Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10

by Arthur Conan Doyle

  Now that doctor chap is ’avin a good chuckle under ’is whiskers, this point, thinkin’ I’m quite a mug, but I don’t mind it one bit, playin’ the fool. Bigger things on me mind, like the missin’ lolly, and the lot a bloomin’ murderous thugs ’praps out for me ’ead, and Mr ’Olmes says out w’ it and let ’im ’ear me tale, so’s I starts the tellin’.

  So’s I’m to earn forty crown, simple thing a takin’ a certain parcel point A, point B, right? ’Alf the money up front, ’alf when it arrives. Parcel don’t show up by way a me neat delivery, me life ain’t worth as much piss you can fit inna thimble (pardon, guv). Now this ain’t a problem a’tall. I done such jobs since I was knee ’igh to a cleg, some for Mr ’Olmes even, and I could run that route in me sleep, much as I don’t like goin’ into that particular B area on account a ’ow nasty it can get, ’specially at night.

  First chap who gives it to me I ain’t seen in all me life. Coulda been anybody. Plain person you’d see any day. Square rigged. Average cove. Well, I gets me money from ’im and this tiny parcel, little bright box not bigger than an apple plucked down too soon from the tree. Tiny thing, gleamin’ yellow and orange, and I’m on the fly next location. Goes off w’ out a ’itch. Make the run in record time, right? Few blokes I know try to get me on the way to stop off at the lushin’ ken for a quick round, but I wave ’em off on account a bein’ busy, them sayin’ now they don’t think much a me as I go.

  So’s I get to the place a this second bloke to meet, ’ead a schedule, as is me known specialty, s’posed to be a great gang a ’em w’ a big one as don, w’ whom I’m s’possed to deal, alley next a shutdown flower shoppe deep in the rookery, and it’s good and black, see? London particular. ’Ardly see your arm in front a your bloomin’ face. Lookin’ down this alley in the dark, sayin’ to it ’ullo over me runnin’ ’eaves. Cor blimey, if I din’t just ’bout jump outta me skin, up pops this grim-lookin’ chap, like ’e just come out an ashcan. Dark and gaunt, skinnier than track or rail, and glowin’ eyes, whites all ghoulish, and just ’bout can’t see another thing for starin’ at ’em.

  Well, me old ’eart’s goin’ in me chest like I’d taken a needlefull a Mr ’Olmes stuff, and this dark chap’s ’oldin out a ’and like a claw. Oof, those eyes. I coughed up the tiny parcel right quick, spite a me thinkin’ it was s’posed to be not one bloke, but one and a ’ole lot, and might well a left w’ out the second ’alf a me chink if I ’adn’t felt the first ’alf in me pocket jinglin’ on account a me shiverin’ fright.

  “Please, sir,” I just managed to mutter, and out comes the other claw, drops the money in me ’ook, then ’e goes, just poof, and me standin’ ’lone in the alley there shakin’ like a mouse in the coolbox.

  So like I said, this is a right nasty neighbourhood, deep in the rookery. Not the sorta spot a decent cove might care to go, day or night, so’s thinkin’ I might get tapped on the way back to the crib, I decide it’s best to stick me brass in the band a me titfer, and then I’m off quick as a wet drink to get meself ’ome and this lolly locked up in me peter ’neath the deb, safe, good and tight.

  Blimey, soon as I’m set to turn round and be on me way, up and out the shadows come trompin’ a band a thick ones. Nobody I know, and I says g’night, keepin’ me ’ead low, but the thickest a ’em, big bloke w’ a terrier crop, looks like a right bludger, says that’s not so polite for someone new to the area, and ’e’d like w’ me to ’ave a word. ’E’s talkin’ sorta fancy like. As if ’e’s ’avin’ a bit a fun w’ me. ’E asks me what brings me out their way this advanced time a the evenin’ and I says I was out to buy a bundle a flowers for the wife. These chaps ’ave quite a laugh at that, and ’e asks did I not know ye olde flower shoppe’s been closed up some months now, and wouldn’t be open at such a late ’our ’ad this not been the case even. I says to ’im this I did not know, and then the big one says ’e’d be quite delighted to fetch for me a right lovely bundle a flowers ’is own self if I’d kindly provide ’im w’ the proper funds, and they’re ’avin’ quite a time w’ me, talkin’ down like that, all fancy like, as if I thought I was a real flash toff, blessin’ their ’umble neck a the woods by me mere presence. One a the lot chirps up, oy, guv, ’praps this ’ere’s the one we’re to meet w’ Mr M’s parcel, and the big bloke ’isses at ’im right quick, shut your bleedin’ fool ’ole up.

