Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  “I trust you have been discreet,” Mr Gartyne said in a quiet tone.

  “Impeccably so,” replied Dr Watson.

  “We have not disturbed any of your guests,” Mr Holmes assured the manager. “We have merely examined the basics of the case.”

  “And?” Mr Gartyne leaned forward, evidently eager that he might make moves to clear the hotel of the incident. “You have cleared Peterson of wrongdoing? None of my staff are guilty?”

  Mr Holmes straightened in his chair. “The evidence is quite undeniable,” he said. “Mr McGregor was poisoned by a cigarette lit by Peterson. It was not of the brand smoked by McGregor but that smoked by Peterson. Furthermore, papers and a watch belonging to Mr McGregor were found in Peterson’s cupboard. That, I fear, is enough evidence to put Peterson in the dock.”

  I could only stare at Mr Holmes. I had sought his aid, but he had just decried me as a killer. Again my thoughts turned to how I could escape. There were many ways out of the city, but where I could go I had no idea.

  “Of course,” Mr Holmes continued casually, “it does not require the intellect of Sherlock Holmes to see that Peterson is not the killer.”

  I swear that I felt my heart beat faster as Mr Holmes spoke those words. I had not been abandoned. My cause was not lost.

  “You have just said that the evidence points to his guilt,” Mr Gartyne protested.

  Mr Holmes lit a cigarette and then carelessly dropped the match by an ashtray. He took a deep drag before replying. “Peterson is no fool. Were he to rob a guest such as the unfortunate Mr McGregor, he would hardly steal a watch inscribed with the dead man’s name when money was left untouched. Nor would he take papers that are clearly of no value to any other than Mr McGregor and his partners but leave notes of promise behind. He would be a very poor thief indeed. I would add to this the question of motive. Why would Peterson kill a guest? And why commit the act in so elegant a manner?”

  “Surely,” said Mr Gartyne, “that is a question better asked of Peterson.”

  Mr Holmes stubbed out his cigarette, slowing the ash so that it dropped onto the tablecloth. “No. Peterson is not the killer. The evidence was placed to make him appear guilty, and at first glance, the police would see him as the obvious suspect.” Mr Holmes looked at the ash for a moment before continuing. “It is known to some in the criminal fraternity that Peterson has, on occasion, proved invaluable to me in my work. It is clear that if he were to fall into this manner of trouble he would seek my assistance. His evident guilt in the motiveless murder of a man would likely draw me to the case but the watch and papers being a foolish choice of items to steal were, of course, designed to ensure that I was intrigued. Therefore, my deduction is that not only did Peterson not murder Mr McGregor, but that the unfortunate McGregor was killed simply to attract my attention and to draw me here.” Mr Holmes waited for a response. None came. “I took the time while idling at the concierge’s desk to examine the register of guests and the rooms that they occupy. I see here that your tables are numbered for your guests.. For example Room 7 is taken by a single lady, but at the corresponding table are sat two men, neither of whom is dressed in a manner appropriate for this establishment. I therefore must conclude that the people at these tables are also part of the deception.” His eyebrows raised questioningly. “And so, Mr Gartyne, may I enquire why it was so pressing for me to be summoned here that you would kill an innocent man to ensure my presence?”

  Mr Gartyne seemed rather confused by the question. “Why should anyone go to such lengths to ensure your presence, Mr Holmes?”

  The smile Mr Holmes gave had no warmth behind it. “I believe, Mr Gartyne, that was the question I asked you. Before you answer, I shall warn you that Dr Watson carries his service revolver with him.”

  At that, Dr Watson did draw his revolver from his coat pocket, and aimed it at Mr Gartyne.

  “Does he?” replied Mr Gartyne. “I will admit that I have never had a guest draw a weapon on me before.” Mr Gartyne’s face underwent a quite remarkable change. I had known him for nigh seven months to be pompous but in most ways decent and efficient. That man’s face faded and in its place was one that wore the same features yet the expression in the eyes and mouth made him seem a different person entirely. This was, undoubtedly, an unpleasant and evil man. “Were I so devious, Mr Holmes,” he continued, “then surely I would have anticipated that Dr Watson would be armed and have prepared for that eventuality?”

