Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6

by Marvin Kaye

  The sleeve of my husband’s blue silk smoking jacket slid back to reveal a white cuff as he pressed a forefinger to my lips and said softly, “It was you who insisted we entrust my life to Mr Sherlock Holmes. Now we must follow his directives, mustn’t we?”

  Edmond overpowered me with his logic. I nodded my assent while my intuition silently screamed against what I had just agreed to.

  * * * *

  I

  t was with a feeling of disquiet that I watched my husband wave through the window of our carriage some days later, while Farrell snapped leather reins, nudging our horse toward London. I left instructions with the servants regarding wine, fish and fowl for Edmond’s birthday gathering, then walked along my favourite beach path bundled into my heaviest dress and wrapped in my thickest shawl. Although grey and cloudy, the morning weather was quite mild for December. It wasn’t long before I advised myself that the cold working through my bones was psychic, not physical, in origin. Perhaps my sister was warning me not to make the mistake of omission again.

  With every passing hour, the sense of dread increased within me. At long last, I decided to defy the wishes of Mr Holmes and my husband, and follow my own instincts. Knowing of an inn nearby with horse-drawn coaches to let, I returned to my house and dispatched the grounds-keeper to hire a carriage and driver. Then I packed a light bag and stood waiting on the road for my coach.

  * * * *

  I

  t was deep into the night when I paid the coachman and hurried toward my London brown-stone. I was surprised to see my parlour lights dimmed but still glowing behind the high windows at this hour, while all the neighbouring buildings were properly dark. I thought I heard someone whispering behind me, and turned to see a burly male figure beckoning from a shadowy doorway across the street.

  My heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer as I turned and rushed up the high stoop. Realizing my keys were tucked somewhere in my bag, I thought I would scream for the attention of the swiftly-departing coachman when I saw Edmond through the window, in robe and nightdress, at the top of our staircase. A startled expression crossed my husband’s face as he spied my frantic hand gestures, then Farrell literally jumped him from the shadows of the darkened upstairs hall.

  Shocked into paralysis, I watched dumbly as our manservant, obviously unaware of my presence, twisted Edmond’s arm with one hand and squeezed his throat with the other. Sheer horror masked my husband’s face. Then another incredible figure appeared in this terrifying scene. One of the Ninja statues sprang into life and struck Farrell behind the neck with the edge of its hand.

  Edmond flew free and almost catapulted over the banister, but was saved by clutching one of the wood spindles underneath. The burly figure who had so frightened me originally now rushed past me, opened my front door with a key and entered the house.

  I remained frozen, watching as the Ninja warrior grappled with our manservant whose knees had buckled when struck from behind. But Farrell was not yet done. He kicked out savagely, striking Edmond in the stomach. My hands flew to my mouth as my husband tumbled down that staircase.

  Farrell also twisted out of the Ninja’s grasp and sent the warrior sprawling backwards over the top step with a vicious right-hand punch. The burly man, who I now recognized as Dr Watson, appeared at the foot of the stairs, revolver in hand, shouting something.

  Farrell turned and looked down, then reached into his trouser pocket. Suddenly the Ninja came to life again, squirming down the staircase steps on his back, parted legs snapping like scissors across Farrell’s knees. The manservant flipped over the sloping banister and seemed to free-fall in slow motion before striking the hardwood floor.

  Sobs convulsed my breath as my attention turned back to the still form of my husband curled at the bottom of the stairs. I forced my trembling legs to carry me to him, certain he had not escaped the family curse.

  Before I reached him, the Ninja rushed down the stairs, tore off his hood, then knelt down and pressed two fingers to Edmond’s neck.

  I asked, “Is he —”

  “He will survive, Madam,” Mr Holmes said curtly. “But no thanks to your interference. Now please shut the front door and draw the curtains. Watson!”

  “The manservant’s dead, Holmes.”

  “Check his right front pocket. I’m sure there’s a gun under his hand.”

  Within seconds, Dr Watson said, “Indeed.”

  “Take it.”

