I shook the cobwebs from my mind as the first glimmer of dawn and a new day approached. I washed, shaved, dressed, and was determined to make some inquiries on my own that morning well before I visited Holmes that afternoon.
I took a cab to the Wilfrey estate. It was an imposing pile with large, gated grounds. I was allowed entrance by James, the butler, an old family retainer. We had a good discussion about the events of that dark day. He admitted nothing but I could see quite plainly he was hiding something, so I pressed him hard.
“Did Lord Wilfrey leave a widow?” I asked.
“No sir, she passed away years ago, in child birth, sad to say.”
“So there are no children?”
“Yes, one, a boy. Young master Ronald is upstairs in his room, indisposed. You can not see him.”
“James, please, I need your help.” I pleaded.
“You say you are Mr Holmes’s friend?” James whispered finally.
“Most certainly,” I assured him.
“Then drop this inquiry, doctor. It is what Mr Holmes would want you to do.”
Well, there it was, certainly something nefarious was going on here and now I was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it.
“I’ll not drop it! Sherlock Holmes faces trail and the assizes for murder—a murder I am now sure he did not commit. Conviction will destroy his career and may end his life! You will have his blood on your hands—and my most fearsome revenge, I can assure you—if you do not come clean with all you know.”
James resolve buckled at my threats. Suddenly he broke and told me the entire story. Later he brought in two of the servants, Gloria the chamber maid and Ricardo the groom, both of whom had also bore witness to the incident. I was astonished by what I learned. Holmes had three excellent witnesses and yet he had pledged them all to silence.
* * * *
Later that day I visited Holmes in his cell at Scotland Yard. Once Lestrade left us and we were alone, I put what I had learned to my friend as plainly as I could.
“I’ve been to the Wilfrey home, I’ve spoken to James, Gloria, and Ricardo. You have three witnesses to verify your innocence. Tell me now, what is this all about?”
“Watson, you have become a veritable bundle of energy and ingenuity as you have grown older.”
“I have learned from the best.”
Holmes smiled then, “So you have cracked James? Made him talk? I am sure it took some time.”
“I had nothing but time.”
Holmes nodded, “And you never doubted me, not for an instant?”
“Dostoyevsky? Really, Holmes, that was a nice touch and almost had me considering the unthinkable, but that’s just it, isn’t it? It is unthinkable—you, a murderer—never!”
“Bravo, Watson!”
“So who are you covering for? Your witnesses would not admit all the details. When do you intend to end this abominable charade?”
“Soon, old friend. I need to give him another day to get out of the country before the pursuit grows hot on his heels. Then I can allow the Wilfrey servants to come forward and tell their tale to clear me.”
“But why, Holmes? Why keep me in the dark?”
“Long suffering, Watson, I am sorry. I never intended this to get so far afield and out of hand. Good Mrs Hudson grew alarmed when Lestrade brought me in cuffs to my rooms to collect some personal effects and books, to make my stay here at least bearable. Since you have moved out into your own flat with your wife, I did not want to alarm you unnecessarily with my plan. Mrs Hudson contacted you before I could give you any of the details. I will give you those details now.”
SHERLOCK’S STORY
“I did indeed go to the Wilfrey residence on that dark morning. Lord Wilfrey had arranged to employ me upon a niggling matter of some missing jewellery belonging to his deceased wife supposedly taken by the kitchen porter, Morrow. Well, I brought the man in for questioning, and after that I called for Lord Wilfrey’s son, Ronald. That cleared up the matter easily enough. You see, the son had hidden the items, and he readily admitted it when Morrow was accused. It seems the boy and Morrow had become close friends in his short time of employment in the home. The boy is certainly a troubled lad, but he did not want to get his friend fired or arrested for the theft.”
I nodded, listening intently, absorbing the facts of the story.
Holmes continued, “However, while I was in the Wilfrey home I am sorry to say that I bore witness to such horrendous brutality that I can only call it by its true name. Evil.”
