The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “Have you informed the police?”

  “The situation is far too delicate to have local constabulary blundering through in their size tens.”

  “Surely the hotel will be obliged to do so?”

  “When the booking has expired and the bed is required for other guests... then and only then will they be concerned. Discreet questioning on the quay told me that Favell purchased a ticket yesterday for the Studland Ferry, but that he did not make that trip. Ah, I believe we have found our spot.”

  He pointed his walking stick toward the cold remains of a small camp fire where a blackened kettle stood on a large stone, and beside the embers a tin mug was tipped on its side. The sand around about was churned up in a maze of boot prints and scuffs. Holmes crouched once again to examine them, tracing the route of each set. When he rose, finally, it was to dart across to a mass of stunted bushes.

  “Owoo.” The khaki-clad youth that he hauled out of the undergrowth twisted away and rubbed furiously at his reddening ear. “That ’urt, that did, Mr. ’Olmes.”

  “It was well deserved, boy. This, Watson, is one Reginald Henty, small brother to Samuel, a one-time Irregular.” He looked the boy over and grunted a quiet satisfaction at what he saw. “I observe, Reggie, that you have been working at Smithfield’s, but left there quite recently for outdoor living. I also deduce you have been working with boats at some point today.” He chuckled quietly. “I trust you enjoyed your breakfast porridge.”

  Reggie gawped for a moment. “‘Ow did you know? I were just a sprat when I was working with Sam at the market. And that was after you gave up... retired, I mean.”

  Holmes waved a hand airily. “I am a little out of practise, but you are easy enough to read. You have the look of your brother, and your father’s meat stall is one of some renown. You also have several warts on your right hand - an occupational hazard in the meat trade. You have the smell of green wood smoke - something you would only get from standing near a bonfire or cooking pit. Your hands have traces of tar that tell me you have been handling ropes, and it is impossible to miss the porridge stains on that kerchief around your neck. From the military garb, I further deduce you are a part of Lord Robert Baden-Powell’s camping foray. As Lord Robert is a party to my current investigations, I further deduce you were sent here specifically to look for information, and that it was you who sent me a message.”

  Reggie’s face darkened. “I did. We was followin’ this bloke, see.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos we was down on the shore last night, over by the Castle.” He pointed across the water to Brownsea. “An’ we saw a light flashin’ just along this beach, and we thought it the other patrol cos it were Morse code.”

  “Morse you say?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. Sending it out there.” He pointed through the channel toward open water. “We told Skipper, and he said it was probably fishermen, but we could watch out today an’ see what tracks there was. He calls it woodcraft. Animal tracks and footprints and stuff. Skipper... his Lordship, beggin’ your pardon, said as we was to look out for this sort of stuff and to send for you at the Haven if we found any such like.”

  “And you followed the trail here?”

  Reggie nodded. “There was a big bloke who came out of the hotel and stopped by that big mast thing. And then he come out along ’ere with two other coves.” The boy’s brows drew together. “The bigger bloke didn’t come willin’.”

  Holmes nodded encouragement. “What made you think that?”

  “Cos he was walkin’ between the others, an’ he scuffled a couple of times like he was pullin’ back. And then there’s the blood. I saw that an’ sent Micky with a message for you to come, and then to fetch Skipper. ’E’s only a nipper, and a bit of a toff. ’E won’t be used to seein’ blood and stuff.”

  Holmes nodded his approbation. “Where is Favell now?”

  “In there.” The boy pointed into the bushes. “He’s had a crack on ’is noggin.” Reggie ducked away, beckoning us to follow just twenty feet from the campfire to where lay the body of Sebastian Favell, late of His Majesty’s senior service. The sickly odour of recent blood, putrefaction, and of bodily waste discharged upon death was more obvious in the confined space protected from sea breezes.

