The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (A&B Crime)

by Thomson, June

  Opening the box and emptying out the contents, he placed the ruler upright against the inner side.

  ‘But that is only three inches deep!’ I cried.

  ‘Exactly, Watson! I noticed the discrepancy when I saw the box at old Abrahams’ shop. The conclusion is obvious. There must be a secret drawer or compartment, two inches high, concealed in the bottom of the box. That being so, we may also safely assume that hidden somewhere about the receptacle is a catch which, when pressed, will reveal it.’

  With his long, sensitive fingers, he began to probe gently at each heavily embossed panel in turn, working his way round the sides until he had reached the back. Like the rest of the casket, it was carved with the figures of two dragons, facing one another, their mouths spouting flames and their tails intertwined. It was behind one of the bulging eyes of the creature on the left that the catch was hidden for, as Holmes pressed it, there was a sharp click and the bottom of the box flew upwards, revealing a lower section, empty apart from a small packet of yellowing tissue paper.

  Taking it out, Holmes carefully folded back the wrappings and there, nestling in the centre, lay a ring.

  ‘Now that is indeed worth stealing!’ Holmes said softly.

  As he lifted it towards the light, I saw the dull gleam of a gold band and the brighter sparkle from the large red stone with which it was set.

  ‘Is it valuable?’ I asked.

  To my eyes, it was heavy and old-fashioned, the band too broad, the square-cut stone too large to grace a lady’s finger, although I confess that the fiery gleam which burned in the heart of it had a certain barbaric beauty of its own.

  ‘My dear Watson, if I am not mistaken, what you are looking at is a ruby which, from its size and magnificence, must be worth a fortune. The question is: to whom does it belong? Not, I should imagine, to the young man in the cap and muffler who left the box at old Abrahams’ shop. Then is it the property of the bearded man with the limp? I doubt that also. The owner of such a ring does not skulk about on pavements or peer in at windows and yet the bearded man is clearly intent on recovering the box and presumably the ring with it. There is also the young man’s murder to consider. Where does that fit in? It is a pretty little puzzle, is it not? Have you any thoughts on the mystery?’

  ‘Well, I assume the ruffian with the beard murdered the young man in order to get his hands on the box.’

  ‘No, no!’ Holmes cried. ‘That will not do at all! We must keep to the facts, Watson. Old Abrahams stated quite clearly that when the young man left the box with him yesterday morning, he was observed to do so by the bearded man who was watching from the street outside. Therefore, he knew the box was in old Abrahams’ possession, as his subsequent behaviour in keeping the curio shop under surveillance confirms. Knowing that the young man no longer had the box, why should he wish to stab him that same evening?

  ‘Although murder is frequently illogical, there is a perversity about this particular crime which defies all rational explanation. By killing the young man, the bearded ruffian, if it were indeed he who committed the crime, has not only gained nothing but has lost a great deal by bringing down on his own head the full weight of an official police investigation.’

  ‘Perhaps it was no more than a falling out among thieves,’ I suggested.

  Holmes seized on my remark with more enthusiasm than I had intended.

  ‘You think the two of them may have stolen the ring and then quarrelled over its ownership? A possibility, Watson. A distinct possibility! However, I know of no major robbery which has been committed recently. Surely the theft of such a valuable jewel would have been reported in the newspapers.’

  ‘Its rightful owner may have preferred it was not made public.’

  ‘Ah, its rightful owner! But, my old friend, is that person also the owner of the box and the curious collection of objects inside it? And was it that same person who concealed the ring in the secret compartment? You follow my logic? If it were merely a case of simple theft and murder, I should leave it to the official police. I am sure Inspector Lestrade and his colleagues at the Yard are quite capable of solving such a mundane crime. It is these more obscure aspects of the case which I am so eager to follow up.’

  ‘Then you intend informing the police of what we know?’

  ‘Of course, my dear fellow. I shall call at Scotland Yard this evening, where I shall hand over the box and give a full account of what we have so far discovered. In the meantime, while Lestrade is making his investigation, you and I shall pursue our own researches. You are game, are you not, Watson?’

