The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  He moved back to the window and opened it. “You may have appeared to cheat death once before, Theodore Wargrave, but I promise you that you shall not do so once that rope is around your neck.” Within seconds, the shrill cry of his police whistle declared that there would be no more words spoken on the matter and that the wheels of justice must begin to turn.

  Late that night, we sat together on either side of the fire place in our Baker Street rooms. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke and we sipped our brandy with the comfortable silence of a close comradeship. At last, as we were knocking out the ashes of our pipes, Holmes turned to me.

  “It seems to me,” said he, “that the mystery of what drives mankind and his motives for his actions is very possibly an insoluble problem, my dear Watson. I am grateful that London provides us with these little problems of our fellow man, so that we may strive in our own small way to contribute some form of understanding of those larger questions whose answers will only be known for certain when our time of grace has come.”

  Relating To One of My Old Cases

  by J.R. Campbell

  “I have had occasion, Mr. Holmes, to wonder if your life would bear the scrutiny you subject others to?”

  If she expected a reaction from the detective, the woman was disappointed. Holmes sat in his customary chair in his Baker Street lodgings, comfortable and unperturbed. His lean face betrayed no emotion, save perhaps a slight hint of boredom. “As I am often reminded, Mrs. Mason, my life suffers a distinct lack of complication. I have my work. It suits me. Even so, uncomplicated as my life is, it would be unprofessional of me not to acknowledge the complex nature of others. I assume your question arises from our prior meeting? As I recall, you declined to answer my rather simple questions.”

  “Indeed I did Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Mason acknowledged. Shifting her slight frame, she turned her sharp features angrily to the detective. “That does not mean your questions haven’t haunted me.”

  “I see,” Holmes answered, arranging his fingers in a steeple before his face. “And is this the purpose of your visit today? To inquire of the reasoning behind those questions?”

  Mrs. Mason, an elegant woman in her mid-forties, dark hair brushed with only a touch of grey, held her head defiantly. “No, Mr. Holmes, it is not. Two years have passed since my husband’s death. It seems a lifetime ago. I doubt you even remember the investigation or what you said.”

  “You underestimate me,” Holmes replied. “I remember the investigation quite distinctly.”

  “Do you?” Mrs. Mason asked. “I would have thought you put it from your mind. Certainly the police found your behaviour rather embarrassing. They offered me profuse apologies for your conduct.”

  Shrugging, Holmes spread his hands. “It was not the first time I’ve been accused of impertinence, nor was it the last. My reasoning was sound.”

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” a hint of challenge found its way into Mrs. Mason’s voice. “Before we move on to my business here today, if you can explain the reasoning behind your rudeness the night of my husband’s death, I am willing to listen.”

  “No doubt the particulars of the case are well known to you,” Holmes said. “Your husband was murdered in the garden-”

  “With an axe,” Mrs. Mason interjected furiously, the brutality of the crime fresh in her memory. “I saw the wound, Mr. Holmes, when my husband was being prepared for burial. He was struck viciously in the neck.”

  “Precisely,” Holmes agreed. “Inspector Gregson quickly identified the killer as one Darrel Norville, but was unable to locate him. Given that the axe had not been found, the Inspector was concerned a killer could be loose on the London streets. I was summoned in order to determine the direction the killer fled.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mrs. Mason admitted.

  “No reason you should,” Holmes answered. “Knowing my methods, the Inspector had taken care to preserve the footprints for my study. When I arrived, your husband’s body was still present. I studied the scene, located the axe, and spoke to Mrs. Norville. She was not forthcoming but, by observing the home she shared with her husband, I was able to confirm what my examination of the scene had suggested. Norville had dressed for the theatre that evening. Based on that information, knowing his distress, I was able to direct the police to concentrate their search around Waterloo Bridge.”

  “Waterloo Bridge?”

