The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  “Bravo, Watson!” Holmes clapped his hands. “Truly, I never get your measure. I can hear Mrs. Hudson scolding the lad for his impertinence.”

  Soon she entered, bearing a yellow envelope. I looked on eagerly, hoping that this was something to raise his spirits further. He slit the envelope eagerly with his breakfast knife.

  “It is from Mycroft.”

  “You have not heard from your brother for some time.”

  He dropped the form onto the table. “He would like us to call on him, this morning.”

  “We have agreed that there is nothing pressing.”

  “He seems to require some assistance.”

  “Is he at the Diogenes Club?”

  Holmes shook his head. “It seems that he has temporarily forsaken his Whitehall office for premises at East Cheshire Place. It is a small square, near enough to cause him no inconvenience. Come then, if you have no objection, we will go now.” With that, and pausing only for Holmes to impale the telegram on the jack knife that secured his correspondence to the mantel shelf, we took our hats and coats and went out into the sunshine.

  As the hansom left us, I glanced around East Cheshire Place with curiosity. It was one of those hidden squares that are scattered all over London, and I had not known of its existence until now. It was made up of square stone buildings, and near the Trafalgar Square end of Whitehall.

  Holmes preceded me up a short flight of steps, and rang the bell. Presently the door was opened by an elderly servant. Holmes produced his card and the man bowed and stood aside for us. “You are expected, gentlemen.”

  He led us along a short passage. At the furthest door he stopped and knocked lightly, attracting an immediate response. Holmes and I were ushered into a dimly-lit sanctum containing several chairs and a desk. Several portraits, presumably of past Whitehall notables, adorned one wall, and green curtains covered the single window.

  Mycroft Holmes greeted us both heartily. “Sherlock, and Doctor Watson, how good of you to come so promptly.”

  “It was a surprise to receive your summons,” my friend responded.

  My recollections of Holmes’s elder brother did not quite match the appearance of the man who stood before us. I remembered him as large and corpulent, but now he was more so. His eyes, in which I saw the greatest resemblance to my friend, were steely-grey as before.

  “I am surprised to find that you have moved, Mycroft.” Holmes remarked.

  “It is purely a temporary measure. My office is so full of drafts that I can no longer abide working there. This place is a little austere, but I will not be here long.”

  “Is the reason that we are here connected to your work?”

  Mycroft shook his head. “No, but I have something to relate that may have some interest for you.”

  Holmes looked at his brother warily. “Pray tell us what you have in mind.”

  “Would you like tea?”

  We both declined.

  “Very well, then.”

  We took the chairs that Mycroft offered, as he sat behind the desk.

  “Should we undertake this task, then who is to be our client?” Holmes enquired.

  “Be patient, Sherlock. The man in the middle of this troublesome situation is Rodney Trasker, an old school chum. He recently joined the Diogenes Club at my invitation, and I learned of his difficulties in the Stranger’s Room. You don’t remember him at school, I suppose?”

  Holmes indicated that he did not.

  “No, of course not. We were a little ahead of you.”

  “If you would explain, Mycroft.”

  “Ah yes. Trasker is one of those fortunate fellows who has never needed to find employment. His father died years ago, leaving him and his half-sister the proceeds from the sale of his rubber importing business. Consequently, Trasker spends his time managing his estate, while his sister travels across Europe collecting botanical specimens for Kew Gardens and similar institutions.

  “Some two months ago, Trasker arose in the morning to find that someone had broken into the house, although a later examination revealed that nothing had been stolen. He reported this to the local police and eventually found himself confronted by our old friend Lestrade, who came over from Scotland Yard to interview him. It transpired that a man was seen running from the house in the early hours by a local constable, who gave chase. The intruder was unfortunate enough to fall into a nearby road mender’s pit and suffered a broken neck.”

  “Was he known in the area?” asked Holmes.

  “Not at all. There was nothing in his pockets to identify him. He carried not so much as a handkerchief, but was later recognised as Micah Bitterfield, a known member of a spy ring in the pay of Imperial Germany. That, of course, was how Scotland Yard came to be involved, especially as it had previously been discovered that a list of our own agents working across Europe was missing from the Foreign Office.”

  “I see, at last, why you have called upon me, Mycroft. What else is known about this ring?”

  The elder Holmes paused, as if considering how much to disclose. “After Bitterfield there were known to be three other members of the ring still at large. These are Heinrich Werner, Albert Derringsham, and the head of the organisation, who has never been identified. Soon after the break-in, Trasker unwittingly hired Derringsham, who presented himself as a coachman. That same night he was disturbed by a noise and went down to the library to be faced with a levelled pistol held by his coachman, who was in the act of ransacking the room. He managed to distract Derringsham, striking him a fatal blow with a heavy statuette. As he lay dying, Derringsham’s last words were: ‘I will be revenged on you, in this world or the next’.”

  “There,” said I, “is where this story really begins.”

  “You are correct, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft acknowledged, “or almost so. A week or more ago, Lillette Trasker, the half-sister, arrived unannounced. This was not unusual, for she apparently does this occasionally, but rarely stays for more than a day or two. This time was different, because a delay in her journey had tired her. She was astonished to hear of her brother’s recent experiences.

