Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 9

by Marvin Kaye

  What if they’d misinterpreted Penny Collins’s message? Lucy thought. Maybe the backward-spelled name was a coincidence. Or maybe Penny was crazy.

  “Mother?” she said, her voice hushed. “What have we done?”

  “Just wait,” Fran said.

  To the patrolman—Lucy didn’t remember his name, so she checked the nameplate on his chest—Lucy said, “Was this area checked out this morning?”

  “What for?”

  “‘What for?’ For threats. Shooters, bombs, light sabers, anything. That’s standard procedure, I thought.”

  McAlpin shrugged. “I hadn’t been here long when you guys arrived. I heard each stop was being swept, but I doubt it got done. We’ve been spread pretty thin because of the Collins thing.”

  “The kidnapping?”

  “A bunch of the force was out at the son’s house earlier—you were there too, right? Now I imagine they’re staking out approaches around the—”

  “The woods north of town,” Lucy said.

  “Yeah, for the ransom drop.” McAlpin was looking at her as if wondering whether she was really the sheriff or a loony impostor. “You mind telling me what this is all about?”

  Instead of answering, Lucy sighed and stepped back to stand beside her mother.

  “Be patient,” Fran told her.

  “Right,” Lucy whispered. “I better patiently check for job opportunities for female peace offi—”

  She never finished the sentence. The explosion, when it came, scared the bejesus out of her and everybody else. The decorated bandstand at the center of Stanton Park—the empty bandstand where the governor and his underlings and the visiting guest would have been standing at this moment if not for the change in plans—disappeared in a red fireball. Roiling black smoke darkened the sky, then was slowly pulled apart by the hot breeze.

  It was so quiet they could hear the train whistle at the Murphysville crossing, six miles away. Flaming pieces of the wooden bandstand were raining down all over the park.

  “What the hell…?” the patrolman blurted. His hat was off, his eyes bulging.

  Lucy was staring too. When her pounding heart had slowed down a bit, she swallowed and said to him, “I think you better get the big boys in here.”

  “The big boys?”

  “The Feds.”

  The next twenty minutes were—to say the least—hectic. At one point, though, Fran managed to pull Lucy away long enough to hiss something into her ear.

  “What?” Lucy said. After what had just happened, she’d thought nothing could surprise her. “What did you just say?”

  “I said we have to keep looking for Penny.”

  “But…” With an aching heart Lucy scanned the scene—the charred skeleton of the bandstand, the stunned spectators, the blackened earth at the center of the park. If whoever had done this also had Penny Collins, and had heard—or heard about—the blast…they wouldn’t need a diversion any more. They’d just kill her. “Wouldn’t we be too late?”

  “We won’t know unless we try,” Fran said. “Right?”

  Lucy raised her hands to rub her eyes, then let them drop. “You have any ideas?”

  “A big one,” Fran said. “About ten seconds ago.” She held up her notepad. “Remember the old dog pound?”

  “The what?”

  “Not the Animal Shelter Center—I mean the old pound, on West Jefferson. It’s empty now, but the sign’s still on the front of the building.”

  “So?”

  She looked Lucy straight in the eye. “I think that’s where Penny is.”

  Minutes later Deputy Malone, his gun drawn for the first time in years, banged on the door of the abandoned building. When he received no answer, Lucy and Officer McAlpin forced their way inside from a back alley entrance. They found Penny Collins lying on the floor, tied and gagged but alive. A doctor was summoned to examine her. No one else was in the building.

  Afterward, waiting on the sidewalk outside, Lucy said, “Well, Mother, when do you think I should get back into the stock market?”

  Fran looked at her. “What?”

  “To have solved this,” Lucy said, “you must have psychic powers. Either that, or Penny does.”

  Fran chuckled. “There’s only one thing Penny Collins and I have in common. But you’re right, it did help tell me where she was.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We both taught English for thirty years.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Before Fran could answer, the medics wheeled Penny out the front door of the building. As they passed, she held up a limp hand, and her escorts stopped the gurney.