  Now it all comes ’pon me at once I done made a ’orrible mistake. Sick feelin’ in me gut, knowin’ these is the very fellahs I was to present w’ the tiny parcel, but I’ve gone and sold it to some sneakin’, bloomin’, scarecrow sod, and if this mean lot discover this to be the case I’m good as brown bread. So’s I’m diggin’ ’round in me pockets like mad, ’opin’ I might ’ave somethin’ to give these thugs so’s they might leave me alone. A course there’s nothin’, I shrug, and the big one says ’ow peculiar I brought no money to buy flowers from a shoppe that’s now quite gone, you could say ’opin’ to buy ’maginary flowers w’ ’maginary lolly, and they all ’ave another great laugh.

  Well, you can be certain I was shakin’ all right then, but I was tryin’ me best not to show it, and the big one says to ’is lot, as long as we’re waitin’ ’ere, might as well ’ave a bit a fun, and then says to me, blimey, that in’t a bad a’tall lookin’ ring you got there on your ’and, and gives a nod down at me weddin’ band on me finga. I sure would fancy a look at that up close, but me eyes ain’t so good, and it’s so dark. ’Praps you’d be so kind as to take it off.

  Seein’ as ’ow me gravney ain’t worth but a couple pence, as it ain’t got no rock on it a any kind, or made a nothin’ nice even, I’m tryin’ me best to get it off me ’and, but it ain’t comin’, and as I’m muckin’ ’bout w’ this ring, the lads ain’t laughin’ so much now. Gettin’ quiet and this ’ere ring is quite stuck. So’s the big one, ’e says, looks like you might ’praps be needin’ a bit a ’elp w’ at ring. But way ’e’s sayin’ it don’t sound much like ’e’s talkin’ ’bout any kind a ’elp I’d like, mind you, and out ’e comes w’ this great, long, shinin’ chiv, ’alf as long as me arm, this thing was, and ’e makes like ’e’s ’bout to perform ’pon me some a this ’ere ’elp.

  Well, me wits, what little a ’em I’m blessed w’, ’ave gone and left me on me bloomin’ own, this point. I got this soddin’ lot a nobblers ’bout to rob me a me finga and all I done is tried to deliver a tiny parcel. Two a ’em grab me arm w’ out the ring and finga in question, get it ’eld up ’igh behind me back, right? Other’s got me ring arm out and ’eld so’s the big one can do ’is bit a operatin’ w’ ’is ’orrible sticker.

  I’m closin’ me eyes, grittin’ me teeth, gettin’ ready for a fair bit a pain. I’ve ’ad many a good slatin’, but never ’ad a piece a mine own ’natmy forc’bly removed. Still, it’s a damn sight better than givin’ up the ghost on account a me bloomin’ delivery mistake, if that were to be revealed, and right then there’s a sound, rummy kinda shriekin’ cackle, right? Slicin’ through the night, and all these bludgers and meself look up and there, as if ’e’s on some kinda platform, ’overin’ ’bove us all, is the ghoulish cove I’d just got the tiny parcel wrongly delivered to in the black alley, loomin’ like a lamppost, and every man jack a us lettin’ out such screams you’d think we was a lot a schoolgirls, runnin’ ’round like it’s every man for ’isself, and I can’t say I ever run so ’ard. Nommus! Made it ’alfway cross town full chisel ’fore I stopped for a breather and ’ung there w’ me gargler on fire, spittin’ thin gobs in the gutter. Never been so bloomin’ scared in me ’ole life.

  Any rate, I gets back to me crib and I’m ’opin’ maybe the wife’ll fix me up a bath or ’praps ’elp off w’ me trotter cases and give me burnin’ feet a bit of a rub ’fore I turn in and catch meself some much needed kip. Right coopered, I trudge up the stairs and calls out for ’er and nothin’, sounds like some sort a bustle in the bedroom, so’s I knock and says, “Oy, nug, y’decent? Got a good bit a lolly to lock up in me peter.” and
some more a the bustlin’ and I ’ear a bloke’s voice in there. Cor blimey, right quick I’m bustin’ that door down, jump inna room and there’s me wife in but ’alf ’er knickers, cupid’s kettle drums ’angin’ out for all to see, and the gleamin’ left leg and arse a some skinny, soddin’, unrigged rat of a man tryin’ to squeeze out me window.