“What was it, Holmes?”
“You know my feelings about the dark secrets that go on in all those pretty country houses, Watson? How I have said quite often that I believe the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
I nodded.
“Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on year in, year out in such places, and none the wiser,” Holmes added.
“Yes, you have spoken upon it at times, quite detailed I remember, during the case I chronicled a few years ago in the Strand as ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.’ ”
“Well, keep those thoughts in mind as I tell you that as soon as Morrow was brought into the library to confront Wilfrey and myself about the theft, I recognized him as John Maulin Morrow, a young roustabout and violent felon.”
“Now I see, Holmes!” I blurted, aware of a criminal connection.
“Not quite, good fellow, and certainly not the entire story. Allow me to explain. I recognized Morrow forthwith, and he me. You see, we have a history. He is a brute and a violent fellow, and yet not all that he seems. I know something of the man, his family life. To be fair, as a youth he was the victim of a vicious, homicidal mother. The woman murdered her husband, got away with it, then she systematically tortured the boy. He was eventually taken away from her and put into an orphanage. She died soon after, and the boy descended into brutality and crime.”
Holmes continued, “Young Morrow assaulted a man. Morrow saw him beating a woman. The man was a pimp and the woman a lady of the evening in his employ. But it made no difference, the assault was violent and bloody, it cried out for a remedy. Prison for Morrow was the result. I watched his career over the years, noted his struggle and his progress. Morrow reformed during his time in prison, so much so, that the warden himself gave him a recommendation and he was able to find an honest job. There he met Lord Wilfrey who offered him the position of kitchen porter in his home. A decision that ended up costing Wilfrey his life.”
“The brute! And after Wilfrey had shown him such kindness and taken him into his own home.”
“Hah! Not quite, Watson. You see, Wilfrey’s son and Morrow struck up an immediate friendship—it seems Morrow saw in the boy something of himself at that young age—and more so, he easily noticed the abuse.…”
“Abuse, you say?”
“Beatings of the most violent sort, done to the boy by his own father. It seems the wife died in childbirth but the child Ronald lived. The father forever blamed the son for the death of his wife. He took it out on the boy with terrible results. I tell you, John, as a medical man, were you to examine this child you would discover the marks of horrendous acts perpetrated upon his person. I believe the boy has, at one time of another, had almost every bone in his body broken by this abuse. The beatings were so severe, young Ronald should have died a dozen times. Such is the power of his steadfast character and heroic will to survive that he has lived this long. It is pure evil, Watson. What has been done to this boy by his own father is nothing less than evil.”
Holmes was quiet for a moment, I sighed and digested these facts solemnly. As a medical man I was well aware of such atrocities and had sadly seen my share of them when distraught mothers brought children with “accidents” into St Barts. Accidents that were clearly the results of beatings, or worse.
Holmes continued, “Of course I had made up my min
d to report the matter to the authorities when the situation was suddenly wrenched out of my hands forever.”
“My God, was it Morrow?”
“Once I confronted the boy and he admitted the theft, Wilfrey flew into a diabolical rage and attacked the child like a madman. The brute grabbed his son and began to pummel him with his fists. It was tragic, shocking, and so sudden and unexpected. Wilfrey is a big man, six feet in height and over 200 pounds; the boy is but three stone soaking wet. This was not normal parental anger, nor the justifiable punishment of an errant child, it was excessive brutality of the most violent form. I truly feared for the boy’s life.
“So did John Morrow. As he was nearer to Wilfrey than I, he reached the man first. Morrow let go with a massive fist to Wilfrey’s chin that hit him with such power it caused the peer to release his hold upon his son and fall backwards. That is when his head hit the lintel of the fireplace. Wilfrey was dead immediately and my examination of the body confirmed it.”
I looked at Holmes closely and saw the tragedy played in his features.
“What happened next?” I asked.