  ‘Indeed I am, Holmes,’ I said warmly.

  However, as events were to prove, I was not present during these enquiries.

  The following afternoon, while I was out, Holmes received a visitor at our Baker Street lodgings who introduced him to another case, that of the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax.2 As he was reluctant to leave London while old Abrahams was still in such mortal terror of his life, Holmes asked me to travel to Lausanne in order to enquire into her ladyship’s whereabouts on his behalf.

  On my return to London, having failed to trace her, I found myself so caught up in the Carfax case, which proved exceedingly complex, that I quite forgot to ask Holmes how the other investigation had proceeded in my absence.

  It was not until after our dramatic rescue of Lady Frances some two weeks later that I recalled the Abrahams affair.

  It was a remark made by Holmes when we were discussing the Carfax inquiry over breakfast one morning which brought it to mind.

  ‘It was, of course, fortunate,’ said he, ‘that we found her silver pendant in that pawnbroker’s in Westminster Road. Had we not done so, she would have been buried alive by her abductors with no one the wiser about her fate.’

  ‘Speaking of jewellery,’ said I, ‘were you able to discover the owner of the ruby ring?’

  ‘Indeed I was, and a most strange story it proved to be.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I urged. ‘Who was the bearded man? Was it he who murdered the young man in the cap and muffler? And why … ?’

  ‘My dear Watson,’ Holmes cried, laughing and holding up his hands in protest. ‘So many questions!’

  ‘I am eager to know the outcome of the case.’

  ‘Your curiosity is quite understandable and I give you my word it will be satisfied. You intend calling at your club tomorrow afternoon, do you not?’

  ‘I have promised Thurston a game of billiards.’3

  ‘Then,’ said he, rising from the table, ‘if you care to stroll in the direction of Coleville Court after your game and pay old Abrahams a visit, you will receive a full account of the case in the very same setting in which the mystery was solved. Does not that strike you as appropriate? Until that moment, I refuse to answer any further questions. And now, my dear fellow,’ he added, his eyes sparkling mischievously, ‘you must excuse me. I have two important telegrams I must send.’

  However, it was not his final word on the subject. After lunch the following day, when I was about to leave for my engagement with Thurston, Holmes looked up from the Telegraph to add in an offhand manner, ‘By the way, Watson, when you call at the curio shop this afternoon, do pay particular attention to the window display. You will find it most interesting. In the meantime, enjoy your billiards, my dear fellow!’

  Despite this injunction, I found very little pleasure in the game. My thoughts were so occupied with the coming appointment with Holmes that I missed several easy shots, much to my chagrin and to the delight of Thurston, who won easily. He proposed a second match which I declined, pleading urgent business. Taking my leave of him, I hurried out of the club, hailed a passing hansom and directed its driver to take me to Coleville Court.

  On this occasion, I found that the shutters were down and the blind up at Old Abrahams’ shop. It was evidently open for business. Indeed, as I alighted from the cab, I could see the bent, white-haired figure of old Abrahams himself, spectacles on nose, seated behind the counte
r.

  However, remembering Holmes’ advice to take note of the window, I lingered outside for a few moments to survey its contents.

  To my astonishment, I saw placed in its very centre the same small ebony casket in which Holmes had discovered the ruby ring. Its lid was closed and a handwritten ticket, placed on top of it, bore the inscription, ‘Bargain. 9d.’

  ‘Mr Abrahams!’ I cried, pushing open the door and approaching the old shopkeeper in some haste. ‘What is the box doing in your window? I thought it had been returned to its rightful owner.’

  I broke off, my surprise turning to utter confusion, for I saw confronting me not one but two Mr Abrahams, the second appearing like the aged twin of the first through the door leading into the rear room.

  As I stared quite dumbfounded from one to the other, the first elderly gentleman who was seated behind the counter rose to his feet and, laughing heartily, removed the spectacles and tasselled cap, together with its surrounding fringe of white hair, and, straightening his shoulders, stood revealed as my old friend Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘I am sorry to startle you, Watson,’ said he, ‘but I could not resist re-enacting for your benefit a little scene from the drama which took place here in the shop while you were absent in France on the Carfax inquiry. The disguise was evidently successful, for it quite clearly deceived you.’

