Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  Oh, Lestrade? Dr Watson moved Lestrade to his own home for recovery – he said he would be safer there. Considering the family of thugs he married into, I’d agree.

  THE UNFORTUNATE GUEST

  Iain McLaughlin

  I like that Sherlock Holmes is a flawed human being. It’s one of the things that makes him particularly intriguing. Peterson, a commissionaire who makes his canonical debut in “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle”, is an associate of Sherlock Holmes and is somebody who is not particularly important in the great scheme of Holmes’s life. He’s someone helping on a case. That’s what interests me… when Holmes is engaged by a case, what matters most? The investigation or the people? Peterson seemed an ideal character to help examine this kind of question.

  —Iain McLaughlin

  I am a simple man of simple needs and simple wishes. I do not need luxurious things, and neither do I seek the fame held by the likes of Mr Sherlock Holmes. For those who find fame often find themselves targets of the immoral.

  I believe it a widely known truth that Mr Sherlock Holmes has a large number of agents and contacts in every avenue of life in this great city of London. We find ourselves in his service for many reasons, but we are well rewarded. Mr Holmes is never shy with coin. However, that is not my abiding reason for assisting Mr Holmes. There is a right and a wrong in this world. And in this city, too often we see only the wrong. I feel my conscience eased by the fact that in aiding Mr Holmes on occasion I have, in some way, pushed back at the dark deeds that infect this city. I will freely admit that it is also a great comfort to think that we may call upon the expertise of Mr Holmes when it is required.

  That is how it came that I found myself in Mr Holmes’s rooms, with occasion to ask for assistance rather than to provide it.

  Dr Watson was with Mr Holmes at Baker Street on this day and it was he who answered the door when Mrs Hudson showed me up.

  I was both surprised and pleased that Dr Watson should remember me. “Ah,” said he, “it’s Peterson, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Dr Watson,” I replied, removing my cap. “I was doorman at the…”

  He waved me inside, a friendly smile on his face. “Ah, yes, I remember. Do come in.” Dr Watson was an easy man to take to. He was a real gentleman, and carried himself as such, but did so without making those of us not from the higher orders feel that he was peering down his snoot at us. I have worked as a doorman at several hotels, and I know of which I speak. To many of the upper classes, the lower levels of society are to be sneered at or ignored. That was never Dr Watson’s way.

  Mr Holmes was seated by his fire, as was often his manner. He wore a dressing-gown and was smoking a long pipe. He did not care to look at me as I approached. I knew him well enough not to take offence at that.

  It was Dr Watson who spoke. “Holmes, it’s…”

  Mr Holmes raised a hand for quiet. “I am aware of our visitor’s identity,” he said. “I am also aware of the reason for his calling. However, perhaps Peterson would take a seat and tell you his tale, that you may be equally enlightened.”

  I did as I was instructed. It was the first occasion on which I had been invited to sit while at Baker Street.

  “I see you have moved to new employment,” said Dr Watson. He was impressed by his deduction but I shall admit I felt it rather obvious since I still wore my doorman’s uniform.

  “I joined Bertrand’s Hotel seven months since, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes was kind enough to give me a fine reference.” I felt I had to add, “And I am very grateful for that, Mr Holmes.”

  Mr Holmes waved a thin hand, dismissing my thanks. His eyes were closed as though in sleep. “Simply tell Dr Watson your reason for being here,” said he, before resuming his silence.

  “Well, Dr Watson, Bertrand’s Hotel was looking for new staff. Word was they had new owners and they was pushing upmarket. I heard they paid well – I knew a couple of lads who work there – so I went along and they gave me the job. It’s good work, I must say. Less hours for more pay and the tips are very good. Truth is I’m much more comfortably off than I was.”

  Dr Watson nodded again. “A better class of client?” he asked. “Their move upmarket has been a success?”