“Well, of course the ruckus attracted the entire staff. James the butler, Gloria the maid, even Ricardo the groom were all witnesses to the event.”
“What a tragic story. And the boy? How is he?”
“Badly done up, I’m afraid. I had the staff whisk him away, after I made them promise not to utter one word to the police.”
“So you took the blame. But why?”
“To keep the boy out of it, allow him some solace, but also to give John Morrow the time he needed to escape the country. He deserved that much, I believe. You see, he had truly reformed his life, lived honourably for many years, but after what he and I were forced to witness that day I can not blame him for the action he took. As God is my judge, Watson, were I to have reached Wilfrey before Morrow, I would surely have preformed the exact same action—probably with the exact same results.”
There wasn’t much I could say after that. I looked at Sherlock Holmes, at the cold iron bars of his jail cell. “So what do we do now?”
“You do nothing. Say nothing of what you have learned. Tomorrow morning, as planned, James the butler will visit Scotland Yard and lay it all before Inspector Lestrade. He will tell what he and the staff witnessed, and then the search will begin in earnest for John Morrow—who will by then be well out of the country, perhaps in America or Australia or God alone knows where. And I wish him well.”
“Shall I come back for you tomorrow morning then?”
“Will you? I would be most pleased to see you when this affair is over and done with,” Holmes said with a smile. “But mind you, not too early, John. I want to sleep late, as I plan to finish reading Crime and Punishment this evening.”
THE DAY AFTER
Lestrade led me down into the basement where the jail cells were located and we found Holmes already up and dressed waiting for us.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade said testily, disappointment written upon his face. “There have come forward some witnesses with new evidence to clear you of all charges. You are to be set free.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Holmes said, ready to leave, his copy of Dostoyevsky’s classic novel under his arm. “And good morning to you, Watson.”
“Good morning, Holmes.” I said softly.
“Yes, good morning all around, I’m sure,” Lestrade said stiffly. Something was eating at his craw and he was in earnest to speak up. “I am releasing you, Mr Holmes, but once again you have interfered in official police work. Your admitting to this crime covered up Morrow’s killing and allowed him the time he needed to escape. I am not sure we will ever bring him to ground now.”
Holmes nodded, “I can not say I am sorry, Lestrade. I know you are angry with me and you may rightly want to prosecute me for my interference.…”
Lestrade softened and gently placed his hand upon the shoulder of Sherlock Holmes. It was an almost loving gesture, so much so that I was taken aback and barely knew what to make of it.
“I have seen the boy, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said simply. Did I see a tear welling in the tough policeman’s eye? “I imagine sometimes a crime may be acceptable in order to defeat a greater evil.”
My companion nodded. Nothing else need be said.
“Well, now Watson, let us leave this place. Will you accompany me back to 221B, and perhaps we will have a well-deserved luncheon together?”
“Absolutely, Holmes.”
“Then good day to you, Lestrade,” Holmes piped on his way out.
“And to you, Mr Sherlock Holmes…” Lestrade laughed now, “until the next time.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE AMATEUR MENDICANT SOCIETY, by John Gregory Betancourt
As I have written previously, my first years sharing lodgings with Mr Sherlock Holmes were among the most interesting of my life. Of all his cases—both public and private—which took place during this period, there remains one in particular of which I have hesitated to write until this time. Despite an ingenious resolution—and to my mind a wholeheartedly satisfactory one—contrived by my friend, the bizarre nature of this affair has made me reluctant to place it before a general readership. However, I feel the time has come to lay forth the facts concerning Mr Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and the most unusual organisation to which he belonged.
My notebook places our first meeting with Mr Pendleton-Smythe, if meeting it can be called, at Tuesday the 24th of April, 1887. We had just concluded a rather sensitive investigation (of which I am still not at liberty to write), and Holmes’s great mind had begun to turn inexorably inward. I feared he might once more take up experimentation with opiates to satiate his need for constant mental stimulation.
