The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes

by Paul D. Gilbert

  ‘A most miserable existence, Mr Matthews, I must say and it is appalling that these Blackwoods should take such advantages of your present financial plight. Yet you have still to mention the reason for your consultation.’

  ‘I believe, Doctor Watson, that some sinister, criminal activity is in operation at the “Old Grey Horse”. Why else should the Backwoods keep me to my room for all that time and require my entrance through the side door? What other reason can there be for the lack of other residents. Not only that, but the main bar is never used by more than five or six regulars. Every evening at seven o’clock the same men take up their positions, always leaving together, then separating upon reaching Kilburn Lane. This much, at least, I can see from my small attic window.

  ‘There is another oddity that I should mention at this juncture. On the rare occasions that my duties compel me to enter the saloon bar, I have observed that ale is never served. It is strange for, as you know, the staple drink in any bar is ale and yet I have never even heard it being ordered. I cannot be sure, of course, but I am almost certain that no dray has ventured near the place during the two weeks that I have been in residence.’

  ‘I agree, most curious circumstances, but none that point directly to a crime.’ I said, certainly interested in the strange activities at the public house, yet still unconvinced that any of these warranted the intervention of Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘Then consider this,’ Matthews continued, obviously agitated, ‘despite all my industry, the Blackwoods are always critical of my efforts. This despite their own standards of cleanliness leaving a lot to be desired, as does their general appearance. They are most particular when it comes to my cleaning; neither corner nor recess is excluded from their scrutiny, save the cellars. For some reason they are strictly forbidden to me. Indeed, the strength of the door and the standard of the locks indicate the presence of something other than barrels of beer and bottles of wine. Yet, on three occasions, in the early hours of the morning, when I have chanced to be sleeping lightly, I have been awakened by a strange creaking noise perhaps that of unoiled door hinges. Not from the inner cellar door, you understand, but, I am convinced, from the double outer door in the paving, through which beer is normally delivered. But at the dead of night!’

  ‘Again, most unusual Mr Matthews. I am beginning to appreciate your misgivings, I must confess.’ As I said this I was aware of Matthews glancing agitatedly at the clock and then he rose with a jolt.

  ‘I must leave now, for fear of arousing their curiosity. Before taking my leave, however, I must tell you that the Blackwood’s behaviour, of late, has become increasingly hostile and menacing towards me, almost as if they know of my suspicions. I would ask you to plead with Mr Holmes, on my behalf, and request his early intervention.’

  ‘You are in fear of your life then?’ I asked solemnly.

  ‘Indeed I am, Doctor Watson, but not just of my own. I fear the Blackwoods’ activities are of a most dark and sinister nature. For on the occasions when I have heard the outer cellar doors opened, a few moments later these sounds have been proceeded by the cries and wailing of what sounded like young children.’

  ‘Children!’ I cried in horror, ‘are you certain of this?’

  ‘As sure as I can be from that distance, the attic to the cellar is some way apart in so large a building, yet I cannot attribute these sounds to any other source.’

  ‘Fighting cats?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s exactly the theory put forward by the police when I told them my story. I am sure my appearance prompted their rude and dismissive attitude towards me. I am convinced, however, that the source of these sounds was human and not feline.’

  ‘Mr Matthews, if you are in fear of your life why do you not depart from your sinister lodgings?’

  ‘There are two reasons for my remaining. I live in hope that I may locate these children and perhaps, help them escape or aid them in some way. Also, from my position inside the building I may prove of assistance to any action you or Mr Holmes may choose to take.’

  ‘You are a brave and honourable fellow, but alas Mr Holmes may not return to these rooms for days yet, and even then I can offer no guarantee that he will take up your case. However, I will help in any way I can and between us, with resolve, we may yet bring the Blackwoods to task. I suggest you return to your room immediately and tomorrow afternoon I will come, posing as a customer to see what can be learned from the outside.’

  We shook hands and Matthews raced down the stairs and through the front door in a few bounds.