  “Three days passed, and Trasker awoke at midnight to hear her screaming. He threw on his dressing gown and ran to her room. From the window they looked down to see a coach waiting at the front of the house, and Albert Derringsham looking up at them. In an instant, the coach had gone.”

  Holmes, to my surprise, laughed harshly.

  “Come, Mycroft, you cannot expect me to take this seriously. It is not a difficult matter to disguise someone to look like someone else, particularly in darkness. It seems clear that Bitterfield had obtained the list, if it is connected with all this, from his associate in the Foreign Office, and for some reason was unable to pass it to Derringsham who was the next link in its journey to Berlin. Consequently, Bitterfield hid it within Oaklands Hall after informing Derringsham, who obtained employment there not long after. This is substantiated by the coachman’s actions in searching the library, rather than simply robbing Mr. Trasker. The only mystery here is why Mr. Trasker’s house was chosen for this.”

  “There is more, Sherlock,” Mycroft beamed. “There is more.”

  My friend sighed. “Pray proceed, then.”

  “The following night the same thing occurred, but Trasker refused to call in the local police, saying that they would consider his complaint ridiculous and that he was capable of settling his own problems. The next night he waited in his sister’s room, armed with a shotgun. The coach arrived as before, exactly at midnight, and Trasker immediately opened fire with both barrels. The coachman was blown to pieces and the horses bolted. I enquired as to any report he might have made, but he shrugged and replied that the police were unlikely to be interested in the death of a ghost.”

  “Had he the presence of mind to inspect the ground?” H
olmes asked.

  Mycroft shook his head. “I doubt if that occurred to him, Sherlock. The man was unnerved.”

  “Regrettable,” said Holmes thoughtfully.

  “There is yet more. Trasker, having been feeling unwell for some time, spent much of the following day resting. With the coming of evening he ate a light meal and retired early, but was again awakened by his sister. Half-wakeful, for he had taken a sleeping draught, he saw that the coach had returned. He was horrified to see the coachman, completely unscathed, looking up at him! Then the coach swiftly departed.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “The night before last. Yesterday morning Trasker came up to London and I met him in the Diogenes Club, as I told you. Early today he telegraphed his sister to enquire whether the coachman had appeared last night. She replied that he had, but passed on after staring up at the window. Trasker informed me soon after.”

  Holmes’s attention appeared to have wavered to one of the portraits behind his brother, but I knew that his keen mind missed nothing.

  “So, Mycroft,” he said at last, “you would like me to visit your friend Trasker, at Oaklands Hall, to retrieve this list?” Mycroft nodded his assent. “Find out as much as you can, about as much as you can, dear boy. I have no doubt that there is much hidden in all this. Had I the energy, and the time, I would be meticulous in my investigation.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” Holmes said with a touch of irony.

  “There is a train to Richmond at twelve-fifteen. If you hurry, you should catch it.”

  “Is Mr. Trasker expecting me?”

  “You and Doctor Watson, yes. He returned to Surrey this morning, after I replied to his wire to tell him that you would be arriving later. You see, Sherlock, the enormous confidence that I have in you?”

  We found a hansom quickly. My friend said little during the journey back to Baker Street. His deep contemplation was evident.

  “Be so good as to hand me my Bradshaw from the shelf,” he said as we settled into our chairs. After turning a few pages he asked, to my surprise, “Are you hungry, Watson?”

  “Moderately. Lunch time approaches, but we will miss our train if we fail to leave within the next ten minutes.”

  He stood and replaced the book. “I have no intention of catching it. A later train will serve just as well. Meanwhile, I am curious about Mycroft’s attitude. Therefore, after Mrs. Hudson’s veal and ham pie, I would be grateful if you would return to East Cheshire Place.”

  “What on Earth for?” I retorted.

  “I simply want you to watch my brother’s office for an hour, before returning to report to me. I noticed a narrow passage at the other side of the square, which will provide adequate concealment if you are careful. On no account be noticed.” He turned towards the door. “But here is our good lady with lunch. Let us eat well, before we look into this affair.”

  Shortly after, a hansom took me back to East Cheshire Place, completely mystified as to why Holmes had sent me on this errand. I found the passage easily enough, and settled into a position from where I could see the offices across the square. I was resigned to an uneventful hour of confronting a rather depressing façade, when it struck me that it had altered. The green curtains had gone from the window of Mycroft’s office! Presently the door opened, and a succession of burly men carrying the desk, chairs and the portraits appeared. I watched as they marched in line, disappearing in the direction of Trafalgar Square, where Holmes and I had entered, earlier. All was still for several minutes before a rotund bowler-hatted man, possibly a foreman, left the premises after locking the door.

  I continued my observations for a further ten minutes, at a loss to explain this development. Had Holmes known, or suspected, that this would happen, or was it something else that he intended me to see here? Had Mycroft been recalled to Whitehall because of some sudden crisis? These and other possibilities filled my mind as I left East Cheshire Place. I wondered what Holmes would make of it.