  ‘Indeed it did, Holmes,’ I admitted ruefully. ‘But what was its purpose?’

  ‘To lure a certain gentleman with a black beard and a limp into the open,’ Holmes began.

  He was interrupted by the real Mr Abrahams who, until that moment, had stood watching my discomfiture with evident delight, cackling with laughter and rubbing his frail hands together.

  Suddenly his smile faded and his features assumed that expression of terror I had perceived on my first meeting with him. With a cry, he lifted a trembling finger and pointed towards the door.

  Turning in that direction, I was horrified to see, pressed close against the glass panel, a man’s bearded face, glaring in at us and scowling most dreadfully.

  It was a terrible countenance, dark and threatening, the brows knotted fiercely together, the eyes glittering with menace.

  ‘Holmes!’ I cried in warning, for my old friend seemed oblivious of the man’s alarming presence.

  He glanced casually towards him but remained remarkably cool.

  Strolling over to the door, he flung it open and announced in a pleasant manner, ‘Ah, Hunniford, my dear fellow, you are exactly on cue. Do come in. Mr Abrahams, of course, you know. But you have not yet met my colleague, Dr Watson. Watson, allow me to introduce George Hunniford, a former inspector at Scotland Yard, at present working, like myself, as a private consulting detective.’

  ‘You flatter me, Mr Holmes,’ said the man, limping forward to shake me vigorously by the hand. ‘I wish I had a quarter of your skill and reputation. It is a matter of following far behind in your footsteps.’ Seeing my expression, he grinned broadly. ‘I am sorry, Dr Watson, if I alarmed you. It was Mr Holmes’ idea to set up this little scene for your benefit. I sincerely trust you won’t take it amiss.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied a little stiffly; for I was secretly annoyed at being made the butt of their amusement.

  However, it was impossible to remain angry when the occasion had afforded the rest of them such obvious enjoyment, especially Holmes who, still laughing, clapped me on the shoulder, declaring as he did so, ‘You must forgive me, my dear old friend! The temptation was irresistible. But what you have seen here this afternoon is a true re-enactment of the events which occurred when you were otherwise engaged in Lausanne. Allow me to explain.

  ‘After I had reported what I knew to Inspector Lestrade and handed over to him the box and the ruby ring, I devised with his co-operation a little scheme to entrap the man with the beard. At the time, he was, of course, suspected of the murder of the young man in the cap and muffler who had left the box at Mr Abrahams’ shop. Consequently, once the ring was removed from the secret compartment and placed in safe keeping at Scotland Yard until its rightful owner could be found, Lestrade returned the box to me. Disguising myself as Mr Abrahams, I then placed it in a prominent position in the window, just as you saw it this afternoon. Accompanied by a police sergeant who concealed himself in the rear room, I then kept watch inside the shop for our suspect to return.

  ‘I saw him several times during the day, walking up and down the street and lurking about in a most suspicious manner, if you will pardon my criticism of your methods, Mr Hunniford. A private consulting detective should never lurk. It always draws attention to himself. When undertaking a surveillance, one should always behave in as inconspicuous a manner as possible so that one blends with one’s surroundings. Now, had you disguised yourself as an ordinary citizen going about his normal business, you would not have aroused Mr Abrahams’ fears. And please, my dear man, do remove that absurd beard. It is so patently false that it deceives no one.’

  ‘It was the best I could find at short notice,’ Hunniford replied apologetically, stripping away his heavy black whiskers and revealing a pleasant, clean-shaven countenance of an open and cheerful expression.

  ‘Ah, that is a great improvement!’ Holmes declared. ‘To continue my account. At lunchtime on that Thursday, my patience was rewarded. The bearded man entered the shop and, taking ninepence from his pocket, asked to buy the box. As he did so, the sergeant came bursting out of the back room and promptly arrested him on suspicion of robbery and murder.

  ‘Unfortunately, I was not able to arrange a re-enactment of that particular episode in the drama, Watson. Inspect Lestrade, who does not share your sense of humour, refused to lend me a police officer on the grounds that it would be detrimental to the dignity of the force. You must therefore imagine the scene.

