The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  Some readers unfamiliar with the British peerage may be confused by the titles of Harden’s wife. The daughter of a Duke is not herself a peeress, but is entitled to a courtesy title and is addressed as “Lady” followed by her Christian name. Upon marriage to a commoner, she may retain the courtesy title, consisting of “Lady” followed by her Christian name and her husband’s surname. He acquires no title through the alliance.

  It was a rare occasion on which I was able to add to my friend’s knowledge of the world. I have in mind one such instance, which led to a case that proved to be among the more interesting of those undertaken by Sherlock Holmes. We were proceeding together along Regent Street, when Holmes’s eye was caught by a crowd of street urchins surrounding a well-dressed man, who appeared to be frantically attempting to escape their attention.

  “Halloa,” exclaimed Holmes. “I wonder who that might be, and why he has attracted such unwelcome notice.”

  It gave me some satisfaction to be able to provide him with an answer. “The gentleman in question is John Vincent Harden, and he is by birth a native of Virginia in the United States, though he now resides in this country, and he has amassed a fortune in tobacco.”

  Holmes regarded me quizzically. “How do you come to know him?” he asked. “I recognise the name, but I confess to having had no idea as to Harden’s appearance.”

  I laughed. “His marriage to Lady Julia, the daughter of the Duke of Northampton, was the social event of the year. The photographs of the young dashing millionaire and his beauteous bride were in all the illustrated magazines.”

  My friend shook his head. “Were they indeed? The whole affair passed me by unnoticed. But what is going on?” There were sounds of raised voices, the shriller voices of the street Arabs, and a deeper tone, which I took to be that of Harden. The voices suddenly stilled as the sound of a police whistle rent the air, and a uniformed constable pushed his way through the boys towards the beleaguered man, who, even as I watched, turned pale and dropped, apparently senseless, to the ground.

  Immediately, I made my way forward. By good chance, I happened to have with me my medical bag, having attended a case immediately before meeting Holmes, and, introducing myself to the constable as a member of the medical profession, bent to render aid to the stricken man.

  Upon my administering some sal volatile under his nose, he stirred a little and opened his eyes.

  “Are they gone?” he asked me.

  I took it that he was referring to the boys who had been persecuting him, and looked around. It seemed that the policeman had succeeded in dispersing his tormentors, and I informed him of the fact, together with my qualifications as a doctor.

  “Excellent,” he replied, in a voice that had but little of the American about it. “I apologise for my weakness, but this has been a strain under which I have lived for the past few months. I fear that my nerves will not permit me to venture outside my home if this continues.”

  “This is not a new complaint, then?” I enquired.

  “By no means. This dreadful business has been going on for some time, and I am at my wits’ end to know it might cease.”

  “This would appear to be a case for my friend,” I told him. I looked around for Holmes, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Come with me,” I said to my patient, helping him to his feet, and hailing a hansom, which I directed to take us to Baker Street.

  On arrival at 221b, I opened the door to our rooms to discover Holmes already there, reclining in his usual chair, and drawing contentedly on his pipe.

  “I had guessed that you would be bringing Mr. Harden here,” he smiled, “and therefore made my way here to arrange that Mrs. Hudson should bring us some refreshment. I trust that Watson here has taken good care of you?” he asked Harden.

  “Why, yes, indeed,” replied our visitor, somewhat bemused. “May I ask whom I have the honour of addressing? You are a doctor?”

  Holmes’s eyebrows raised somewhat. “Ah, Watson failed to provide my name? I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  “The detective? Your fame, Mr. Holmes, has crossed the oceans. Even a lowly American-born boy like myself has heard of your adventures.”

  “Lowly?” Holmes responded. “Quite apart from your marriage to the daughter of one of the oldest families of England, you have acquired somewhat of a reputation in your own right, if my sources are correct, with regard to your wealth and your singular methods of disposing of it.”

  “Ah, you refer to my habits prior to my marriage? Yes, I confess that my addiction to gambling and placing wagers of all kinds was somewhat out of the ordinary.”

  “The occasion on which you wagered ten thousand dollars on which of two ducks would first step onto the opposite bank of a river, for example?”

  “Five thousand only, sir. The tale grew in the telling. But I am now a married man, with a married man’s responsibilities. My father-in-law, the Duke, has warned me that he wishes to hear no more of such tales, and I, happy in my marriage, am content to give him assurance that he never will.”

  “And yet, what is the meaning of today’s incident?” I asked.

  He sighed. “As I mentioned to you, Doctor Watson, I have been the target of abuse and torment at the hands of these little ruffians for some time now. I had believed myself to be safe in the area of Regent Street, but these little imps followed me from my house near the Park, shouting and abusing me all the way.”

  “I could not distinguish the words,” Holmes told him. “What manner of abuse was this?”

  “Chiefly demands for money,” our visitor replied with a blush. “And there were other matters referred to, of a personal nature.”

  Holmes said nothing, but raised his eyebrows slightly.

