‘But what truth can there be in this?’ asked Francis.
‘Do not misunderstand me, Francis. I am no scholar, and can offer the disbelieving world no proof of the existence of Sherlock Holmes. Some things may forever be beyond understanding. The misinformed see my mother as an elderly, homely, dumpy person forever running up to Mr Holmes’s apartments with a note or visitor or tray, but, as you may clearly see, my mother was a slender, cultivated, radiant creature.’
‘But, Miss Dean … the photograph … surely it might have been taken anywhere,’ said Gordon. ‘There must be many other 221Bs all over the country. It may be an elaborate hoax. Remember the Cottingley fairies! Those little girls who said they saw fairies in the wood convinced the most intelligent of people that they really had seen such things.’
‘They certainly did,’ agreed Francis. ‘In fact, Conan Doyle was one of them!’
‘And then,’ said Miss Dean, her eyes imploring the boys to remain with her explanation, ‘there is this!’
She held out to them a common or garden exercise book, obviously aged, its green cover faded, its corners wrinkled, as if it were a Holy Grail.
‘It is all there,’ she said. ‘The truth.’
Francis and Gordon, almost frozen from movement, felt as if they might never find the strength or will to open its pages. The room was as silent as a tomb. Almost fearfully, Francis turned the cover and read
SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE TRUTH
as known to Kathleen Hudson
‘Imagine my surprise,’ said Miss Dean, ‘when I discovered this document. Like my poor mother, I have been a little unlucky in life. On a Christmas Eve of a few years ago I was turned out of the third floor back lodgings where I had made myself comfortable for the past forty-five years. Since then I have lived in a series of inexpensive residential hotels with hot water and cruet included. In sorting the possessions of my mother which I had inherited and which had lain undisturbed for decades, I found, tucked into the sheet music of one of my mother’s favourite songs – (do you know ‘I Cannot Pluck the Harp Tonight?’; a sweet melody) – this account of her knowledge of Sherlock Holmes.’
Francis was still staring at the little book, but managed to splutter ‘Do you not think, Miss Dean …?’
‘You doubt its veracity?’ said the woman, her face drawn, her eyes desperate in their pleading. ‘Then, my time has been wasted. I had hoped, vainly as I now see, that Francis Jones…’
‘And Gordon Jones’ put in Gordon.
‘That Francis Jones and Gordon Jones,’ and now she sat erect, the face suddenly hawk-like, ‘that the Boy Detectives, would listen, and understand, and profit by what I have come to tell them.’
‘Did you say profit?’ asked Gordon, who had an entrepreneurial streak.
‘The book is yours,’ announced Miss Dean. ‘I cannot do with it any longer. I pass it on to you to do as you wish with it.’
‘You are casting the runes?’ asked Francis, fixing his visitor with a gimlet eye. ‘Passing on something that has become a demonic possession?’
‘Steady on, Francis!’ said Gordon. ‘It’s an exercise book!’
‘Indeed it is,’ said Miss Dean, not taking her eye off Francis, ‘but what it contains will merit your attention. You will read for yourselves. Read it and read it well. I will return tomorrow afternoon, when you will perhaps – if I may use a musical reference – have changed your tune. But make no mistake: it is as the title promises, the truth about Sherlock Holmes.’
‘I don’t wish to be rude,’ said Francis, and Gordon didn’t think he’d ever heard Francis being quite so kindly and gentle-voiced, ‘and it may be the truth, but the fact remains there can be no truth concerning a person who never lived.’
‘Never lived!’
Miss Dean got to her feet, reseated her beret, and flung her ulster violently around her frail body.
‘You obviously know much less about Mr Holmes than I imagined. When he retired from detective work, he left his rooms at Baker Street and moved to a nice little bungalow near Eastbourne, a location recommended because of its low crime rate. In his last years, he became a respected lepidopterist, presenting a paper to the Royal Society on the latent criminal tendencies of the Large Cabbage White. He died in his sleep in 1948, and was obituarised by Mr E V Knox in the Strand magazine.’
‘He may well have had obituaries written about him,’ said Francis, ‘but that was all part of the game, Miss Dean.’
