The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  It was a cold evening, a few days before Christmas. It had been snowing lightly since early afternoon and now, in the still evening, a blanket of white covered the streets and houses. Sherlock Holmes had drawn back the curtains and gazed for some time at the chilly scene outside. Then he had perched himself on a chair by the window, taken up his violin and, for the best part of an hour, played a selection of Christmas carols. At length, he put down his bow and turned to where I was sitting by the blazing fire.

  “It appears,” he remarked, “that even the world of villainy is honouring the forthcoming holiday season. I have heard nothing of criminal interest since the beginning of the week.”

  “That is surely a cause for celebration rather than otherwise,” I returned.

  My companion chuckled. “Perhaps so,” said he, “but I cannot help feeling that if plotters and criminals stay their hand at this time of year, they are undoubtedly overlooking a fine opportunity. Now is the very time they should strike, when the world of honest citizens has lowered its guard. It is certainly the way I should be thinking, were I a criminal.”

  “No doubt,” I responded in some amusement. “But the season has its disadvantages for the criminal, too. Travel is difficult at this time of the year and train services are often disrupted. Having perpetrated his villainy, it might prove difficult for the criminal to make his escape.”

  “But he should turn that very fact to his own advantage,” insisted my friend. “He should so time his crime that he escapes by the very last train before Christmas, knowing that before the authorities can get upon his trail they will have lost a whole day!”

  Thus we discussed the subject back and forth for some time, our discussion warmed by the occasional tot of brandy. Outside, the snow began to fall again, and I was remarking on the strange, unnatural silence that had descended upon the great city when the sound of a carriage approaching from the direction of Oxford Street came to my ears.

  “Urgent business, one must suppose, to bring anyone out on such a night,” remarked Holmes, glancing from the window. “Halloa! This may be interesting, Watson! The carriage is stopping at our door.”

  There came a loud jangling at the doorbell, followed moments later by rapid footsteps upon the stair. Then our door was flung open and a strongly built young man in the uniform of a military officer burst unannounced into the room. His face was as white as the snow through which he had travelled, his eyes were wide open and staring, and his bloodless lip quivered with emotion. For a moment he looked wildly about him, his face twitching uncontrollably.

  “May we be of assistance?” said Holmes.

  “Mr Holmes!” cried our visitor, removing his cap. “Thank the Lord you are here!”

  “My dear sir,” said Holmes, taking his cap, leading him to the fireside chair and pressing him down into it. “Pray calm yourself! A nip of brandy might be helpful, Watson, if you would be so good!”

  The soldier threw back his head and downed the glass at a gulp, and a flush of colour came to his pallid cheeks. A second later, an incoherent torrent of Words poured from his lips.

  “The situation is utterly desperate!” he cried, looking from one to the other of us. “I am ruined! The country is ruined! Whatever can I do?” Then he plunged his head into his hands and began to moan softly to himself.

  I refilled his glass and pressed him to take a sip, and he calmed a little.

  “Captain Armstrong!” said Holmes in a tone of authority, and the soldier looked up sharply. “Captain Walter Armstrong of the Durham Light Infantry! Your name and regiment are written in your cap,” he explained as the other stared at him in surprise. “You are a long way from home, sir. Pray, tell us what has happened to reduce you to this state! Quickly, man! If the situation is as urgent as your manner suggests, every moment you despair is a moment lost!”

  Our visitor responded to my friend’s masterful manner, and slowly, by degrees, regained a grip on his emotions. He drained what remained of his brandy and began to describe to us the events that had brought him to our door.

  “I am a captain with the Durham, as you say,” he explained, “but I have been seconded to the staff of the War Office on special duties for the last nine months. You performed a great service for our department last year, so I have heard, when Major Colefax was in charge, which is why I thought of you this evening, in my hour of desperation.”

  “Ah!” said Holmes. “Major Colefax! That makes matters a little clearer. To explain to you who these gentlemen are, Watson, it is probably sufficient to say that their duties are paid for out of the so-called ‘Secret Service Fund’, which is so regularly the subject of questions and complaints in Parliament. You may speak freely before Dr Watson, Captain Armstrong. Nothing you say will pass beyond the walls of this room.”

  “Very well,” said Armstrong. “I can tell you in a few words what has happened. The head of the department now is Major Lavelle. This morning, he left for Portsmouth, where he is staying overnight, leaving me in charge in his absence. For most of the day I have been supervising Norton, one of our clerks, who has been copying out a report on the Baltic question for the Prime Minister. Earlier this evening, I went to see Commander Fordyce at the Admiralty, and left Norton writing at his desk. When I returned, just before eight o’clock, I asked the man at the door if there had been any callers, and was informed that no one had passed in or out since I had left, two hours previously. I entered the office and found Norton still scribbling away furiously, but on the last page, which he completed a minute later.

  “‘That has been quite a task for you,’ I remarked, thanking him for staying late to complete it.

  “‘Yes, sir,’ he returned. ‘I would have finished it earlier, but I have not been feeling well.’

  “‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said I. ‘You get along home now and have an early night.’

