The League of Mendacious Men (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 10)

by Steven Ehrman

  “There is no such evidence,” said Hopkins. “But there must have been some reason for the Judge to kill Bainbridge and this seems a likely trigger to the recent tragedy.”

  “So your theory, as I understand,” began Holmes, “is that the Judge blamed Wainwright for some reason for his daughter’s death. As such, he murdered the American.”

  “That is just it, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Why then does Wainwright plot Bainbridge’s death?”

  “Well now here we are in the realm of speculation of course, but perhaps Wainwright came to know of the Judge’s enmity for him and decided to strike the first blow.”

  “If we are to engage in rank speculation, then perhaps Wainwright was indeed responsible the girl’s death,” said Holmes.

  Hopkins had no reply for Holmes’s implied sarcasm. At length, Holmes went on.

  “This information does make Mr. Wainwright’s tall tale a bit more interesting.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?”

  I recalled these past few days how Holmes had questioned me over and over to recall every conversation I had the night of the murders. It included a retelling of the story that the American had told. As far as I could tell, Holmes knew the events of the night as well as I did.

  “Does it not strike you as unusual that Wainwright’s tall tale included a story concerning a sinking and his survival?” asked Holmes.

  “I do not believe that I am acquainted with the nature of Mr. Wainwright’s story,” said the Inspector.

  “That is unfortunate, as I had already considered that the motive for murder on that fated night might have come from Mr. Wainwright’s tale. Watson, will you please elucidate for the Inspector?”

  I did my best at a retelling of the American’s story, and I flatter myself that I told it well. When I finished Hopkins let out a low whistle.

  Do you believe that he was mocking the Judge, Mr. Holmes?” he asked.

  “I cannot say. Watson, did you detect any malice in the telling of Mr. Wainwright’s story that night?”

  I reflected upon that for a few moments.

  “I cannot say that I did, Holmes,” I said finally. “But that is not to say that malice was not present.”

  “Mr. Holmes, I believe that this story fits in well with the theory that the men killed each other. In fact it makes the case stronger.”

  “How so, Hopkins?” asked Holmes mildly.

  “It shows that Wainwright might have indeed been aware that the Judge held him responsible for his daughter’s death. What if Wainwright’s plan was to poison the Judge and then plant the vial of arsenic on the Judge’s body afterwards? It could be done,” exclaimed Hopkins as if he was attempting to convince himself. “When the Judge died it would have been child’s play for a man with steady nerves to pretend to listen for a heartbeat and slip the vial into a pocket of the man.”

  “And then Wainwright is murdered by the Judge before he can enact the second part of his plan,” said I. “Inspector, I believe you have hit upon the solution.”

  “Why, thank you, Doctor. What of you, Mr. Holmes? Have I succeeded in convincing you as well?”

  “It is certainly possible, Hopkins,” Holmes conceded. “In fact, if another person is responsible for one or both deaths, it likely is what we are supposed to believe happened.”

  “But I take it you remain unconvinced. Is that correct, sir?”

  Holmes rose to his feet and paced the floor for some minutes. He finally resumed his chair and spoke.

  “I do not believe that it happened so.”

  “Why in heavens not, Mr. Holmes?” cried the Inspector. “You yourself made the case stronger by noting the ship sinking in Wainwright’s story.”

  “The answer to your query is that your theory does not explain one piece of evidence that I have in my possession.”

  “Is it something you have uncovered since the events of the night of the murders?” I asked. “I did not realize that you were at work on the case in the time since.”

  “It was a curious fact that I discerned the night we were all at the club. It has gnawed at me ever since, and the present theory does not explain it.”

  “What is it that you know, Mr. Holmes?” asked the Inspector.

  “It is a mere nothing, Hopkins,” he said in reply. “And at any rate you have solved the case, so I will not burden you with facts that do not neatly dovetail with your view.”

  “Mr. Holmes, please,” said Hopkins. “I have told you that it is not just my view. My superiors have ordered me to close the case. Can you not share what you saw, but I did not?”

  “Oh you saw it as clearly as I, Inspector,” said Holmes blandly. “Perhaps you did not deduce that it was a clue, but you most certainly saw it. A pity that your skills at deduction seem to have atrophied to such an extent. For myself, I intend to see this mystery through to its conclusion and nothing will stand in my way. Good day, sir.”

  I could see that Holmes’s harsh words greatly wounded the crestfallen Inspector. He considered himself to be a protégé of my friend. As such, Holmes’s words struck deeper than perhaps anyone else’s would.

  “Well, as that is how matters stand, I will take my leave of you gentlemen,” said Hopkins.

  With those words he rose, gave a short bow, and quickly left the room.

  I spoke not for some minutes in the wake of Hopkins’s departure. I was somewhat upset with the manner in which Holmes had dealt with the earnest detective. Holmes for his part evinced no evidence of emotion as he sat in his chair smoking his pipe, with his feet drawn up underneath him. I finally felt that I must speak.

  “Holmes, I do not mean to upbraid you, but was it really necessary to attack Inspector Hopkins as you did? I hope you realize that you cut the man quite to the quick.”