  By the time I finished following Mr Holmes’s instructions, Edmond was sitting on the staircase steps. He looked at me with astonishment and groaned. “Mara? You were supposed to be in —”

  I stooped down and caressed his cheek. “I couldn’t leave you alone here.”

  “He was not alone, Mrs Bridges.” I noticed a purple swelling on the side of Mr Holmes’s jaw. “I forewarned your husband by telegram about my suspicions concerning Farrell and instructed him to keep my ideas secret.”

  “Secret,” I glanced at Edmond, “even from me?”

  “Your husband understood that I demanded secrecy for your safety, Madam,” Mr Holmes stated. “Mr Bridges was willing bait in my trap, prepared for an attack at any time. I’m quite sure your sudden appearance is what threw him off.”

  “But you can’t blame Mara, Mr Holmes,” Edmond protested. “A woman must follow her intuition.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Dr Watson.

  “Woman’s intuition,” Mr Holmes grunted, “has always been beyond the realm of my investigative powers.”

  The mantel-piece clock pealed once to signify quarter past midnight. My husband rose unsteadily, braced himself with one hand on the front curve of the banister, and looked over at the lifeless figure of his attacker. He said, “Mr Holmes, we must send for Scotland Yard.”

  “Not yet. First let me finish disrobing from this ridiculous garb and allow Watson and me some time to leave.”

  Dr Watson looked perplexed. “Leave, Holmes?”

  “Yes, Watson.” Turning to my husband, the detective said, “Mr Bridges, during my recent investigative inquiries, among the things I learned was the fact that the Bow Street Institute, which is so generously financed by you, also depends upon the largesse of people ranging from small shopkeepers, to wealthy merchants, to members of royalty. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And that institute rescues abandoned children from the exploitations of the orphanages and workhouses, does it not?”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes. BSI helps to bridge the negative chasm bequeathed to those most helpless and ignored by government officials who are either uncaring or profiting from an abysmal social system.”

  “Should a hint of scandal blight your name then, odds are these funds, especially those contributed by the higher-ups concerned with protecting their own veneer of respectability, would surely dry up. Do you agree?”

  “I’m sure you’re right, sir.”

  “And who would suffer?”

  “The children,” Edmond said.

  “Exactly. So give us time to take our leave and use that time to return the Ninja statue that I moved into your bedroom closet back to the wall cove. Then contact Scotland Yard and report this terrible accident to them.”

  “You don’t think they’ll be suspicious, Mr Holmes?” I asked.

  I was gripped with a chill as he said, “Staircase accidents happen, Madam, do they not?”

  * * * *

  M

  r Holmes was right. Inspector Lestrade was most sympathetic and a search of Farrell’s quarters revealed written instructions directing any news of his demise to his London solicitor, Arthur Leeds. The search also yielded a curious canvas sandbag stored under Farrell’s bed. Mr Leeds sent an intermediary to claim the body for burial. Since Farrell’s only relative was a daughter somewhere in America, he was laid to rest in a grave beside his long-deceased wife, courtesy of the solicitor.

  We telegraphed Brighton to postpone Edmond’s celebration and a few days after these particulars were done wi
th, Mr Holmes sent a lad named Wiggins to us with a written invitation to a luncheon the following afternoon at 221B Baker Street.

  I accepted for Edmond and myself, since he was not yet home from business. I knew my husband would be glad to have the questions I’d been brooding about at last answered by the great detective.

  * * * *

  M

  rs Hudson laid out a splendid cold lunch for us, after which Edmond and I joined Mr Holmes and Dr Watson by the fireplace. The men lit cigars and took whiskey and soda. I refused Dr Watson’s kind offer of port and took tea instead, feeling it was too early in the day for me to partake of any spirits. Once we were settled on the sofa, Dr Watson sat facing us in an armchair and Mr Holmes stood to the left of us saying, “I have summoned you both to settle this affair.”

  “There is much that needs settling,” I agreed.

  “Very well then, let’s start. Mr Bridges, your family history suggested a connection to a secret Japanese society. Farrell’s alleged deformity and your Ninja statues confirmed my suspicion.”

  Edmond’s brow furrowed. “Sir?”

