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

by Steven Ehrman

  Holmes briefly led the Captain through his examination of the tall tale Harold Wainwright had told, and I thought he emphasized the sinking of the ship most heavily.

  “Do you understand the theory?” asked Holmes as he finished.

  “I believe that I do, sir,” said the Captain. He no longer seemed inebriated, and in fact appeared remarkably alert. “You think that something Wainwright said during his story may have been the trigger to the crimes.”

  “That is quite aptly put, Captain. Now, did any part of Wainwright’s story seem familiar to you?”

  “I cannot say that it did,” said the Captain slowly. “I know of the Blarney Stone, of course, though I have never seen it.”

  “Come now, Captain,” said Holmes. “As a man of the sea, I would have thought that the sinking of the ship in the story would have moved you somewhat.”

  “I have never lost a ship at sea,” said Marbury.

  “No, but you have been at the scene of one that was,” said Holmes. “Surely you recall the sinking of the Nova Scotia.”

  “I do. I was the master of the Darter. The Nova Scotia went down in the main North Atlantic shipping lane, and we happened upon the stricken vessel.”

  I could see the other members of the club exchange startled glances. Evidently this was all new information to them.

  “You did more than happen upon it, Captain,” said Holmes. “You rescued the passengers. You were the hero of the day.”

  “We were merely the first vessel there, Mr. Holmes,” said the Captain, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Two others came upon the scene fast on our heels.”

  “That is very modestly stated. Do you know what happened to the captain of the Nova Scotia?”

  “He went down with his vessel saving his passengers. There is no more noble death for a sea captain.”

  “I am certain you are correct, but did you know that Harold Wainwright was among the passengers on the Nova Scotia?”

  “I did not,” said Captain Marbury. with what seemed like genuine surprise.

  “Oh yes,” said Holmes, “but another passenger interested me even more. I suppose the Judge must have told you that he lost his only daughter in that tragedy.”

  “What?” cried the Captain. “He never said a word to me, I swear.”

  “Come now, sir. He must have known that you were there. Do you mean to tell me that he never mentioned it? It is too fantastic to consider.”

  “The Judge was an icy man, Mr. Holmes, and not one given to confidences. If he knew that I was at the sinking of the Nova Scotia, he never mentioned it. I was absent from England for nearly a year after that awful day. By the time I came back, it was old news indeed.”

  “I cannot believe that you never told us of this, Joseph,” said Colonel Pelham.

  “I knew you were close-mouthed, old boy, but this is one for the ages,” said Wallace Hunter. “You were a hero.”

  “I agree,” said Blake. “I shall write a poem of your exploits. Perhaps, Ode to a Captain.”

  “That is exactly what I do not want, gentlemen,” said Marbury. “You may see it as heroic, but neither my ship nor myself were in any danger. Lives were lost that day, and I do not hold the memory highly in my esteem.”

  Blake and the others were disappointed in the Captain’s attitude, but they assured him that they would let the news go no further than the group. Captain Marbury was evidently a very modest man.

  “Well, now that that is settled, I have only one more matter that I wish cleared up,” said Holmes. “Just how was Mr. Harold Wainwright made a prospective member of the club?”

  I saw relief on the faces of those assembled.

  “Is that really all you wish to know?” asked Blake. “I thought that we had already made clear that Hunter sponsored Wainwright.”

  “That is not what I meant at all. I mean how did he come to be asked?”

  “I think I see what you mean, Mr. Holmes,” said Wallace Hunter. “I met Wainwright at a dinner party at Judge Bainbridge’s home. We were introduced. He seemed a jolly good fellow and after a time, when a spot at the club became open, I asked him to join. Actually, Sawyer suggested him as a good candidate.”

  “That is not entirely true,” said Sawyer. “You asked me if I thought he would make a good member, and I agreed that he would.”

  “Is that how it happened?” asked Hunter.

  “You asked the same of me,” said Colonel Pelham.