‘Game? Did you say game? I don’t think that is quite the appropriate word. If it is a game,’ and her eyes narrowed, her voice dwindling to little more than a whisper, ‘it is a very dangerous one.’
She moved with surprising agility to the window and, standing a little to the side of the curtains, peered into the street.
‘I am being followed,’ she explained. ‘A man in a trench coat, smoking, trying to hide his face beneath a hat.’
Francis and Gordon crept behind her and searched the street with their eyes, but the street was empty.
‘What could he possibly want?’ asked Gordon.
‘I do not know,’ said Miss Dean. ‘But he has been standing outside, watching me, ever since I found that book.’
*
‘Profit. Money. Lots of it. The Daily Sketch wants this story, lads. It’ll set you up for life.’
The reporter flipped open his notebook, licked his pencil and gave Francis and Gordon an encouraging wink, followed by a card that read Jack Robbins, Chief Reporter, Daily Sketch.
The boys had hardly recovered from the previous day’s visit by the supposed daughter of Mrs Hudson, and after she returned to the Balmoral Guest House where she was staying, had spent the evening poring over the exercise book that Miss Dean claimed had been written by her mother. Its contents were staggering. If this was indeed the truth about Sherlock Holmes, the world had been grossly misled. In fifty pages of persuasive prose, his reputation was questioned, belittled and ultimately destroyed. This was an extraordinary surprise to Gordon, but to Francis, who had worshipped the man and hoped to emulate his achievements, it was devastating. He had never read such an indictment of bungling inefficiency, misdirection, psychological
misunderstanding and pig-headed obstinacy.
According to this account, Holmes had allowed countless murderers to escape capture, failed to stop the theft of several sets of European crown jewels, had been invited to resolve the Austro-Hungarian crisis and almost single-handedly been the cause of the collapse of the Habsburg Empire, was known to have embezzled funds from the Baker Street Irregular Pension Fund which he had in happier days set up, had nothing at all to do with the affair of the Hound of the Baskervilles, and had serious body odour. Francis’s idol, rather like the bust of himself that Holmes had commissioned, had been smashed. What a selfish, incompetent, heartless failure the man had been! And then, Francis thought, ‘I have to pinch myself. This is ridiculous. It’s the exercise book that isn’t true?’
‘But what,’ Gordon said, ‘if it is?’
On the doorstep, the reporter from The Daily Sketch had apologized for turning up without warning. He was a pale young man wearing a creased herring-bone suit, a pencil tucked behind one ear and a Woodbine behind the other. He had the beginnings of a feeble blond moustache, rabbity teeth, and wore large dark glasses. He was also the very first man Francis had ever encountered who seemed to be wearing some sort of aftershave.
‘Excuse the shades, lads,’ he said. ‘My Gloria Swanson impersonation! Been working on a story with a lot of flashlight pictures being took,’ explained the man. ‘Hurts your eyes. May I have a minute of your time, lads? This is your lucky day!’
And so it seemed. He explained that his newspaper was prepared to offer a generous sum of money for exclusive coverage of the discovery of the exercise book.’
‘Now, see here, lads, I’ll be absolutely honest with you. A woman came to us months ago, offering us that book, and we turned it down. Fancy me, honest Jack Robbins, turning down a sto
ry that would have sold millions of copies! Trouble was, it had hoax written all over it. Imagine what harm the newspaper’s reputation would have suffered if we’d gone ahead and printed the story. I mean, Sherlock Holmes a real person! And not a very clever or nice one, after all! That would have upset a few apple carts, I can tell you.’
‘Then why are you here?’ asked Francis, hoping he could keep level-headed, and wishing his mother and father were not away from home.
‘Well, that was then and this is now,’ said the young man. ‘It’s one of them stories that won’t go away, you know. A sleeper, we call it. Yeah, a sleeper that’s woke up sharpish. We’ve had some experts looking into it, and it seems there’s much more to this than meets the eye. We want to tell the world what’s in that book.’
The boys were almost lost for words. Francis stared at the reporter. The reporter stared at Francis. Francis stared at Gordon. Gordon stared at Francis. Nobody spoke. The eerie stillness was only broken by a sharp knocking at the door, and a voice that the boys recognised as that of Miss Simms, the postmistress. Gordon opened the door.