  “Norville’s crime was one of passion,” Holmes explained. “It lacked planning. Without any thought of escape or apprehension, he simply followed the route he had thought out earlier in the day.”

  Mrs. Mason again shifted in her seat, her expression confused. “Are you telling me my husband’s killer went to the theatre after hacking my husband to death with an axe?”

  “Norville did not actually attend the theatre that night,” Holmes clarified. “However, in essence, you are correct. There is an inertia to our actions, an accumulation of our daily habits. Norville headed to the theatre because he was confused and overwhelmed. He simply followed the familiar path he’d anticipated taking. Knowing he was at risk of suicide, I alerted the police to search around Waterloo Bridge and that was where he was found.”

  “But - your questions-”

  “There was no doubt as to who had murdered your husband, nor any question as to how the crime had been achieved,” Holmes continued. “Yet there remained some points I felt required further clarification. Your husband was a large man, quite fit. His reach was greater than Norville’s, and he had the advantage of weight. A cursory examination of his hands indicated he was accustomed to violence, a deduction confirmed when I entered your home and saw a boxing trophy displayed in your drawing room. Having studied the footprints in the garden, I was able to extrapolate their struggle. Logic suggested your husband should have fared better in combat against Norville, a lesser opponent.”

  “You asked me if I knew of the affair between my husband and Clara Norville,” Mrs. Mason remembered.

  “An obvious motive,” Holmes admitted. “Yet a valid one, confirmed by Mr. Norville when he was in custody. Your answer clarified several of my observations.”

  Mrs. Mason stiffened. “I don’t recall answering that question.”

  “Not verbally,” Holmes said. “However, in my profession, one can so rarely rely on verbal answers alone.”

  “And then the police dragged you from my home,” Mrs. Mason recalled with a trace of smugness.

  “And accused me of impertinence,” Holmes said, a slight smile creasing his face. “Admittedly my next question did not aid in my defense against the charge. Do you recall it, I wonder?”

  “You asked if you could have a glass of whiskey,” Mrs. Mason, her eyes hard, answered.

  “Quite so,” Holmes chuckled to himself. “I wonder, is that the question which has haunted you these last two years?”

  The silence between the two of them stretched on for an uncomfortable amount of time, broken only by the sounds of the city from the window behind the detective.

  “And if it is, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Mason asked, willing strength into her voice.

  “Why, it is of no consequence at all, Mrs. Mason,” Holmes assured her. “Scotland Yard has closed the case. Mr. Norville killed your husband. From Scotland Yard’s perspective it was always an uncomplicated investigation. I knew, of course, that your husband had drunk a large quantity of whiskey that night. I smelled it on him. Yet even had I told Inspector Gregson of the poison you had added to your husband’s drink, he would not have brought charges against you. Despite how it may often appear, those in authority are not blind to the plight of those they believe to be trapped in, shall we say, vulnerable circumstances. Certainly none of the police assembled at your home that night held a high opinion of your husband’s virtues, nor did they fail to recognize the bruising on your arms for what it was. For my part, I find the n
otion of lessening a man’s strength chemically via the very distillate which increases his capacity for violence oddly charming. Your actions did contribute to your husband’s death. Whether this information causes you distress or pleasure is of no consequence to anyone but yourself. I assure you the police have no further interest in the matter.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Mason said. Her eyes grew distant, as if considering events at the edge of her vision.

  Holmes reached for his pipe, filled and lit it. Throwing the match into the fireplace, he spoke again. “Since the matter of your husband’s murder is behind us,” He said cheerfully, “Let us move on to the business which brings you here today. Would I be correct in assuming you wish to discuss the Portsdown Road tragedy?”

  Startled, her mouth falling open, the woman looked at Holmes, aghast.

  “It is not so great a leap, I assure you,” Holmes said. “As you noted, you and I have not spoken since the night of your husband’s murder. Can it be a coincidence you arrive here less than a week after the fire which claimed the life of Mrs. Norville, your husband’s mistress?”