  “And of me,” said Blake.

  “Well, I suppose I could be wrong,” conceded Hunter. “Of course, it was a club decision at any rate. It could not be made without the acquiescence of the entire group.”

  “Who introduced Wainwright to you, Mr. Hunter?” asked Holmes.

  “Why, it was the Judge, of course. As the host, it was incumbent upon him to do so.”

  “Did the Judge ever mention just why he had invited Mr. Wainwright to this dinner party?”

  The question was asked to the group at large. Blake finally spoke up.

  “The Judge liked meeting new people and especially young people. Isn’t that right, Jonathan?”

  Oh yes,” said Sawyer. “He grew more gregarious as he grew older. His dinner parties became quite lavish, and his invitations were coveted.”

  “I would not know,” said a surly Captain Marbury. “I was never invited.”

  There seemed to be no answer to that statement, and no one offered one. Instead, Holmes made an announcement.

  “Gentlemen, I thank you for coming here this evening. I have no further questions tonight.”

  “Really, Mr. Holmes?” asked Blake. “It hardly seems as if we have made much progress.”

  Holmes assured them that progress had indeed been made. For a group of men who had not wanted to come to Baker Street, they seemed most unwilling to leave. It was only after much prodding that they took their leave of us. Blake extracted a promise from me that we would have dinner soon and they were gone, leaving Holmes and me alone.

  “I must agree with Blake,” I said. “I am no nearer the truth in this matter than I was before the evening started. What of you, Holmes?”

  Holmes did not answer me at once, but gave me a penetrating stare.

  “Let us just say that I have a suspicion, Doctor,” he said finally.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Do you mean it, Holmes?” I asked. “You would not be leading me down the Primrose Path.”

  “I speak the simple truth, Watson.”

  Something else was bothering me. Holmes had seemed to have unearthed a great deal of information in the course of a single day. I braced him for the answer to this.

  “Did you acquire all that information in one afternoon, Holmes?”

  “Not all, Doctor. Some of it came from Inspector Hopkins,” he said. “While we were awaiting the results of the coroner, he employed the arm of Scotland Yard to uncover some background material.”

  “Then it seems he was more active than you first gave him credit for.”

  “I would tend to agree. There is little doubt he is the best that Scotland Yard has.”

  I thought without speaking it, that the main reason Holmes had such a high valuation of Hopkins was the enthusiastic embrace of Holmes’s own methods by the man.

  “What of the telegram to New York? Was that a bluff to pry information from Colonel Pelham?”

  “It was no bluff. I am awaiting an answer as we speak. I am hoping to receive a reply on the morrow.”

  I knew not what to make of Holmes obsession of Pelham and Wainwright’s interview, so I let the matter drop. I had little confidence of a frank response from my friend anyway.

  I occupied my time for a bit responding to a letter I had received from an old army acquaintance. He was a son of London and expressed a great desire to return to the city. I read Holmes the contents of both the letters and he surprised me by listening attentively. He thanked me for sharing it with him. It was difficult to tell at times when Holmes was indulging in sarcasm
and I suspected him of having me on.

  As the hour was growing late Holmes and I retired. My friend did not make an appearance at breakfast. I had assumed he was merely secluded in his room, but I was informed by Mrs. Hudson that he had departed our rooms before dawn. He left no note to me informing me of his movements, so I was made to dine both alone and in some frustration.

  As morning waned into afternoon I had begun to despair of any news of Holmes. At just onto two o’clock I was surprised when our page-boy admitted Arthur Blake. I was desperate for company and bade him to sit and smoke with me. Both of us favoured cigarettes, and we were soon indulging in the pleasure of tobacco and speaking of old times; however, Blake soon turned the conversation to the two recent murders.

  “What does Holmes have up his sleeve, Watson? Can you give me no hint as to his suspicions?”

  “I only know that he has them.”

  “Does he not confide in you?” he asked.