  ‘The bearded man protested his innocence most strenuously but to no avail. He was handcuffed, bundled into a cab and taken to Scotland Yard where, once I had divested myself of my disguise and handed over the care of the shop to the real Mr Abrahams, I joined them. It was there that I heard a most remarkable account from the suspect who had by then revealed his true identity.

  ‘As it is your story, Mr Hunniford, I suggest that you take over the telling of it.’

  ‘Willingly, Mr Holmes,’ said he. ‘First, however, I ought to explain that I left the police force two years ago, after falling off the wall of a warehouse yard while I was chasing after a notorious villain, a very clever cat-burglar named Bert Morrison. But more of him in a moment.

  ‘I broke my leg badly in two places and wasn’t able to continue active duty, so I was retired early on a pension. As the wife had relatives in Somerset, we decided to move down there and open a small boarding-house in Yeovil. That was all very well for a time but I soon found myself missing the excitement of life in the force and the challenge of pitting my wits against London’s criminal fraternity. So, thinking to put my experience to good use, I placed an advertisement in the local newspaper, offering my services as a private consulting detective. I must confess that it was Mr Holmes’ success in that particular field which put the idea into my mind in the first place.

  ‘To cut a long story short, I had a few commissions, mostly cases of poaching or petty pilfering from the shopkeepers of the town. And then, about three weeks ago, a Mr Horace Morpeth wrote to me. He was, he explained in his letter, the butler to Lady Farthingdale, the owner of Witchett Manor. Would I call at the house at my earliest convenience to investigate a burglary which had taken place there a couple of nights before? The police had been called in but had so far made no progress in their enquiries and her ladyship was anxious to recover her property.

  ‘Now there was a case more to my liking than a shop assistant helping himself to the odd shilling or two from the till or a poacher making off with a brace of pheasants. So I hired a trap and drove over to Witchett Manor that very same afternoon. And what a weird place I found it, Dr Watson!

  ‘It was a large Tudor h
ouse, all old beams and crumbling plaster, set in an isolated position well off the road and surrounded by gardens which had long since gone wild. The interior was no better. I do not think the place had seen a broom or a cleaning rag for years, for there were cobwebs everywhere and dust that thick you could write your name in it.

  ‘The butler, an elderly man, met me at the door and, before taking me to see her ladyship, invited me into his own little private cubby-hole where he told me about the background of the case. Lady Farthingdale was, it seemed, very old and eccentric, the widow of the former Ambassador to the kingdom of Nepal. After her husband’s death, she had become more and more of a recluse, seldom venturing out of the house. Although exceedingly wealthy, she had convinced herself that she was on the brink of poverty and would end her days in the workhouse. Consequently, she was extremely miserly. As the servants died or retired, she refused to replace them until the household had been reduced to Morpeth, the butler, and one old woman servant. To save on coal, they lived in just a few rooms, the rest of the house being closed off.

  ‘Her ladyship was also in mortal fear of burglars and was in the habit of concealing money and valuables in the strangest of places. Morpeth himself had once found a diamond brooch in the tea-caddy and a bag of sovereigns under a flower-pot.

  ‘Whether or not a former servant had gossiped or the isolated position of the house had attracted the attention of a burglar, Morpeth could not say. But two nights earlier, Lady Farthingdale’s worst fears were realised and the house was broken into. Because so many of the valuables had been hidden in places where even the most enterprising thief would not think of looking, the haul was not very great. All that was taken was a few pieces of household silver, a pair of gilded vases and a little wooden box, carved all over with dragons, which as far a Morpeth was aware contained nothing more than a few paltry trinkets.

  ‘The local police were informed and had made an investigation but had discovered no clues to the burglar’s identity. As the stolen objects were of such little value, they had not considered calling in Scotland Yard. But his mistress being in such a state of distress over the loss of her possessions and the failure of the police to recover them, Morpeth, who had seen my advertisement in the newspaper, suggested that I should be sent for. Lady Farthingday was waiting in the drawing-room and was most anxious to meet me.