The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  “No doubt they thought they would be beyond our reach before we had discovered what had happened,” agreed Brad-street. “I should very much like to know,” he added, “what their motives might be.”

  “From what I have seen of him,” said Townsend, “I should not have said that Mr Smith was a man of any great wealth.”

  “I do not think it is money they are after,” said Holmes with a shake of the head. “The fact that your captors summoned ‘Hippolyta’ to see you, and that she then appeared to berate them for the mistake they had made, suggests that the issue may be something personal to that lady herself. It is, however, pointless to speculate further in the absence of data,” he continued, leaning back in his seat and filling his pipe. “We shall be able to question the scoundrels directly in a little while.”

  The sky had clouded over by the time we reached the coast, and as we alighted from the train a strong salt breeze was blowing off the sea. Up above, against the leaden sky, crowds of raucous, wind-buffeted seagulls wheeled and dived in endless spirals. We hurried to the harbour master’s office, where we were met by Superintendent Waldron of the Dover Harbour Police.

  “I have them here,” said he. “They were not a difficult group to recognize,” he added with a chuckle. “The big fellow looked inclined to give us a bit of trouble at first, but the woman said something to him and he quietened down soon enough. I’ll have them brought up now.”

  The harbour outside the window was crowded with shipping, and I was gazing upon this busy scene, where a forest of masts and spars, flags and rigging thronged the sky, when the door was opened and the fugitives were led in. The officer in charge read out their names from a sheet of paper. There was Captain Alexei Ostralici, as I had seen him depicted on posters, the lines about his large, gentle eyes bespeaking fatigue at the end of a strenuous season. Next to him stood Tadeusz Grigorski, otherwise known as “the Great Tadeusz”, his waxed moustache aquiver at the indignity of his situation. By his side was an enormous man, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. He was named as Viktor Kosciukiewicz, but was instantly recognizable as “Vigor, the Hammersmith Wonder”. Last of all, and standing a little apart from the others, was a graceful, delicately featured woman, elegantly attired in a dark blue travelling costume. Named as Miss Vera Buclevska, she would be more readily known to the general public as “Queen Hippolyta of the Circus Ring”.

  It is an odd and unsettling effect that a woman can sometimes have upon a gathering. To those who have experienced this, I need say nothing. To those who have not, no words of mine can adequately convey my meaning. I am not speaking simply of beauty, far less of ordinary prettiness, but of something else, akin in its effects to a mysterious species of magnetism, but which is, in truth, quite indefinable. Such was the effect Miss Buclevska appeared to have upon the harbour master’s office at Dover that afternoon, for upon her entrance an odd silence seemed to fall upon the room, and for a moment no one spoke.

  “Well?” said Miss Buclevska herself at length, in strongly accented English, looking at each of us in turn.

  Inspector Bradstreet cleared his throat. “This gentleman,” said he, indicating Mr Townsend, “has laid a serious charge against three of you, that you kidnapped and held him prisoner for several hours yesterday. What have you to say to this charge?”

  Miss Buclevska glanced quickly at her companions, then turned to face us once more.

  “I will speak for all,” said she softly. “These men acted for my sake. We deeply regret what occurred. The gentleman you indicate,” she continued, looking at Townsend, “has every right to feel aggrieved, but we meant him no harm. It was a most unfortunate mistake, and we are sorry for it.”

  “You meant Mr Townsend no harm,” interrupted Holmes, “only because your friends in fact intended to kidnap his fellow lodger, Jacob Smith.”