  “He does at times, but I would be a poor confidant were I to reveal his thoughts to others,” I replied. “However, I can honestly state that I am as much in the dark as yourself.”

  “Where is Mr. Holmes?”

  In answer I threw up my hands.

  “I see. So he is out uncovering clues.”

  “I would assume so. He is not a man to allow grass to grow beneath his feet.”

  Blake arose abruptly and began to pace about the room.

  “We all had a talk about your Mr. Holmes last night after our meeting. The consensus is that he is a bit of a mountebank.”

  “I assure you that conclusion is in error. Holmes has a method, even when it is not apparent to all. Surely you know the mysteries he has unraveled.”

  “Of course, Watson, but perhaps his previous successes have caused him to be reluctant to admit when he has come a cropper.”

  Blake had a point. If Holmes actually was at sea on the case he might be reluctant to admit it. I had to wonder whether he was flailing about rather than exploring an actual theory. He had said he had a suspicion of someone, but he had refused to name the person. Nevertheless, I felt it incumbent upon me to defend my friend.

  “I believe you will find that when this case is put to rest, Holmes will be the agent to bring the murderer to justice.”

  “I hope so, but I do not mind telling you that Mr. Holmes has not made any friends in the League of Mendacious Men. Hunter was positively furious last night. He feels that Mr. Holmes cast aspersions upon his wife.”

  “Were you likewise furious?”

  “Me?” laughed Blake. “For what reason would I have been upset?”

  “For the same reason that Mr. Hunter was upset, of course,” I said. “Holmes implicated you as well.”

  “Mr. Holmes is hardly the first person to accuse me of being a womanizer. I take no offense.”

  “I am somewhat surprised that you and Wallace Hunter were rival suitors for the same woman. You are hardly contemporaries.”

  “It is true that Hunter is two decades his wife’s senior, so I suppose it does seem odd that we should vie for the same woman. However, as he was the victor, Hunter cannot possibly hold a grudge against me. Besides, I would rather be overly fond of women than a perfect misogynist such as Captain Marbury.”

  “The Captain has never taken a wife?” asked I.

  “The sea is his mistress, Watson. He positively loathes women.”

  An idea suddenly occurred to me.

  “Was Captain Marbury a friend of the Judge’s late wife?” I asked as casually as I could.

  Arthur Blake broke into a broad smile at my question.

  “I see now why you and your Mr. Holmes are friends,” he said gaily. “Both assume all men are at war for the affection of any woman that they find in their orbit.”

  “I made no such insinuation, Blake,” I protested. “And I notice that you did not in fact respond to my question.”

  “Very well, Watson. To my knowledge Captain Marbury was not in love with the Judge’s wife, and I do not believe that they even knew one another.”

  I fear that I showed my disappointment a bit too openly. Blake flashed another smile.

  “You really did think it possible that those two fossils were at one another’s throats over a woman.”

  It occurred to me that Blake had a young man’s view of the world. Though the Judge and the Captain were older than he, I had no doubt that they likely considered themselves as vital as the Irish poet. At least I was certain that the Judge had felt that way prior to his demise.

  “Well, if you have no information to pass my way, I see no reason that this should be a one-way affair. I will take my leave of you.”

  “Blake, I apologize if you feel that I have been less than frank. I simply have no information to give.”

  The man came to his feet and clasped his hand upon my shoulder.

  “I spoke in jest, Watson, but I really must be off.”

  I was glad that we were parting as friends, and I bade him a good day.

  Blake’s departure left me alone to my thoughts again. It would seem, at least according to Blake, that my theory of a possible love triangle with Captain Marbury and Judge Bainbridge as players was not feasible. I wondered whether I should acquaint Holmes with my idea and decided against it. It was likely that he had considered it and cast it aside.

  As I had no other plans, I decided to take a constitutional. A walk through the streets of London always lifted my spirits. I wandered the byways of the great city with no particular destination in mind. After some time I found myself in front of a music hall. I entered and spent the next several hours listening to a splendid orchestra.