  “I guess I should explain,” said Harden. “I am, as you are probably aware, a wealthy man, as these things are reckoned. As such, in America, where wealth and not birth alone is a passport to the best societies, I was moving in exalted circles.”

  Holmes smiled. “Despite all that you may have heard of the British, the truth, when one examines it, is not very different from that of America. But pray, continue.”

  “As I previously said to you, I was addicted to gambling. One evening, when I was somewhat in liquor, as I believe you say in this country, I made a shameful wager.”

  “Shameful in what sense?”

  “It concerned the daughter of a prominent man of the district. I would prefer not go into the details, but I would say that it involved some acts of an intimate nature between me and this woman. I won my wager, I am sorry to say, and I am ashamed of what I did, both of the infamous act itself, and the fact that I made a wager concerning it.”

  “And this is somehow connected with the persecution you are currently experiencing at the hands of these street urchins?”

  “It is most closely connected.”

  “The name of the man whose daughter was involved in this business?”

  “I would prefer not to mention it. Let me just say that he has risen to be a national figure, first as one of the United States Senators from our state, and lately has taken a place in the national Cabinet.”

  Holmes said nothing, but scribbled a name in his notebook, tore out the page, and handed it to Harden, who nodded. “You are correct, Mr. Holmes. It is he.”

  “He would seem to be a dangerous man to have as an enemy.”

  “And yet, when I lived in America, I met him many times, and there was no sense of animosity. He hardly appeared to me as an enemy at that time.”

  “It would appear, then, that he only discovered your adventure, if I may term it so, following your arrival in this country. Always assuming, that is, that it is he who is responsible for all of this.”

  “Who else could it be who would do such a thing? It was certainly after I arrived here, but it was some time following my marriage that th
e persecution started. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, it is going to be my undoing. I have to tell you that I bitterly regret my action. Indeed, within two days of winning the wager, I returned the money I had won, telling the other that I could not accept it. Poor fellow, he was not long for this life after my action, but it gave me some peace of mind. And now... now this.”

  “Surely the taunts of a few street Arabs cannot mean so much?”

  “If it were only that, Mr. Holmes, I would not say that I would be a happy man, but I would be much more at ease.”

  “There is more?”

  “Obscene and disgusting letters appear on my desk in the study of our London house. They have not passed through the hands of the Post Office. They are unstamped and placed in pristine envelopes.”

  “Then one of the servants has placed them there, evidently.”

  “Evidently. But which of them has done this? I have asked them all if they have placed anything on my desk. Of course, I do not mention what it is about which I am making the enquiry. However, none of them admits to anything. And, Mr. Holmes,” and here Harden spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, “I am a prisoner of your culture. I am a plain-speaking American and, forgive me, I find your English ways to be somewhat circuitous, and maybe even devious. I find myself unable to judge whether the servants are telling the truth or not. All have come highly recommended, and most have been in the service of Julia’s family for many years.”

  “And naturally, you cannot tell your wife any of this. I understand that. What is the content of these letters?”

  Again, Harden blushed. “They are such as I would not care to repeat anywhere. They make explicit reference to the wager that I made concerning Annabel - that is to say, the politician’s daughter.”

  “And yet few would know of it?”

  “Very few people knew of this wager. The man with whom I made the wager, and two others who were present when the wager was made and acted as witnesses. None of these is in this country, and indeed, one of the witnesses is no longer on this earth, having died some years ago.”

  “And apart from these references to your past, what more is contained in these messages? Demands for money, perhaps?”

  Harden shook his head. “Nothing of that nature. I confess to having expected some sort of blackmail when I saw the first of these letters.”

  “Would it be possible to see one of them?”

  “You may see for yourself,” Harden answered him, reaching in his coat pocket. “I cannot leave these letters lying around the house where Julia might chance upon them.”

  “And you choose not to destroy them?”

  “I cannot, Mr. Holmes. They serve me as a reminder of my determination never to return to the past - to be the man I once was.” He handed a folded piece of paper to Holmes, who examined it through one of his powerful lenses.

  “The paper itself is unremarkable, such as may be purchased at any stationer’s in London. The ink is Indian ink. I take it you keep none such in your house?”

  “There might be some used by the servants for marking items of laundry, I guess, but to the best of my knowledge, the answer to your question is a negative.”

  Holmes bent to the paper again. “The handwriting is definitely masculine, and almost certainly disguised. As to the matter of this missive - “ Holmes shrugged. “I refrain from passing comment. I take it that what is described here is an accurate account of what occurred?” The scarlet-faced Harden nodded dumbly. “And this is the kind of matter that the street urchins have been shouting after you?”

  “Their taunts have been similar, yes, but somewhat less explicit.”

  Holmes refolded the paper and passed it back to Harden, who put it in his pocket. “If I may be permitted to offer a little advice,” he said to our visitor, “I would immediately refrain from keeping them upon my person. Why, suppose it had been someone other than Watson who had assisted you, and had discovered those papers in your pocket? Someone with fewer scruples than my friend here?”

