The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  “You will have great difficulty in proving your theory, Mr. Holmes,” said Morag.

  Holmes shook his head. “You have left a few tracks along the route of murder, Miss Cameron, that should convince a jury to consider the matter with great scrutiny.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. “This is yours, I believe. It has your initial on the corner and it is stained with blood. I found it in the waste paper basket in your father’s study where you dropped it, no doubt before you carried out your murderous deed. Although, it isn’t actually stained with blood, just something that replicates the colour and consistency - like cochineal. I observe that there is a little bottle standing on the shelf above your dressing table. You used it to fake a nose bleed, which would allow you to leave the sitting room on the evening of the crime and visit your father’s study in order to murder him.”

  Miss Cameron’s smile faded now, but she did not respond to Holmes’s claim.

  “You were wearing the black dress over there, and in the violence of your action, some of the tiny seed pearls became dislodged. I found four of them under your father’s chair.”

  “But why should I want to kill my father?”

  “Because he changed his will. I saw a copy of it in his desk drawer. No doubt the original is lodged with his solicitor. He was so opposed to you marrying a man of such lowly financial status, whom he took, quite wrongly, I believe, to be a fortune hunter, that he left you with only a small allowance on his death. He had warned you to cease your relationship with Mr. Sinclair and choose a man whom he believed was more worthy of the daughter of the Laird of Tragere. He was so angry at your insistence in continuing with this alliance that he meant to teach you a lesson for disobeying him. Isn’t that the case?”

  “He was a stubborn, foolish old man.”

  “But what good would killing him do?” asked Sinclair, his eyes now moist with tears.

  “It wasn’t as simple as that. She planned the murder in such a fashion as to implicate her mother. That is why she encouraged Mrs. Cameron to visit her father’s room during the course of the dinner the other evening. She knew that her mother would be discovered with the dead body, and thus implicated in the murder. With both her parents out of the way, she would become mistress of the Tragere estate. Isn’t that true, Miss Cameron?”

  The girl giggled and it was then for the first time I saw the madness in her eyes. They were wild and gleeful, and lacked any sign of contrition.

  “Is all of this really true, Mr. Holmes? It’s not a trick?” asked Sinclair, the depths of his despair resonating in his voice.

  “Of course it’s true, you idiot!” cried Morag, her features alive with excitement, and she gave another of her mad giggles. “My father had no right to block my inheritance. And so he paid the price for being so intransigent,” she snarled.

  “I think we should get Dr. Pavlow to give Miss Cameron a sedative, and then the police must be informed,” said Holmes softly.

  “Go to hell!” screamed the girl, twisting her body in a paroxysm of impotent anger.

  I just stared in pity and horror at the tormented creature, as did Andrew Sinclair, before he quietly turned on his heels and, like a sleepwalker, left the room.

  Despite our traumatic experiences of the previous day, as we travelled on the morning express from Edinburgh to London, my friend Sherlock Holmes tucked in to a hearty breakfast in the dining car.

  “Fuel for the long tiring journey ahead,” he grinned facetiously, and then added in a more serious tone, “And an antidote to the bleak tragedy we have left behind us.”

  I nodded. “It is Andrew Sinclair I feel the most sorry for. That young man has not only had his dreams of marital happiness cruelly snatched away from him, but it is a blight on his life that will live with him for the rest of his days.”

  “There are no winners in this matter. One must remember the father cruelly murdered and the widow who has not only lost her husband but her daughter also. The whole case has elements of a Greek tragedy. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” His eyes twinkled mischievously, knowing I would be appalled by such a statement.

  “When did you begin to suspect Morag Cameron?”