  Again the smile from Mr Holmes. “Then I can assume I am correct that the men at these tables—”

  “—are my men?” Gartyne finished. “You may, Mr Holmes.”

  I quickly looked around the room, as did Dr Watson. More than a dozen men surrounded us, seated at their tables. All had their gazes on us, and many had their hands in their jacket pockets, seemingly ready to pull out a firearm should the need arise.

  Mr Holmes continued, as reasonably as if he was asking about breakfast. “So, will you enlighten me as to the reason for this charade?”

  “You could not resist, could you?” Mr Gartyne sounded very pleased with himself. “The puzzle, I mean.”

  “I was intrigued,” Mr Holmes admitted.

  “For all that legendary intellect, you are slave to a greater ego.”

  Mr Holmes looked at the grandfather clock that sat in the corner of the room. “I am more than aware of my many failings, Mr Gartyne,” said he. I’m damned if he didn’t sound bored. “But if you could make haste. I have an appointment with my tailor this afternoon that I am loathe to miss.”

  “But miss it you shall, Mr Holmes.” There was villainy in Mr Gartyne’s tone. “You have no more need of boots.”

  Mr Holmes seemed no more put out. “The explanation?”

  Mr Gartyne gave some thought before answering. “Some time since, you sent Frederick Parson to the gallows, Mr Holmes.”

  “I did,” Mr Holmes confirmed, “and I regret that five innocent men died before I could deliver proof of Parson’s guilt.”

  It was a story I remembered well. The newspapers were full of it. Parson, who ran several local businesses, was revealed as a villain, a man trying to claim a corner of London as his own. He ran women, opium dens, smuggling and gangs of thugs demanding money from local businesses lest they find themselves torched in the night. All this he did from a small shop in a side street. By use of intermediaries and agents, he kept himself distant enough from his crimes that the coppers did not suspect him. Mr Holmes had not been so easy to fool and had brought him to justice.

  “Mr Parson was our leader,” said Mr Gartyne. “We prospered under his wing. We earned good money and lived well. Those were good times for us, our families. You took that from us, Mr Holmes. As easily as you might snuff out a candle, you took the coins from our pockets and the bread from our tables.”

  “I will not apologise for taking stolen bread or money from a thief,” Mr Holmes replied.

  “But you shall pay for it with your life and your reputation. We had lain low since you sent Mr Parson to the gallows. We bought this hotel, improved it, and now it runs at a healthy and legitimate profit. It is widely known that Peterson is one of your network of agents. Luring him here was easy enough, with the offer of fair pay for a decent day’s work. It tickled me that you even provided a character reference for him. You see, Mr Holmes, you played your own part in this.”

  Mr Holmes merely raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing.

  “This hotel is a legitimate business. It is also the heart of every other business enterprise we run.”

  Mr Holmes nodded. “You could simply call them criminal activities.”

  “A fair point,” the manager conceded. “It is a perfect location for people to travel through and conduct their business.” he shrugged. “With regret, Mr Holmes, it is also the location of your final case. You will be found dead tomorrow along with Dr Watson, betrayed and murdered by one of your own agents, Peterson.”

  “Ah,” nodded Mr Holmes. “So not onl
y will I die but my reputation will be in ruins, my judgement open to question because I employed a murderer who then turned against me.”

  “A tawdry death, Mr Holmes.”

  “Dr Watson is armed. We could try to fight our way out,” said Mr Holmes. “At least that would ruin your plan to choreograph our deaths as a murder by the desperately fleeing Peterson.”

  “But you won’t, Mr Holmes,” Mr Gartyne said, with such an arrogance that I itched to smash my fist into his jaw. “Mr Parson was not only our leader, but he was our friend. You saw him as a mere criminal. We saw him as a man who gave gifts to our children, who aided us when we had need of it. He was our friend, and you cut his life short, Mr Holmes. That is why we have played this long game with you and why our members are gathered here today to see your end.”

  Mr Holmes bowed as though accepting a compliment. “I am honoured to have been worthy of such a detailed plan. Just as I commend the devilled kidneys you serve at breakfast. Just the right amount of mustard. The lamb chops at supper are equally splendid. Your chef is a credit to you.”

