The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters

by Michael Kurland

  “What do these ‘amateur mendicants’ do? Are they beggars or not?”

  “Quickly!” Holmes said, pulling me behind a stopped Hansom cab. “He’s turning!”

  Pendleton-Smythe had stopped before a small rooming house. As we peered out at him, he paused on the steps to look left then right, but did not see us. He entered the building and shut the door behind himself.

  “Interesting,” Holmes said. “But it confirms my theory.”

  “That he’s a beggar?” I asked, feeling a little annoyed for all the rushing about. “If so, he is surely a well-lodged one.”

  “Pendleton-Smythe has gone into hiding out of fear for his life. Why else would a man who owns a house choose to rent a room in such shabby surroundings as these?”

  “Are we to question him here, then?” I asked.

  He paused, lips pursed, deep in thought. After a minute I cleared my throat.

  “No, Watson,” he said, turning back toward Baker Street. “I think that can wait until tomorrow. I have much to do first.”

  * * * *

  The next morning Holmes knocked loudly on my door until, bleary eyed, I called, “What is it, Holmes?”

  “It’s half past six,” he said. “Mrs Hudson has the kettle on and breakfast will be ready at seven sharp.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” I said, sitting up. “Tell me, why have you awakened me so early?”

  “We have an appointment!”

  “Appointment?” I asked, still cloudy. I rose and opened the door. “Ah. Pendleton-Smythe and his amateur beggars, I assume. But that’s not until nine o’clock sharp—you said so yourself!”

  “Exactly!” He had a fevered look to his eye and I knew he’d been up most of the night working on the mysterious colonel’s case—although what the actual nature of the case was, I still hadn’t a clue. Yet Holmes seemed to place singular importance on it.

  When I had shaved and dressed, I emerged to find an excellent repast set out for us by Mrs Hudson. Holmes had barely touched his plate. He was rummaging through stacks of old newspapers strewn across the floor and every flat surface of the room.

  “Here it is!” he cried.

  “What?” I asked, helping myself to tea, toast, and orange marmalade.

  “A pattern is emerging,” he said softly. “I believe I have all the pieces now. But how do they fit?”

  “Explain it to me,” I said.

  He held up one hand. “Precisely what I intend to do, Watson. Your clarity of thought may be what I need right now.” He cleared his throat. “In 1852, Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and six of his schoolmates were sent down from King’s College. They were involved in some scandal, the nature of which I have yet to ascertain—official reports tend to be vague on that sort of matter.”

  “Rightfully so,” I murmured.

  “Young Pendleton-Smythe found himself shipped off to South Africa after six months of knocking about London, and there his career proved unexceptional. When at last he retired and returned to London, taking charge of his family’s house, things seemed to go well for him. He announced his betrothal to Lady Edith Stuart, which you may also remember from the society pages.”

  “A step up for an army colonel,” I commented.

  “I suspect she may have been involved in the King’s College scandal, but that is mere conjecture at this point,” Holmes said. “Yes, to all appearances it is a step up for him. However, two weeks later he broke off the engagement, and the next day—three days ago, in fact—he disappeared.”

  “Until he showed up on our doorstep.”

  “Just so.”

  “Where does this Amateur Beggar Society fit in?” I asked.

  “The Secret Mendicant Society, as it is more properly called, was part of a network of spies set up by the Emperor Constantine. The Roman Empire had more than its share of beggars, and Constantine realized they heard and saw more than anyone gave them credit for. Originally, noble-born members of the Society would dress as beggars and go forth to collect news and information, which then made its way back through the network to Constantine himself.

  “The next few emperors made little use of Constantine’s beggars, but oddly enough the Society seems to have established itself more strongly rather than collapsing, as one might have expected. It developed its own set of rites and rituals. One faction in India splintered off and became affiliated with the Thuggee, of whom you may be familiar.”

  “Indeed,” I said, “I have heard of those devils.”