So it was that I felt great relief when Mrs Hudson announced that a man—a very insistent man who refused to give his name—was at the door to see Mr Holmes.
“Dark overcoat, hat pulled low across his forehead, and carrying a black walking stick?” Holmes asked without looking up from his chair.
“Why, yes!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson. “How ever did you know?”
Holmes made a deprecating gesture. “He has been standing across the street staring up at our windows for more than an hour. Of course I noticed when I went to light my pipe, and I marked him again when I stood to get a book just a moment ago.”
“What else do you know about him?” I asked, lowering my copy of the Morning Post.
“Merely that he is an army colonel recently retired from service in Africa. He is a man of no small means, although without formal title or estates.”
“His stance,” I mused, “would surely tell you that he a military man, and the wood of his walking stick might well indicate that he has seen service in Africa, as well might his clothes. But how could you deduce his rank when he’s not in uniform?”
“The same way I know his name is Colonel Oliver Pendleton-Smythe,” Holmes said.
I threw down the Morning Post with a snort of disgust. “Dash it all, you know the fellow!”
“Not true.” Holmes nodded toward the newspaper. “You should pay more attention to the matters before you.”
I glanced down at the Morning Post, which had fallen open to reveal a line drawing of a man in uniform. MISSING: COLONEL OLIVER PENDLETON-SMYTHE, said the headline. I stared at the picture, then up at Holmes’s face.
“Will you see him, sir?” asked Mrs Hudson.
“Not tonight,” said Holmes. “Tell Colonel Pendleton-Smythe—and do use his full name, although he will doubtlessly bluster and deny it—that I will see him at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Not one second sooner and not one second later. If he asks, tell him I am concluding another important case and cannot be disturbed.” He returned his gaze to his book.
“Very good, sir,” she said, and shaking her head she closed the door.
The second the latch clicked, Holmes leaped to his feet. Gathering up his coat and hat, he motioned for me to do likewise. “Make haste, Watson,” h
e said. “We must follow the colonel back to his den!”
“Den?” I demanded. I threw on my own coat and accompanied him down the back stairs at breakneck pace. “What do you mean by ‘den?’ Is he another Moriarty?”
“Please!” Holmes put up one hand for silence and eased open the door. Pendleton-Smythe was striding briskly up Baker Street, swinging his walking stick angrily, as though it were a machete. We both slipped out, and Holmes closed the door behind us. Then together we crossed the street and proceeded surreptitiously after the colonel. He seemed to be heading toward the river.
“What is this affair about?” I asked as I hurried after Holmes.
“Mr Pendleton-Smythe, had you bothered to read that article in the Morning Post, disappeared two days ago. Foul play was suspected. In the fireplace of his London home police inspectors found several scraps of paper, but little could be made out except one phrase: ‘Amateur Mendicant Society.’ What do you make of it?”
“A mendicant is a beggar, I believe—”
“True!”
“But a whole society of amateur beggars? And for a retired army colonel to be involved in them! It boggles the mind.”
“I suspect,” said Holmes, “that modern views of beggary have coloured your thoughts on this matter. Mendicants have been, at various times and in various cultures, both revered and despised. I suspect this is another name for the Secret Mendicant Society, a network of spies which is—or was, at any rate—quite real and much older than you realize. Its roots stretched back to the Roman Empire and as far abroad as Russia, India, and Egypt.”
“You think it still exists, then?” I asked.
“I thought it had died out a generation ago in Europe, but it seems to have surfaced once more. I have heard hints in the last few years, Watson, that lead me to suspect it has become an instrument of evil.”
“And Pendleton-Smythe—”
“Another Professor Moriarty, pulling the strings of this society for his own personal gain? Fortunately, no. He is, I believe, a pawn in a much larger game, although only a few squares on the board are yet visible to me. More than that I cannot say until I have questioned Pendleton-Smythe.”
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