursue an honourable life, in order that your family may not suffer.”

  “And in exchange?” Kester asked, not meeting our eyes.

  “What I have just described is entirely dependent on your explanation. You must tell me how your performance of tonight was arranged. Be specific and leave nothing out, and you may all walk from this room free.”

  “All that I know is that I had a strange visitor, one night about a week ago. He stood at my door and would not enter the house. I later realised that this was probably because he wished to remain in the darkness so as not to be identified. He was a tall man, but stout, wearing a long coat and a broad-brimmed hat pulled low down. I could see that he had a long red scar on his face, and a full beard.”

  Holmes nodded. “And what was the purpose of the visit?”

  “He seemed to know all about my business,” the little man continued. “He gave me fifty pounds and told me that I must attend here tonight to conduct a séance. He said that all arrangements had been made and I must not fail him, but from his manner, I felt bullied and unable to refuse.”

  “You resented him. That is why tonight’s performance was, shall we say, sparse?”

  “No man works well, or takes more trouble than he has to, when he is threatened.”

  “Wisely said. Is there anything more that you can tell me?”

  “One thing only, Mr. Holmes.”

  “What is it, pray?”

  “The last thing that this man said, before he walked away into the night, was that I must not think of leaving the district without fulfilling my obligation. He assured me that if I attempted to do so, then my family, my loved and dearest, as he referred to them, would be killed, most slowly and painfully.”

  Holmes was unusually quiet the next morning over breakfast. His monosyllabic answers to my attempts at starting a conversation suggested that he was giving much thought to our present problem, and so I desisted and ate my bacon and eggs in silence.

  This changed abruptly when Mrs. Hudson cleared away the plates. No sooner had the door closed after her than my friend became suddenly animated, beginning his observations, conclusions, and questions from the moment we sat down.

  “There is more to this, Watson,” he began as he settled into his armchair. “I cannot see why this mysterious caller of Mr. Kester’s went to the trouble of arranging that farce last night.”

  “Nor I. It cannot have been to lure the participants from their homes, since we have received no notifications of burglary or anything else.”

  “And why, particularly, this group? There has to be a common thread running through the lives of each of them, but my interviews yielded no such thing.”

  “You mentioned, I think, that they were previously unknown to each other, and had each received the same summons?”

  Holmes sat back in his chair. “Indeed. Pray read aloud the notes you made of each person, omitting their addresses, but including their names, professions, and your impressions.”

  I hurriedly retrieved my notebook from my pocket, noticing that Holmes had closed his eyes and adopted a meditative posture.

  “Mr. Fortescue Collins,” I began, “our client. We have discussed him before, so I assume you have already reached your conclusions?”

  Holmes gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Then we have Mrs. Susan Traherne, the widow whose daughter was ‘brought back’ by Madam Myra. She struck me as a most distressed woman who will be no better for her experience. Mrs. Olivia Burton is also a widow, since her husband died at Maiwand.”

  “A comrade of yours, perhaps?”

  “No, I never knew him. Mrs. Burton was a reticent woman, reluctant to speak of what she had witnessed. Mrs. Adeline Murrell is an unmarried shop assistant. She complained constantly, saying that had expected to be reunited with her mother for a few minutes but was bitterly disappointed.”

  “That leaves two gentlemen I think, Doctor.”

  I nodded, although Holmes was unable to see me. “The first is Mr. Godfrey Franklin, a butcher. He is a stout, red-faced man whom I suspect is normally of a jovial disposition, despite the cruel line of his mouth but, as the opportunity to speak to his departed infant son did not present itself, last night exhibited symptoms of melancholia.”

  “And the other?”

  “Mr. Carlton Woodchester, to whom we spoke. He is an architect by trade and suffers from an extreme nervous condition. As you will remember, he is tall and thin with a slight stoop to his frame. I noticed also that his eyes are ice-blue, with a look which I would have interpreted as compassionless, had I not recognised it as caused by his ailment.”

  “Thank you, Watson. That was most informative. There is something troubling me about a remark I heard during our conversations of last night. The words should have meant somethin
g to me, but I cannot bring them to mind.”

  “Was it something that the midget said?”