  Holmes nodded. “Sometime in the Middle Ages they seemed to disappear. However, in 1821 a condemned man mentioned them in his last statement. Since then I’ve found two other mentions of the Secret Mendicant Society, the first being a satirical cartoon from Punch dated 1832, which refers to them as a rival to the Free Masons as if everyone had heard of them, and the second being the scrap of paper found in Colonel Pendleton-Smythe’s house.”

  “So where does the colonel fit in?”

  “I was just getting to that,” Holmes said. “Of the six chums sent down from King’s College, I have been able to trace the movements of three. All three died in recent weeks under mysterious circumstances. What does this tell you?”

  “That the colonel is next on the list to be killed?”

  “Precisely, Watson. Or so it would seem.”

  “You have reason to believe otherwise?”

  “Ha! You see right through me, Watson. It seems distinctly odd to me that this rash of murders should coincide with Pendleton-Smythe’s return from Africa.”

  “Indeed, it does seem odd,” I agreed. “But perhaps there are other circumstances at work here. You won’t know that until you speak with the colonel himself.” I looked at my watch. “It’s only half an hour until our appointment.”

  “Time,” said Holmes, “for us to be on our way.”

  I stared at him in bewildered consternation. “You’ll have Pendleton-Smythe convinced you don’t want to see him if you keep to this course!”

  “Rather,” he said, “I am endeavouring to make sure the meeting does take place. Your coat, Watson! We’ll either meet him on the street on his way here—or if, as I suspect, he intends to skip our meeting since he was recognized yesterday, we will meet him at his rooming house!”

  I grabbed my coat and hat and followed him once more out to the street.

  * * * *

  We did not, of course, meet Pendleton-Smythe in the street; Holmes always did have a knack for second-guessing other people’s actions. When we arrived at the rooming house, we found a stout grey-haired woman whom I took to be the landlady sweeping the steps.

  “Excuse me,” Holmes said briskly, “I wish to ask after one of your tenants—a military man with a slight limp, dark coat, dark hat. I have a letter he dropped last night and I wish to return it to him.”

  “You’d mean Mr Smith,” she said. “Give it here, I’ll hand it to him when he’s up.” She held out her hand.

  “Is he in, then?” Holmes asked.

  “Here now, who are you?” she said, regarding us both suspiciously and hefting her broom to bar our way.

  I hastened to add, “This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and we must speak to your Mr Smith. It’s very urgent.”

  “Mr Holmes? Why didn’t you say so, gents? ’Course I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes. Who hasn’t, round these parts? Come in, come in, I’m forgetting my manners.” She lowered the broom and moved toward the front door. “I’m Mrs Nellie Coram, sir, and I own this establishment. Mr Smith’s room is on the second floor. I’ll just pop up and see if he’ll come down.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Holmes said, “I think we’d better come upstairs with you.”

  “Oh, is he a slippery one, then?” she said. “I thought he might be, but he paid me a fortnight’s rent in advance, and I can’t afford to be too nosy, business being what it is these days.”

  “He is not a criminal,” Holmes said. “He is a client. But it is urgent that I speak with him immediately.”

 
She laid a finger alongside her nose and gave him a broad wink, but said no more. She led us in at once, up a broad flight of steps to a well-scrubbed second floor hallway. She turned right, went down a narrow passage to a closed door, and there she knocked twice. A gruff whisper came in answer almost immediately: “Who is it?”

  “Nellie Coram,” the landlady said. “I have two visitors for you, Mr Smith.”

  The door opened a crack, and I saw a single piercing blue eye regard Holmes and me for a second. “Come in,” said the voice, stronger now, and its owner moved back and opened the door for us.

  Holmes and I went in. I looked around and saw a small but tidy room: bed, wash stand, armoire, and a single straight-backed chair by the window. A copy of the Times lay open on the bed.