  I gave that question some thought, for I paid close attention to the guests at Bertrand’s. Indeed, any doorman who did not pay heed to the guests and their needs would not be worth his salt. “They have money but none of it’s from old families,” I told him. “It’s mostly folks in business or wealthy wives and families. We don’t get many titles. We get Americans and Europeans, though.” We particularly notice them. Foreigners usually tip well, especially Yanks. “I’ve been happy there these past six months or so. Good hours, very good money.”

  Dr Watson said that he understood and encouraged me to continue.

  “Well,” said I, “two days ago I was on duty when a chap emerged from the hotel. I’d helped him inside with his luggage the day before. He was from Edinburgh, the son of a doctor I believe. He asked for directions to a few places and was about to light a cigarette for himself. I lit it for him, as a good doorman should. He said thank you, polite as could be. Half a moment later he was on the ground at my feet, gasping for air. I called for help but by the time anyone came, the poor chap was dead.”

  “How?” asked Dr Watson, but Mr Holmes quieted him sharpish.

  “Let Peterson tell his tale,” said he. And so I continued.

  “When the police came they took the poor chap away and examined him. They came back to me this morning with questions. Very accusing questions, I might add. The chap had been poisoned. And it turned out that the poison was in his cigarette. The strange thing being that he was not smoking the brand he normally smoked. It did not match the packet they found in his pocket. It did, however, match the brand that I smoke, and have done for many a year. Being as I lit the smoke for him, their eyes are turning on me, Mr Holmes. I had already set mind to asking your opinion when I returned to the room where we change for duty. We all have cupboards, and inside mine I found these…”

  From within my coat pocket I withdrew several envelopes, a watch and a man’s ring, all of which I had carried from the hotel to Baker Street.

  “I recognised the ring and the name ‘McGregor’ on the post,” I continued. “They are those of the dead man.”

  Mr Holmes did not look away from the fire. “Did you steal them?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I replied quickly. “I am no thief, but it is clear that someone would have me seen as such. That is why I have come to you.”

  Mr Holmes fair sprang from his seat. “Understandable,” said he, “but you should not have moved these objects. You have deprived me of the opportunity to examine your cupboard for potentially vital clues.”

  “Had I left them they might have deprived me of my life, sir,” I argued. I should never normally have disagreed with Mr Holmes, but in the instance of my life being in jeopardy from the noose, I felt justified.

  Mr Holmes merely laughed. “I see your point, Peterson.” He took the objects from me and placed them on a desk before instructing me to continue. There was little more I felt I could tell.

  “Had those objects been found in my possession, Mr Holmes, I should be for the hangman. I promise you with my hand on the Bible itself that I did not kill this man. I did not give him a poison cigarette, and nor did I steal from him.”

  Mr Holmes had again taken his seat. “But someone has gone to some lengths to ensure that you should be suspected of this crime. Have you enemies at Bertrand’s, Peterson?”

  “None, sir,” I replied and it was the truth. I enjoyed my time at the hotel. “These past months have been the happiest I can remember. Everyone is friendly and treats me right.”

  “Not everyone,” replied Mr Holmes. “Evidently at least one in their ranks has taken against you.”

  I could raise no argument to that point. “I have no idea who, sir. Neither do I have any hope of avoiding the rope if you do not agree to help me
.”

  Mr Holmes sat a long moment and was so silent I feared he would reject my appeal. “I am busy with a complex case,” he said eventually. “But I can spare you a few hours to examine this problem. Beyond that I can make no assurance.” He was then kind enough to offer compliments as to the service I had previously provided.

  We paused only a mere ten minutes so that Mr Holmes might send a note to delay a meeting he had arranged for that afternoon. It is no exaggeration to say that I felt the weight lift from my shoulders when Mr Holmes agreed to offer his assistance. Considerably more than if all of Scotland Yard itself had become involved as my protector.

  There were coppers at the hotel when we arrived. Mr Gartyne, the day manager, hurried to my side as soon as we entered. “Where have you been, Peterson?” he demanded. “The police have been looking for you. And why are you using the front doors? They are for guests. The servants’ door is at the back as you well know.”