  I went to examine the corpse, checking for the beat of a heart that I was certain I would not find. Favell had been a lean man of indeterminate years. As he lay face down, it was hard to be more exact. The back of his head was caked with blood and flies. He was dressed in dark trousers and jacket that would have been warm in the August sun, but very suitable for midnight prowling, which was when he had died in my estimation, as rigor was almost complete. I rolled the body over and exposed signs of a vigorous beating, obvious in his face. That he had fought back was plain to see from the skinned knuckles, as was the fatal wounding to his belly.

  Whilst I made my examination, Holmes leaned at my shoulder, approving my every deduction. With his cane, he touched at the patch of bloody sand caked to Favell’s coat, easing the jacket open, and reaching down to extract the dark leather wallet protruding from a bulging inner pocket, along with a wad of papers. He perused each carefully before handing them on to me. In the wallet were two neatly folded bank notes, several business cards - Favell’s own and one for the Wireless Telegraph and Signal Co. - and a worn, black-edged photograph of a young woman dressed in the fashion of the previous decade. The papers consisted of folded leaflets covering a wide range of maritime facts: Local tides, international flags, moon phases, semaphore, Morse codes, boating knots, and a few assorted flyers - the usual things that enabled a man in his line of work to navigate the doings of marine folk in a seaside resort. The final item was a small notebook full of jottings in some code of Favell’s devising.

  Holmes took the pages back and rifled through them, a deep furrow marking his brow. Finally he crammed them all into his own pocket. “Good work, Reggie. Now cut along back to the island as quickly as you can and report your findings to Sir Robert. Tell him that I have the matter in hand, but will require a piquet watch on the harbour mouth tonight. Have boats ready to launch, but that there will be danger to life and limb so he should take all precautions. Is that clear?”

  “Sir!” The lad snapped to a sort of salute and raced away without a backward glance.

  “Is it wise to include these boys?” I said.

  “That boy included himself. Or rather, Lord Robert did. Mycroft felt it wise to inform Baden-Powell that there were some matters under investigation in case I required help.”

  “So you didn’t need me?”

  Holmes laughed. “Watson, I would rather you than a dozen Baden-Powell’s. The man has his skills, I don’t doubt, but he is purely military. He is not that rarest of things, a detective.”

  I felt a warm glow at the compliment, though a part of me wondered at it, as Holmes was not given to lavish praise.

  Holmes took out his cigarette case and toyed with it, turning it over and over in his long fingers as he scanned the surroundings. Finally he opened it and took a cigarette, tapping it against the silver holder before searching for his vesta box. “It is already too late for Favell, my friend,” he said at last. “The signs here are not favourable for our cause.” He nodded at the corpse. “Our young scout’s tracking skills are excellent. We have at least two enemy agents at large, and tonight may be our last opportunity to apprehend them. Did you bring your revolver, as I requested?”

  “I did.”

  “Then come dark we shall be waiting.”

  “What about poor Favell’s remains?”

  “We can do little now without arousing suspicions.” Holmes gazed at the corpse and sighed. “Much as it pains me, we shall have to leave him here until the morning.” With that, he forced his way back to the path and strode toward the Haven, head down and in a rare old mood.

 
The waning crescent moon was pin-bright in a starry heaven, casting faded shadows around the telegraph hut and beached boats in the immediate shore.

  “Mr. Marconi was happy to allow you access to his sanctum?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” Holmes replied, adopting an expression of false innocence. “I do know he has been convinced for some weeks that he has had intruders. There has been no sign of forced entry on any of the occasions, and nothing appeared to be missing. In consequence, he was unable to convince the constabulary of any crime being perpetrated.”

  “Why did he feel there had been an intruder when there was nothing to show for it?”

  “The same way that I would know if any person had been in my study. A book moved here, a paper dropped there. Small things unmistakably out of place.”