  Pendleton-Smythe closed the door before Mrs Coram could join us, and I heard a muffled “Humph” from the other side and the sound of her footsteps as she returned to her tasks downstairs. The colonel himself was a man of medium height and strong build, with iron grey hair, blue eyes, and a small moustache. He wore dark blue pants, a white pinstripe shirt, and a blue waistcoat. But it was the service revolver in the his hand that most drew my attention. Pendleton-Smythe held it pointed straight at Holmes.

  “What do you want?” he barked. “Who are you?”

  Holmes, who had already taken in the room with a single glance, crossed to the window and parted the drapes. “Rather,” he said, “I should ask what you want, Colonel. I am here to keep our appointment. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.”

  Holmes turned and stared at Pendleton-Smythe, and after a second the colonel lowered his revolver. His hands were shaking, I reached across and I steadied his arm for a moment.

  “I am glad to have you here, Mr Holmes,” he said. Nervously he crossed to the bed and sat down, tossing the revolver beside him. He cradled his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath. “Truly, I am at wit’s end. I don’t know if you can help me, but if any man in England can, it’s you. Your presence here is proof enough of your remarkable abilities.”

  Holmes sat in the straight chair, steepled his fingers, crossed his legs, and said, “Begin at King’s College, with your involvement in the Amateur Mendicant Society.”

  He started violently. “You know about that, too? How is it possible?”

  “Then he’s right,” I said, “and the Amateur Mendicant Society is involved?”

  “Yes—yes, damn them!”

  “My methods are my own,” Holmes said. “Please start at the beginning. Leave out no detail, no matter how small. I can assure you of our utmost discretion in this and all matters.”

  I sat on the bed beside the colonel. Suddenly he looked like a very tired, very old man. “You’ll feel better,” I told him. “They say confession is good for the soul.”

  He took a deep breath, then began.

  * * * *

  Everything started with one of my professors, Dr Jason Attenborough—he taught second year Latin as well as classical history. One day after class, six of us stayed late to ask about the Secret Mendicant Society, which he had mentioned in passing in that afternoon’s lecture. It was thrilling in its own way, the idea of spies among the ancient Romans, but we found it hard to believe any noble-born person could possible pass as a beggar. Dr Attenborough said it was not only possible, it had happened for several centuries.

  Later, at a pub, almost as a dare, the six of us agreed to try it ourselves. It seemed like a rum lot of fun, and after a few rounds at the Slaughtered Lamb, we set out to give it a go.

  We went first to a rag merchant—he was closed, but we pounded on his door until he opened for us—and from him we purchased suitable disreputable clothing. Dressing ourselves as we imagined beggars might, we smeared soot on our faces and set out to see what news and pennies we could gather. It was a foolish sort of game, rather stupid really, and the prime foolishness came when we decided to visit Piccadilly Circus to see what sort of reception we got. We were pretty well potted by this time, you see, so anything sounded like fun.

  Suffice it to say, we terrorized several old women into giving us pennies and were promptly arrested for our trouble. The next day, after being ransomed home by disbelieving parents, we were summoned to the Dean’s office and informed that our activities had disgraced the school. In short, our presence was no longer desired. The news was devastating to us and embarrassed our families.

  That’s where things should have ended. We should have quietly bought our way into other schools, or vanished into military life, or simply retired to family businesses—there were many choices available. However, that night, as we gathered one last time in the Slaughtered Lamb, Dr Attenborough joined us. He was not consoling or apologetic. Rather, he was ebullient.

  He asked what we had learned as beggars—and we hadn’t learned a thing, really—but as he led us through the lesson (for that’s what it was to him), we could see that we had gone to the wrong section of the city, spoken to the wrong people, done all the wrong things. Beggars have their place in our society, as you know, and we had stepped outside their domain. That’s where we had gone wrong.

  As he had done in his lecture hall, he inspired us that night with his speech. He persuaded us that we should go out again—and this time he went with us.

  Dressed once more as beggars, we ventured into the sordid, dark places near the docks, where such as we had never dared go at night. Using the Roman system as a model, he showed us what we had done wrong—and how we could do it right.