‘Good morning, Gordon. Is Francis in?’
‘Yes. Come in, Miss Simms. This is Mr Robbins.’
Miss Simms peered suspiciously over her spectacles in the manner reserved for anyone who had not lived in Branlingham for at least twenty years.
‘Good afternoon. I really must not stop. There has been a telephone call, Francis, from the British Museum. I made a note of it all, here. Oh I do wish your mother would consider having the telephone installed. Yes, a message from the secretary of Professor (she pinched up her eyes to read her handwriting) Faversham, to say that he wishes urgently to speak to you and that he will be calling on you tomorrow morning at 10.30.’
‘Thank you, Miss Simms, but I don’t understand. Why on earth should a professor from the British Museum be coming to Norfolk to speak to me?’
‘My reaction entirely, Francis,’ announced Miss Simms. ‘I thought it might be a schoolboy prank, one of your friends entertained by the idea that I would have to walk all the way here to convey the message, and that you would think something important was about to happen! But I telephoned back.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I telephoned back. To the British Museum. I asked to speak to the secretary of Professor Faversham and they said hold on in a very London refined accent, and after a little buzzing a voice at the other end said “This is Professor Faversham’s secretary. How may I help you?” And yes, the Professor is indeed coming to see you tomorrow. At 10.30. And now I must fly. If only your mother would embrace modern technology …’
‘Well, well,’ said Jack Robbins, the moment Miss Simms had left. ‘Things are hotting up for you, boys. What did I tell you? This thing is big. Oh, it’s very big.’
‘How did you know the book was here?’ said Gordon, and then cursed himself by asking such a give-away question.
‘We’ve kept an eye on the old girl,’ said the reporter, and winked.
‘Miss Dean?’
‘I come down from London special yesterday and caught her getting off the train. Followed her to that guest-house in Norwich. Funny thing is, when I got there, there was this man standing across the road watching her. Fishy looking, he was. Trench coat, smoking a nub end. Thought for a minute he might have been another reporter, but he was just stuck there, watching and waiting.’
‘Have you had people watching us as well?’ asked Gordon.
‘Blimey boys, we’re not the KGB. Of course not. Against our principles, that is. We’re interested in getting hold of that book. Know what this is?’
‘From here, it looks very much like a cheque book,’ said Francis.
‘That’s it. A cheque book. And the figure I’m prepared to write out has so many noughts on the end it’ll make your eyes water. And your names will be known all over the world. Just one thing, boys, if we’re going to do business together. Ever heard of a deadline? Tomorrow. Mid-day. Twelve on the nose. Yes, we get that exercise book and let the world know that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, and you are two little rich boys, or the deal’s off. Other papers on their way, see, want the goodies. So no messing about. Tomorrow, mid-day, you could be rolling in it.’
By the time Robbins left, Francis’s head was reeling. Something about it all seemed so wrong, as if he were living through a dream in which nothing made sense. His world was falling around him. Sherlock Holmes was a real person, Mrs Hudson’s daughter had just had a cup of tea at Red Cherry House, a reporter from a national newspaper was promising untold riches, a professor from the British Museum was coming to Norfolk, Norfolk, to see him, he was being watched by a man who was probably part of a notorious gang that might strike at any moment.
Francis tried to hold on to the knowledge that he was a grammar school prefect with a subscription to The Children’s Newspaper, and to remember that his cousin and best friend Gordon was somehow on the edge of this Sherlock Holmes business. But it can’t be true, thought Francis … that reporter for a start … it was some sort of joke.
He walked to the telephone kiosk in the yard of The Wedded Stoat Public House, and put through a call to the Daily Sketch. They were bound to tell him they had never heard of a reporter called Jack Robbins, and then he’d know it was all moonshine, that Holmes existed only in the pages of Conan Doyle. He was ashen-faced when he walked out of the telephone kiosk. The voice on the telephone had informed him that of course Jack Robbins was on the staff. He was their ace reporter, and to the best of their knowledge had gone to Norfolk on a very special assignment.
