The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  I could see that all of this had struck a chord with Devlin, whose expression was once again one of perplexity. “Yes... eh... yes, Mr. Holmes. I see. I was too quick to judge. But how did you know that I received the note today?”

  “We sit in your study. In the bay window is your writing desk which I walked past and scrutinised as you invited me to take a seat. It is clear that you sit at your desk in dealing with all of your regular correspondence. The accoutrements of this endeavour are plain to see: the envelopes, foolscap, ink pen, and paper knife. This is a grand house in which your domestic staff would take it upon themselves to empty the waste paper basket you have beside the desk on a daily basis. So, to see the torn remnants of a familiar cream envelope and what remains of its distinctive wax seal, can only mean that you received a note - very much like that received by Flanders - earlier today.”

  “I am dumbfounded by what you say, sir. And you must forgive my somewhat rash response earlier, but I have been on my guard since receiving the note. It is clear that you already know something of the Bosworth Order, but I imagine that the precise nature of the threat involved may not be quite so obvious?”

  Holmes was forthright in his reply. “Quite so - although I am certain that our assailant has an Australian connection. How else would he have known about Flanders’ return to Britain, when a number of Whitehall departments had sought to keep his fleeting visit to Stoke Newington a closed guarded secret?”

  “Well, there is some backdrop to this tale, Mr. Holmes, and the Australian continent does indeed feature prominently within it. But let me start from the beginning.” He arose from his desk and took a small key from his waistcoat, before approaching a large bureau to our left. “I have not opened this cabinet for a while. At one time, it was my pride and joy. A cherished collection of medieval daggers - added to in number since Mr. Mickleburgh was here last - in the centre of which sits my favourite; the first rondel dagger I had, given to me as part of the initiation for the Bosworth Order. A foolish, youthful indiscretion, but a history I cannot now deny.”

  Having opened two heavy oak doors on the bureau, the glass cabinet housing the collection of daggers was revealed. I looked at the collection in awe, recognising at once the rarity and exquisite craftsmanship of the dozen or so weapons he had collected, which were positioned around the ivory-handled imposter.

  “It was my idea to have a ceremonial dagger, to signify one’s allegiance to the club. It also served as a tangible reminder to anyone thinking of betraying the trust we shared. A trust that was essential in maintaining the secrecy of what we indulged in behind closed doors. Drunken debauchery, gambling, and sin of every kind - the very worst excesses, like some bacchanalian orgy. Had the club not been forced to close, in order to avert an investigation by Scotland Yard, it is likely that we would all have died in one way or another. When the club closed its doors, we all went our separate ways; most of us settling to the humdrum existence of family life in the shires. For a few, however, the break would prove to be ruinous.

  “The club was originally inspired by Edward Flanders and two of his chums from Eton, who had earlier formed a clandestine society with pretentions towards the Knights Templar. They began to cultivate a wider group of young men, who would come together to discuss lofty topics of a historical nature over a few glasses of fine port. By the time I joined them in the early summer of 1852, the academic posturing had all but gone, with the main order of ceremonies revolving around a heady mixture of gaming and drinking.

  “That same summer, we were joined by a newcomer who was to assert himself within the group and, ultimately, claim a role as general secretary of the club, or ‘Clan Chief’ as he liked to refer to himself. By this time, there were eight of us, almost all of whom were the sons of self-made men; industrialists, merchants, professional types, in fact, anyone other than the landed gentry. But even here, our Clan Chief stood apart. James Campbell-Grant was descended from a long line of canny Scots who still held sway in the West Highlands, and he stood to inherit a fortune with the passing of his elderly father.”

  Holmes turned to me briefly, raising his eyebrows, and then responded. “That is fascinating to hear, Mr. Devlin. And did Mr. Campbell-Grant ever have occasion to wear a kilt?”

  “Never out of one, Mr. Holmes. In fact, I cannot recollect ever seeing him in a pair of trousers. He was passionate about his homeland and fiercely loyal to his Argyll family. It was he who named our group the ‘Bosworth Order’ and negotiated the lease on the Pall Mall premises in which we met. He expected all of us to be dedicated to the club in the same way that he was to his ancestral roots.”