  “Perhaps. It will come to me, presently.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Holmes, you asked everyone at the séance to send a wire if they were burgled.”

  “Quite so, but it came to nothing.”

  “You thought the séance could be a ploy to get those people away from their homes?”

  “We have met that device before, on at least two occasions.”

  “That is true. But what if, this time, the object of the séance was to gather these men and women together?”

  Sherlock Holmes sat very still, and then he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Watson, how many times have I said that it is you who should be the detective, rather than I? My dear fellow, how often you see things that I fail to perceive.”

  Hiding my embarrassment, I said that I was glad to have been of help.

  “As you always are, dear friend.”

  To glimpse beneath that cold and logical mask for an instant, when the warm heart beneath shows clearly through, is to see a different Holmes revealed. Perhaps this, truly, is the essence of the man.

  Holmes rushed to the bookshelf and took down his index. For the next few minutes he whipped through its pages of newspaper cuttings while on his hands and knees. Finally, he gave as cry of triumph.

  “Aha! I knew it, Watson. My memory has not yet begun to fail me. I now know the identity of Mr. Kester’s visitor, the man who arranged last night’s proceedings.” He jumped to his feet and seized his hat and coat. “But before we can proceed, I must seek confirmation at Scotland Yard. I do hope that Lestrade is in attendance today. Please tell Mrs. Hudson to expect me after lunch.”

  With that, before I was able to reply or comment, he left.

  I occupied myself until lunch time with writing up notes from my practice, in preparation for visiting several patients within the next few days. Mrs. Hudson appeared briefly, bearing beef sandwiches and coffee, but I was otherwise left to my own devices.

  It was almost three o’clock before Holmes returned. I heard his rapid steps upon the stairs and concluded that he was in a state of excitement. Before he entered, I heard him shout to our good landlady for a fresh pot of coffee.

  “This case is rapidly gaining speed, Watson,” he called as he flung the door shut behind him. “It is no longer the trivial affair that began with the séance, but a saga of multiple murder!”

  “Good heavens!” I retorted. “What did you learn at Scotland Yard?”

  “I will tell you when I have consumed some refreshment. Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. This will be sufficient to sustain me until dinner, I think.”

  That good lady left the tray on a side table and withdrew, critical as always of Holmes’s missing his meals while concerned with a case.

  My friend drank two cups of the steaming liquid, then poured a third from the pot but left it to cool.

  “It has not been publicly announced in order to avoid panic,” he began, “but London has suffered a veritable epidemic of murder recently.”

  “Is there some maniac at large, then?”

  “I think not. I see it all as a carefully planned trail of revenge. I have established a connection, with the aid of Lestrade and the official files, between five victims as of yesterday. A further two, who might well have attended the séance last night had they a mind to, were killed in the early hours of this morning. Mr. Jonathan Dermott, a builder, and Mrs. Rebecca Laversham, the widow of a vicar, were strangled in their beds.”

  “This is appalling!”

  “Indeed. However, I am quite certain that we were in the company of the murderer at the séance, and that we can exclude the women that were present from our suspicions.”

  “He was there?” I said, astonished. “Why are you so certain that the killer is not a woman, Holmes? We have encountered many who are more than capable, before now.”

  He picked up his coffee cup. “There is another in the pot, Doctor, if you would like it. No? Well, I suppose it will have cooled somewhat, by now. If the murderer of the previous five victims is the same as the slayer of the two this morning, then it must be a man. One of the five, a very heavily-built fellow, was manhandled as high as the railings across Westminster Bridge, and then pushed over into the Thames. It is unlikely that a woman, even one of exceptional power and condition, could have summoned such strength.”

  “Also,” I ventured, “it was a man who ordered Mr. Kester, under threat, to arrange the séance. Assuming, of course, that he and the murderer are the same person.”

  “They are, Watson, there can be no other explanation. Nevertheless, Mr. Kester’s observation alone is not conclusive. Remember the visitor’s appearance: A full beard, a scarred face, a hat pulled down over the eyes - a classic disguise.”

  “He also described him as ‘stout’, and none of the women we encountered last night were excessively so.”

  Holmes drained his cup and replaced it on the tray. “That is true, but again it is not conclusive. A little padding, correctly placed, and presto! A slight person becomes a heavy one. I considered that our killer might have used a female accomplice for the visit, but there is no evidence to suggest it.”