  Lucy and Fran stood there looking down at her. Penny, her face as pale as death, gave Fran a weak smile. “So, Frances. You figured it out. I knew you would.”

  Fran grinned. “In for a penny—”

  “—in for a pound,” Penny said.

  The sheriff studied each of them for a moment before speaking. “What the hell are you two talking about? And Mother, how did you figure out where she was?”

  “‘Find Octor Thorpe,’” Fran said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Fran took her notebook from her purse, opened it, and on a blank page drew a “#” symbol, like the one on a telephone or computer keyboard. “That, Lucy dear, is an ‘octathorp.’ Also known as…”

  Fran and Penny turned at the same time to look up at the age-faded lettering on the front of the building.

  The sheriff followed their gaze. The words said DOG POUND.

  “A pound sign,” Lucy said.

  Fran nodded. “The only one in town, far’s I know.”

  Penny smiled again, and this time Lucy thought she saw some color in her cheeks. “Ah, Frances,” Penny said. “Remember how the other teachers thought our puzzles were a waste of time?”

  Fran wiggled her eyebrows and twirled an imaginary mustache. “The villagers told us we were mad.”

  The doctor appeared then and nodded to the medics, who loaded the patient and the gurney into the back of the ambulance. Lucy and Fran watched in silence as it pulled out into traffic.

  After a moment Lucy said, “I still can’t figure something, Mother. Why’d they leave her here? The kidnappers, or terrorists, or whoever. Why didn’t they kill her?”

  “They probably thought they were, by leaving her. The building’s been empty for years—nobody’d think to search for her here.”

  Lucy nodded. Penny wasn’t healthy to begin with, and as hot as it was today, in a boarded-up, unventilated building, without water…

  She looked at her mother, squeezed her hand, and said, “You did good.”

  Fran shrugged. “We didn’t catch the bad guys.”

  “We helped the good ones. You saved the life of a Mideastern leader—”

  “Maybe.”

  “And a fellow teacher—”

  “Maybe.”

  “And our governor—”

  “I’m not sure if that’s good or not.”

  “And there’s a possibility Penny can ID the people who held her.”

  “I hope.”

  “So, overall,” Lucy said, “I figure you had a good day.”

  Fran smiled. “You did too.” She nodded in the direction of Officer McAlpin and the two deputies. “I told them you solved the case.”

  “You told them what?”

  “And the message was passed upstream. I think your Rodney Dangerfield days are over.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “Don’t argue. This keeps me from having to talk to our idiot AG, and his fellow idiot the governor. And as for having a good day, well, my day isn’t over yet.”

  “Why? You plan to save someone else?”

  Fran checked her wristwatch and hitched her purse higher on her shoulder. “I plan to go to a bake sale. It’s at Nancy Burton’s, so it’s not far. I’ll walk.”

  Lucy looked around them in the street. It was clogged now with TV crews and reporters, and more were arriving every mi
nute. “What about the media?”

  “It’s you they’ll want to see. They wouldn’t like the bake sale anyway.”

  Lucy couldn’t help smiling.

  “One more thing,” Fran said. “That state trooper who helped us? McAlpin?” She pointed with her chin at the corner where he stood chatting with Deputy Malone. “He’s kinda cute, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t notice, Mother.”

  “Well, I did. And he’s not wearing a wedding ring.”

  Lucy sighed. “Why should that interest me in the least?”

  “Because I invited him to your house for supper tonight, that’s why. Seven sharp.”

  “You what?”

  “I’ll bring donuts,” Fran said.

  She was whistling as she left.

  THE BLACKHEATH COLLAPSE, by Sherlock Holmes (Edited by Bruce Kilstein)

  As the official transcript of the trial has only just been published some twenty-two years after the events, I see it fitting to set down the facts of the case that have been previously unknown to the public.

  April of 18__ found Watson and me under our annual attack on our rooms by Mrs Hudson and her band of spring cleaners. She chose a Saturday morning to launch her assault and, shortly after breakfast, ascended the stairs with an angry mop-and-broom-wielding horde and breached our dusty defenses.