  Mid-afternoon found me once more seated comfortably in our rooms. I had described to my friend the curious activity that I had witnessed in East Cheshire Place and he now considered, thoughtfully smoking his clay pipe.

  “You did well, Watson,” he said finally. “I see now why Mycroft conducted this charade.”

  “I confess that I am puzzled by his actions.”

  “Do you recall that the foreign spy, Micah Bitterfield, broke into Trasker’s house for no apparent reason?”

  “Of course. You believed that he had hidden a secret document there.”

  “Indeed. How did he come by that document?”

  “Your brother indicated that it had been stolen from the Foreign Office.”

  “Precisely. Therefore there is a German agent, or someone sympathetic to Germany, working in the Foreign Office. Naturally then, Mycroft would arrange to retrieve the document away from there, because his plans might be overheard or discovered. It is very like him to take such precautions, and we can now proceed with the certainty that the German agent is unaware of our connection with this affair.”

  I had no time to reply before Holmes put out his pipe and indicated his travelling bag, placed near the door.

  “It would be as well to get a few things together, Doctor. Our train leaves Paddington in less than an hour.”

  The journey was a short one. I can remember Holmes making but one remark while we travelled, as the open fields and leafy glades replaced the smoky city buildings.

  “At all costs, Watson, we must keep the existence of the hidden list from everyone at Oaklands Hall.”

  “Would not Lestrade have mentioned it to Trasker, during his interview?”

  “Not at all. The subject of that exchange was the breaking and entering of the house, nothing more.”

  We pulled into Richmond Station soon after, and walked out into a tree-lined lane to where a trap awaited us in the charge of a huge, hulking man with an unkempt beard. To my surprise, he smiled warmly and shook Holmes by the hand.

  “Mr. Holmes, it is good to see you again,” he said, “and your companion is Doctor Watson, I am sure.”

  We also shook hands and Holmes explained. “This, Watson, is Detective-Sergeant Querry, who works closely with Lestrade. I met him a short while ago at the Yard.”

  “Inspector Lestrade is aware of the strange happenings at Oaklands Hall,” Querry said. “When Mr. Trasker’s groom fell ill, the inspector managed to get me in as a temporary replacement.”

  “I must congratulate Lestrade on his astuteness,” Holmes commented as we climbed aboard the trap. “I would be greatly in your debt, Querry, if you would tell me as much as you can about the house and its occupants.”

  Querry took up the reins and the horse at once broke into a trot. “Oaklands Hall is a Stuart mansion,” he began, “owned by the Trasker family for several generations. It is surrounded by forest and a wide expanse of open field, and is maintained by the income from foreign investments.”

  “Most interesting, but what of the present occupants?”

  “Well, there is Mr. Trasker and his sister, or rather, half-sister, and two guests who arrived by the earlier train. They are Mr. Cromer and Mr. Fullerton, but as yet I know nothing else of them. The staff, apart from myself, comprises of Gerrard, the butler, the cook, and two maids.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes. “Since arriving there, have you seen anything or anyone out of the ordinary?”

  Querry urged the horse into a gallop. “There is the business of the coach, of course. Mr. Trasker is looking rather unwell of late, so I am wondering if he is more upset by this than he appears. As for strangers, Mr. Holmes, I have seen none save the gentleman who asked directions from Miss Lillette, earlier today.”

  “Where was this?”

  “There is a gate at the side of the house. Miss Lil
lette was picking flowers for the table, as she sometimes does, when the gentleman walked past.”

  “He appeared on foot?”

  “He did. I imagine him to have been a hiker, for quite a few pass the house on their way to Little Chillington, the village two miles further along the road.”

  “Is that a large place?” I interrupted.

  “None of the villages are around here, doctor. There is only the church, an inn, the livery stables, the Post Office, various small shops, and a few farm labourers’ cottages.”

  The road was quiet, except for the occasional farm cart. We passed a wide field, which Querry referred to as The Old Deer Park, and water that he called Syon Reach, where herons watchfully awaited their prey.

  “Does this road pass the house and continue through the village?” Holmes asked.

  “It does, sir. The house is around the next bend. We will be there soon.”

  Oaklands Hall stood a short way back from the road, so that it was possible to pass through the narrow courtyard before joining the road again at a point further on. A wide strip of lawn separated the house from the road.

  Querry brought the horse to a gentle halt. Holmes was quickly on his hands and knees, examining the area around the front door.

  “Most interesting,” was his only comment as he stood up.

  The iron-studded door was opened almost immediately by the butler, as Querry took the trap around the back of the house to the stables.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” the butler intoned at once. “Please come in, gentlemen.”

  We had given up our hats and coats, when a short, balding man rushed up to us. His eyes appeared sunk in his head, and I detected a tremor in both his handshake and his voice.

  “Trasker, my good sirs, Rodney Trasker,” he explained breathlessly. “It is so good of you to visit us, and a pleasure to meet you both.”

  “My brother speaks well of you,” Holmes replied. “I am here to help in any way that I can.”

  Mr. Trasker glanced over his shoulder hurriedly, to ensure that none of the other people entering the hall could hear.