  After my musical interlude, I decided to return to Baker Street and set a course to do so. Within half an hour I found myself ascending the stairs of 221B Baker Street. As I walked into the room, I was confronted with the figure of a large fleshy man sitting in Holmes’s own armchair. It was Mycroft Holmes.

  “Hello,” I said in some confusion. “Are you awaiting the return of your brother?”

  Before he could answer, Holmes came strolling into the room from his bedchamber.

  “Ah, Doctor, you have found your way back to our rooms,” he said breezily. He turned his attention to his brother. “Mycroft, have you the papers I requested?”

  “I would have hardly come without them, Sherlock,” said the man. He began to rifle through an attaché case. Presently he came upon that for which he was searching and handed Holmes several documents. “I hope that suits your needs. You require them for the Bainbridge and Wainwright case, of course.”

  “That is so,” conceded the younger brother. “Would you care to offer an opinion?”

  “No. I am certain that it is well within your abilities to solve this case. It seems rather obvious to me,” said Mycroft in a bored tone. “If you need anything else, you can find me at the Diogenes Club.”

  With a short bow the heavily built man excused himself and was gone.

  “I see that your brother still holds a high opinion of his abilities,” said I.

  “It is true that Mycroft does not hold with false modesty, Doctor, but he has been of material aid in solving this mystery.”

  “Then it is solved?” I asked in surprise. “I had not thought you to be so close to a solution. Well done, I say.”

  “The credit does not go entirely to me, Watson,” said Holmes.

  “Of course. As you just stated, your brother Mycroft deserves some credit as well.”

  “That is not at all what I meant, Doctor,” said Holmes. “It was you who pointed me in the right direction and reminded me of something I had overlooked.”

  “Holmes, I believe that you are having sport with me, but never mind my supposed contribution. What is it that you needed from Mycroft?”

  “The simple answer to that, Doctor, is that I needed some documents from the government to test my theory, and I needed them quickly. Mycroft smoothed the path for me and was able to obtain what I needed in a single
day.”

  “Do you suppose that the killer may strike again?” I asked. “Is that why you felt the need to draw the case to a close quickly?”

  “I believe that he thinks himself safe, but he has now killed three times. There is little doubt he would strike again if need be.”

  “Three times?” I asked in befuddlement. “I suppose that two of the killing are Judge Bainbridge and Harold Wainwright, but do you mean to say that there is another murder connected to the case?”

  “That is precisely what I mean, Doctor. The first murder took place long ago. It set a long fuse to the two recent murders, but I shall avenge them all tomorrow night. Am I right that tomorrow evening is a regular meeting night of the League of Mendacious Men?”

  “That is so, Holmes, but should you not move tonight?”

  “I need the time to arrange all as it should be. Even now our quarry may slip through the trap unless it is carefully set.”

  “You don’t mean that this villain could yet escape justice?”

  “He is a clever man, Watson. It is a mistake of the first order to underestimate one’s adversary.”

  “With you in pursuit I do not see how any foe could elude your grasp, Holmes.”

  “Tomorrow we shall see, old friend,” said he. “We shall see.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Holmes was closeted in his room the entirety of the next morning and afternoon. He failed to emerge even for meals. Finally, as seven-thirty approached, he deigned to join me.

  “As the League meets at eight, I believe that we should be off, Watson.”

  “Is not Inspector Hopkins joining our party?” asked I.

  “You must trust that I have arranged all as it should be.”

  With that enigmatic statement we were off. When we arrived at the club, Holmes walked swiftly to the door. He passed a quiet word with the doorman. Whether the man remembered Holmes from the night of the murders and thought him a police officer or whether Holmes had made a previous arrangement with the man I never knew, but he admitted us without delay.

  Once inside I saw the remaining members of the League of Mendacious Men gathered around the meeting table. Arthur Blake noticed us first and bounded to his feet.