  She gives w’ a yelp and I’m up on this bloody bastard (pardon, guv) and I dunno where to grab on account a it all just bein’ naked bloke, so’s I back up and give that arse such a kick ’e goes pop right out the window like a cork, lets out a girl-like scream and I ’ear ’im go alla way down and land w’ a great, slimy plop. I turns on me wife and she’s got ’er ’ooks up inner teeth like she’s ’avin’ ’em for suppah, then she gives w’ another yelp, jumps and runs out the ’ouse, still no dunnage on but ’alf ’er knickers.

  Well, I was just ’bout fit to be tied. Mad as a March ’are. To think me out riskin’ life and limb for a bit a chink while she’s ’ere at ’ome, joinin’ giblets, busy makin’ a buck’s face outta me in me own deb w’ some other bloke. Me own lawful blanket. Thought we was ’ammered for life, the dirty puzzle. I ’ad a look out that window and the ’omewreckin’ bastard was nowhere to be seen. Look ’round out in the ’all, down out the street, and the bunter wife likewise is off and gone. Neighbours are startin’ to poke their ’eads out, murmerin’ what’s all that racket, so’s I decide maybe it’s best to go and see if I can’t catch up w’ me mates at the gatterin’ and ’ave a couple drinks to soothe meself down.

  I don’t ’member much, but me mates all bought me round after round a grog, sayin’ she’d be back in the mornin’ and if any a ’em ever caught wind a the ’omewreckin’ sod I’d be first to know, but mostly just gabbin’ on ’bout ’ow some fancy crown rock just been nicked, changin’ ’ands somewhere ’bout town as we speak, and ’ow nice it would be to ’ave at such a fine thing and what a great lotta lolly it’s worth, on and on, droolin’ at the mouth over this coroner diamond, and I says, “Cor, I wouldn’t want nothin’ to do w’ any bleedin’ crown jewel named after a bleedin’ undertaker.” and they all ’ad quite a laugh at me, but bein’ so preoccupied w’ all I’d been through that night I din’t much mind. “What good’s a fine diamond to a man w’ out a lakin?” I says, and they got to feelin’ sorry for me lot, scraped up a bit a chink for me to go pleasure meself w’ a three-penny upright, if I was so inclined, but three sheets to the wind I am, this point, right corned, kanurd, not fit to dab it up w’ the finest toffer if she was to appear and carry me off singin’ to cock lane.

  I’m stumblin’ damn near blind back ’ome, up the stairs and blimey, if I din’t ’member to lock the bloomin’ door, ’angin’ open as a fat cove’s sleepin’ mouth, and I leap in there, shock a loss already soberin’ me up as ’alf the things in me ’ouse is gone. Cor, I been burgled. So’s I’m rushin’ ’bout, and it looks as though it’s mostly just the wife’s things gone missin’, and ’praps ’er and that soddin’ bloke she was coppin’ off w’ came and moved ’er out on the fly. Bloomin’ ’ell, the lolly! I lunge under me deb, and me peter’s still there, thank Christ, get me little box up out from under, screw in me key, pop it open, and it’s gone. Bloody gone! The forty quid! Gone! ’Ow could she ’ave gotten in there? The peter ain’t broke, no sign a it bein’ bettied, and I the only one w’ the key. To the ’aybag I can say good riddance, but now she’s gone and left me broke w’ that soddin’ bastard and I ’aven’t the foggiest inklin’ as to where they might be found, ’avin’ seen nothin’ but ’is great white arse.

  But ’praps no. ’Praps that mob a lugs came followin’, figga’d it was me s’posed to ’ave the tiny parcel, thought ’praps I ’ad gone and made off w’ it, watched me trot up to me crib, waited out the row, jemmied their way in after I went off to lush w’ me mates, and nicked the lot, makin’ it look like trollop and john was to blame. All t’getha got more than a fawny-rig and a bleedin’ finga, right? Even if there was no parcel. But who’s to know? I wasn’t ’bout to go trompin’ back into the rookery askin’, and if I were to seek out justice by way a the law I’d be nibbed. Any blue bottle’d slap the ruffles on me, ’aul me off to the salt box and toss away the screw.

  So right then I thinks I’ll make me way to Dover w’ the chink me mates give me for a dollymop to get Mr ’Olmes ’is special delivery early, see that certain solicitor relation a mine who knows a bit ’bout divorces and whatnot, then make me way back to town and see what the great man thinks a me case.

  ’Avin’ related all this, Mr ’Olmes is lookin’ rummy pleased, smilin’, touchin’ ’is long fingas t’getha and noddin’ ’is thin ’ead. The doctor chap ’as ’is gob ’angin’ open w’ ’is eyes buggin’ out, and only for tellin’ the story am I feelin’ a’tall much relieved.

  “Watson, would you care to reveal the location of the money in question to this gentleman?” Mr ’Olmes says, but the doctor just looks flustered at ’im.

