The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  Barker shook his head and rumbled, “No, he wasn’t. Based on what he observed, Mr. Holmes directed me to go to the workshop in Exmouth Street and ask a few questions. It didn’t take long to winkle out that Meeser here was the true brains behind the operation. He owned the Wheel. He’s the one that designed it and built it, too. From some things he let slip to his neighbor, a widow named Mrs. Crabtree that he fancied bragging in front of, he was a bit worried that it was too close to Ferris’s design, so he hid behind Charters, a man he hired to be the face of the business.”

  Meeser lowered his head, but made no move either to defend himself or deny Barker’s statements.

  “Barker,” said Lestrade, “you said ‘based on what he observed’.” Turning to Holmes, he twisted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes smiled. “When I examined Charters’ body, still reclining in one of the Wheel’s carriages, I found the candies and empty wrappers, as well as the evidence that Charters had recently eaten them. I could smell the poison on his breath and later in the uneaten candies. That part was clear. But I also observed that Charters’ hands were very soft and had no callosities whatsoever. His nails were quite clean, with no indications of dirt or grease that might be associated with one who builds and works with mechanical devices. In short, his hands did not appear to be those of a working man or an inventor. When I heard that he had supposedly designed and built the Wheel, I did not believe it.

  “I also noted that Mr. Charters’ shoes were a notably large size of a very common and rather cheap style. At that point, it was only a fact to be docketed. Later, we were able to speak with Mr. Meeser. At that time, I already disbelieved the statement that Charters was the builder of the Wheel. But here was a man who did have a workman’s hands. Now, that is not unusual or unexpected, since he took care of the daily maintenance and operation of the Wheel. However, during our conversation, it became apparent that he was rather defensive against criticisms of the machine, especially when the statement was made that the design had been copied from that of Ferris. But most important, his shoes, of a much smaller size, were very well made indeed, and though worn, quite expensive. A closer examination of his clothing revealed that, while it is well used, it is also of excellent quality, and quite likely tailored. I believe, in fact, that his garments were made by Tundell’s, off the Strand. Again, a fact that by itself was only curious, but something to be retained for later consideration.

  “I had thus decided that Mr. Meeser might well be the true designer and builder, and therefore the owner, of the Wheel, although I had no idea why he would conceal the fact and hide behind the straw man, Charters, and it was not my business to reveal it at that time just for the satisfaction of confirming it. But I did want to learn the truth, since the supposed owner of the contraption had just been murdered, and perhaps there was a connection. When I luckily observed friend Barker here, I sent him to confirm or deny my hypothesis regarding Mr. Charters’ status. As you’ve heard, he has done so.”

  “But the poisoned candies, Holmes?” I asked. “How does it all connect?”

  “Surely it is obvious, Watson. The first clause gives some degree of ownership of the circus to the Wheel’s owner if something were to happen to either Mr. Green or Mr. Bouchard. That might be extended and interpreted to cover what would happen if one or the other chose to sell out, should the operation lose its profitability. The second clause means that the circus could stay at this location indefinitely as long as some part of it were still functioning, since it could not be evicted while still in operation. It was a clear motivation for the Wheel’s owner to try and gain control of the circus, thus giving him both ownership and a perpetual site in which to run his wheel.

  “After managing to get the agreement signed, with the naïve belief that it would hold up legally, our killer set about trying to sabotage the circus, hoping that one or the other of the owners would become dispirited and decide to sell out, or forfeit the shares per the agreement. Then, becoming impatient when that didn’t seem to be working, he tried something more desperate, proving most certainly that his mechanical genius does not extend to planning a murder.”

  At this, Meeser raised his head, with a look of defiance on his face that was quite different from the meek persona that he had shown so far. “It’s true that I am the Wheel’s owner,” he said. “But you have no proof that I poisoned any candy. I don’t know why Charters killed himself that way, but you can’t pin it on me.”

  “My examination of the floor of this caravan,” continued Holmes, for the moment ignoring the small man and revealing his evidence point by point, “confirmed that Mr. Charters was in here earlier today. I know that it was today because his large shoes were obviously damp from walking outside after the rains this morning. On the floor, his prints are underneath all of the other recent tracks that we have made since entering. He came in earlier, looking for either of the two owners, before leaving again and encountering Mr. Green by the Wheel. While he was here, he noticed the big box of chocolate-covered almonds on the desk, and he couldn’t resist taking some, probably thinking they wouldn’t be missed. Even if he was one of the people who can smell cyanide in this form, he would have likely believed that it was simply part of the strong flavoring of the almonds.

  “If he had eaten them as he walked from here to the Wheel, or even while he stood at this desk, he would have died sooner. But he waited to enjoy them while taking his regular ride on the Wheel.”

  “That still doesn’t connect anything with me,” said Meeser.

  “I believe,” said Holmes, “you said that it would not be unusual for Mr. Charters to stop in here to look for either of you?”

  Bouchard nodded, and Green said, “That’s right.”

  “Would there have ever been any reason, any reason at all, for Mr. Meeser to have entered this caravan?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Bouchard definitely.

  “Not even to lean in the door?”

  “No.”

