The Iron Dog (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale)

by Steven Ehrman

  The Iron Dog

  A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale

  Steven Ehrman

  Copyright © 2013 Steven Ehrman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:1491205091

  ISBN-13:978-1491205099

  DEDICATION

  To my mother who introduced me to the joy of reading which led to the agony of writing.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CONTENTS

  Works by the Same Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Works by the Same Author

  The Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tales

  The Eccentric Painter

  The Iron Dog

  The Mad Judge

  The Spider Web

  The Lambs Lane Affair

  The Frank Randall Mysteries

  The Referral Game

  The Visible Suspect

  The Zombie Civilization Saga

  Zombie Civilization: Genesis

  Zombie Civilization: Exodus

  Coming Soon:

  Zombie Civilization: Numbers

  Chapter One

  It was an unnaturally warm spring day of 1889 as I returned to the rooms I shared with my friend Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street. The oppressive atmosphere of heat, combined with Holmes’s insistence in playing his own compositions on the violin, had driven me from our humble quarters onto the streets of London. My jaunt had somewhat revived my spirits, and as I ascended the steps of that familiar address, I heard the faint sounds of conversation. As Holmes had been alone at our parting, my curiosity was immediately aroused.

  Upon opening the door I was presented with the tableau of two unknown visitors sitting across from Holmes, and apparently in deep conversation that ended abruptly upon my entrance. I felt an acute embarrassment at my interruption.

  “My pardon, Holmes,” said I. “I see that you have guests. I do not wish to intrude.”

  “No intrusion at all, doctor, pray be seated,” said my friend blandly. “Your return is most fortuitous.”

  I sat as instructed and studied Holmes’s guests. They were a middle-aged man and a somewhat younger woman. The man was of medium height with a ruddy complexion and reddish hair. He was a bit stout, and was dressed in a loud checked jacket. He had an ostentatious pinky ring with a large ruby that he twirled around his finger in an obvious display of affectation.

  His companion was an attractive lady with dark hair and fair skin. She was slim of figure and demur in her manner, yet there was fire in her brown eyes. They seemed an odd couple, but they were holding hands in open affection towards one another.

  “As I was saying, Watson,” continued Holmes. “We have not gotten past introductions and your presence is most welcome. May I present Dr. Watson, my companion and aid in all my cases.”

  This declaration was met with a look of irritation from the male guest, but I was rewarded with a smile from his female companion.

  “Please begin again, Mr. Rutherford,” said Holmes.

  The ruddy man shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then spoke in a deep baritone with a distinct Australian accent.

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” he began. “I am a plain-spoken man, without university letters, and if you wish this gentleman to be present then that’s good enough for me. When I hire a man, I like to give him his head, as it were.”

  He chuckled slightly at his small joke and his companion patted his hand indulgently.

  “But be that as it may, I am Benjamin Rutherford, and this,” he said gesturing to the lady, “is my dear wife, Mary.” The lady nodded to both Holmes and me. “I find myself in a most difficult spot, Mr. Holmes, and I’m told you’re the man capable of helping me.”

  “You have my full attention,” said Holmes.

  “Well, it is like this,” he began. “I’m a self-made man, you see. I am originally from Australia, as you can probably tell, and I came to London some thirty years ago to make my fortune. I was penniless, yet I had ambition and drive. I found work in the West End as a stagehand. I had no theatrical experience, but I found I had a knack for what people would pay to see. I gradually worked my way up until I found backers to produce my own productions. They were small musical revues at first, but I soon found myself producing several large, and profitable, shows per year.”

  “My husband has the pulse of the theater patron,” said Mrs. Rutherford, in a low voice.

  “That’s right, gentlemen. I know what the common man wants because I am one. Piccadilly Circus and The Strand theaters aren’t filled with the swells, but rather the common folk. I drive my companies hard and keep costs low to make a profit.”

  “The iron dog,” his wife interjected, with a smile.

  “What’s that?” I asked, somewhat flummoxed.

  Rutherford allowed himself a chortle.

  “That is a somewhat less than charitable sobriquet, given me by the players in my productions.”

  “Oh no, Benjamin,” protested his wife. “It is one of affection. Why, those actors would not have work were it not for your business acumen.”

  “Mary is being too kind, gentlemen,” said Rutherford. “Why, she herself was a wonderful actress, and imagine her mother was a mere servant. Mary was marvelous in character parts. She was just beginning to get lead roles when she gave that up for marriage.”

  He seemed almost wistful about her decision. It was not every husband who regrets taking his wife away from her path. My opinion of Benjamin Rutherford was increased by his obvious deep feelings in the matter.

  “Mr. Holmes does not want to hear about all that, Benjamin,” snapped Mrs. Rutherford. “Please, we came on an unpleasant task, and we should get to it with dispatch lest we lose our nerve.”

  Rutherford seemed crestfallen at his wife’s mild scolding and paused before he continued.