  “Right, Mr Holmes,” she said, assuming a stance worthy of the Zealots, “we’ll have you and the doctor out of ’ere promptly so that we can give your rooms a good going over.”

  Watson, startled, paused in mid-bite of toast and jam and gazed about our apartments as if for the first time noticing the accumulation of a season’s worth of newspaper, pipe ash, clothing, correspondence, soot, and clutter. “She does have a point, Holmes,” he admitted, self consciously brushing the crumbs into a neat pile on the table.

  Finding ourselves outflanked and outnumbered, I folded the morning paper and, with a swift nod, our landlady unleashed her host of charwomen on the place. “Just as well. I suppose, Watson, that you wish me to accompany you to the rugby match.”

  He looked confused. “Why, yes, that would be most agreeable but, how on earth…?”

  “Fret not over trivialities. You have eaten a more hearty breakfast than usual, suggesting that you may not have time for luncheon. You have done this in some haste, which means that you have an appointment, in those old shoes, which tells me that you plan treading on muddy soil. From your jacket pocket I note the brim of a small cap, no doubt in the colors of your team. I see in the paper that Blackheath is scheduled to play Blaydon at 2:00 PM. You could not have made your intention clearer if you had erected a banner. I accept your invitation.”

  The early fog had lifted and the day promised to remain bright. As the criminal classes of London had largely been in hibernation over the winter months, and no new cases of sufficient merit had presented themselves, I agreed to the day trip. I secured my cloak and stick and headed to the door. “You win, Mrs Hudson. Clean if you must, just don’t touch anything.” The maid had flung open a window and we were down the stairs to the street hailing a cab when the magnitude of her task hit her full force. Snippets of her tirade drifted down, “Look at this place…how am I supposed to…how can anybody…mercy sakes is that a live…”

  I settled lethargically into the cab and Watson observed, “Fear not, my good man, some suitable havoc will surely soon be wreaked and require your services to set right. Meantime, a bit of fresh air and rugby will do you good.” The cab dropped us at the station and we took the short rail trip south. The spring air filled the carriage as the greys of the city gave way to the lush green of countryside. I enjoy the vigour of exercise, and hold a particular fondness for those activities which may prove useful preparation for when the sticky moments of investigation call for close contact with ruffians—therefore, fencing or arts marshal such as Baritsu seem worthwhile endeavours to practice, whereas attending a game of golf or tennis as a spectator makes little sense to me. The attraction to the infernal sport of cricket, a favourite of Watson’s friend Doyle, which seems presently en vogue to both play and watch, where virtually nothing seems to happen for days, eludes me. But Watson was correct in asserting that a day in the country would help break me from the feeling of ennui that accompanies times of mental inertia and, no doubt, divert the temptation to indulge in the seven percent solution of cocaine that I keep at my workbench for just such moments of boredom. Perhaps an afternoon amongst men locked in mock combat would prove bracing. We would soon learn that our presence at the match would provide the physical and mental stimulation that I had been craving.

  Upon our arrival at Blackheath, Watson leapt from the cab and, judging from the spring in his step, shed the years and pounds that had accumulated in the intervening years since his days on the team. One cannot underestimate the quality and power of fond memory—the mere association with his old team—a conversation with old mates, or sharing stories and tips with the current players, seemed to invigourate the doctor more than any tonic or bromide that he could administer to a patient. Jolly good for him. The match had just begun as we took our places among the spectators behind the ropes on the Blackheath side. Watson waved to various acquaintances in the crowd and proudly donned his team cap.