  “Is it not strange,” queried Holmes, “that a passionate Scot should be minded to create a drinking club in honour of such a prominent English king?”

  Hugh Devlin laughed. “I think his choice of name was ironic. Campbell-Grant was no lover of English kings from what I can remember.”

  At this point I interposed. “I think there may be more to the name than you imagine. While many prominent West Highland families gave support to the Crown throughout the fifteenth century, few would have rallied to Richard’s cause at the Battle of Bosworth because of his bloody incursions into Scotland from 1480. Henry Tudor, on the other hand, bolstered the ranks of his rebel army with professional soldiers from Scotland, Wales and France. There is a strong element of folklore which suggests that before he received his fatal wounds on the battlefield of Bosworth in 1485, Richard had been stabbed in the head by a rondel dagger wielded by a Scottish mercenary.”

  Devlin’s face lit up at this point. “Now you say that, I do remember that Campbell-Grant was particularly smitten with my idea of a ceremonial weapon and insisted that the design should be that of a rondel dagger. He may well have subscribed to the same theory.”

  “Excellent!” exclaimed Holmes. “Your academic expertise has proved invaluable once more, Mr. Mickleburgh! But let us continue, Mr. Devlin...”

  “Indeed. In October 1854, our numbers had fallen to six. One club member had died of cholera that summer and another had succumbed to the effects of alcohol poisoning, passing away a few days before his twenty-second birthday. And then Campbell-Grant received word of the impending police investigation. He would never reveal who had first alerted him to the threat, but within a week the word went out and our meetings stopped. I believed that the Bosworth Order would cease to operate from that point on.”

  “And yet it did not, Mr. Devlin. You all went your separate ways, but I perceive that some of the ties you had were not so easy to disentangle? You see, I find it fascinating that all the way through your account you have referred to Campbell-Grant in the past tense. As if the fellow had vanished from the face of the earth. But we know that not to be the case. This story hinges on an event or series of events that occurred in the aftermath of the club’s demise and which resulted in Campbell-Grant’s criminal conviction and transportation to Australia. That is so, is it not, Mr. Devlin?”

  He could not hide his astonishment and stubbed out what remained of his cigar. “You have an uncanny ability, Mr. Holmes, I will grant you that. How could you know? Only Flanders and I knew the truth of what went on in 1855. We pledged to take our secret to the grave; something I imagine poor Edward has done...”

  Holmes looked at him solemnly. “I do not yet know the detail of what occurred between you all, but you admitted to the Australian connection earlier. There is only one place that a man could travel to on that continent which might immediately render him as dead or forgotten in the minds of those who previously knew him. That place has to be the penal colony - the destination for so many criminals convicted in this country.”

  “There is no denying it, sir. The past has indeed come back to haunt me. When the club disbanded, both Flanders and I saw it as something of a blessing. Unlike the other members, the pair of us had both lost heavily at the card table and had accumulated debts which
we stood little chance of paying off. All of the money was owed to Campbell-Grant, who had bankrolled our debts, no doubt seeking to exert his influence over us for some years to come. Naïvely, we believed that he would write off the sums owed with the collapse of the club. But within a matter of weeks, both of us received letters from the man indicating that he expected full repayment.

  “Fearing financial ruin, we hatched a plan to outwit Campbell-Grant. Flanders fabricated a burglary at his west London townhouse and planted a few of the gold and silver items that he claimed had been stolen in the Scotsman’s Kensington apartment. I provided testimony that I had not only seen Campbell-Grant entering the townhouse, but had also seen him making off with some of the ‘stolen’ pieces. The case went to trial at the Old Bailey, and Campbell-Grant found himself facing the formidable prosecuting barrister, Sir Hilary Grantham. He was found guilty and sentenced to transportation. Afterwards, he spent about a year in Millbank Prison and was then transported to Van Diemen’s Land to serve a term of fourteen years hard labour in the colony.”

