Robin Hood's Revenge (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 7)

by Steven Ehrman

  “That is just what happened,” said Smythe. “We were talking and I distinctly heard Mr. Thornton whistling.”

  “Why would that be so unusual?”

  “In my time working for the man I do not believe I ever heard him whistle,” said Smythe.

  “And you, Scragg?”

  “Never in my thirty years of service with the Colonel did I ever hear him whistle.”

  Holmes seemed to be mulling over this new information. He suddenly turned towards Howard Thornton.

  “You have not yet said anything on this matter, Mr. Thornton. Were you also a witness to this event?”

  “Well,” began the man slowly, “I cannot say for certain that I did hear it. I mean I did hear something, but I thought at the time it might have been the wind.”

  “So there we have it,” said Holmes clapping his hands together and smiling. “It is difficult to get three people to agree sometimes during a murder investigation. But let us move on. After Mr. Thornton latched the door, what did you each do?”

  “After a few more minutes in conversation, I went to my bedroom,” said Howard Thornton. “I tried to sleep for a while, but this beastly heat made that impossible. I finally came back up to talk with George for a bit. It was then that you joined us.”

  “Did anyone observe you in your room?”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I was quite alone. I saw no one.”

  “I see. Mr. Smythe, what did you and Mr. Scragg do during the time in question?”

  “Well, I began doing some correspondence for Mr. Thornton, and Scragg remained here with me.”

  “You were together the entire time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scragg coughed and spoke.

  “I am afraid that is not quite correct.”

  Smythe looked annoyed and I was instantly alert.

  “What do you mean, Scragg?” asked the secretary. “Of course you were here with me.”

  “But not the entire time. If you will recall, you asked me to see if the morning mail had arrived. I went downstairs to check.”

  “Oh, that,” said a relieved George Smythe. “You were only gone a minute or two.”

  “Had the mail arrived, Mr. Scragg?” asked Holmes.

  “It had already been brought up earlier by Jackson,” replied the man.

  “That’s right,” said Smythe. “He had put it in my stack of outgoing mail by mistake, although he denies it. I did not notice it until Scragg returned. But as I say, he was gone only a few moments.”

  It was at that instant that Inspector Lestrade returned. He gave a nod to Holmes as he entered the room. Holmes immediately dismissed Smythe, Scragg, and Thornton. Once they had gone, Lestrade spoke.

  “You were right again, Mr. Holmes,” he said with a rueful smile. “I’ll be blessed if I know how you do it sometimes.”

  “I am in the dark,” I protested. “What have the two of you cooked up?”

  “Simply this, Doctor,” began the Inspector, “Mr. Holmes did not think that the serving girl, Emily Johnson, just happened to be in the carriage house. He suspected something else.”

  “What else, Holmes?” I demanded.

  “Doctor, employ your imagination,” he replied.

  I thought I detected a slight smile on the face of the taciturn detective. It finally hit me in a rush.

  “An assignation?” I ventured. “Is that what you think was going on? But we saw no one else.”

  “No, but I felt certain that someone was supposed to be there. The good Inspector has done the rest.”

  Lestrade had a satisfied expression on his face.

  “That’s right, Mr. Holmes,” he said importantly. “The cook is a formidable woman and she gave no ground when I questioned her, though it was clear she was holding something back. However the butler, Jackson, is not made of such stern stuff. He broke down quickly when I taxed him for the name of her swain.”

  “And what name were you given?” I asked.

  “It is none other than Franklin Thornton,” said the Inspector.

  “The brother that lies sick in bed, so it is said,” observed Holmes. “Perhaps we would do well to interview young Thornton.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Holmes, if he was to meet the girl at the very hour the arrow was shot from the carriage house, then things are black for him indeed,” said I.

  “We do not know that for a certainty, Doctor,” said Holmes. “All that we know for certain is that there is a rumour among the staff that the two share a romance.”

  “I have Thomas questioning the girl now,” said Lestrade. “I feel sure he can make her talk, being a local man. We’ll find out if she was in the carriage house for a purpose.”

  We exited the great hall. It did not take long until we were at the sickroom of Franklin Thornton. At a knock, we were bidden to enter. Once in the room, I observed a pale young man much alike to Howard Thornton. The young man was in bed. By his side was a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Lestrade stepped forward.

  “Mr. Franklin Thornton, I presume,” said he.

  “That is so,” replied the man. “I have heard, of course, of my dear Uncle’s death. Are you the Scotland Yard Inspector?”

  Lestrade allowed that he was and introduced Holmes and myself.

  Franklin let out a low whistle. “So the famous London detective is here as well. I had no idea that Uncle was so important a personage.”

  “The Yard takes all murders seriously, I assure you, young man,” said the Inspector. “We wish to ask some questions of you.”

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  “Have you remained in bed all day, sir?”

  “I have,” said he. “Nurse Gable has seen to that.”

  “That is so, gentlemen,” said she. “He wanted to walk about a bit before noon, but I put a stop to that. I have seen too many patients relapse by taking leave of their bed too soon. He and I have been here alone in the room since early morning.”