  After a fitful night’s sleep, I ate a light breakfast before taking up my vigil by the window in the faint hope of Holmes returning before I left for the ‘Old Grey Horse’.

  By lunchtime it was apparent that this hope was in vain, so without further ado I departed for Kilburn Lane.

  I alighted from my cab some two hundred yards from Regent Street not wanting to create any suspicion, a cab being an unlikely mode of transport for a patron of that particular establishment. As I walked slowly towards my destination, I became immediately aware of my dismal surroundings.

  Each side of the narrow thoroughfare was lined by small terraced buildings in a poor state of repair. Small, commercial premises, which were hardly flourishing businesses were at street level, whilst above were squalid little flats with filthy windows, each sill full of drying clothes which seemed hardly any cleaner than their surroundings.

  Matthews had been most accurate in his description of Regent Street and its layout, except, perhaps, the incongruity of the presence of the ‘Old Grey Horse.’ Despite its obvious decay, it was still an imposing building and heightened my sense of foreboding. I decided, however, to put a brave face on it, and throwing away the remnants of my cigarette, strode purposefully through the door of the lounge bar. My gait did not falter as I approached the bar.

  ‘Good afternoon landlord!’ I boomed, in as cheery a voice as I could muster, ‘a pint of your best stout and a slice of meat pie if you please.’

  My bluff was called immediately, for the response was as dour and miserable as the man who offered it.

  I will not be colouring the truth if I say Jonathan Blackwood presented one of the most unedifying visions I have yet beheld. A man of his size and build should, by rights, have been a most imposing figure, however, so slothful was he in the manner in which he held himself, that he resembled a huge sack of potatoes tied together in the middle. His evil-smelling and discoloured shirt spilled over his worn leather belt and he wore no jacket. His hair had not been washed, much less cut, in, what looked like months. He was unshaven and he leaned forward on the bar with the dog-end of a cheap cigar stuck to his bottom lip.

  ‘Ain’t got none.’ He said, barely glancing at me from the corner of one eye. He then revealed a few blackened teeth by way of a half grimace and half sarcastic smile.

  Two strange guttural sounds announced the amusement of one of the equally unbeguiling regulars I now noticed scattered around the lounge. There was something in the manner of this group of singularly unattractive individuals that suggested they shared a common cause. Though I could only guess at the true nature of this. Just the thought of the menace in their eyes and the recollection of Matthew’s narrative, made me shudder and almost balk at proceeding any further.

  However, I remembered I was representing Holmes, and Matthews was relying on my assistance, so, once again I attempted to force Blackwood’s hand.

  ‘Well then, perhaps a pint of ale, if nothing else is available.’ I suggested cheerfully.

  Blackwood’s manner and expression showed no change; only the cigar fell from his lips onto the bar and this he brushed away with the blackened sleeve of his shirt.

  ‘Aint got much of nothing ’ave I. Not your lucky day.’

  ‘Try the “Plough” on the corner,’ A voice from the window drawled.

  I glanced in its direction and immediately regretted having done so, for there sat Albert Collins, a notorious safe breaker, whose i
ncarceration Holmes and I had brought about some five years previously. I felt myself flush and hoped his memory was inferior to mine. I turned about immediately and made for the door.

  ‘Yes, perhaps I will.’ I mumbled as I made my way outside.

  The fresh March air immediately cooled my head and I just stood there smoking a cigarette while I collected my thoughts and decided on my best course of action. Thankfully no-one had, so far, followed me through the door. I decided to return to Baker Street and await the long, overdue return of Sherlock Holmes. I was debating between Ladbroke Grove and Kilburn Lane as the most likely place to locate a cab, when I noticed a small alley which ran between the back yards of the Kilburn Lane shops and the side wall of the ‘Old Grey Horse’.

  I noticed the cellar doors set in the pavement and, remembering Matthews’s narrative, decided to examine them more closely. I realized that at night, due to the narrowness of the alley, they would be virtually invisible from Regent Street, much less Kilburn Lane. So my mind turned towards the flats above the back of the shops. Even from the vantage of their height, the high walls at the rear of each yard obscured the cellar doors. They were ideal for any nocturnal criminal activity.