  “And you thought that would be the last you would hear of him?” said Holmes. There was a hint of condescension in his voice.

  “Yes, as far as Flanders and I were concerned, he was gone forever. We both got on with our lives and went our separate ways. Flanders initially pursued a career in the civil service and later prospered in Australia. I have occasionally read of his exploits in the press. I married, bought this estate and raised a family. Campbell-Grant lost his liberty and his fortune - when his conviction was confirmed, his family disowned him and his father took steps to ensure that he would never inherit their Scottish estates. I take no pride in admitting that I ruined the man’s life, so entertain few doubts that he now wishes to see me dead. When I received the note this morning, I realised that it could only have been sent by the Clan Chief.”

  Prompted by Holmes, Devlin went on to reveal the substance of the note; word for word, the same message as that received by Flanders.

  Holmes moved on to practical matters. “We have clearly managed to pre-empt any attack that Campbell-Grant may be planning, but I would not underestimate the lengths that this wronged man may go to in exacting his revenge. The light outside is fading fast and will provide him with sufficient cover, should he plan to strike tonight. Mr. Devlin, I would ask that you carry on as you would, had none of this come to light, and to instruct your domestic staff to do the same, albeit that I would like them to lock every door and secure all of the downstairs windows. It would also be helpful if you could leave the doors of your display cabinet open, with the medieval daggers on display. For our part, Mr. Mickleburgh and I will keep out of sight and attempt to foil any such intrusion.”

  For the next hour, Holmes led me on a swift but thorough reconnaissance of the ground floor of the hall, noting each point of entry, testing every lock and window catch, and scouting out possible weaknesses in the seemingly secure property. As the curtains to most rooms were pulled across and lamps lit throughout the house, he was careful to ensure that we could not be observed from the grounds of Braxton Hall. I was thrilled to be alongside him, enjoying every minute of the unfolding adventure, and secretly lamenting the fact that I would, at some point soon, need to return to my dreary academic life.

  Around eight o’clock that evening we were invited to join Hugh Devlin for a hearty meal of venison and roasted potatoes. He explained that rooms had been prepared for us to sleep at the hall that night. I took a large glass of Burgundy with the meal and afterwards began to regret it, feeling suddenly weary from all of the day’s exertions. Holmes, I noted, seemed content to pick at his food with no great enthusiasm and declined the offer of any liquid refreshment. The conversation was cordial but distinctly low key, and I found myself doing most of the talking, explaining to our host the nature of my academic work. At half-past nine, Devlin announced that he was retiring for the night and left us in the dining room.

  Holmes seemed to have a firm plan of action. Leaving the domestic staff to clear the dining room, he suggested we head back to Devlin’s study. My apparent lethargy had also been noted: “It could be a long night, Mr. Mickleburgh. You may wish to grab forty winks on the davenport. I will nudge you awake should anything occur.”

  It was approaching midnight when I was roused from my heavy slumber, surprised to find that the room was awash with light and more than a little chilly. I realised that Holmes had opened one of two sets of heavy curtains in the room to reveal a full moon in the clear and starry sky. I could also see that one of the two long sash windows facing me was open three or four inches. Holmes said nothing but moved his gloved hand to my lips. Dutifully, I nodded, acknowledging the request for silence, and raised myself from the sofa. Holmes then moved swiftly, but noiselessly, around to the back of the sofa. I did likewise, and then kept my body and head tucked down out of view.

  It was two or three minutes later when I heard the distinct sound of the sash window being raised. Even without a view, I could tell that someone was attempting to enter the room. Presently, I heard a light footfall on the wooden floorboards and perceived that our intruder was heading across the floor in the direction of Devlin’s display cabinet to our left.