  A look of horror spread over Harden’s face as the possible consequences became obvious to him. “You are perfectly right, Mr. Holmes,” he said, and withdrew them. He appeared to be about to cast them into the fire, when Holmes held out his hand.

  “Pray allow me to keep them safe,” he said. “They are evidence, though naturally, I would never dream of exhibiting them in public, and they may prove to be a valuable weapon in the fight against your tormentors.”

  Harden’s face cleared. “You will act for me in this business, then?” he exclaimed, with an evident air of relief.

  “My dear sir, I had taken that for granted,” smiled Holmes.

  “Let me give you my card,” said Harden. “Should you discover anything of interest, you will let me know?”

  “Naturally,” said Holmes. “And I will expect you to play your part, by keeping me informed of any further developments at your end.”

  When Harden had left, Holmes, as was his habit, turned to me. “Well, Watson, what do you make of this?”

  “I hardly know what to say. I can see little motive for this persecution, other than young Mr. Harden would appear to be a somewhat sensitive young man, somewhat removed from the idea of the rough and tumble American that we are accustomed to imagining.”

  “‘Sensitive’, indeed,” said Holmes. “The very word. And I, too, wonder at the motives for such a persecution. Without a demand for money, or anything similar, it is hard to imagine what the aims of the criminal writing these notes, and paying the urchins to harass him, might be. I believe this is a case for Wiggins and the Baker Street Irregulars.” He rang the bell, and gave orders to Billy, our page, to locate Wiggins and bring him to 221b. “In the meantime,” he added, addressing me, “perhaps you can furnish me with a diagnosis of your patient.”

  “It is hard to tell, but when I examined him in the street, his heartbeat seemed irregular - perhaps more so than I would expect from a young man, even given the circumstances under which I found him. Also, as we have agreed, he appears overly nervous - I might even describe him as being mentally frail. Tell me, have you discovered anything more from the letters that he passed to you?”

  “I did not like to mention this before Harden, but it is my opinion that these letters proceed from no less a personage than Joshua Leman. I see the name means little to you. You may recall that at the time when we were dealing with Sir Henry Baskerville and his canine troubles, I informed you that I was engaged in a case concerning the blackmail of a prominent member of Society. My opponent on that occasion was Leman, and he proved a foe worthy of my steel. He, like Harden, originated on the far side of the Atlantic, and made his way to our shores. In Leman’s case, however, it was not love that brought him hither, I am sure, but fear of arrest and conviction were he to remain in his native land for any extended period.”

  “And you feel that this is his work?”

  “The writing is close to what I have encountered earlier, and the use of Indian ink as the medium in which the note is written is also most distinctive. If it were accompanied by demands for money, I would be almost certain of its authorship. However, since no such demand has been received, I confess I am baffled.”

  “But how have these documents arrived on his desk, given that the servants all protest their innocence?”

  “Leman’s tools are the servants of his victims. They are his eyes and ears, reporting to him all that may be of interest to him with regard to their masters and mistresses. On occasion, as I suspect is the case in this instance, they act as his hands, working his will at a distance. It is this that makes it so deucedly hard to prove anything against him. This may indeed prove to be one case where the wiles of the old country have overcome the naive optimism of the young colonial.”

  Shortly after this exchange, Mrs. Hudson admitted Wiggins, who reported to Holmes with the sol
emnity of a subaltern reporting to his colonel.

  “There is a gentleman living at this address,” Holmes told the lad, giving him the street and number of Harden’s house. “He is being followed around London by a group of boys who are shouting at him.”

  “Shouting what sort of things, sir?”

  “I want you to find out exactly what they are being told to shout, and who is telling them to insult this gentleman. You may carry this out alone, or you may choose to involve some of the other Irregulars. It is your choice. If you can come back to me by this time tomorrow with the answers to these questions, I will be most pleased, and I will pay you handsomely. Here are two shillings on account.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Wiggins, touching his cap. “I’ll get you your answers, never fear, sir.”

  “If that lad had had the benefit of being born into a better family, he would have the chance of becoming one of Scotland Yard’s finest officers when he grows up,” Holmes remarked to me as the sound of Wiggins’ boots down the stairs faded. “As it is, when he is of a proper age, I intend recommending him to one of the more intelligent of the Scotland Yarders - perhaps Hopkins - with the strong recommendation that his background, such as it is, be ignored, and his intelligence and initiative, which are considerable, be nurtured and encouraged.”

  It was with an air of great confidence that Holmes uttered these words regarding the source of Harden’s letters that I have recorded above, and it was with some surprise that he was proved wrong the very next morning, by the arrival of Harden at Baker Street, brandishing a piece of paper.

  “Another one?” Holmes asked.

  “Indeed. It appeared on my desk some time last night. I discovered it this morning.”

  “I see,” said Holmes.

  “I perceive that you are unimpressed by this, sir. Let me tell you more, which I omitted to tell you yesterday. My desk is of the roll-top type, where the surface of the desk is hidden by a sliding cover. In the past, I did not lock the cover at night, but since the first letter appeared on the desk, I started to secure the desk before retiring, and the letters still appeared beneath the locked cover.”