  “His name is not Smith,” said she, her eyes suddenly flashing fire. “His true name is Jakob Schmidt, for he is a German. But, yes, they did intend to kidnap him, as you say. I did not ask them to do it, but they believed I wished it. He is an evil man, but a man with a silver tongue. Throughout Brandenburg his name is reviled and men spit when they hear it. Some years ago he announced a great scheme to build new docks on the banks of the River Havel, north-west of Potsdam. Success was assured, so he declared. Enormous amounts of money were subscribed. Many people gave their life savings to the project. Alas, all his assurances proved worthless. The entire scheme collapsed, and all those who had subscribed money were ruined. All, that is, save one man. That man, as you will guess, was Herr Schmidt himself. The crash of his company left him a surprisingly wealthy man. Of course, there was a public outcry and enquiries and investigations followed, but nothing could be done about it, for Schmidt had acted entirely within the law. He was a lawyer himself, and knew how to arrange such things in his own favour. When the enterprise collapsed, with scarcely a penny to its name, much of the missing money was, in truth, in Schmidt’s own hands, but the law could do nothing.”

  “You lost money in Schmidt’s scheme?” queried Holmes. “This is the connection between you?”

  “I lost a little,” said she. “No one in Brandenburg at that time escaped unscathed from Schmidt’s foul and dishonest schemes. But that is not what makes me bitter. I tell you these things only so you know the type of man he is. My own unfortunate connection with that evil devil is a more personal one.

  “Some years ago, my younger sister Krystina and I had a riding act together. You may have heard of the Buclevska Sisters. We performed in Warsaw, Vienna, Budapest and many other places, and had, I may say, a considerable renown. One summer we had been performing in Berlin and were taking a short holiday near Potsdam. This was at the time that Jakob Schmidt’s local celebrity was at its height, before the smash came. We met socially, and Herr Schmidt’s silver tongue turned Krystina’s head. I warned her against him, for even then I did not trust him, but she would not listen. Soon he had persuaded her to go away with him to his summer home in the south, and she became estranged from her family and from her friends. All were shocked and distressed at this, but what could be done? So much had he twisted her to his wishes that she would not even speak to me, Vera, her sister.

  “Of course, you can imagine the rest. When the financial smash came, Schmidt left the district, and cast Krystina off without a thought, like an old shoe. All the promises he had made to her proved as worthless as the promises he had made to the people of Potsdam. Presently, my sister crept back home, but something within her had died. We welcomed her back without a word of censure, but her own heartbreak and shame were destroying her. She did not last six months, gentlemen. If anyone tells you that a broken heart cannot kill, do not believe them, for I have seen it happen. Krystina pined away, became very ill and, one fine spring morning, passed beyond all mortal help. That is the connection between Herr Schmidt and myself about which you enquired.”

  Vera Buclevska finished speaking and stood facing us defiantly, her cheeks flushed and her lip trembling.

  “You wished to see Schmidt, then,” said Holmes after a moment.

  She nodded her head and passed her hand across her brow. “That is so,” she replied. “I learned that he was living in London. I wrote to him twice, but received no reply. Then my friends here, knowing how the matter was distressing me and affecting my performance, took it upon themselves to bring him forcibly to see me. Alas! They knew nothing of Schmidt other than what I had told them, and they seized the wrong man, as you know.”

  “Where is Schmidt now?” asked Holmes.

  “Now?” the lady repeated. “I do not know, and nor do I care!”

  Holmes frowned. “But you called upon him this morning. We had your description from his housekeeper.”

  “That is so. The miserable coward sat trembling as we spoke. I accused him of the evil he had done to Krystina and to the poor people of Brandenburg. To all my remarks he said nothing, expressing neither sorrow nor remorse. On his face was only fear. Ev
entually Tadeusz pressed upon me that I was wasting my time, and was succeeding only in making myself more miserable. Besides, I could see for myself that Schmidt was ill – he had declined dreadfully since the last time I saw him – and it was clear that all his dishonesty and scheming had brought him no happiness. We therefore withdrew. My only hope now is that I never see that odious reptile again as long as God permits me to live.”

  “You did not force him to go anywhere with you?”

  “Certainly not. I could not bear to remain in his company a moment longer.”

  “But he has disappeared.”

  Miss Buclevska’s mouth fell open in surprise, and it was clear that this news was unexpected.