  “In spite of his wearing a winter coat, I noted Farrell’s extremely muscular neck, his powerful corded wrists and the fused knuckles of his hands when we journeyed from here at Baker Street to your home. Before sending you to Brighton, I followed him on his day off to a gymnasium in Whitechapel, where I discovered he trained with weights and engaged in boxing and wrestling sessions. It intrigued me to discover his membership had been secured under a false name. He also spent the latter part of that evening in less reputable pursuits touring the grog shops and …” Mr Holmes hesitated, “the so-called dance halls of the East End. Evidently, he kept his true identity secret from his less savoury acquaintances.”

  “My word.” I felt my cheeks colouring but couldn’t do anything about it. All three gentlemen pretended not to notice my embarrassment as Mr Holmes continued his explanations.

  “In my travels I have had the good fortune to learn first-hand of Eastern Martial Arts. Baritsu is the science I prefer. But there are others, Kung Fu, Karate and Aikido among them. Some use hand-hardening techniques such as daily practice against a canvas sack filled with sand, which over time enables one to punch through wood and brick. Your manservant’s hands were trained, not defective.”

  When I drew a sharp breath at that statement, the detective added, “Had I not partially dodged Farrell’s blow, the outcome of this ordeal might have been different. Now some of these Martial Arts are based on physical pressure points and bodily leverage. A skilled practitioner can snap a man’s neck, hurl him in a pointed direction and make his death look like the result of a fall.”

  “Then my family members were all thrown to their deaths …”

  “By Farrell’s forebears.”

  “Diabolical.”

  “Have you or Mrs Bridges ever heard of the Yakuza?”

  Edmond and I answered together. “No.”

  “I daresay, neither have I, Holmes.”

  “Thank you, Watson. The Yakuza are organized Japanese criminals. They often employ Ninja to enforce their wills and avenge their wrongs. No one deals opium in Japan without the cooperation of the Yakuza.”

  “Then my great grandfather —”

  “Yes, Mr Bridges, he and Koopman worked with them. No other answer fits. Although considering the obvious difference in character between the two men, Koopman would be most suited for close ties to these malefactors. Now the fact that it would be very difficult for Farrell, living in close proximity to both of you, to have dealings with such foreigners, led me to conclude that there must be an intermediary. So I had all mail between Japan and London monitored —”

  I burst forth without second thought, “You have the power to monitor the mails?”

  “No, Madam. But I know someone in government who does.”

  My later readings of Dr Watson’s accounts led me to believe this government source was Mr Holmes’ brother Mycroft, but at that moment, Edmond said, “Mara, please. Let Mr Holmes finish.”

  Mr Holmes made a gesture of dismissal, but I apologized anyway.

  “My postal investigations connected the firm of Arthur Leeds, Solicitor, to the prominent Nakabayasha family of Japan.”

  “Leeds —” Mr Holmes stared unmoving when I covered my mouth.

  “I had searched Farrell’s quarters after sending you both to Brighton and found his instructions concerning Leeds. However, when I searched Mr Leeds’ office, I could find nothing under Farrell. But I discovered what I was looking for under the coded name Raffle, the same alias he used at the gymnasium. I jotted down the essentials, which I will now read aloud.

  “‘November 12, 1811. Deliverance satisfied. Sum paid 1,000 Pounds. Inform N.’”

  Edmond’s face went ashen. “My great-grandfather died November 11th …”

  Mr Holmes nodded.

  “Leaving a twelve-year-old son in tow,” Edmond added.

  “‘June 17, 1839. Deliverance satisfied. Sum paid 3,000 Pounds. Inform N.’ Your grandfather died …”

  “One day before,” Edmond stated. “He left several children behind. My father was not quite nine years old.”

  “‘July 15, 1870. Deliverance satisfied. Sum paid 7,200 Pounds. Inform N.’”

  “I was an only child — not quite sixteen —” Edmond tipped the whiskey and soda to his mouth and swallowed it all.

  Mr Holmes said, “Watson …”

  The good doctor retrieved the glass while Mr Holmes continued, “‘December 15, 1894. Deliverance’ … I can add, not satisfied. Pinned to this ledger were a steamship ticket to America, and a promised sum of 17,000 pounds.”