  I glanced forward at Holmes and realised that he sat, poised at the ready, the silver-topped cane gripped firmly in his left hand. There then followed an almighty thump and the breaking of glass. At that instant, Holmes leapt to his feet and made towards the man, who stood with his back to us, seemingly unaware that he was about to be challenged. He was shorter than Holmes, well-built and wearing an Inverness cape and tartan tam-o’-shanter. His right arm was held across the front of his chest and I could see in his gloved hand the heavy wooden cudgel that he had just used to smash the glass. Campbell-Grant at last!

  Holmes raised his cane and brought the weighty silver pommel down hard on the Scotsman’s wrist. In the evident surprise of the moment, Campbell-Grant dropped the cudgel and let out an almighty roar. He swung round, clutching the injured wrist to his chest, and then tried to launch himself at Holmes, his left hand flailing in a wild attempt to connect with the detective’s jaw. As I moved forward, I watched Holmes deftly side-step the attempted punch, while sending his own right fist thundering into the side of Campbell-Grant’s head. The stocky figure slumped to the floor.

  “Bravo, Mr. Holmes!” I exclaimed, standing over the body of the unconscious man and noticing for the first time the tartan kilt that he wore beneath the cape. “You are indeed an accomplished pugilist!”

  “Aided by the fact that the man clearly did not hear me coming - it seems he is hard of hearing after all!” Holmes looked ecstatic and stooped to check the pulse of the floored intruder.

  I could hear the sound of voices and movement elsewhere in the house, the noise of the breaking glass and scuffle having evidently raised some of the domestic staff.

  “How could you be sure that he would use the open window?” I enquired. “Did you not fear that he might suspect some sort of ruse or snare?”

  Holmes beamed at me. “The fellow is headstrong and irrational, and driven by the rage and injustice he feels. You accompanied me when I scouted out the place earlier - the hall is very nearly impregnable. I knew that he would not ignore the potentially easy entrance, whatever the risk. I watched him trek through the heavy snow outside, keeping close to the yew trees which line the right flank of the garden. It was only a matter of time before he found the open window. And in opening the curtains to the moonlight, I was careful to ensure that the collection of rondel daggers could be seen very clearly from the window. The opportunity to stab Devlin with the man’s own ceremonial dagger was too much of a temptation - the Scot had already used his own dagger in killing Edward Flanders, you see.”

  At that point, the door to the study was flung open and a bleary-eyed Hugh Devlin entered carrying a hurricane lamp. Two male servants were behind him; one half-dressed in black t
rousers and an unbuttoned white shirt, the other still clad in his bed-clothes. Holmes immediately despatched the more suitably attired under-butler to call for a doctor and to alert the local constabulary about the break-in. His heavy-lidded assistant was tasked with making a pot of strong black coffee.

  Devlin was effusive in his praise for what Holmes had done. The detective himself continued to look down at Campbell-Grant, who was now moving and showing the first signs of regaining consciousness. When Devlin had finished talking, Holmes looked up slowly and then stared at him impassively. “I rarely have any sympathy for the criminals I encounter, Mr. Devlin. Understanding why they might have committed the acts they do is generally only of interest to me if it aids the investigatory process and helps me to reach a point of some conclusion. And yet, in this case, I must confess to having a degree of empathy with Mr. Campbell-Grant for the appalling injustice he has faced at your hands. If you have a shred of human decency within you, sir, you will make a full and honest confession to the authorities about the earlier miscarriage of justice, although I suspect it is unlikely to save this man from the gallows.”

  Hugh Devlin looked at him defiantly, and without a hint of self-consciousness spat back: “Go to Hell, Mr. Holmes!”

  The two of us remained at Braxton Hall for some hours after that and had no further contact with Devlin. We awaited the arrival of the local doctor, who tended to the very bruised and groggy James Campbell-Grant. Even when an Inspector and two burly constables from the Huntingdon County Police Force arrived an hour later to take him away, the Scotsman appeared to have little comprehension of where he was and what had transpired. Holmes and I gave short statements to Inspector Brady, who then offered to transport us to Huntingdon Station in the police carriage in which he had arrived. Desperately cold and in need of sleep, we boarded an early morning milk train heading for London. Some hours later, I crawled into bed back at my home in Montague Street.