  “Do you really think so, Doctor?” he asked in a dreamy, faraway voice. “I thought myself quite restrained.”

  “If that was restrained, Holmes, I would not like to be the target of your speech when it is ungoverned.”

  “Doctor, I fear that you do not understand the workings of the mind of men such as young Hopkins,” he said. He set his pipe down and seemed to come out of his dreamy state. “I know Hopkins well and understand what drives the man. Had I essayed some mild disagreement of his theory he would have set the matter aside, considering it solved. However, as I have registered my haughty disapproval, you can be certain that he will redouble his efforts, the wishes of his superiors notwithstanding, and work to arrive at another more satisfying conclusion.”

  “So you intentionally verbally slapped him down so as to spur greater effort from him?”

  “Your spur analogy is actually quite apt,” he said with a smile. “Even the greatest horses need to be spurred into action. Consider my words to Hopkins as metaphorical spurs.”

  It still seemed cruel to me, but at least it was not the thoughtless cruelty that I had first imagined. It was a reminder to me that Holmes seldom did or said anything without a purpose.

  “Is there really only one small clue that makes you so insistent on a contrary theory that the two men murdered each other, Holmes?” I asked finally.

  Holmes gave me a thoughtful and penetrating look.

  “Would you think me capricious if I said so?”

  “No, Holmes, I only have a vague feeling that there is more to your position than sheer obstinacy.”

  “And you would be right, Doctor,” he said with a laugh. “I believe that you do know me better than all others.”

  “You do not have a wide circle of friends, Holmes,” I pointed out mildly. “But please answer the question.”

  “Very well, Doctor. Though I am not in the dock, I will answer you directly. There were actually two clues that need to be explained. Each could perhaps be explained independently, but taken together they give me grave pause to accept Hopkins’s theory.”

  That was a direct answer to my question somewhat to my surprise. I had nearly decided to push my good fortune a bit
more when Holmes declared that he had several errands. I offered my companionship, but Holmes demurred.

  “It is not that I do not wish your company, Doctor, but I feel I must play a lone hand at this point.”

  It was not my habit to force myself upon Holmes during the course of a case, so I pursued the matter no further. Holmes had been gone for less than an hour when our page-boy admitted Arthur Blake. The man was in a state of great agitation.

  “Where is, Mr. Holmes?” he cried. “My God, he will ruin everything!”

  Chapter Eight

  Blake seemed completely overwrought, and I had some difficulty in calming him down enough to engage in speech with the man.

  “You are making no sense, Blake,” I said, as I thrust a brandy in his hands.

  Blake drank greedily and then gave a great sigh.

  “Thank you, Watson. I believe I am more like to myself now. I apologize for my entrance. It is just that I had worked myself into a fever on my way over here from Scotland Yard.”

  “Why were you called to Scotland Yard?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t called, dear boy,” he said, regaining his composure, “I went there to inquire as to when the police are going to announce the case is closed. You can imagine my shock when Inspector Hopkins told me that Mr. Holmes was unsatisfied with the theory that the Judge and Wainwright killed one another.”

  “I can tell you from grievous experience that if you came here to change the mind of Sherlock Holmes then you have come here in vain. What can it matter to the League of Mendacious Men if one man is unsatisfied with what Scotland Yard deems the truth?”

  “It can make a great deal of difference if that man is Mr. Holmes,” said Blake with exasperation. “And that is not the whole of the story. I came away from my interview with Inspector Hopkins with the distinct impression that since speaking with Mr. Holmes he too has his doubts and wishes to investigate further.”

  I had to suppress a smile at the words of Arthur Blake. His encounter with Hopkins informed me that Holmes’s ploy with the young Inspector had worked.

  “I still do not see why further investigation causes you such anguish. I should think that the notoriety would bring the League greater fame.”

  “We do not seek fame or notoriety. We are, after all, the League of Mendacious Men,” said Blake haughtily. “And despite what you believe, these murders are damaging the reputation of our society. We may be forced to disband.”

  He pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it.

  “Is the situation actually so dire?”

  “It is positively grim, Watson. At first, I must admit, I believed that the news of the tragedy would fade away rather quickly, but it seems to have captured the public’s imagination. Once word gets out that Mr. Holmes thinks the killer is still at large, I shudder to think what might happen. What shall we do?”

  “You ask my advice?”

  “Yes, I do, Watson. Must I grovel?”

  I laughed at his jibe. There was no doubt what the proper course of action was in this matter.

  “You must gather all of the League together and bring them here tonight at eight o’clock.”

  “To what end?”

  “So that Holmes may interview them and discover in what direction the truth lies.”

  “But that will only stir up more controversy and notice. If the newspapers find out that the entire surviving membership of the League of Mendacious Men came to see Sherlock Holmes, it will mean more publicity.”

  “Perhaps you would rather dissolve your society,” I said. “Because the longer these murders hang over your august club, the more likely it is that the entire enterprise will fall by the wayside.”

  “I believe that you are laying on rather thick, dear boy,” said Blake. “But I must concede that it would be difficult to convince another member to join whilst the murders are unsolved. Do you really believe that Mr. Holmes can penetrate the mystery?”