  Mr Gartyne’s face twisted in confusion. He had been in complete control of the situation and now he was not. “You have stayed here?”

  “Yes,” Mr Holmes replied, “or perhaps I should say that the elderly cleric, the Reverend Aubrey Goodchild, stayed at this hotel on two occasions in the past six months.”

  I remembered the gentleman of whom Mr Holmes spoke. He was bent with age, with thin white hair, a thick pair of spectacles and a wheezy voice. His nose was… I stared at Mr Holmes’s profile. “The Reverend Goodchild was you, Mr Holmes?” I cried.

  “Yes.” Mr Holmes was fairly delighted that his deception had taken in one of his own. “Do you think that I would write a character reference for Peterson without taking an interest in his new place of employment? Particularly when I am aware that so many of the criminal underclass frequent the place?” He smiled, this time a superior and dismissive expression. “You see, Mr Gartyne, I too am versed in long-term plans. I was under no illusion that the timely and welcome end of Mr Parson’s activities would stop his subordinates from seeking the opportunity to regroup and recommence their activities. My investigations revealed the identities of many of his lackeys. However, it seemed expedient to allow you to congregate and again feel at ease in your activities. That would allow us to cast a net around you all.” He pointed to a corner table. “There is Eamonn Gallagher.” His finger roved around the room as he picked out men by name. At each utterance, his subjects looked increasingly ill at ease. “Ronald Milne, David Carson, Wilson Kettley, Daniel Prentiss…” He paused, letting his words sink in. The men began to shift with discomfort. “You see,” said Mr Holmes in a relaxed tone, “this meeting has brought to a head my own plan. As we were being brought up here, I bumped into a guest and apologised. That guest was in reality a police constable and my apology to him contained a prearranged signal that he should summon Inspector Lestrade and his men. They have not returned to Scotland Yard as they stated but have instead simply been waiting a few streets from here. Probably in the Allenton Tea Shop.” He pulled his watch from its pocket. “I imagine they are here by now.”

  At that moment, Inspector Lestrade rushed into the room, followed by several burly constables. There were a few skirmishes and one shot was fired, but that was into the floor and the bullet hurt no one. Parson’s men were cuffed and taken away. Some took a deserved truncheon about the ear when they resisted.

  I myself was still in something of a shock, as was Dr Watson.

  “Holmes?” asked Dr Watson as he watched Inspector Lestrade place his own cuffs on Mr Gartyne and be none too gentle about it. “It is over?”

  “Indeed,” replied Mr Holmes.

  “And Peterson is no longer under suspicion?” asked Dr Watson again, and I was grateful for him remembering and championing my plight.

  “Of course he is no longer a suspect,” said Holmes. “He never was one. He was simply a convenient means to bring the matter to a head.”

  “Scandalous,” said Dr Watson, his tone one of outrage. “Utterly scandalous, Holmes. You could have told me. Dash it, man, you should have told Peterson.”

  This idea was evidently one that had not occurred to Mr Holmes, and he saw no reason to regret his decision.

  “If nothing else he’s lost his job,” Dr Watson continued.

  “But the crime is resolved,” said Mr Holmes as though that should provide an answer to every question, and I believe that in his mind it probably did.

  For Dr Watson it clearly did not and his protests continued as he followed Mr Holmes to the door. “Peterson, I can only apologise,” he called to me before leaving.

  And there I was: a free man again. A free man without employment.

  I made clear at the beginning of this account that I sought no fame, and that I did not relish danger. None of that changed in the resolution of this matter. What did change was the readiness with which I decided to make myself available to Mr Holmes in the future. Had he asked me, I should have proudly consented to assist him in this case. He had allowed me to work among thieves and killers without warning that my life might be in danger. Sherlock Holmes or not, I had the right to know. However, he did not deem me deserving of such respect and he appeared to have no care for how the case should affect my circumstances. I was as much a pawn for him as I was for the villains who sought his end.

  I must now ask myself if I am willing to be known as someone in Mr Holmes’s employ. I felt my life in jeopardy by Mr Holmes’s actions. I am no coward, but I am no fool either.