  “Quite, quite, my dear. I fear I have gotten astray of my purpose in coming to attend to you, Mr. Holmes. The fact of the matter is that I am being blackmailed, and I want you to put a stop to it.”

  “Blackmailed, you say?” asked Holmes. “Who precisely is blackmailing you, and what sword do they wield that would cause you to submit?”

  Again Rutherford paused and looked to his wife for guidance.

  “For goodness sake, Benjamin, we have come this far,” said she.

  “Right,” said he. “In for a penny, in for a pound as they say. The fact is that this woman, Miss Kate Crawley, has certain letters of mine in her possession that she threatens to make public if I do not pay her five hundred pounds.”

  “Surely such a sum is trivial to you, Mr. Rutherford,” said Holmes.

  “Why, the sum is not the issue, sir,” he cried. “Any payment would be only the beginning. The next demand might be ten times as much or more.”

  “Agreed,” said Holmes. “Although even that might still be worth the cost, depending upon what the letters contain. Pray tell me the details.”

  “It is just this, Mr. Holmes,” Rutherford began. “This Kate Crawley and I were an…well…we were involved while I was still married to my first wife.”

  “Involved in what manner?” asked Holmes innocently.

  “I believe you can infer the manner, sir,” said Rutherford in retort. “I concede it was not my finest hour, Holmes. I was a beast. I admit it.”

  Rutherford buried his face in his hands before regaining control and sitting up straight in his chair.

 
; “Pardon that display, gentlemen, but I am not accustomed to washing my dirty linen in public.”

  “It is not as scandalous as Benjamin makes it seem,” said Mrs. Rutherford. “The first Mrs. Rutherford had been an invalid for many years and was quite insensible to her surroundings. Poor Benjamin simply fell under the spell of a fortune-hunting woman and made a foolish mistake. He broke off the affair when he realized what sort of woman he had become involved with, and his wife mercifully died soon afterwards.”

  “It was only then that I met Mary,” said Rutherford. “She was a vision and I wanted nothing more than to spend my life with her.”

  Rutherford’s affection for his wife was palpable, but Holmes showed no reaction to his statement of love for his wife other than impatience.

  “Of course, of course,” said Holmes. “You assume she has kept these letters in her possession to use as a club. It is possible she no longer has the letters and is merely bluffing you with their exposure. Surely it has been many years.”

  “Would only were that so, Mr. Holmes. Mary, if you please.” He motioned to his wife and she produced several letters from her bag. She handed them to her husband, who briefly inspected them, and then he passed them on to Holmes.

  Holmes perused the letters in a leisurely manner and then passed them to me. I spied Mrs. Rutherford begin to protest, but she thought better of it and remained silent. I read the letters with a modicum of embarrassment. They were filled with love for “my dearest”, and “my angel”, and were signed by Rutherford on his personal stationery.

  “Why the long delay?” asked Holmes.

  “I don’t follow your meaning, Mr. Holmes,” said Rutherford.

  “As you say, this matter had been over for some years, so why has Miss Crawley only now decided to engage in the dicey business of blackmail?”

  “Kate has fallen on hard times,” said Rutherford.

  His wife stirred impatiently at his side and spoke: “Benjamin, it is no use to come to Mr. Holmes and then hold back from him. Please, for both our sakes.”

  “Of course, you are right, my dear,” he agreed. “You see Kate was a fine actress in her day, but as the years passed and her looks faded, she began to find that she was not considered for lead roles any longer. She still thought of herself as an ingénue, but her roles were dwindling down to older character parts. She began drinking heavily. There were several regrettable incidents in which she humiliated herself on stage. Soon the word was spread through the theatrical community, and it is a small one, Mr. Holmes, that she was unreliable, and then even small parts dried up. My understanding is that she leaves her flat now only to obtain drink. Very sad indeed.”

  “How was the blackmail demand made?” asked Holmes.

  “Twice she has accosted me on the street after a show. The first time to make the demand, and the second time to show me that she still had the letters. She said the ones she gave me were only the tip of the iceberg and there’s little doubt she has more. What should I do, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes pulled a pipe from his dressing gown. He tapped it on the table beside him several times and then laid it down.

  “My advice to you is to give this matter over to the authorities,” said he gravely. “Blackmail is a very messy business indeed, and Scotland Yard is most capable of handling any eventualities that may occur.”

  “That is quite out of the question,” said Rutherford. “I couldn’t stand the scandal, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Mr. Rutherford, as far as I can see, any scandal is one of remote years and surely cannot touch a man of your position today.”

  “That’s just it, Holmes. You see…well, there has been a more recent episode that would likely come to light were this matter to find its way into the papers,” explained Rutherford, in a rueful manner. Mrs. Rutherford’s cheeks were spotted red with shame and embarrassment. “My wife has forgiven me my errors, but I simply could not put her through a public hearing. Do you see now why we have come to beg your aid?”

  I felt a deep warmth for this couple in obvious distress. Rutherford had undoubtedly made mistakes, but he seemed driven to correct them without sullying his wife’s reputation. What Holmes felt was unclear, as he displayed no emotion on his countenance. At length he spoke.