  “Sorry, sir,” I apologised but Mr Holmes interrupted.

  “Would you describe me as staff, sir?” he demanded. He fixed his eyes upon Mr Gartyne and gave his most intimidating stare.

  As so many had before him, Mr Gartyne went pale under the gaze. “Well, no.”

  “And if I had asked Mr Peterson to bring us in?”

  “Then I would have no complaint, Mr…”

  Mr Holmes made no attempt to furnish his name. “Then I suggest that you assume that is precisely what happened. It will save everyone a considerable amount of time.”

  Mr Gartyne was a man the likes of which I have seen often in the hotel trade. He thought himself more important than the rest of the world did. “And you are a guest here, sir?” he asked Mr Holmes.

  “No,” came a solid voice from elsewhere in the lobby. “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “At your service,” Mr Holmes said first to Mr Gartyne and then to the tall man who had spoken and who now approached. “Lestrade.”

  Mr Gartyne was taken aback at hearing the name. He made an excuse and left, after requesting that Mr Holmes and the police be discreet.

  “Caught him, have you?” asked Lestrade. He looked at me with suspicious eyes. There was little doubt that Inspector Lestrade thought me guilty.

  “Far from it,” Mr Holmes replied. “Indeed it was Mr Peterson who requested my presence here.”

  “Did he now?” For sure the copper had not expected that.

  “He did, and he has asked that I find the truth.”

  Inspector Lestrade was sorely put out by that and he did not hide it well. “Really?”

  “Indeed,” said Mr Holmes. “I trust you will have no objection to that?”

  The copper didn’t take up the challenge. “None at all, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, “though I trust you shall remember that this is a police investigation.”

  Mr Holmes, however, had lost interest in the conversation and was looking around the lobby, leaving Dr Watson to reply in his stead. “Have no fear, Lestrade. Holmes will afford you the same respect he always does.”

  “That’s what worries me.” Lestrade sniffed and looked at me. “Well, if I can leave him in your hands, Mr Holmes, I have other cases demanding my attention. However, I shall return.” He looked upon me with sour eyes. “Until then, this suspect is your responsibility.”

  Mr Holmes raised a hand, though I cannot say if it was in agreement with the policeman or a dismissal of him. I supposed it did not make any difference. Lestrade left, again promising me that he would return and warning me against taking to my heels.

  Such a thought had never occurred to me, and I was concerned that perhaps I might have made a bad choice in contacting Mr Holmes rather than choosing to run. It was not unknown for the law to put an innocent man at the end of a rope. But I had played my cards, and now my fate was in the hands of Mr Holmes.

  Mr McGregor’s room was on the first floor. It was not one of our largest but in Bertrand’s there are no small rooms. The hotel’s reputation was built on luxury, and I had benefited from that fact daily by way of generous tips. Mr Holmes examined the room, then looked into the man’s suitcases and inspected his clothes. From his face I could make nothing of what he might be thinking.

  “Well, Watson?” Mr Holmes said after circling the room at least twice. “What do you make of it?”

  Dr Watson took a moment to answer. “Very little,” he replied eventually. “His clothes are of good quality. Add that to his choice of hotel, I would say we are obviously dealing with a man of comfortable means. His boots are not new but they are freshly soled, therefore he could afford new but chooses to hold onto a favourite pair. Possibly for comfort, possibly for sentimental reasons.”

  “Sentiment?” asked Mr Holmes. “For a pair of boots? Yes, if a man can have a favourite pipe, he might exhibit the same attachment to boots.”

  “Especially if they were a gift from someone important to him,” said Dr Watson. “I myself have retained boots and had them repaired beyond the time they should have been thrown away because they were a gift.”

  Mr Holmes conceded that point to Dr Watson. “Very well. Continue.”

  “So that you can tell me I’ve got it all wrong?” I heard amusement rather than annoyance in the doctor’s voice.

  Mr Holmes laughed again. “Perish the thought, dear fellow.”