  Before turning for home, one fanciful hope that the doors had been left unsecured occurred to me. I crawled down and began fingering their edges. Just then I noticed Matthews standing by the side entrance, but his gestures, and calls were not those of greeting, they were a warning! Too late I heard footsteps behind me, and in an instant my head reverberated with a deadening crash. For a moment a sharp light ignited my eyes and I remember raising my hands to my head in an effort to suppress the agony. Then, complete oblivion …

  My recollection of awakening is most vague. I had, as I learned later, been unconscious for at least twelve hours and, on opening my eyes, was painfully aware of the most terrible throbbing pain in my head and ringing in my ears.

  I can then recall constant, violent tremors of shivering. A terrible damp chill ran through me and caused, what seemed to be, every muscle in my body to ache most acutely. My leg, of course, was causing me a greater discomfort than I had experienced in some years. My medical knowledge told me that this unhealthy state could not continue for much longer before serious damage was caused.

  I tried to think coherently and soon realized that any escape attempt I was going to make would have to be made before my remaining strength ebbed away from me. Clearly this would be no easy task, as both wrists were most securely tied together with a rough cord and I was tightly gagged.

  Fortunately for me at that moment the thought of Holmes coping in this situation jolted me out of a stupor of lethargy and self-pity, which, I fear, I had been slowly sinking into. Even unconsciousness was beginning to seem preferable to the pain and discomfort I was experiencing.

  Holmes’s fervent mind would already have seized upon a method of escape, whilst I had still to establish my location. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness and slowly realized that there was little enough, in the room, for them to take in. My back was propped against a damp brick wall and I was facing another, barely fifteen feet away. Ten feet to my right was another large wall, whilst to my left I began to define the shape of an occasional cask or two.

  I was indeed in an ill-stocked and redundant beer cellar and I was in little doubt that it was beneath the ‘Old Grey Horse’. It was obvious that Albert Collins’s memory had not failed him after all. That being the case, my predicament was, indeed, of a most serious nature, for Collins had always played a dangerous game and, I could be sure that his acquaintances were no less unsavoury.

  My frantic efforts at loosening my bonds drew no response from the tough cord, however when I was almost resigned to my fate, I thought I detected a slight movement in the dark corner to my right. My initial thoughts were of rats and then even hallucinations, but gradually, and to my great surprise, I made out the indistinct outline of a prostrate human form.

  A slow laborious kind of snake-like movement, using my elbows and knees, brought me a few feet closer to my fellow occupant and, to my dismay, found Matthews bound and gagged in a like position to myself. From his lack of recognition and his slumped position I could tell he had suffered physical abuse I had so far escaped. It was only afterwards that I saw his numerous facial scrapes and bruises.

  Nonetheless, I could see the advantage of the two of us working together at loosening our bonds, over my lone, vain attempts. With this in mind, I began gesticulating with my eyes and head in the hope that he might recognise what I required of him. After a few moments he realized my intent and with great difficulty began turning his back towards me. In this position we might work in unison at locating any weakness in the knots, encumbered though we were.

  At one stage, I thought I had discovered a flaw in Matthew’s binding and in my determination to pursue this, overstretched, somewhat, and fell over onto one side. Now all hope was lost for, trussed up as I was, I had no means of leverage to right myself once more. I felt as helpless and awkward as a freshly landed trout.

  It was at that precise moment that we both caught our breath, for there, surely, coming from above, was the sound of someone handling the large padlock that secured the outer cellar door. Once more my body trembled violently, though this time it was not due to the damp or cold. I must confess that this was pure fear, for I thought this must be Blackwood and his gang coming down to ‘finish’ the two of us off once and for all.

  After a few moments we heard the padlock being unlocked and slowly the doors were opened. The pale light of a street lamp sent a weak silhouette of a figure peering down from the street above. Surely it was not Collins or Blackwood, but it was decidedly familiar …

  ‘My dear Watson, are you alright!’ To my great surprise and eternal relief Sherlock Holmes was climbing, hurriedly down into the cellar.