  “Well, the nose bleeding incident struck me as odd, and then when I found her discarded handkerchief in the wastepaper basket, that raised my suspicions further. Why should the girl wish to fake a nose bleed unless it was for a nefarious purpose? It was then that I began to see my way through the mist. Her presence in the murder room was assured, aided by the discovery of the seed pearls, but what puzzled me initially was the motive. Why should this young girl wish to kill her father? And then I discovered the copy of the will, recently dated, which indicated that the bulk of the estate was not going to Morag, as no doubt had been the case previously. Typical of the official police to overlook this piece of damning evidence. But the girl will never see the gallows. Her mental structures have crumbled under the weight of her obsession. It is clear that a kind of madness overtook her. She will end up in some institution for the rest of her life. Strangely, old boy, I feel rather sorry for her. A woman should be able to marry whomever she wishes without constraints and penalties. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course,” I nodded, with a smile. I was always fascinated when Holmes expounded his views on romance and matrimony.

  “Now then,” he said cheerily, “be so good as to pass me the toast and butter.”

  The Adventure of The Green Lady

  by Vincent W. Wright

  “It seems possible to me,” said an exasperated Sherlock Holmes from his armchair one evening in late May of 1897, “to find more interesting cases by sheer happenstance during a simple walk through the streets than by poring over the latest papers.” He sat forward, eyes closed, rubbing his hands up and down his face.

  “Am I to take it that you found nothing of interest in them?” I asked.

  “Nothing I choose to pursue,” he said, waving off the idea.

  “There’s no reason to constantly have your mind involved with a puzzle, Holmes. Relaxation has just as many health benefits as exercise or mental stimulation. Perhaps it’s a chance for you to go on holiday. No harm can be done in that.”

  “Idleness is not a suitable remedy for ennui,” he said with a sneer. Rising, he went to the window and stared out at the dusk. A slight sigh crossed his lips.

  As I write this, I recall the numerous visitors lately to our flat. Children looking for lost pets. Young women seeking advice on missing lovers. Business men who felt something amiss with their accountant or partner. Holmes had listened to them all, and some he offered assistance with clues as to where to look or what to do next. However, at the ends of those days I could see he was unfulfilled and rather anxious. He had rearranged his papers and scrapbooks several times, and his violin playing had been more intense, happening at all hours and for ever-increasing lengths of time. I sometimes found him bent over a glass vial or flask filled with some noxious substance, mumbling, and writing down notes. I had grown to detest such times, as any small noise or movement I made could, and often would, bring a look of annoyance from Holmes.

  There had, however, been two cases of note in the last month. The gruesome stabbing death of a clergyman named Dunn in a cabmen’s shelter was a case that Holmes had referred to as one that had tested all of his powers of deduction. Had it not been for him noticing one of the victim’s boots being laced differently from the other, the murder might have gone unsolved. Another case was the theft of a necklace belonging to Lady Grayburne. It had been stolen at a party while she was wearing it, even though she had not been aware of any physical contact with anyone. The reward was handsome and well-deserved, and the solution quite clever. Still, Holmes’s mind had already moved on by the time the police had shaken his hand.

  The evening of the 25th found us in an unbearable stupor. It was a lovely night w
ith abundant moonlight and a cool breeze wafting through our windows that fluttered the corners of our daily papers. I had sunk lazily into my chair with a recently acquired Hawthorne edition, anticipating a peaceful read. Meanwhile, Holmes stood near the windows plucking at the strings of his Stradivarius, making no effort to play a discernible tune. The sound of wheels upon the cobblestones below our window provided a sudden break in the gloom. A brougham had stopped just outside, and I went to the window and stood next to Holmes in time to watch a tall gentleman step out and walk toward our door.

  A little smile appeared on his face. “Let us hope for something better, Watson,” he said, while skipping across the room.

  After a quick rap on the door, Billy entered. “A man to see you, sir,” he said, handing Holmes his card.

  “G. A. Huntington. Thank you. Please show him up,” Holmes said, examining the card. “Would you be so good as to turn up the lamp, Watson?”