  “What will you do now, Holmes?”

  “I suggest a walk, perhaps in St. James Park. On the way, I have a couple of wires to send and an arrangement to make. By then, it will be time for dinner, and I think we can forego Mrs. Hudson’s cheese-and-potato pie until tomorrow, in favour of Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. When our appetites are satisfied, we can proceed to the final act of this drama, if things have gone well.”

  Shortly after, we caught a hansom to Charing Cross, where Holmes sent his wires from the Post Office, and then to a two-story building at the far end of Long Acre. Here, he had told me he was certain to be able to hire a room that he had used before. The swarthy-looking man who answered the door as I waited in the carriage seemed pleased to see my friend, and handed him a key. I assumed that this was someone from one of my friend’s past cases, like so many of his acquaintances about whom, I hoped, he would tell me one day.

  St. James Park was a pleasant place to be on a late afternoon such as this. The strolling couples and the occasional gentleman alone wandered among the fresh blooms, as did a considerable number of nannies wearing bonnets as they trundled their charges along in perambulators. The smell of new-mown grass was refreshing to the soul and Holmes, in excellent spirits, talked of many things.

  At precisely six o’clock, he broke off suddenly. “Could you manage dinner yet, Watson?”

  “I believe I could do justice to it.”

  “And I. Simpson’s is a short walk from here.”

  We found ourselves in the panelled dining room a short while later. Situated at street level we were, as Holmes put it, “always safe from feminine intrusion here”. The tablecloths and napkins were of the crispest white linen, as were the spotless aprons of the waiters, and the low hum of conversation most civilized. The food was superb, and even my friend was in appreciation of it as he ate with unusual gusto.

  “Come, Watson.” He consulted his pocket watch as we finished our glasses of excellent brandy. “It is time. We go to apprehend a callous murderer for the hangman.”

  We arrived back at Long Acre soon after. Holmes let us in with the key he had been given, and we ascended a flight of dusty stairs at the end of a long corridor. The room contained nothing more than a table and four chairs and was in need of some decoration, but my friend pronounced it ideal for our purpose after glancing down from the wide window into the street. He opened the window halfway, presumably to dispel a slightly musty smell, and I noticed a cobweb or two hanging from the ceiling. I did not care for this place, but Holmes had assured me that we would not be here for long.

  He consulted hi
s pocket watch. “It is time for the first of our visitors to arrive I think, Watson. Ah, I see him across the street.”

  Moments later we heard a heavy tread upon the stairs, ascending quickly after an initial hesitation. The door creaked open to admit one of the men who had attended the séance, Mr. Godfrey Franklin, the butcher.

  “What is the meaning of summoning me so urgently, Mr. Holmes?” he demanded, slightly breathless from his climb. “I have a business to run, and cannot just walk away like this.” Again, I noted the cruel line of the man’s mouth, and the intimidating stance of that stout but hard body.

  “Pray calm yourself, my dear fellow,” Holmes replied. “It is no understatement to say that being here may save your life. If you will watch the street, Watson, and call me if you see anything of significance, I would be grateful.”

  With that he ushered Mr. Franklin out onto the landing, closing the door behind them. I did not know what I was expected to report, but I looked down through the window at the evening traffic while straining my ears to catch anything from their conversation.

  At first I heard a cry of outrage from Mr. Franklin, and I wondered if this was some trap of Holmes’s to prove him to be the man we sought. The exchange became muted, but quick, with Mr. Franklin’s protests becoming more emphatic and Holmes’s quiet tones increasingly insistent. Finally, I heard resignation creep into our visitor’s voice, and wondered if my friend had secured a confession.

  “Mr. Woodchester is about to join us,” I remarked as they re-entered the room.

  “Excellent,” Holmes stopped to listen to the footfalls on the stairs. “And twenty minutes exactly after Mr. Franklin, the time I requested.”

  Mr. Woodchester came in, the hand holding his stick shaking noticeably. His body trembled as he looked enquiringly at all three of us in turn.

  “Gentlemen, I received a telegram earlier, asking me to come here on a matter of life and death. Mr. Holmes, what is happening?”