  I shot a glance at Holmes upon hearing this new information. It dovetailed perfectly with meeting the girl. Holmes evinced no reaction at all.

  “It is well that you have such a fine nurse,” said Holmes. “But I wonder if we might have a word in private.”

  Nurse Gable took Holmes’s meaning at once and withdrew from the room.

  “Now that we have some privacy I will come directly to the point, Mr. Thornton,” said Lestrade. “Emily Johnson was found by Mr. Holmes coming out of the carriage house soon after the arrow was shot that killed your uncle. It has been proposed that she was there to meet with you. Is that so?”

  “That is hardly a question to ask of a gentleman,” said the young man with pride.

  Lestrade was on the point of pressing the matter, when Constable Thomas came into the room.

  “Ah, here you are, Inspector,” said he.

  “Yes, what is it?” asked Lestrade testily. “We are quite busy.”

  “I understand that, sir, but this is important.”

  “Very well,” said the Inspector.

  “I have questioned Miss Emily Johnson very closely,” began the Constable. “She has finally admitted that she received a note from someone to meet at the carriage house at 11:30 this morning, but she claims the note was unsigned. She further states that she has no idea who sent the note.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” said Lestrade. “Now, Mr. Thornton, do you deny for the record that you were to meet Miss Johnson this morning?”

  Before the young man could answer, the door burst open and Howard Thornton came blazing into the room.

  “By what right do you question a man as sick as my brother?” he asked loudly.

  The Inspector shot him an exasperated look.

  “Murder has been done in this house, young man,” said Lestrade. “We have information that Mr. Franklin Thornton had a tête-à-tête scheduled with Miss Johnson in the carriage house this morning. Need I remind you that the fatal shot
came from there?”

  “Yes, yes. I know all about the note,” said Howard Thornton. “I have just come from the kitchen and poor Emily was sobbing the whole story to our cook.”

  “I am sorry that the girl is upset, but the truth will out,” said Lestrade.

  “Very well then,” replied Howard Thornton. “I sent the girl the note. I have had my eye on her for quite some time. I know it makes me out a cad, but there you have it.”

  I was astonished at this turn of events, but I immediately saw Franklin Thornton shake his head in disagreement.

  “Howard, that will not do,” he said. “Gentlemen, my brother is attempting to shield me. I sent Miss Johnson the note. It is true that we have had a slight romance. I have been ill for so long now, I merely wished to see her alone. I did not keep the appointment, however, as Nurse Gable would not permit. I assure you I have been in bed all day.”

  Lestrade was writing furiously in his notebook. Holmes meanwhile was giving Howard Thornton an appraising glance.

  “That was a foolish lie to tell, young man,” said he. “The police take a dim view of those who attempt to mislead them.”

  “I was only thinking of my brother’s health, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you would do the same in my shoes.”

  Holmes made no reply to this. Lestrade evidently believed that we had learned all that we could; we soon left the brothers together and exited the room.

  “What do you believe should be our next step, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

  “For Watson and myself, I should think we will return to London,” said Holmes.

  This turn was unexpected, and I was surprised.

  “Surely there is more to learn here, Holmes,” said I. “Or have you given up the case?”

  “I assure you, Doctor, that I have great interest in the solution to this crime. It is indeed unique as far as my experience goes, but London calls.”

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade. “I have a few more things to wrap up with Thomas, but I will call upon you tonight if you like.”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure,” said Holmes.

  We departed the Thornton Estate and were soon on our way back to London. The carriage ride was pleasant, but my traveling companion was less so. I attempted to draw him out on his thoughts, but he was most reticent.

  “Watson,” he said finally, “I fear that there is nothing else productive that can be done in the case until Lestrade tracks down the Will Scarlet Society. If they are the culprits, then Scotland Yard will soon bring them to justice.”

  “I can see that certainly, Holmes, but still I feel that you sense something deeper in this case.”

  “It is true, Doctor, that I can sense a malevolent presence. I do not deny that. However, we have the rest of the day, and Lestrade promises a visit this evening with information from his investigation. There is one thing that bothers me.”

  “What is that, Holmes?” I asked.

  “As you know, Watson, I pride myself on having an exact knowledge of the streets of London. To my recall, the block the Will Scarlet Society resides upon has only a bakery, a tailor shop, and a tobacconist shop. I know of no Will Scarlet Society in that area.”

  “Well, Holmes, even you cannot hope to keep up with the changes in a city the size of our fair London. That block may be completely different from the last time you were through it.”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes.

  With that he lapsed once more into silence, and I drifted off to sleep myself, not to awake until we had returned to our rooms on Baker Street.

  Holmes went immediately to our lodgings, but I decided to stroll the streets of London for a bit. If the Will Scarlet Society was not behind this foul murder, I saw little hope it would be solved.

  Finding myself in a neighborhood with a music hall, I resolved to spend the next few hours in the stalls. It was close upon eight when I returned to 221B Baker Street. The smell of roast beef informed me that the evening meal was being served. I hurried up the steps to take part.

  The table had just been set as I entered, and I quickly took my accustomed seat. Holmes, as was his habit, did not speak on the case. As I was aware of this idiosyncrasy, I made no effort to bring up the topic.