*
When the reporter left Red Cherry House with the promise to return again the next day, Gordon was ready to cycle back to Bundler’s Cottage. He knew that at midday Uncle Billy was coming home from the power station where he worked, and Gordon wanted to be there when his uncle arrived. It was only natural that Gordon should feel the lack of a mother and father, who had died in an accident on their first foreign holiday after the war. When he learned what had happened, Uncle Billy, his father’s younger brother, had put his arms around Gordon and said ‘You’ll be alright, chum, you’ll see. Don’t be frightened of the dark. We’ll be together now.’
And there was something about Uncle Billy that made it all right. He understood the terrible blow that Gordon had suffered, and never pretended to be his father. Let him be quiet when he needed to be. Let him talk when he wanted to, and encouraged him in every way when he saw that was what his nephew wanted. Gordon knew how lucky he was to have such a rock. It was the least he could do to get home and make sardines on toast for when his uncle came back to the cottage for a quick lunch before his long afternoon shift. And Francis had wrapped up two portions of his mother’s latest Bramley apple pie and wedged them in Gordon’s saddlebag. Gordon had made the tea and set the table before he heard his uncle at the door.
‘Couldn’t eat better out!’ said Uncle Billy, beaming at the little spread on the kitchen table. ‘Couldn’t get as good in a café if you was to pay twice the price!’
There was nothing wrong with Uncle Billy’s appetite, but he couldn’t help but notice that Gordon didn’t seem particularly interested in his food, and had a distracted air about him.
‘What’s up, chum?’ asked Billy, wondering if he could ask for a pickled onion without insulting the chef.
It was a relief for Gordon to unburden himself, and out the story came, about how Francis had been going on and on about Sherlock Holmes after that article had appeared about them in the newspaper, and how the strange woman had said she was Mrs Hudson’s daughter, and how of course she couldn’t possibly be, and how a reporter from one of the big London dailies had offered the boys a fortune if they gave up the exercise book.
‘Money, eh?’ said Uncle Billy, who had been passed the jar of pickles. ‘Lots of it, you say? You’d have no more worries then, would you, chum? Set you up for life, that would. No more making do at Bundler’s Cottage.’
It was the first t
ime Gordon had ever felt really annoyed with his Uncle. The thought that Bundler’s Cottage was making do! Hadn’t Uncle Billy done everything he could to make him happy and comfortable? There was always a fire in the grate, and food in the larder, and the house as neat and trim as any of the ships that Uncle Billy had served on in his Navy days. So far as Gordon was concerned, he was living like a prince. Money wasn’t everything, and he jolly well hoped that Francis subscribed to that belief too.
‘It’s just that I think this business about the exercise book could be a bad thing to happen in Francis’s life. He’s so wound up in the whole Sherlock Holmes thing that sometimes I think he can’t think straight.’
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Billy, who was carefully trying to entice an onion onto the prongs of his fork. ‘It’s a rum business, and no mistake. That boy’s always got his head inside a book. Nothing wrong with that, mind. This Sherlock Holmes, now. Never read any of them stories myself. Heard them talked about. Didn’t he have funny habits? Pipe smoking, and a pal called Dr Watson?’
‘That’s right,’ said Gordon.
‘And was it Sherlock Holmes as said, if you can’t find the answer to a mystery when you’ve turned it over and over in your mind, the most obvious answer is the one that’s been staring you in the face?’
‘Yes, he did say something like that’, said Gordon.
*
November the fifth would be a busy day. It was early morning when Uncle Billy dropped Gordon off at the bus stop at Strutton-by-the-Way crossroads. The number 79 to Norwich would take him to the top of Grapes Hill, only a short walk from where Miss Dean was staying at the Balmoral Guest House, in sight of the great Roman Catholic Cathedral of St John the Baptist.
The little house was almost hidden behind a high brick wall. The front garden had been concreted over, although two pots, containing what may once have been hydrangeas, rested below the portico. Two columns framed the porch at the entrance, above which flickered a dirty sign that read Balmoral. A cardboard notice had been hung on the door,knob: Vacancies. Gordon knocked on the door. He thought he was doing the right thing in trying to have a quiet word with Miss Dean, when he could explain how concerned he was about Francis’s obsession with Sherlock Holmes, and find out why she wanted Francis to take over ownership of her mother’s memoir.
THE BOY DETECTIVES Page 8