  The two sides were evenly matched with neither gaining advantage through most of the half. At one point they reached a stalemate and a scrummage was declared. The forwards of each team faced one another, arms locked around their teammates’ shoulders. The foes then engaged and locked heads, like rams butting for spring mating rights, as the scrum half fed the ball into the tunnel formed between the lines. There ensued grunting, gnashing of teeth and a curious thudding that could only signify the knocking of opposing skulls. The crowds cheered for their respective teams, seeming to revel in this most dangerous part of a brutal game, like Romans cheering for their gladiators—as the ball came through, each side pushed the other with their upper bodies while using their legs to gain advantage of the ball. As so often happens, the tenuous balance of this human bridge was lost during the push/pull of diverse forces, and the scrum collapsed. The seething mass of arms and legs took several moments to untangle and, frightfully, when order was restored, one man remained face-down on the muddy ground. Cursory efforts to rouse the fallen player proved unsuccessful, and as the cry went out for a doctor, Watson bounded over the rope.

  To my friend’s credit, his heroic efforts to revive the downed combatant were admirable, however it was plain, even at some distance, given the utter flaccidity of the limbs and pallour of the features, that the player had expired. A hush fell over the observers of the sad scene and stretcher bearers were called to carry the body to the nearby clubhouse locker room. I accompanied Watson and the body, which was soon laid out on the massage table.

  “What a horror, Holmes,” Watson muttered as we bent over the deceased.

  “What do you suppose happened, Doctor?” Jackson, the team trainer, asked.

  “Crushed, in all likelihood,” Watson said, mopping the sweat from his brow with a kerchief. “May have punctured a lung or else broken his neck in the scrum, whereupon breathing function ceased. Horrible, simply horrible.”

  “May I, Watson?” I asked, leaning over the corpse. A look of confusion came over my friend’s face but he nodded assent. I performed my own examination of the neck and chest. “What is this man’s name?”

  “John, sir. Hubert John. Fine chap. So full of…life,” Jackson fought back tears.

  “There, there, buck up man.” Watson attempted to comfort the trainer, placing a beefy arm across his shoulder.

  I removed my notebook from my breast pocket and scribbled a quick message. “Come, Watson. Jackson has work to do, notifying the family and so forth. There is no need for a doctor at this moment.” I led Watson away as the clouds of grief accumulated over what had begun as a promising spring day, and slipped the note casually to Jackson as we parted the gathering crowd.

  I escorted my dow
ntrodden friend back to the flat at Baker Street. In torpor, he flung himself into a chair by the fireplace. I rang for Mrs Hudson who arrived triumphantly to gloat over her handiwork in our afternoon’s absence, but a quick glance at our strewn outer clothes and the mud tracked from the rugby pitch onto her freshly beaten carpet erased all pleasing notes from the joyful composition that had been her face. I raised my hand to silence the woman before she could begin her tirade. “Yes, yes, Mrs Hudson, I know. Doctor Watson has suffered a horrible shock. Please waste no time in bringing brandy!” The curtain of remorse that had fallen over Watson was enough to vouchsafe the gravity of the situation and she quickly left to fetch the decanter.

  After some moments the restorative draught took effect and Watson found himself able to speak. “What horrid luck. Hubert was a pleasant chap. Not a bad forward either. One never knows what hand fate will deal you.”

  “True enough,” I agreed. “But I think Mr John has been stricken down by the fist of premeditation rather than the random slap of fate.”

  Watson appeared confused, but before he could inquire into my line of reasoning, the bell rang and Mrs Hudson ushered in Inspector Lestrade.

  “I came as quick as I could, Mr Holmes. What’s all this about a murder?”

  “Murder!” Watson leapt from his chair, spilling the remains of his glass on the already soiled carpet. I saw Mrs Hudson flinch but, bless her, she held her tongue and took Lestrade’s coat and hat.

  “Forgive Watson, Inspector, he knew the victim.”

  “Victim!” Watson shouted again, like some strange parrot in a Robert Louis Stevenson tale.

  “I received your telegram, which was given by Jackson to the constable at Blackheath. If you are referring to the poor bloke who got himself crushed at the rugby match, then I am afraid that even you are mistaken, Mr Holmes. There must have been hundreds of witnesses, including Doctor Watson, who saw the man killed during play. While I admit that the incident was unfortunate, I hardly think…”