  “My advice to you remains the same, Mr. Rutherford. I fear I cannot be of aid to you.”

  “But, Holmes,” cried Rutherford. “If it is the matter of your fee, I can pay handsomely, I assure you.”

  “The fee is not the issue, as my friend, Dr. Watson, could tell you,” said he. “I simply do not feel that this matter is one in which I could possibly help, besides the advice of which I have already given you.”

  Mary Rutherford could no longer restrain herself, and she leaned forward in her seat and spoke, “Don’t you see, Mr. Holmes, if you merely spoke to Miss Crawley, and warned her that you were on the case, why, your reputation alone would cause her to rethink her mad enterprise?”

  “That may be, madam,” returned Holmes. “But my position is unchanged. Good day.”

  At this Holmes arose in a sign that the interview was at an end. The Rutherfords were not put off that quickly, and argued strenuously with Holmes for some minutes before they finally gave up and exited the room. Holmes settled back into his chair, packed his pipe with his noxious blend of tobacco, and began languidly puffing. I sat and observed my friend for some minutes. It had seemed to me that Holmes was capricious in his denial of aid to the Rutherfords, but I knew my friend well enough to know that he could not be driven from his position. We lapsed into a companionable silence.

  Chapter Two

  At length Holmes stirred on his couch and addressed me.

  “Watson, you have an admirable ability to remain silent, when others would fill the air with their thoughts. It was easily read through your posture during the interview that you believe I should have taken the charge that was offered me. Is that not so?”

  “Your affairs are your own, of course, Holmes,” I essayed. “But, I admit my heart went out to Mrs. Rutherford and her plight as the faithful wife of a, perhaps undeserving, husband. Would you see her name dragged through the mud?”

  “Ah, my friend, as ever you are the champion of the fairer sex. There were some points of interest in the case, but as for the lady, surely she has made her choice and must face the consequences.”

  “Holmes,” I cried. “That is unfair to the lady. Surely it was obvious she is deeply in love with her husband and he her.”

  “I agree there was a deep love demonstrated here today, yet the entire affair left me uneasy, Watson, and I daresay that perhaps I may reconsider my involvement, after all.”

  “Why, that is capital, Holmes. A telegram to that effect to the Rutherfords would certainly be a balm for their troubles.”

  “I did not say I have changed my mind, old friend, merely that I will consider it. Several pipes should be sufficient.”

  With that Holmes began puffing away and could not be drawn into further conversation. I confined myself to the newspapers, and organized some notes from previous cases with Holmes. There were some fascinating mysteries among them, and the public had been made privy to only a small fraction of them.

  The heat intensified through the day as morning turned into afternoon, which gave way to evening. I had fairly drifted off to sleep in my armchair when I was startled by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a loud rapping at the door to our rooms.

  “Who could that be, Holmes?” asked I.

  “A mystery we shall soon solve,” said Holmes, as the door was opened and a uniformed sergeant of the police strode into the middle of the room.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe,” said he, facing my friend.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I have been sent with a message for you, and have been instructed to wait upon your answer, sir,” said the sergeant.

  With that he thrust a letter into Holmes’s hands and stood at attention. Holmes quickly scanned the l
etter. His eyes were alive with the fire that I knew well.

  “What is it, Holmes?” I asked.

  “There has been a murder, Watson,” said he. “Benjamin Rutherford has been shot and killed in his own study, not an hour ago. Lestrade is on the scene and asks that I attend at once.”

  I was taken aback. My heart went out to the widow, and I feared her reaction to the tragedy. While I was still in shock, Holmes spoke.

  “Tell the good Inspector that Dr. Watson and myself will come at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “If you please, we have a hansom waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Very good, sergeant. We will be down in a moment.”

  The sergeant neatly saluted and quickly exited the room. His heavy boots thudded on the steps on his way down.

  “Am I to go as well, Holmes?” I asked. “It would seem that Lestrade has requested only yourself.”

  “Watson, I would not dream of entering upon this matter without your aid. Your help may be indispensable. That is, if you are game to come with me.”

  “I consent, and happily, Holmes. Shall we be off?”

  Within minutes we found ourselves in a hansom cab rattling through the streets of London. The Rutherford residence was in a fashionable district close to the West End. Our driver soon pulled to the curb in front of a stolid establishment, and we alighted. The sergeant helped us make our way through a phalanx of police officers into the home. We had no sooner walked through the door, when we were accosted by Inspector Lestrade.

  “Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “And, of course, Dr. Watson. It is a grisly business, but I am glad to see the both of you.”

  Lestrade was a dark, terrier-like man. Holmes considered him the best of the Scotland Yard detectives, save perhaps Gregson. I found the man somewhat brusque, although he could be charming at times, but it was true that he admired Holmes’s abilities in solving the most obtuse and baffling cases. This had not always been so, but Lestrade had learned through experience not to underestimate Holmes. There was little doubt why we had been called, as the murder suspect had graced our rooms only hours before.