  An hour later we were lounging in our sitting room over cigarettes when I finally braced him for his opinion.

  “Well, Holmes, I see that you have given the case some thought in my absence.”

  “How do you deduce that, Doctor?”

  “It is elementary, Holmes,” I said, in a slight aping of his manner. “This morning when we left, the pile of shag upon your table was much greater than it is now. It only follows that you have been smoking furiously while I was gone this afternoon. You only smoke in that manner when you are in the midst of a difficult case, thus my deduction.”

  Holmes broke into a broad smile. He leaned over and slapped my knee.

  “My dear fellow, you are really coming along. It is true that I have given the case much thought.”

  “Would you care to share a bit of your thinking?”

  “Certainly, Doctor,” he replied. “There are several broad outlines in a case such as this that nearly always yield results in regards to motive.”

  “Meaning that there are several categories of motive that are the most likely.”

  “That is exactly my meaning, Doctor. One, of course, is revenge. The most obvious motive for this crime is that Xavier Thornton was killed by some deranged person, or persons, because of his work deconstructing the Robin Hood myth.”

  “You were threatened as well, Holmes,” I reminded him.

  “I have not forgotten. And this motive may very well turn out to be the solution. However, should that fail to answer the questions that have arisen, then what is the next most likely motive for murder?”

  “Jealousy is always a strong motive.”

  “That it is, but we have heard no evidence that Xavier Thornton had any romantic entanglements. In fact he was a known as a misanthrope with a distinct strain of misogyny.”

  “All right then,” I replied. “There is always the issue of who gains by the death.”

  “And in this case it is Lawrence Thornton, an ill eighty-year-old man who, by all accounts, loved his brother and indeed all of his family,” said Holmes. “Such a man is an unlikely murderer.”

  “But you forget, Holmes, we have only scratched the surface of the family relationships.”

  “That is true; although we were told a good bit, there is certainly more to know.”

  There was the clatter of horses in the street. Holmes walked over to the window and looked out.

  “All our musings may be for naught, Doctor. Inspector Lestrade is here, and perhaps he brings the solution to the case for us.”

  In just a few moments more the door was opened by our page-boy and the Inspector came in. He sat on the sofa and accepted the offer of a cigarette from me. He lit it and inhaled deeply. He seemed reluctant to begin the conversation and Holmes let him proceed at his own pace. The Inspector’s face was even ruddier than was usual for him. I thought I detected a deep agitation just under the surface of the man.

  “This case may be the death of me, Mr. Holmes,” he finally said.

  “Have you been to 1314 Torrance Street?” asked Holmes.

  “I have,” said Lestrade.

  “What do you have to tell us?” asked Holmes.

  “What I have found out makes no sense at all, sir!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Inspector was running his fingers through his hair in exasperation.

  “Dear me, Lestrade, this sounds serious,” said Holmes. “Pray tell us what you have discovered.”

  ‘Here it is, sir,” began the Inspector. “It seems there was a fire on the 1300 hundred block of Torrance Street two nights ago. Half the block is in ruins.”

  It had been over two hundred years since the London Fire, but the residents of the great city had not yet forgotten the inferno. Small fires still broke
out in the city, but fire-fighting techniques had grown somewhat more effective and these fires were usually contained quickly.

  “It seems that a fire started at the tailor shop adjacent to 1314,” continued Lestrade. “It spread through that address to a tobacconist. The tailor was killed, but that was the only casualty.”

  “And what of the Will Scarlet Society?” asked Holmes.

  “That’s just it, Mr. Holmes,” cried the Inspector. “The tailor and the tobacconist are longtime residents of the street, but my information is that 1314 was vacant and to let before the fire.”

  “Do you know that for a certainty?” I asked.

  “It is a confirmed fact, Doctor,” said Lestrade. He pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket. “I spoke to the widow of the tailor David Garret, a Mrs. Frieda Garret, and to the tobacconist, a Mr. Gerald Armstrong, and both report the address between them was vacant. In fact, Armstrong reports a large sign advertising the address to let was posted on the entrance to the building.”

  “That is most instructive, Lestrade,” said Holmes leaning forward in his chair.

  I saw the fire was lit in his eyes.

  “At any rate,” said Lestrade, “it looks as if we have run into a dead end for the moment. I have men scouring the city for word of this Will Scarlet Society, but I am now wondering if the name is as fictitious as the address.”

  “The address is not fictitious,” murmured Holmes.

  “What’s that, Mr. Holmes? Well, be that as it may, I am open to suggestions on how we might proceed.”

  Holmes was in the process of lighting a fresh bowl in his pipe. When he had lit the tobacco to his satisfaction, he spoke.

  “I have given this long thought today, Inspector, but I would like the night to digest this new information. Can you call upon us in the morning?”

  “I can and I will, Mr. Holmes, but can you give no guidance this night?”

  “Please indulge me,” said Holmes. “I wish to have all my thoughts in order.”

  Lestrade, after some further argument, departed, and Holmes and I were alone.

  “It would appear that the most promising lead of the case has withered away, Holmes,” said I.