  “It was feared that some harm had befallen him,” continued Holmes.

  “Not at our hands,” said she.

  Bradstreet cleared his throat again. “This makes it rather difficult,” said he. “I shall have to wire to London for further enquiries to be made. In the meantime—”

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and a uniformed official entered.

  “I’m to tell you that the boat must leave in ten minutes,” said he, “with or without the Ostralici party. There is also a message for Inspector Bradstreet,” he added, holding out a thin sheet of paper.

  The policeman took the sheet and read it, then he looked up with a smile.

  “It is from one of my colleagues,” said he. “He considered it would be of interest to me. Jakob Schmidt walked into Paddington Green Police Station this afternoon at three o’clock, demanding protection against a gang of foreigners who he said were terrorizing him. Apparently he had been hiding in the British Museum all day!”

  There was perceptible relief on every face there. We had all, I think, been moved by Vera Buclevska’s story and were glad to have her statement confirmed.

  Captain Ostralici smiled wearily. “So,” said he. “Matters are resolved. Are we permitted to leave now?”

  Inspector Bradstreet hesitated and looked at Mr Townsend. “A serious criminal offence has been committed,” said he at length, “whatever the reasons for it may have been. Mr Townsend was forcibly kidnapped yesterday morning and held against his will.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Townsend abruptly in a quiet voice, looking a little embarrassed to be the centre of attention as we turned to hear what he would say. “I wasn’t harmed,” he continued after a moment. “I understand what lay behind it now, and I accept the apology that has been made to me. I would rather not press charges, Inspector.”

  Bradstreet raised his eyebrow. “Very well, then,” said he, addressing Captain Ostralici and his friends. “The matter is closed, and you are free to go.”

  “I’ll arrange to have your luggage put aboard at once,” said the harbour official, and hurried from the room.

  Captain Ostralici stepped forward, clicked his heels and shook Townsend’s hand. “Sir, you are a gentleman,” said he with a little bow. “You may like to know that Miss Buclevska has lately done me the honour of consenting to be my wife. We are to be married in Warsaw next month. Your generosity in this matter has removed the one dark cloud that hung over our preparations.” Vigor and Tadeusz then shook hands with Townsend, and finally Miss Buclevska took his hand in hers.

  “You are a very kind and generous man, Mr Townsend,” said she softly, “and deserve happiness. We return in the spring,” she added after a moment, “and I hope to see you at the circus then.” Townsend, who appeared to have stopped breathing, merely smiled and nodded as she released his hand and turned to follow her companions from the room.

  “Capital!” cried Holmes in a gay tone, clapping his hands together. “This calls for a celebration, and as we appear to have missed a meal today, I suggest we take advantage of our situation and sample the fare at one of the local fish restaurants!”

  There was general assent to this suggestion and, five minutes later, Holmes, Bradstreet, Townsend and I found ourselves on the upper floor of a large restaurant near the harbour, where a balcony looked out across the sea. The clouds were beginning to break up again and blue sky was showing through.

  “There goes the ship!” cried Holmes all at once, and we watched as the channel packet slipped slowly out of the harbour, carrying those singular circus folk upon their long journey to the east. Slowly the vessel drew away from the shore, until it was a mere dot upon the broad expanse of sea.

  “What a very strange affair!” remarked Bradstreet in a thoughtful voice as our meal was served.

  “A singular business, indeed!” concurred Holmes with a chuckle. “I should not have missed it for the world! For you and me, Bradstreet, it has meant an afternoon at the seaside, away from the smoky city, for Mr Townsend, the return of his precious cigar case, and a story his friends will scarcely credit, and for Dr Watson, another entry in that catalogue of the mysterious and recherché, which he so delights in compiling!”