  “If I have learned one lesson by my association with Sherlock Holmes, it is that he is a dangerous man to underestimate.”

  “Then I will do as you advise,” said the man, clapping his hands together for emphasis. “You can promise that he will be here at eight if I am able to convince the others to attend this meeting?”

  “Absolutely!” I cried. “I know that he is champing at the bit for progress in this case, and an interview with the suspects is certainly in order.”

  Arthur Blake winced noticeably at the word suspects.

  “Then is that what we are to be, Watson, suspects?” he asked. “I had hoped that we would be clients.”

  “Blake, two things are certain in this case. Firstly, there can be no doubt the murders were committed by a club member or members.”

  “Yes, yes, I realize the suspect pool is rather shallow,” he said irritably. “What is your second certainty?”

  “The second incontrovertible fact is that if the Judge and Wainwright did not murder each other, then one of the surviving members is guilty. That, my friend, is the cloud that hangs over the League, a gnawing fear that a cat is among the canaries.”

  “Do not attempt to dazzle me with metaphors, Doctor,” said Blake with a grin. Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to him. “I just remembered. Inspector Hopkins was talking some rot about a possible motive for the killing lying in the story Wainwright told. Is there any truth in that?”

  I quickly related that it had been uncovered that the Judge’s daughter had drowned in the Nova Scotia and that Harold Wainwright had also been a passenger, though he had survived. When I finished Arthur Blake looked quite thoughtful. At length he spoke.

  “It occurs to me, Watson, that Wainwright’s story contained another very interesting element.”

  “Are you beginning to believe that Holmes is correct in his thinking?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” he quipped and then continued on a more serious note. “What I mean is that in his story, Wainwright is the cause of the ship’s sinking. Remember? He opened the porthole and water came crashing in.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting that Harold Wainwright deliberately caused the sinking of the Nova Scotia?”

  “I do not know just what I am suggesting, Watson, but perhaps, through some inadvertent action, Wainwright was at fault. For that matter, he may blame himself for some decision he made that night. He may have even confessed to the Judge his guilt, not knowing that the Judge’s daughter was killed in the tragedy.”

  “When would he have had an opportunity do talk with the Judge?” I asked. “Are you suggesting it happened that night?”

  “No, no, of course not. We all met informally with Wainwright before the evening of the vote. I have already explained that to the police.”

  I now remembered a mention of such meetings.

  “To your knowledge, Wainwright was a stranger to all save Wallace Hunter. Is that correct?” asked I.

  “Are you playing Mr. Holmes’s role, Watson?”

  “I am just clearing the brush.”

  “I see. At any rate, he was a stranger to most of us. Pelham met him in America, remember.”

  I actually had forgotten that Colonel Pelham had admitted to an earlier meeting with Wainwright.

  “And truth be told,” continued Blake, “I met Wainwright as well, but we had both forgotten it.”

  “I am intrigued. What was the nature of this meeting?”

  “Years ago I was in the middle of a nasty plagiarism lawsuit. Wainwright happened to be in London at the time and he covered the case for one of the papers. I forget which one. I gave him a brief statement at the trial’s end. He hadn’t made a name for himself yet, and as I say, we both forgot the incident. It only came up during conversation.”

  “Did you win the suit?” asked I.

  “I did not. I was still a little-known poet at the time, and I had few resources to fight with.”

  “Still, it must have stung for someone to steal your words, profit by the action, and then to get away with the theft.
It must have been difficult to bear.”

  Blake gave no reply, but merely shrugged his shoulders in answer. Though Blake’s poems had brought him renown, I wondered if they had filled his coffers with coin. The penniless poet was almost a cliché. Blake lived well, but it did occur to me that he spent much time living on the estates of wealthy patrons of the art. I supposed that it was possible he had little of his own. As this was useless speculation, I drove the matter from my mind. Blake came to his feet.

  “Well, if I am to gather the others and convince them to attend our meeting with the great man, I should be off now. That will give me the rest of the afternoon to fulfill my task. Good day to you, Watson.”

  The Irishman strode purposefully from the room, and I soon heard his footsteps on the stairs. The steps grew fainter until I heard the opening and closing of the downstairs door.

  I leaned back into my armchair and let out a satisfied sigh. Holmes would be, I was certain, very grateful for the aid I had been to him this day in his absence. He would certainly want to interview all the members of the League during the course of his investigation, and now he could do so from the comfort of Baker Street.

  Just as I was indulging in a bit of self-satisfaction, it occurred to me that there was a fly in the ointment of my plan. I had promised that Holmes would be in residence tonight at eight o’clock, but I had no idea if indeed he would be back by that hour. When Holmes was not busy with a case he was a man who kept regular hours, but when upon the scent of a clue I had known him to be away from our flat for days at a time, all the while leaving me unaware of his location or doings.

  For all I knew at this point Holmes could be on a steamer to America in the search for clues into Wainwright’s background. I was left to contemplate all through the afternoon and into the evening. When I had finally despaired of his arrival, he strode into the room and flung himself onto a sofa. Before I could say a word he popped back up and walked to the fireplace. He leaned on the mantel and lit a cigarette.

  “We have had a visitor, Holmes,” I said airily.