  Moments later, a smartly dressed man with a square face and pronounced jawline graced our door. Upon his six-and-a-half foot athletic frame he wore perfectly tailored clothing. From his dark gray frock coat and creased charcoal trousers, to the gold paisley vest worn over a white silk dress shirt, he was a picture of the latest fashions. All of this was accented by a large pair of black patent leather shoes without defects in the workmanship. No emotion showed on his mustachioed face as he stood there. His blue eyes darted all around at the room, as if inspecting it before entering. Holmes and I stepped forward. Without a word, he slowly removed his calfskin gloves, placed them inside his top hat, and handed them to me. I opened my mouth to protest, but a small nod from Holmes kept my tongue stilled.

  Our caller checked his auburn hair with his hands and then brushed at his lapels before looking at us. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked in a deep baritone voice.

  “At your service, Mr. Huntington,” Holmes said with a smile and a slight bow.

  Our visitor gave a doubting glance at me and then looked back at Holmes.

  “Sir, I would like to introduce you to my colleague, Dr. John Watson. Fear nothing of speaking before him. He is invaluable to me as a friend and biographer of sorts.”

  “I am not inclined to speak to secretaries or subordinates.”

  “Dr. Watson is neither, and your options are to speak to us both or leave,” Holmes said, his smile now gone.

  A tinge of red appeared on Huntington’s cheeks and his thick jaw tightened. He stood quietly for a moment before extending his hand to us both.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Would you care for some tea?” I offered. “I can have it brought up.”

  Huntington said nothing as he turned back to Holmes. “Your reputation for assisting with unique situations is the only reason I have deigned to come to this area. It would have been unacceptable otherwise.”

  “I can assure you that you have made a very important first step in considering me for any situation.”

  “We shall see,” said he. His eyes followed me as I placed his things on the dining table.

  “You’re an American.”

  “I am a Bostonian, Mr. Holmes,” Huntington shot back. “Geoffrey Alexander Huntington. Son of Isaiah Huntington,” he said, pausing for a moment as if awaiting a reaction. “My family has lived in Boston for many generations, and we are very important in social circles. It is very likely you have read about us.”

  “I can’t say that I have,” Holmes said while positioning himself near the back of my chair.

  “Well, my guess is that you simply don’t remember,” he said with a self-assured smirk. “But no matter. I am not here to discuss anything other than a robbery. You see, Mr. Holmes, I have been violated in a way that could bring me financial and personal embarrassment. And that just won’t do.”

  “Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Huntington,” I said.

  He looked down at the armchair I offered and poked at the fabric with the silver-tipped ebony cane he’d had draped over his arm. “I think I’ll stand,” he said, handing the cane to me. “And I shall not be taking any drinks at this time.” He crossed his hands behind his back and paced past the fireplace. I propped his cane on the side of my chair.

  “How can we be of assistance, sir?” Holmes asked, motioning for me to retake my seat.

  “I do not trust the local police here, Mr. Holmes. The ones in charge seem to be detached from their workforce. And that workforce! Bobbies I believe you call them. Bunglers is more like it. They simply do not stand up to Boston’s force in thoroughness or stature,” he said as he stopped to look at General Gordon’s picture. With a slight shake of his head he continued walking. “The truth is that I have never met an intelligent Englishman. It’s not your fault, I’m sure. However, it is likely the reason that so many of us left so long ago. Regardless, I have decided to call upon you because I know that the authorities come to you for help and not you to them. Ironically, you will be required to report to them after you have completed the task I’m going to lay before you. Now, do not take any offence when I tell you that I do not believe you have all the curious little powers others claim. It’s all a scam. It’s how you make your living. So, please don’t bother with your little act. But, you are the only one I can turn to for help because you are not officially an officer of any kind.” He stopped at the window. “So, are you familiar with the painting La Dame Verte d’Ypres by Tousignant?”

  “I am aware it was recently sold at auction, but I confess I know nothing more about it,” Holmes said.