  Dr Watson took his time before giving reply. “His papers and clothing would say he is a businessman here with the intention of making final an agreement outlined in one of the letters.”

  “Legal or not?”

  “The company mentioned has a good reputation and its owner is known for charitable and Church activities.”

  “That would hardly preclude him from being a criminal,” said Mr Holmes.

  “Oh, by no means,” Dr Watson replied. “I have seen many a villain under a church roof, Holmes. However, this man’s charitable acts are often performed quietly and I hear of them only through medical colleagues.”

  “Fair, Watson.” Mr Holmes was again picking through Mr McGregor’s belongings. “Would you say the dead man was married?”

  Dr Watson nodded. “Of course,” he said plucking a photograph from the dead man’s wallet. “He carried a picture of her. The bag is quite new and carries a subtle message inlaid in the rim. ‘To my beloved…’ so I should say definitely married.”

  “Watson, you excel yourself,” Mr Holmes said, a delighted smile on his face.

  “How much did I get wrong?” asked Dr Watson wryly.

  Mr Holmes peered out of the window. “Absolutely nothing,” said he. “My compliments were genuine. At last you make progress with my methods. Not, I should add, before time.”

  “Thank you,” said Dr Watson, sounding more than slightly surprised. “I think. So, my conclusions are correct?”

  “In as far as they go, yes,” Mr Holmes confirmed. “Of course, you do not answer the largest question. Why was this man murdered?”

  “Robbery?” Dr Watson suggested.

  Mr Holmes was not convinced. “Then why leave possessions of some worth in Peterson’s cupboard?”

  “To divert suspicion?” offered Dr Watson.

  “Possibly.” Mr Holmes sucked a deep breath. “However, objects of value remain amongst McGregor’s belongings. That would make our murderer a very poor thief. Surely he would take at least some of these valuable items to throw the police off the scent? No, I am not convinced by this either.”

  “Then why kill the man?” asked Dr Watson.

  “Why indeed?” Mr Holmes walked to the door. “Come. We will discover no more here.”

  I shall confess that I was disappointed to see Mr Holmes leave the room with such haste. What’s more, he had left the thinking to Dr Watson and had himself done little that I saw. To any other I should have made a protest, but I should never think of doing such a thing with Mr Holmes.

  Mr Holmes asked to be taken to the room where the staff changed into the uniforms. He then pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the
lock to my cupboard.

  “No scratches to show anything other than the appropriate key has been used and no sign of forced entry. Any kind of jemmy would leave an obvious mark.”

  That did not sound good for me, and I said as much.

  Mr Holmes agreed. “And you maintain that you did not have any hand in this man’s death?”

  That question was a surprise and one to which I did not take kindly. “I am no murderer, Mr Holmes.”

  “The facts, however, suggest otherwise.”

  “Do you think me guilty?” I demanded.

  He offered no reply to that, instead saying, “I think we should reacquaint ourselves with the day manager.”

  With that we were back above stairs, and at Mr Holmes’s request the concierge Mr Wilson left his desk to track down Mr Gartyne. While he was gone, Mr Holmes seemed agitated by this enforced moment of inactivity. He picked up a pen from the desk and examined it, then looked at the vase of flowers by the guest register. He seemed in need of any kind of distraction. When Mr Wilson returned, it transpired that Mr Gartyne was in a dining room on the first floor. Mr Holmes repeated the location to Mr Wilson and was given confirmation that he had it right. Mr Holmes was in such haste to see the day manager that he all but bumped into one of the guests.

  “My apologies,” said he. “The fault was entirely mine. I trust I have not caused you alarm.”

  I shall admit now that I was fair angered by Mr Holmes talking so nice with someone he did not know when his thoughts ought to have been directed to keeping my neck from the rope. But I did not say as much. Instead I led Mr Holmes and Dr Watson up to the first floor and into the private dining room.

  We found Mr Gartyne seated alone at a table in the centre of the room. Only a few of the other tables were occupied, with this not being the dinner hour. He invited Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to be seated. That invitation was, naturally, not extended to me.