  I am a simple man of simple needs and simple wishes. I have now reported to Dr Watson that I have no wish to maintain an association with, nor be in the service of, Mr Sherlock Holmes. I had thought he might object or tell me that I should take time over such a decision. He did neither. Instead he promised me a letter of recommendation for any position I should pursue. For that and for his kindness, I am grateful. Dr Watson is a gentleman.

  Of Mr Holmes I shall say only that he is as great a detective as his reputation would say. I have no doubt that he has saved more lives than I can imagine. But now I am aware that my own life was put in danger’s path so that he might solve his case. My jeopardy came as much from him as from those guilty of villainy. I will take that risk no more. I shall not be missed by him, for he has many in his employ.

  But I am no longer among their number.

  THE UNEXPECTED DEATH OF THE MARTIAN AMBASSADOR

  Andrew Lane

  Lord Holdhurst appeared once in the Sherlock Holmes canon, in “The Adventure of the Naval Treaty”. Appointed Foreign Minister and put in charge of negotiating all treaties between the United Kingdom and foreign countries, he crossed paths with Sherlock Holmes when an important document was apparently stolen and his nephew was blamed. I had originally planned to write a story about Mrs Turner (who turns up once, bizarrely, as Holmes’s landlady in “A Scandal in Bohemia”) but when I started to write I found myself slipping into the persona of an irritable middle-aged diplomat, so I decided to follow and see where the story would lead. It led here.

  —Andrew Lane

  NOTE FOR THE RECORD

  FROM: Lord Holdhurst

  TO: Mycroft Holmes

  DATE: 17th April 1895

  SUBJECT: The Unexpected Death of the Martian Ambassador

  Dear Mycroft,

  This Note for the Record is being typed by me, personally and laboriously, letter by tedious letter, and is intended for your eyes only. This minimises the number of people who know the whole sorry story to you, me, your brother and possibly that parvenu ex-army doctor with whom he socialises. It should remain that way, and I suggest you file these papers in a locked cabinet in a locked room in a locked building and pretend they never existed. Isn’t that what we do with all contentious documentation?

  En passant, I would like to state that it has been more years than I care to remember since I last used a typewriter. I hate the damned thi
ngs with a passion. For God’s sake, surely this is why we have staff! I’m looking along the top row and all I can see is a random collection of letters – Q, W, E, R, T, Y and so on. I swear this machine is functionally defective. Why aren’t the keys in alphabetical order? That’s the British way – straightforward and logical. Still, knowing the labyrinthine complexities of your mind, I half-suspect you designed the arrangement of the typewriter keyboard yourself as part of some fiendish plot to keep the lower classes in their place, or somesuch thing.

  I digress. On your recommendation I asked your brother to call upon me in my home in Chelsea late on the night of 23rd March this year. He was half an hour late. Despite his rudeness I offered him a cup of tea and some biscuits as my butler showed him in to my study.

  “I am working on a case at the moment,” he said, in his overly fast, overly precise tone. “I rarely eat or drink at these times, as I find the ratiocinative process can be slowed down appreciably by the transfer of blood from the cerebral cortex to the digestive system. And if I were to take sustenance then it would certainly not be tea. The dried leaves of the shrub Camellia sinensis are allegedly stimulants, but for thousands of years they have been regarded by the British as something gentle and soothing, coinciding with a period of rest and relaxation. In this respect, I trust the accumulated wisdom of the masses more than I trust the retorts of the chemists.”

  “I shall take that as a ‘no’,” I said. “Please, sit down. I wish to retain your services on a matter of some sensitivity.”

  “I had assumed as much,” he said, falling rather than sitting into the stuffed armchair that, you might remember, I keep in the corner of my study and that I regard as my own “special” chair (i.e. I sleep there, when I work late, in order that I do not disturb Lady Holdhurst’s slumber). “It is after midnight and I am summoned to the home of a man who works a stone’s throw away from my brother and whom I have previously encountered in the context of another sensitive government task that I concluded successfully and discreetly. Apart from a silent butler who looks more like a bodyguard and who carries a loaded revolver in a holster beneath his jacket, there are no staff in sight, and I am specifically asked not to bring my companion and colleague, Dr Watson. The conclusion is obvious. This is not a social call.”