  Edmond thanked Dr Watson for the refill, then said, “I still don’t understand what this all means.”

  “The facts point to one theory only. A Mr. Jiro Nakabayasha, who my government source names as a descendant of an ancient Yakuza family, was complying with terms reached between Koopman and Mr Nakabayasha’s paternal ancestor.”

  “Mr Holmes.” I couldn’t keep still any longer. “I implore you, these terms …”

  “The terms of this curse were really instructions — already agreed to by Farrell’s forefather. I’m certain Koopman believed he would win the duel and gloat over Lillian’s knowing she suffered by his hand. Still, the curse was an alternate plan to torment your husband’s great-grandparents and their offspring if he lost. I suspect the Nakabayasha family owed Koopman a service which, being strongly traditionalist, they would satisfy by investing some of his fortune and paying the proceeds to Farrell’s family from generation to generation to carry out the curse.”

  “But,” I reasoned, “if Koopman had been killed before revealing the curse, he would have cheated himself, because the deaths would be viewed as strange and tragic coincidences by the Bridges family. The supernatural pall of a generation-borne curse would have never hung over them.”

  “Mrs Bridges, Koopman’s death would have triggered a second plan for the curse’s revelation, I’m certain. Probably a posthumous letter invoking the curse …” Mr Holmes shrugged. “But now the agreement is shattered. The terms of the curse have failed. I’m sure the Yakuza will invest the remaining Koopman fortune into their own enterprises.”

  A still coldness seemed to penetrate my clothes. “But why would Farrell’s ancestors be part of such a monstrous tradition?” I asked.

  “All three original players, as well as a Leeds forebear, worked together back then, perhaps even as equal partners in those nefarious doings in Japan. But somehow Farrell’s ancestry fell into subservience while the Bridges advanced in society. Greed, envy and fear are the patrons of evil, I should think.”

  “Greed and envy perhaps,” I agreed, “but what did Farrell fear?”

  “The awful retribution of the Yakuza should the age-old pact be broken. Originally, I did not want your servant to suspect why you retained me. Thus I allayed any possible suspicion caused by my presence by remarking about some imaginary thieve
ry in your husband’s London offices. As time progressed, following my instructions, Mr Bridges reached London late in the afternoon on the eve of his birth date, tended to office business, then returned home near midnight. He instructed Farrell to leave the lights half glow downstairs and the fire burning so he could pore over financial ledgers for a while after changing into more comfortable attire up in the bedroom. He gave orders to be awakened at dawn so he could return the ledgers and proceed back to Brighton for the festivities.

  “Once dismissed for the night, your manservant was in an untenable position. He could sneak back in from the domestic’s quarters and chance attacking in view of the windows or risk failing his assignment and face a terrible death from the Yakuza. Since time was of the essence, and the streets of London are usually deserted on late winter nights, I deduced he would attack.”

  A shiver rippled through me. My presence that night almost cost Edmond his life. But in spite of my reckless actions, it was not his time, so he lived. Therefore, if I understood Mr Holmes’s opinion of Providence, my absence or presence was of no consequence regarding Edmond’s fate, nor Phoebe’s. With that weight off my soul, I returned to the subject at hand.

  “What price will Solicitor Leeds pay,” I asked, “for his role in this abominable affair?”

  “My original strategy was to subdue Farrell and convince him to implicate Leeds in return for mercy at the Old Bailey and protection from Yakuza vengeance. But circumstance dictated otherwise, so Leeds’s escape from punishment is a dissatisfaction we shall all have to live with. That and in your case, Mr Bridges, my fee.”

  “Of course, Mr Holmes, how much do I owe?”

  “Would you consider one thousand pounds too princely a sum?”

  “My dear Holmes!”

  “Now, now, Watson …”

  “A princely sum Mr Holmes, more like a king’s ransom.”

  I gripped my husband’s arm. “Edmond!”

  “But in this case, worth it.” He chuckled mischievously. “How shall I make out the cheque?”