  “After he had left, I glanced over what he had written, then unlocked the safe to place the papers in there until Major Lavelle’s return. It at once struck me that there was something different about the disposition of the papers in the safe. For a long moment I stared at them, then I saw what was amiss. The largest pile, containing complete details of the new codes and ciphers which have recently been issued to the Army, was not quite as I had left it. It occupied the same position in the safe, but whereas I had left it at a slightly crooked angle to the pile of documents next to it, it was now perfectly straight. I have a very precise and accurate memory for such things, and have trained myself to observe such small discrepancies.”

  “Admirable!” cried Holmes in appreciation.

  “I took the pile of papers from the safe,” continued Armstrong, “and as I did so my mouth was dry. I knew I could not be mistaken. As I lifted up the sheets one by one, my fingers were trembling: page one, page two, page three, page four, page five. The pages were in perfect order. At once a lump came into my throat, and I thought I would faint.”

  “Because you had intentionally left the pages in a different order,” remarked Holmes.

  “Precisely,” said Armstrong, his face aghast as he relived the episode. “It is an eccentric habit of mine always to place page five above page four in such a pile. I do it quite deliberately. Clearly someone had taken the pile of papers from the safe, examined them and probably copied them. He had then replaced them in the correct order – the order in which he had examined them – not realizing that I had deliberately left them in an incorrect order.”

  “Could you possibly be mistaken on the point?” Holmes interrupted, but Armstrong shook his head.

  “There is no doubt in my mind,” said he. “Besides, I also make a habit of turning down the top right-hand corner of page seven, and that, I saw, had been smoothed flat. I realized with a sick feeling in my stomach why it appeared to have taken Norton so long to copy out the Baltic papers. No doubt he had spent most of my two hours’ absence copying out the Army’s secret codes and ciphers. I can only assume that he intends to pass them to the enemies of
this country, who will thus be privy to our most secret commands and communications. The country will be laid open to attack, and I shall certainly be court-martialled!”

  “What action have you taken?” asked Holmes.

  “None.”

  “None?”

  “I am confused as to what I should do. The whole affair is utterly impossible! It is impossible for anyone but Norton to have opened the safe, for no one but he was in the office while I was out. But it is equally impossible for Norton himself to have done so, for he does not have a key!”

  “Who does have a key?”

  “There are just four, and each man who holds one pledges to defend it with his life. I have one, which never leaves my possession. It is on my watch-chain now, as you see. Major Lavelle, of course, has one, and one is held by each of the other two senior officers seconded to the department at the moment, Colonel Fitzwarren and Admiral Pettigrew.

  “When I realized what had happened and saw the difficulty in the matter, I could not think where to seek advice. Major Lavelle does not return from Portsmouth until tomorrow afternoon. Eventually, I went round to Colonel Fitzwarren’s club in Pall Mall, sure that I would find him there at that time, but I was informed that he had left some time previously, and I have been unable to find him. Admiral Pettigrew, I was aware, had an appointment with the Chancellor of the Exchequer earlier this evening, and I thought it better not to interrupt them. It was then that I thought of you, Mr Holmes. You must advise me, as you advised Major Colefax. I put the case entirely in your hands, and beg you to help, not for the sake of my miserable career, but for the sake of the country!”

  “When you have eliminated the impossible,” said Holmes after a moment, “whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. If your memory of how you left the papers in the safe is correct, which I do not doubt, then, as no one else had been in the room, Norton must be guilty of treachery, either alone or in company with another.”

  “But the matter of the key— ”

  “Is a lesser problem. Norton may have secured a copy— ”

  “Impossible!”

  “Or been lent a key by one of your colleagues.”

  “Inconceivable!”

  “Unlikely, perhaps, but not impossible, Captain Armstrong! Where does Norton live?”

  “Trevor Place, on the south side of Hyde Park.”

  “Then we must go there at once!”

  “I have no real evidence against him.”

  “Never fear, Captain Armstrong. If Norton is guilty, we shall find evidence!”

  In a minute we were in Armstrong’s carriage, in which two marines were waiting, and were making our way slowly through the snowbound streets. The night was a cold one, and the snow was falling heavily now, the tumbling snowflakes almost obliterating the feeble glimmer of the street lamps.

  It was no great distance to Norton’s house, but our progress was slow, as the horse slithered and slipped upon the snow. The streets were almost deserted, and we passed only a single vehicle along the entire length of Park Lane and Knights-bridge. As we turned into Trevor Place, however, we passed a cab going in the opposite direction, its progress as slow as our own.

  We pulled up before one of the small flat-fronted houses, towards the bottom of the street. Holmes sprang out quickly and examined the ground, a frown on his face.

  “That cab we passed came from this house,” said he in a thoughtful tone, pointing to the churned-up snow by the kerb. “It would be worth something to know who was in it!”

  Our knock at the door was answered by a manservant, who showed us into a small drawing room. A thin, dark-haired man wearing a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles was sitting by the fire, reading a newspaper, but he sprang up as we entered. There was, I thought, a look of alarm upon his features.

  “Captain Armstrong!” said he in a breathless tone. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  “Not so pleasant,” returned the other. “I must warn you, Norton, that you are under suspicion of interfering with confidential documents.”