  “Never,” added Green.

  “And certainly he would not have been allowed or expected to walk up to Mr. Green’s desk, for instance.”

  “Certainly not.”

  Turning to Meeser, Holmes said, “I did neglect to mention one important fact, Mr. Meeser. Along with the footprints of the deceased, Mr. Charters, on the floor, and those that came later from the owners, the inspector, Dr. Watson, and myself, there was one other, earlier, set. They were underneath and overlapped by those of Mr. Charters. They were your size, very good quality, and made by shoes carrying a distinctive design, also of Tundell’s off the Strand. You left those prints, Mr. Meeser, when you brought in the box of poisoned candy, labeled with a false card to frame Mr. Bouchard, and deposited it here on Mr. Green’s desk in order to kill him.

  “Finally, it should be noted that there is a grease mark on the candy box that corresponds to that made by a left hand. The grease itself seems to be the type associated with machinery. And I note that, while the fact that the mark was made by a left hand is eventually inconclusive, as there are a great many left-handed people in the world, the only left-handed person in this room right now, a man who happens to have that same mechanical grease on his hands, is you, Mr. Meeser.”

  The small man was silent, his eyes dropping slowly from where they had been fixed on Holmes to his own hands, fingers twisted in his lap. Finally, he spoke.

  “That idiot wasn’t supposed to eat the candy. It was an accident. Granted I left it here, and you can try and prove why, but Charters’ death was an accident. You can’t charge me for an accident. It was his own fault for taking candy that didn’t belong to him.”

  Holmes’s eyes widened in amusement. “How,” he asked, changing course, “did you know about the property clause that would allow the circus to stay on in perpetuity without being evicted?”

  Meeser hung his head
and shrugged as if surrendering. “After I built the Wheel, I couldn’t find anywhere to set it up. I owed money for loans I’d acquired while constructing it, and I’d heard that Ferris was coming after me for stealing his design. Which I didn’t!” He looked up then, turning his head from side to side, his gaze fierce, and his breathing increasing for a moment, before he resumed in the earlier defeated tone. “I went to the owners of this very property to see about putting the Wheel here permanently. They weren’t interested. They said there was already a wheel at Earls Court.

  “Something the property owners said made me curious about who was going to be occupying this site, and I broke into their offices to find out more about it. That’s where I saw their copy of the lease, showing that the circus could stay here as long as it wanted. I recognized right off how powerful something like that could be. If I could somehow get my Wheel established at this circus, with that clause in the agreement, I would never have to leave. Because once I got it up and running, I wouldn’t have to stop, as long as I could make the circus stay there too. I could make enough money to pay off my debts, and I could use the ideas I’d developed while building my wheel to construct other machines here, amusements that the public will also want to ride. Bigger wheels, and vehicles that give the feeling of great speed or vertical drops.”

  “But that was only the first part of the plan,” prompted Holmes. “The next was making yourself a part-owner.

  “Based on what I had read of the wording of the property agreement, I designed my own document so that I could end up with at least part ownership of the circus. Then, since we couldn’t be evicted, I’d slowly switch from a traveling attraction to something permanent, a destination for people to visit who wanted to be thrilled with mechanical wonders, and not the same old trapeze acts and animal tamers.

  “After I had identified this circus from the copy of the agreement in the owner’s office, I traveled north for a few days to Easingwold and hung around, learning what I could. I found that Mr. Green was the one that would need to be approached. It worked out well that his partner was away for a few days. I schooled Charters in what to say, and got him to fix up the agreement. He’d been a salesman at some point, and a good one, too, and it worked well in convincing Mr. Green.”

  Green looked down, while Bouchard snorted.

  “Surely the document was non-binding, as it was signed as if Charters was the true owner,” said Lestrade.

  “I had a separate arrangement giving him limited authorization to conduct such agreements in my stead.”

  “And then, hoping that one of the owners would get discouraged, you began to create the accidents, giving the impression that the circus was now unlucky.”

  Meeser nodded and said softly, “I thought if it became financially unsound, I could convince one of them to sell out to me.”

  “But that didn’t work,” said Holmes. Meeser shook his head.

  Bouchard started to speak, but Holmes interrupted him. “An interesting vision, this mechanical carnival you planned. But you became impatient.”

  “Mr. Bouchard had been arguing to have the Wheel removed.”

  “So you decided to force the issue with the poisoned chocolates. Rather foolish, to try to kill Green, who actually seemed to agree with you regarding the use of amusement-related machinery. Surely you see now that it wasn’t worth committing murder.”

  “But this wasn’t murder,” whined Meeser. “Whatever might have been intended didn’t happen. This was just an accident. Charters killed himself, you see. It’s no different than if he’d been playing with a loaded gun he’d found and shot himself.”

  “An interesting defense,” said Lestrade. “It might save you from the rope, but I doubt it.” The inspector stood up. “I’ll be very interested indeed to hear how it plays at your trial, Mr. Meeser. Come with me.”

  He took Meeser’s arm and pulled him up. At the door, the small man turned suddenly, looking toward the two owners. “I’ll be sending someone else to keep track of my machine,” he said. “The arrangement still stands, you know, whatever else happens here. Whenever you run it, a part of the proceeds belongs to me. I suspect that I’ll be needing them.”