  “Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Mason confessed. “You strip me to the bone.”

  “Hardly my intention, I assure you.” Holmes said, allowing himself a mouthful of smoke.

  “I came with the intention of hiring your services,” Mrs. Mason said. “To ask you to investigate the fire which took the life of that woman and her son. Now, I find the thought of your involvement terrifying. “

  “And yet you stay,” Holmes observed. “You are troubled, Mrs. Mason, that much is clear. I should warn you: If you had any part in starting the blaze that took the life of a child, I will not protect you.”

  Holmes studied the woman carefully, noting the trembling of her hand and the firm set of her jaw. “But then,” he said carefully, “You are not concerned for yourself, are you? As I recall your son was quite upset by his father’s death. Put his fist through a window pane and cut himself rather badly.”

  Mrs. Mason’s sob was like a gunshot, the despair echoing through the small apartment. Alerted by the sound, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway but, with a slight shake of Holmes’s head, was dismissed. Familiarity and trust had worn a path of behaviour in their respective realms and Mrs. Hudson had learned to follow Holmes’s instincts as to where her matronly attention was best spent. Even under the best of circumstances, Holmes’s ability to provide comfort to weeping women was limited.

  After he finished the tobacco in his pipe, Holmes addressed the distraught woman again. “Your son’s motive is obvious. As I recall, he took control of his father’s business, investing his inheritance in the venture. I’ve been told the business is prospering, but if another claimant emerged to claim a portion of the inheritance, it could prove catastrophic to the firm’s prospects. Aside from motive, have you any other reason to suspect your son?”

  “N-not really, no,” Mrs. Mason managed. Pulling a handkerchief from her bag, she struggled to compose herself. “I’m certain he’s done nothing but, Mr. Holmes, please-”

  “Was he out the night of the fire?” Holmes asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Mason said. “I saw him go into his room before any of the trouble started. Sometimes though, sometimes he sneaks out. He’s a young man now, not the boy you saw that terrible night. There are things he doesn’t want his mother to know about. And after the fire, I asked him if he knew who Mrs. Norville was, and he said he didn’t, but I could tell he was lying. I think he knows who her son was too, at least who her son might be.”

  “Yet he denies knowing?” Holmes asked.

  “To his mother.”

  “Has he spoken of the fire to you?”

  “Not a word,” Mrs. Mason dabbed at her eyes. “That frightens me. Everyone is talking about it. It’s all they talk of, everyone but my Reginald. There are times, Mr. Holmes, when he reminds me so much of his father it frightens me. The secrets that man kept, the vices-”

  “Have you ever caught you son indulging in such vices?” Holmes asked.

  Mrs. Mason shook her head. “He’s too clever for that, like his father. There are times when the resemblance frightens me but, other times, I fear it would be worse if he takes after me.”

  Holmes said nothing.

  “I must know, Mr. Holmes. I must. Nothing could be worse than not knowing. Come daybreak my fears seem so small but at night... Please, I’ve nowhere else to turn.”

  Holmes considered his answer carefully. Writing a figure on a slip of paper, he handed it to the widow. “I shall investigate the matter and report to you. Tomorrow morning I shall stop by your home and collect payment for the day. In return, I shall spend what time is necessary to find an answer to your question. I do not expect it will take long. You may expect me to return at half-past-eight with my report, a report which I will deliver to you and only you. Are these terms acceptable?”

  “As simple as that?” Mrs. Mason looked at the figure Holmes had written. “You’ll need only a day?”

  “Should it require more effort, I shall send word tomorrow,” Holmes said. “But that is unlikely. If there is nothing else there are other matters requiring my attention.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Mason said, gathering her things and hesitantly making her way to the door.

  “Until tomorrow,” Holmes said, refilling his pipe.