  “What nonsense!” cried Norton, casting his newspaper down and standing defiantly with his hands upon his hips. He listened as Armstrong outlined his suspicions, a forced smile fixed upon his face all the time. “I see you have no evidence whatever against me,” he retorted as Armstrong finished.

  “Never mind that,” interrupted Holmes. “You have had a visitor here this evening.”

  Norton shook his head. “On the contrary,” he replied, “I have been quite alone, until you arrived.”

  “Then how do you explain the presence of these two glasses upon the side table?” said Holmes. He picked them up as he spoke and sniffed each in turn. “This first one has had brandy in it, and this one a whisky mixture. You cannot pretend they are both yours.”

  Norton hesitated a moment before replying.

  “Oh, very well,” said he at length, in a tone of annoyance. “An old friend of mine called by.”

  “His name?”

  “That is none of your business and I refuse to say.”

  “Then we shall ask your servant.”

  “Flegge? By all means,” answered Norton in a careless tone, giving the bell-rope a tug. “Ask him what you please.”

  The manservant entered and the situation was explained to him, but he could tell us very little, for he had not seen the visitor. Norton had opened the front door himself, and when Flegge had brought in the drinks, had taken the tray from his hand at the door.

  “Perhaps you heard the gentlemen speaking?” Holmes suggested.

  “A very few words, sir. They stopped talking as I opened the door.”

  “What were the words you heard?”

  “A mention of Princess Zelda.”

  “Nine-thirty-five,” came an odd voice, hoarse and croaking, from behind us.

  I looked round sharply. In the corner of the room, on a wooden perch, stood a small grey parrot. My attention had been so focused upon Norton since we had entered the room that I had not noticed it before. I glanced back at Norton. There was a flicker of fear in his eye. Holmes evidently saw it, too, for after a moment’s thought he approached the parrot.

  “What did you say?” said he.

  The bird tilted its head on one side and regarded him with a disconcertingly intelligent eye, but remained silent.

  “Princess Zelda,” Holmes tried again.

  “Nine-thirty-five,” responded the parrot promptly in a clear tone.

  “Nine-thirty-five?” Holmes repeated.

  “Paris,” said the bird.

  “Oh shut your mouth, you stupid bird!” cried Norton in an angry tone, his voice trembling slightly.

  “Does the bird’s prattle trouble you?” asked Holmes, making a note in his pocket book, but Norton merely snorted and turned away.

  It was then decided that a search of the premises would be made. Norton turned out his pockets at Captain Armstrong’s request, but they contained nothing of interest. The two marines then remained in the drawing room with Norton and his servant, while Armstrong, Holmes and I made a swift search of the house. Twenty minutes later we were obliged to admit defeat, having discovered nothing whatever of a suspicious nature.

  “I think it likely he has already passed the papers on,” said Holmes, as we stood upon the upstairs landing, “no doubt to his visitor, the gentleman who passed us in the cab.” For a moment he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The absence of a safe key is probably the most significant discovery,” he remarked after a moment.

  “Why so?” asked Armstrong.

  “Norton had no reason to suppose that you suspected him, and thus no reason to dispose of the key. If it were a copy, I think we should have found it here. The fact that we have not rather suggests that it was one of the original set, which was lent to him and has now been taken back, probably by the same man who now has the papers.”

  “What are you suggesting?” cried Armstrong incredulously.

  “That one of your senior colleagues
is a traitor. If the keys are guarded as well as you have described to us, it is the only explanation.”

  “I cannot believe it!”

  “The papers are worth a lot of money,” remarked Holmes, “and for some men the prospect of wealth is too great a temptation to resist. The parrot’s sqwawkings were curious,” he continued after a moment.

  “Do you think they were of any significance?” I asked.

  “It is hard to say, Watson. Norton certainly appeared troubled by them. The numbers the bird chanted may be the time of some meeting that has been arranged, or possibly an address somewhere, which it overheard Norton discussing with his confederate. Does your department have any official opinion of Princess Zelda, Captain Armstrong?”

  “Indeed,” replied the other. “We know for a fact that she has had dealings with foreign agents for several years, but nothing can ever be proved against her. I will tell you,” he continued, lowering his voice a little, “in the very strictest confidence, you understand, that we have an agent in her household, keeping a close watch upon her. She leaves for the Continent in two days’ time, and the rumour from our men abroad is that she will not be leaving empty-handed. It is said she will be carrying papers of great value, and expects to be paid very handsomely for them.”

  “It must be the Army codes,” cried Holmes. “Anything else would be too great a coincidence, under the circumstances. Their plan must be for Norton’s confederate to act as intermediary and pass the papers to the princess before she leaves England. Will your agent in her household be able to see all her visitors over the next twenty-four hours?”

  Armstrong nodded. “Certainly. But I doubt that they will risk an open meeting. Although Princess Zelda is not aware that her personal maid is in our employ, she is certainly aware that her movements are closely watched. Tomorrow night, however, the Duchess of Pont gives her annual pre-Christmas party, and Princess Zelda is expected to attend, in the company of the French chargé d’affaires. There might be an opportunity then for the papers to be passed to her.”