  “Well, I suppose this man his wife absconded with was some sort of locksmith. They returned to his flat and robbed the box of its contents. Although by the sparse description of the fellow, I’m afraid it doesn’t seem like we’ve very much to go on. The idea of this gang of thugs following him to burglarize the premises seems a tad far-fetched to me. I imagine they were all still too alarmed by the appearance of the spectral, alleyway character who scattered them to suddenly pursue a questionable opportunity with such deliberate calculation.”

  Mr ’Olmes lets out w’ a jolly laugh and says please for me to ’and ’im me titfer, which I’ve still got danglin’ in me shaky ’ands. I give it to ’im, ’e reaches in there w’ ’is long, skinny fingas and pulls out the ’at the forty crown like a magician tugs a rabbit from ’is grand topper.

  And I’ll never forget what ’e then said, and ’ow ’e said it. It was like bloomin’ poetry. Beautiful bloomin’ poetry.

  “In your advanced state of excitement, as a result of my covert interception of your illicit conveyance, the violent street encounter that followed with the intended recipients, unfortunate domestic discovery upon returning home, and late night bout of imbibing to cap this over-stimulating evening off, it seems you assumed you had performed your habitual sequence of post-caper lolly-hiding with the aforementioned box when in fact you had done nothing of the kind. It is simplicity itself.”

  And ’e ’ands to me back me titfer and me chink and I coulda dropped down to me knees.

  “Bless you, Mr ’Olmes,” I says, and the great man says,

  “Think nothing of it, think nothing of it, but if you’d please be so good as to excuse us, my colleague and I must be getting on to other important business. A certain exceedingly precious item must be returned to its proper place in the Tower of London. I wish you the best of luck in coming to terms with your errant spouse, and thank you very much for your effective deliveries, of both packages. Inadvertently or not, you’ve done us all a great service.”

  And I’m wonderin’ what Mr ’Olmes is meanin’ at this point, when ’e ’ands to the doctor chap a tiny, bright, yellow orangeish parcel w’ ’is long fingas, and flares ’is eyes up at me for just a moment like, and a shiver goes right through me, ’is lamps all wide and white and ghoulish, but this time w’ a rum, ’appy kinda grin on the great man’s dear old dial.

  “I also advise you to consider making use of a portion of your recovered funds by returning to the relative safety of Dover, until the parties that might be interested in avenging themselves upon your person have all been apprehended. I imagine Lestrade is rounding up a number of them in the rookery as we speak, eh Watson?”

  And the great man looks over at the doctor cove w’ a laugh, and spite a me deep yearnin’ to ’ave a peek in that troublesome parcel, I can tell when I been done a good turn, a fine favour, and should mind me own business, so’s I mind me own business.

  Simplicity itself. Cor, I like the sound a that.

  THE BUTLER DID IT, by Herschel Cozine

  Much
has been written about my good friend and renowned detective Sherlock Holmes. Most of what you have read are my reflections on his remarkable career. For many years I shared his home on Baker Street in London which doubled as his office. It was here that I found him at this moment in his favourite chair, puffing on his pipe, in deep thought, his intelligent eyes focused on a spot on the ceiling.

  Loath though I was to interrupt his unquestionably deep thoughts, I nevertheless was curious to learn more about the visitor who had just left. A middle-aged man dressed in a conservatively cut suit and wearing a raincoat, although the weather was fair. He had stayed but briefly, engaging Holmes in a matter that seemed of no consequence to the detective. I had paid scant attention to the conversation. As a rule such visitors are of no interest to me. Still, I was intrigued by the gentleman and wished to know more about him. Holmes had most certainly learned much by observing him, as only he was able to do.

  “An interesting man,” I said.

  Holmes nodded, his eyes remaining riveted to the spot on the ceiling.

  “What can you tell me about the gentleman?” I asked.

  Holmes leaned forward in his chair and took a deep breath. Taking the pipe from his mouth he tapped it against the ashtray on the stand by his chair.

  “He is an accountant. He is a widower with two sons, and his hobby is stamp collecting.

  “He lives no more than two miles from here in a modest home. He recently had an unfortunate accident, falling from his horse. Twisted his knee. You noticed his limp, didn’t you, Watson?”

  I was astounded by Holmes’s description. “Yes, I did indeed. But I drew no conclusions from it. You, on the other hand, can tell all that just by observing him,” I said. “Fascinating.”

  “Not at all,” Holmes replied. “He happens to be my cousin.”

  I was about to expostulate when the bell in the foyer tinkled, announcing a caller. Holmes frowned at the interruption, then nodded to me to answer it.