  Knowing the state that Holmes had allowed 221b Baker Street to get into without mine and Mrs. Hudson’s intervention, I was not sure this could be true, but I forwent any derisory comment. “You have a theory as to what is causing these disturbances?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  As ever, my friend did not deign to advise me of his theories. I let out a small sigh and he placed a hand to my shoulder for quiet.

  A diesel launch that was chugging toward the jetty had cut some way out into the water, and there was nothing but the regular slooshing of the waves against the legs of the landing stage exposed by an ebbing tide.

  “We will be jiggered good and proper if they escape by sea,” I muttered.

  “All in hand. Now be quiet, man.” Holmes’s hearing was as acute as ever, or perhaps it was some other arcane instinct, but he had heard the stealthy approach of men slinking around to the shed entrance long before we, or I at least, saw anything.

  I brought my pistol from my pocket and cocked it ready for use, and was surprised to hear a quiet answering click from my side. Holmes had his own firearm to hand.

  Our quarry came cautiously but assuredly, as though on familiar ground. I heard them now, boots crunching the shingle despite the lightness of tread. They came closer, passing within a few feet of where we hid and waited.

  Rattlings and clunkings as they fiddled with the padlocks on the door came clearly to us over the sibilant shushing of the water, and I reasserted my grip on the butt of my revolver. Thrill of the chase was one thing as the young and eager man I had once been, but I had the distinct feeling as I crouched in the shadows that my bravado lacked common sense in advancing years. “Two old men pitted against a pair of sturdy young mariners? I must be taking leave of my senses,” I said, mostly to myself. I sensed rather than saw Holmes’s withering glance.

  Hinges corroded by the brine groaned a warning to us as the two men opened the doors and slipped inside. I made to move forward but Holmes bid me pause. “We need to be certain,” he murmured. “Wait.”

  A faint glow from within the hut told us a candle or torch was in play. Then, a shaft of light seared the night, and another, and another, in short bursts reaching from the window toward the open sea.

  “Dot - dash,” Holmes whispered. “Dash - dash - dash.” There was a short pause and the sequence was repeated. “A.S.” said Holmes. “Standby.” From out in the channel came an answering signal. Dash - dot - dash - pause - dot - dash. “Transmit.”

  Then nothing more from either end. “They’ve stopped signalling from the hut,” I replied after a pause.

  “Unfortunately not. They are transmitting via Marconi’s telegraph. Come, Watson.” Holmes launched himself forward, sprinting up onto the walk way and wrenching open the doors to the hut. “Surrender!” he barked. “In the name of His Majesty the King!”

  Our reply was a wave of oaths and gunfire that forced us to dive into the cover of an upturned skiff. I fired a return volley, and all went quiet for a moment.

  “What now, Holmes?” I asked. “Are there any re-enforcements to be had?”

  “In time,” he replied. “The hotel staff will have called for the constabulary. And our friends out on the island will have heard.”

  Holmes’s thoughts were lost in another round of gunfire.

  “The farther windows!” Holmes shouted. “Come, Watson!”

  We saw a shadow and dashed around the wooden building in time to see it drop into a boat moored below. There was a cough of an engine and then a grumbling rumble as the launch’s engine erupted into life.

  Holmes was already halfway across to the pier and I was hot on his heels, ignoring the ache in my old injury that age had far from diminished.

  “Here!” Holmes dropped into a second launch. “Borrowed from the motor launch club,” he snapped in answer to me hesitation. “There is a search lamp in the bow! Quickly, man!”

  I trained the beam in the direction the boat had taken, sweeping it back and forth several times before picking up the fleeing vessel. The helmsman of the fleeing craft reacted as expected, veering into the harbour at top speed, another solitary figure illuminated at craft’s stern. Holmes gazed after the boat speeding into the darkness.

  “They are escaping!” I cried.

  “He will not get far. These mud flats are treacherous, and the boat will almost certainly run aground at that speed,” he replied. “Meanwhile, I’m an unmitigated fool to be led astray so simply. We must get back to the telegraph hut. Make haste!”