  The boxing trophy and whiskey bottle had been removed from the drawing room and a pane of glass replaced in one of the front windows but otherwise the Mason home was as Holmes remembered it. Collecting his payment, the detective lingered long enough to observe the son, now of age, meet a cheerfully mustachioed, well-dressed friend as they embarked together on their day’s employment. Having accomplished his first tasks, he headed to Portsdown Road to survey the wreckage of the house fire. Weather and the curiosity of the crowds had combined to strip the site of useful information. Holmes observed what he could before making his way to his next agenda item.

  Mary Leahy was lead into the interview room where Holmes waited. She was young, the same age as the Mason boy, though they had little else in common. Her red-rimmed eyes and unkempt appearance spoke of a malaise.

  “You want to speak with me?” the girl asked, taking a seat across the table from Holmes.

  “I’ve been engaged to investigate the Portsdown blaze,” Holmes said.

  “Not much to investigate,” Mary said, her eyes tearing with remorse. “It was me that done it.”

  “I fail to understand why you would wish to harm two people.”

  “I didn’t wish it!” the girl shouted. “It was an accident. And there were three people.”

  “Three?” Holmes frowned. “The papers reported only two.”

  “Well, you can’t trust the papers, can you? I know, who would know better? It was three. Mrs. Norville and her wee one and Tristan. They weigh heavily on me sir, each of them.”

  “Could you tell me how it happened?” Holmes asked.

  Mary looked around her. “I’ve nothing better to do, have I? I knew Mrs. Norville. Since her husband passed, she’s had money troubles. Let her maid go. I helped sometimes, when she needed me.”

  “Were you a regular visitor to the Norville household?”

  “Could say that. Like I said, I helped. I met Tristan there. Young Robbie, that’s Mrs. Norville’s son, met him one day and brought him home. He was such a lovely boy...”

  “Miss Leahy?”

  “Well, one day I ran into Tristan in the street and he was carrying these two big jugs. Said he was in a dreadful hurry, could I take them to Mrs. Norville’s? Said he’d be by later to collect them. I asked him what it was about, and he told me they was full of paraffin. He’d purchased some lamps, you see. Planned on filling them at Mrs. Norville’s before selling ‘em, but he had to hurry. I knew he was short of money so I helpe
d him.”

  “And?” Holmes prompted.

  “And that’s all, isn’t it?” Mary said. “Neither Mrs. Norville or little Robbie was home so I brought the jugs in and left them there. Next day I hear about the fire, so I go to Tristan’s but he’s not there. Landlady says she’s not seen him since before the fire, so I go to the fire brigade. They tell me it was paraffin spilled and caught fire, burned the building down quick as a wink. I asked about Tristan but they said they’d only the two bodies. Said Tristan might have escaped or maybe burned to nothing but ash. So I went to the police and told them the fire was my fault and here I am.”

  “It is possible Tristan escaped,” Holmes ventured.

  “No,” Mary said plaintively. “If he’d escaped, he’d have come for me. If he were alive, he’d come find me. At first, I thought he might have been hurt or afraid, but my name’s been in all the papers. He’d have come for me if he could, but he hasn’t. He must be dead.”

  “I see,” Holmes said. “You didn’t see the paraffin spill though?”

  “Of course not,” Mary said. “But I must have set the jugs down on something. Maybe Robbie ran into them, he was always running about. Ran into them not knowing what they were and knocked them over and - it’s too horrible to think of!”

  “You set these two jugs down together?” Holmes asked. “Away from the fireplace?”

  “Of course,” Mary answered. “It’s my fault, I’ve not denied it, but I’m not so daft as to perch paraffin down right next to the fire. I didn’t mean no harm.”

  Nodding, Holmes reached across the table and took Mary’s hand. She looked up. “This is the first I’ve heard of Tristan. I find myself concerned. Could you describe him for me? I’ll look for him and, should I find him, I’ll tell him you are waiting to see him.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Certainly a possibility,” Holmes admitted. “Even so, let me do this small service for you. Was he a tall man? About your age?”