  We listened at the right windows. We lurked outside sailors’ taverns and heard their coarse, drunken gossip. And suddenly we began to understand how the Secret Mendicant Society had worked so admirably well. Wine loosens men’s tongues, and much could be gleaned from attentive listening. For who pays attention to beggars, even among the dregs of our society?

  There were a dozen ship’s captains who we could have turned in for smuggling, a handful of murders we could have solved, stolen cargoes that could have been recovered with just a word in the right ear at Scotland Yard.

  We did none of that. It was petty. But we were young and foolish, and Dr Attenborough did nothing but encourage us in our foolishness. Oh, he was a masterful speaker. He could convince you night was day and black was white, if he wanted to. And suddenly he wanted very much to have us working for him.

  We would be a new Secret Mendicant Society—or, as we chaps liked to call it, an Amateur Mendicant Society. Dabbling, yes, that was a gentleman’s way. It was a game to us. As long as we pretended it was a schoolyard lark, it wasn’t really a dirty deal.

  I regret to say I took full part in the Amateur Mendicant Society’s spying over the following six months. I learned the truth from dishonest men, turned the information over to Dr Attenborough, and he pursued matters from there. What, exactly, he did with the information I can only guess—extortion, blackmail, possibly even worse. However, I do know that suddenly he had a lot of money, and he paid us handsomely for our work. He bought an abandoned warehouse and had a posh gentleman’s club outfitted in the basement—though, of course, there were no servants, nobody who could break our secret circle. Later he leased the warehouse out for furniture storage.

  I was not the first to break the circle. Dickie Clarke was. He told me one evening that he had enlisted in the army. His father had used his influence to get him a commission, and he was off to India.

  “I’m through with soiling my hands with this nonsense,” he told me. “I’ve had enough. Come with me, Oliver. It’s not too late.” I was shocked, and I refused—to my lasting shame.

  When Attenborough found out, he had an absolute fit—he threw things, screamed obscenities, smashed a whole set of dishes against the wall. Then and there I realized I had made a mistake. I had made a pact with a madman. I had to escape.

  The next day I too enlisted. I’ve been away for nineteen years—I never came back, not even on leave, for fear of what Dr At
tenborough might do if he found out. He was that violent.

  I had stayed in touch with Dickie Clarke all through his campaigns and my own, and when he wrote from London to tell me Attenborough was dead, I thought it would be safe to return home. I planned to write my memoirs, you see.

  Only two weeks ago Dickie died. Murdered—I’m sure of it! And then I noticed people, strangers dressed as beggars, loitering near my house, watching me, noting my movements as I had once noted the movements of others. To escape, I simply walked out of my home one day, took a series of cabs until I was certain I hadn’t been followed, and haven’t been back since.

  * * * *

  Sherlock Holmes nodded slowly when Pendleton-Smythe finished. “A most interesting story,” he said. “But why would the Amateur Mendicant Society want you dead? Are you certain there isn’t something more?”

  He raised his head, back stiff. “Sir, I assure you, I have told you everything. As for why—isn’t that obvious? Because I know too much. They killed old Dickie, and now they’re going to kill me!”

  “What of the four others from King’s College? What happened to them?”

  “The others?” He blinked. “I—I really don’t know. I haven’t heard from or spoken to any of them in years. I hope they had the good sense to get out and not come back. Heavens above, I certainly wish I hadn’t returned!”

  “Quite so,” said Holmes. He rose. “Stay here, Colonel. I think you will be safe in Mrs Coram’s care for the time being. I must look into a few matters, and then we will talk again.”

  “So you will take my case?” he asked eagerly.

  “Most decidedly.” Holmes inclined his head. “I’m certain I’ll be able to help. One last thing. What was the address of the warehouse Attenborough owned?”

  “42 Kerin Street,” he said.

  * * * *

  As we headed back toward Baker Street, Holmes seemed in a particularly good mood, smiling and whistling bits of a violin concerto I’d heard him playing earlier that week.