  He swung himself over the gunwale, which dipped into the choppy surface for a heart stopping moment, and was ashore before it began to keel to starboard, cantering back to the hut with the vigour of a far younger man. I could only lope awkwardly in his wake, arriving at the open doorway just as a further shot was fired, and another.

  In the meagre light given out by Marconi’s electrical gadgetry, I saw Holmes lunging at a figure hunched over the controls.

  “Holmes!” I raised my pistol, but poor light and a lack of clear target stayed my trigger finger.

  My old friend was already gripped in mortal combat with the telegrapher, swaying and staggering around the confined space. I started forward to take a hand... as another third shot reverberated off the wooden walls, so loud that I staggered back, with hands to my ears.

  One of the shapes began to slowly sag to its knees, a groan squirmed across the awful silence that followed, and then the stricken man slumped to the floor. I stared at it, and then at the remaining figure silhouetted against the moonlight struggling through salt-spattered windows. The standing man turned slightly, revealing that familiar hawk-nosed profile, and my heart began to beat once more.

  Holmes leaned out to cut the power feeding the transmitter. The hum, of which I had not been aware until that moment, ceased, and the hut’s interior was now plunged into blackness, but in spite of that, my medical instincts took hold. I scrabbled to check the prone body for signs of life. For the second time that day, I was disappointed by its absence.

  “Look,” Holmes said.

  I went to stand by him and followed his pointing finger to a flickering light emanating from the dark smudge floating low on the minor swell. Dash - dot - dash - pause - dot - dash. The transmit signal repeated twice more - and then ceased abruptly.

  “How did you realise the telegraph station was the key?” Robert Baden-Powell stirred his tea vigorously, as he did all things, and leaned forward from his corner of Marconi’s table in the Haven’s lounge to fix Holmes with his cool blue gaze.

  “It is perfectly simple,” Holmes said. “Favell had traced his quarry to Poole and knew that vital state secrets were leaving via the town. I knew there had to be a very good reason him to vacate The Grand, with its access to the Port facilities and railways, for the isolated delights of the Sandbanks. The Haven Hotel has a first class view of the harbour mouth, of course, but there had to be more. And given that Mr. Marconi’s research is in the business of instantaneously relaying information, it was a good place to start.”

&nb
sp; “I had no knowledge of this,” Marconi grumbled.

  “Nor would you,” Holmes replied. “Favell was exceptionally good at his job. The contents of his wallet confirmed my suspicions over the manner in which the information was being relayed. He’d had the foresight to brush up on all manner of marine communications. The attention to tides and to the moons told me that he would be poised for action close to a new moon, and thus a neep tide when the waters off shore would be reliably gauged. He knew something would happen in the next few days. Had I arrived one day earlier, he might have been explaining all of this to you himself.”

  “Brave man,” Baden-Powell added.

  “He was. But he lacked the final piece in the puzzle. Relaying information via the ether relies on having some means of capturing the signals once sent.”

  “We were watching the coast,” said Baden-Powell. “No vessel could sail unseen by us.”

  “No ship in the accepted sense,” Holmes agreed. “Nothing from dinghy to dreadnaught. A submarine, however, is able to reach deep water just off the harbour completely unseen. It stayed long enough to make contact and receive at least part of the broadcast. The agents had only to read the contents of the documents for them to be taken down and whisked away ‘beneath’ the waves. This method has been used before for less urgent information. Stolen files were returned once they had been dictated to the submariners, meaning the Admiralty was never the wiser. Diagrams we know have been duplicated and sent via more circuitous routes.” Holmes sat back, steepling his fingers to regard his audience of three with an insufferable air of smugness. “So there you have it, gentlemen. I have uncovered the spy ring and foiled their plot.”

  “Which was?”

  “Partly to obtain information on ships of the fleet, but more importantly to preserve secrets pertaining to the treaty that we would really rather the Kaiser did not possess.”