  Too often in my journals I have reflected on my companion’s inability to lower his mask of cold, hard logic. The machine-like workings of his mind, his complete absorption in his work at the expense of any affection or warmth. I lay there on the cellar floor, my inaptitude and clumsiness exposed to him, expecting the inevitable ridicule and scorn my predicament would surely warrant.

  However, to my surprise, neither of these was evident in Holmes’s voice or countenance. Indeed he displayed great sympathy and kindness as he gently undid our bonds and helped us to our feet.

  ‘You have done remarkably well, Watson, against impossible odds. I can only apologise that my own failure in concluding this case earlier has resulted in your capture. The informer of that fool Lestrade was of no use to me at all and led me a merry dance these last two days. But, more in the cab.’ Holmes finished with his kindest of smiles as he then proceeded to assist both Matthews and myself through the cellar door and to freedom.

  Once the cab was well underway, I became aware that we were not proceeding by the shortest route to Baker Street. When I queried this, Holmes replied;

  ‘It will not be many hours before your escape is discovered. Obviously, when it is and knowing your identity as they do, they will soon recognise who perpetrated it and realize that their game is up. It is essential, therefore, that we option reinforcements from Scotland Yard and round up this despicable gang before they make good their escape.’

  ‘As usual, Holmes, and despite my own personal involvement in this case in your absence, you seem to know much more about what’s going on than I do. Yet I fail to see how this can be so.’ I queried.

  ‘Ah, but you see I have an unfair advantage over you, Watson, for I have been involved in this case for many weeks now. It was mere chance that led you onto the very road I have been searching for for so long. It will be some while before we reach the “Yard”, therefore, before you explain your involvement in this matter, please allow me to fill in a few of my own sketchy details, and you can fill in the gaps.’

  ‘Agreed!’ I exclaimed, knowing I had certain knowledge to which Holmes could have had no access. I must admit I was st
ill in some physical discomfort, following my ordeal, as I am sure Matthews was also, but my new enthusiasm for Holmes’s narrative and my excitement at the prospect of the coming adventure overshadowed these considerations. Holmes was aware of this, however.

  ‘I fear I am being most thoughtless, Watson, and am running ahead of myself as usual, at your expense. Surely you are in no condition to embark on any fresh adventures. I should instruct the driver to divert to Baker Street before proceeding to Scotland Yard. You and Matthews are in need of care.’

  ‘You shall do no such thing!’ I protested, ‘Whilst I agree Matthews here needs attention and can carry on to Baker Street from the “Yard” I would feel thwarted if I were not involved in the conclusion of this affair.’

  ‘Watson! The very words I was hoping to hear. If you are sure you are well enough, of course you will be invaluable at my side, as always.’ He lit a cigarette, at this moment, and turned to Matthews.

  ‘I will begin with your companion here, whom I presume is our, or rather your, client.’

  ‘A moment, if you please, Mr Holmes,’ Matthews quietly interrupted, ‘whilst I appreciate your concern at my condition, I feel my time will be better served with you at the “Old Grey Horse” as opposed to languishing in your rooms at Baker Street. I still hold my key to the side-door and my knowledge of the layout of the rooms will, I am sure, prove of value in the dark.’

  Holmes looked long and hard at Matthews whilst smoking his cigarette.

  ‘My wounds are purely superficial, I assure you.’ Matthews added hopefully.

  ‘A most resolute fellow, your Mr Matthews, eh, Watson? Let me see … from Yorkshire, obviously from your accent. A hard-working farmer for many years, then finally, all your labour began to bear fruit and you became quite a wealthy man. Wealthy enough to employ others to carry out your work whilst you became quite the landed gentry. Wealth and success were yours. A charming young wife added to your happiness, but then, I fear, tragedy struck, in the form of a fire. I believe a fire which not only destroyed your farm but your wife also.