  The Adventure of

  DEDSTONE MILL

  A Surprising Letter

  IT IS WITH SOME RELUCTANCE that I take up my pen to tell what I know of the East Harrington tragedy. Few readers will need reminding of an affair that appalled the whole country and cast such a cloud over that part of Leicestershire in which the events took place. Though some years have passed since details of the matter filled the pages of every newspaper in the land, such events slip less easily from the nation’s memory than from the nation’s press, and if it were argued that no fresh account of the matter is called for, I should, generally speaking, be inclined to agree. But many of the details of the case passed unreported at the time, and of all the newspaper accounts I read, only that of The Times was accurate, and that, although accurate, was not complete, so that much rumour and speculation accompanied the case, almost all of which was without foundation, as I am able to state with some authority. Indeed, my intimate involvement in the matter from an early stage places me in a unique position to give an accurate account of it, and perhaps also entails upon me now the duty to do so, and so confound those rumour-mongers who delight in blackening the names of the innocent. A further consideration concerns the many letters I have received over the years, requesting that I clarify this point or that in connection with the case, and it is also, therefore, in the hope of satisfying all these many correspondents that I have at last decided to publish this account.

  In writing this series of short sketches it has been my constant intention to demonstrate the unique skills of my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, without whose intervention many of these tales would have been mysteries without solution. In selecting the cases to be included in the series, therefore, I have always sought, on the one hand, to choose those that offered my friend scope for the exercise of the remarkable powers he possessed, and, on the other, to avoid the depiction of sensational events merely for their own sake. Should the reader feel that the present narrative displays a falling-away from either or both of these ideals, I can only offer in mitigation the reasons given in the first paragraph above, and add that where the matter is of such great public interest, it would perhaps be perverse of me to omit it entirely from this series.

  Following my marriage, and subsequent establishment in general practice in the Paddington district of London, I naturally saw somewhat less of Sherlock Holmes than in earlier years. But my interest in his cases and in the methods he used to solve them remained undiminished, and I was always glad of an opportunity to discuss his work with him. He had an invitation to dine with us whenever he wished, but it was only infrequently that we saw him at our table, for his practice, which was by then considerable, occupied most of his waking hours. It was with surprise and pleasure, then, that I returned home from a tiring afternoon round, one dull Monday in September, to learn that we had received a note from him.

  “Mr Holmes wishes to dine with us this evening,” said my wife with a smile.

  “That is splendid news!” said I. “I shall open a bottle of that vintage claret which old Mr Wilkins gave us las
t month! I have only been waiting for a suitable occasion!”

  Holmes arrived punctually and we enjoyed a very pleasant meal, exchanging many humorous anecdotes from our respective practices. As the table was cleared, however, I observed a thoughtful look upon his face.

  “You have something on your mind,” I remarked.

  He turned to me and smiled. “You and I have certainly become transparent to each other over the years,” returned he with a chuckle. “But, yes, there is something upon which I should very much value your opinion.”

  My wife had risen to leave us, but Holmes called her back. “Mrs Watson,” said he, “if you, too, could spare a few minutes, your observations might prove invaluable to me. I know you are eager to be cutting out and making up your curtains, but I do not think you will be disappointed by the matter I wish to lay before you.”

  “Why, however do you know about the new curtains?” said she, resuming her seat with an expression of surprise upon her features.

  “I observed a brown paper parcel from Marshall Snelgrove in the hall as I entered. From its shape, it is evidently a bale of material, and too large a bundle, surely, for any purpose but curtains. No doubt its future is inextricably linked with the scissors, tape measure and French chalk which I observed neatly placed at the foot of the stairs.”

  “How very observant of you!” cried my wife with a light laugh. “You are correct, of course – the front bedroom has needed new curtains for some time – but I should much prefer to know how my opinion can be of any value to you.”

  “It is quickly explained,” said Holmes. “I received this letter by the lunchtime post,” he continued, taking a small cream envelope from his inside pocket. “Perhaps, Watson, you would be so good as to read it aloud?”

  I took the envelope from him. It bore a West London postmark, and the handwriting, while quite clear, was somewhat irregular and juvenile.