  “I was the buyer. It cost more than most people will make in a lifetime, but I had to have it. He is the one artist I have sought, and it will be a magnificent addition to my collection back in Boston. The piece has hung in my apartment in The Stonechurch Building in Piccadilly since the sale last month. It is in a room with no windows and only one door in or out. No one has a key except for me, and I have very few visitors, and then only by invitation.”

  He turned toward us, looking straight over our heads.

  “It was stolen from me, gentlemen,” he said, closing his eyes. “It doesn’t matter how it was done, but it is still gone, none the less.”

  “And you would like me to recover it?” Holmes asked.

  He looked over at Holmes. “On the contrary, sir. I only need you to confirm that my apartment was broken into. I actually have no need to recover it at the moment.”

  “I am afraid I don’t understand. You paid a substantial sum for the item, but you don’t want to retrieve it?”

  “Not at this time, sir. And possibly never.”

  His statement caused me to stop in the middle of lighting my pipe. Holmes looked at Huntington, his eyebrows raised.

  “Perhaps I should explain further,” he said after looking at Holmes. “You see, gentlemen, I have had some problems with the local authorities. The painting has a troubled past, one that I was only slightly aware of. It had recently become available. One of your men, Assistant Inspector Elliot, found out I was the anonymous buyer, and hasn’t stopped interrogating me about it. Something about international trade laws and possibly a murder connected with the piece. I have told him I know nothing about where it has been or who owned it before it went up for auction, but he doesn’t seem to believe me.” Huntington pulled a red silk handkerchief from his inside pocket and dabbed imperceptible perspiration from his brow. “It is my intention to soon return to Boston, but the police have informed me that I cannot leave with the painting until their investigation is finished. This is unacceptable. My reputation would be compromised.”

  “Don’t you think that the Inspector will find it an unusual coincidence that the piece has vanished just as you’re trying to do the one thing you cannot if you still had it?”

  “He will have no choice but to believe me, for you see, I know who stole it.”

  “You can prove this per
son stole it?” asked Holmes.

  “I do not need to. I only need to show that I no longer have it. With your word and that of another, I will be able to do just that,” he said, resuming his pacing.

  “Who is this man?” I asked.

  “A career criminal, Doctor. A crafty little devil named Phineas Baxter. He has a penchant for law-breaking of any kind. I have seen him in the area several times in the past couple of weeks, and I am certain it was he who stole it.”

  “How can you be so sure, Mr. Huntington?” Holmes asked.

  “I know of his work. His crimes are almost impossible to detect. He leaves no traces. His nickname is ‘The Ghost’. I saw him standing across the street just recently. Shortly after I found the painting gone.” Huntington paused and lifted one shoulder. “But it all worked out perfectly. Time is a factor in my future plans, so his presence was necessary and helpful. Without his addition to all of this I don’t know when I would have reported the piece gone.”

  Holmes stepped from behind my chair, his brows deeply furrowed. “Forgive my confusion, sir, but wouldn’t you have known when you noticed the large opening where the painting had been?”

  Huntington sighed heavily. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. But as I said, this Baxter fellow is very clever. He somehow acquired my key, then stole the original painting and left a nearly perfect fake in its place.”

  In the sixteen years I had worked with Holmes, I had never seen such a look of surprise and shock on his face. I am certain he would have been unable to refrain from laughing if he was not so taken aback by what had just been said. He fell heavily into his chair, blinked a few times, rubbed his forehead, and then sat at the edge of the seat.

  “Allow me to see if I have the facts correct: Baxter broke into your flat and then into a room to which only you possess a key, took a painting out of its frame, replaced the original with a copy, and made off without any sound or proof that he was there. Is this accurate?”

  “I know it sounds incredible, but it’s true. Once the theft occurred, I paced about the room until I figured out what to do next. The police were out of the question. That’s why I called on you.” He turned once again and glared at us. “I will not stand for any embarrassment from this, gentlemen, and I do not have to convince you of my honesty. All I need from you is to confirm that the break-in occurred and then let the police know so that I can be done with the whole ordeal and leave this city.”