  Bouchard looked at Green, who looked back and then dropped his eyes. “The Wheel is closed,” said Bouchard. “Effective immediately.” He glared at the little man. “There shall be no more proceeds!”

  Meeser looked stricken. “You... you can’t! You can’t do that! We have an agreement.”

  “We have an agreement to give you a share from the operation of the Wheel. We do not have to agree to keep operating it. And I can assure you that the agreement will be dissolved altogether before the day is over, if I have my way!” replied Bouchard. “Good day, sir.”

  We all followed Lestrade and his prisoner outside. With our thanks, Barker departed. The inspector placed Meeser in the custody of several constables, who began to march him toward Westminster Bridge, and so on, across to the Yard. Meanwhile, Holmes was speaking with Bouchard and Green. In a moment, he turned and said, “Lestrade?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It seems as if you get your wish, and the Wheel will be coming down, nearly immediately. But I’ve convinced these men to run it just one more time, so that you can have a ride on it, and conquer your fears before it’s gone.”

  The inspector froze, with a look on his face as if he were a stoat suddenly illuminated by a gamekeeper’s lantern. “I... umm, I would rather not.”

  “Lestrade, how often will you have this opportunity? Don’t pass it up. How else can you confront this aversion and defeat it? Shall Watson and I ride with you as well?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Holmes,” said Green. “I believe that my partner, Mr. Bouchard, who has also never had a go on it, would benefit from a last spin of the London Wheel.”

  So it was, a few minutes later, that Green, who had learned how to operate the machinery weeks earlier, shifted the lever that sent the contraption into motion one final time. Lestrade and Bouchard were buckled in together, and shrieking like terrified children with every revolution. I could get no sense through the entire voyage whether our friend the inspector was enjoying himself, or if each trip around and over and back down was as bad as the very first.

  As for myself, I refused to pass up the chance to take a ride upon the contraption, and was seated alone in an adjacent carriage. The sensation was certainly somewhat thrilling, and the view was interesting, although not the bird’s-eye vantage that had been promised. Still, I suppose that I would not have missed it. However, I did wonder at Holmes’s last minute indifferent decision not to join us, as he stood down below us at some little distance, arms resolutely folded beneath the caped shoulders of his Inverness, while he watched speculatively, his eyes shadowed by his fore-and-aft cap.

  The Adventure of the Half-Melted Wolf

  by Marcia Wilson

  Part I

  I have stated before that I am capable of giving myself virtuous airs. In all fairness, I must assure the reader that I can only respond to the circumstances of the occasion. Living with Sherlock Holmes was a frequent opportunity for High Theatre. My friend is as much the source of a grand performance as his audience. I assure you the majority of people who cross his path are honourable, but a fair number are not. They trap themselves beneath the gaze of his great brain, underestimating either his mental powers or over-estimating their own. It was on such an occasion that I found that Holmes could occasionally meet his match in spontaneous wit with Scotland Yard.

  It was a terrible day to be out. 1903 had been the wettest on record since 1766, save for a gloriously brief period of time in which central London saw a fortnight of fine and glad days past Goose Summer. My wife’s health had sent her to relatives in a more hospitable clime until first frost, and I closed our house to stay with my old friend Holmes. He was more than glad to put
up with the temporary inconvenience of my presence, and though the weather gave us the shared impression of being under siege warfare, we both enjoyed the return to our old bachelor arrangements.

  Our quartering proved fortuitous. In a few years Holmes would return to his old study of coal-tar derivatives and move abroad on sensitive events that I would detail to the Strand in 1917. For my part, I had a rare chance to collate some of our old cases, and encourage him to do the same, as neither of us chose to be idle in our evenings. For all his gibes of my archives within the banks of Cox, he had his own version of the same: curious cases wrapped in red tape and entombed within a tin crate capable of swallowing whole years of paper and record.

  We both were busy men, for this was our nature, and it was one of our last periods shared as friend and lodger. I do not believe there was ever a more lucrative string of clients as those who, in their haste to exploit the days before a dreary autumn, had beaten to our door ahead of the Boreal chill. This was excellent news for his banker, but Sherlock Holmes suffered from the lack of rest and ignored my urgings in his eagerness to pursue case after case.

  Upon the closure of this abnormal season with a string of lucrative clients that even I had to agree were “fulsomely mundane”, Holmes threw his purse upon his desk in a fit of temper and proclaimed that he planned to spend his celebration of autumn at the Domus Laventemi, and if he were to encounter another weak appeal of his fast-rusting brain, he must be troubled in person. Thus, my tiresome sermons were satisfied, and we found ourselves dozing away our quiet evening in the Turkish Baths.

  “I declare, Watson. If it isn’t Inspector Gregson.”

  It was indeed that large, tow-headed man standing under the lintel of our reclining room. To see him as another client was a surprise, but there was no mistaking his chalkstripe had been replaced with the white linens of the house. His face had pinked with the steam that plastered his yellow hair about his skull, and a white pipe rested in his thick hand.