The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Edwards

  He tossed a note across to me. It was dated from Brighton upon the preceding day, and read as follows:

  “DEAR MR. HOLMES, - I am sorry to trouble you at a time when, as I am aware, you have retired from active life. I would not do so if I had any choice in the matter. But another's future may be at stake, as well as, beyond doubt, my own happiness. The source of the threat to everything I have dreamed of is beyond my imagining. I shall call at your villa at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, when I trust you will consent to take an interest in the case and track down the perpetrator of the foul lies which have brought me to despair, the like of which I have never encountered before. - Yours truly,

  ARABELLA PYEMONT"

  “She sounds very insistent," I remarked. “Yet I am well aware that of your immunity to the charms of the fair sex. As to whether you should listen to her..."

  I was interrupted by an urgent knocking at the front door. Glancing at my friend, I saw his mouth curve in a sardonic smile.

  “Perhaps it is already too late,” he said. “I hear the scurrying of Mrs Langridge’s little feet. I suspect that Miss Pyemont has already announced her arrival.”

  “But it is barely five past nine!” I exclaimed.

  “It is already plain from her correspondence that Miss Pyemont is an impatient young woman who is accustomed to getting her own way,” remarked Holmes. “Even when dealing with one whom she supposes has retired from active life. Yes, Mrs Langridge?”

  In the doorway stood Holmes’ housekeeper, a kindly old soul and pleasant enough if rather inclined to garrulity. She appeared flustered, with pink spots high on her cheeks.

  “Mr. Holmes, there is a young woman who...”

  “My name is Pyemont,” said a low voice from outside. “Arabella Pyemont. Mr. Holmes, I trust you have received my letter?”

  The speaker pushed past the old woman and stepped into the room. Holmes nodded at her.

  “Good morning. Miss Pyemont. You have arrived a little earlier than your letter suggested.”

  The housekeeper gave the newcomer an angry look. “Mr. Holmes, I am sorry, but she would not wait while I came to see if...”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Langridge,” my friend said suavely. “Do not trouble yourself. Dr. Watson and I shall be glad to speak to Miss Pyemont. Perhaps you could show her into the drawing room?” We assembled next door and I had an opportunity, as Mrs. Langridge fussed around, to study our visitor. I estimated her age at little more than twenty. She was a pretty young woman, although her looks were to my mind compromised by the spoiled pout of her lips. The jut of her lower jaw suggested considerable determination. I pitied anyone who stood in her path - other than Holmes. If he did not wish to pursue whatever enquiry she had in mind, he - who had rejected commissions from both monarchs and presidents - would know how to deal with her.

  “Let me explain myself, Mr. Holmes,” she began.

  My friend held up his hand. “Evidently you are in a hurry, Miss Pyemont, so it may assist if I save you a little time. You are a woman from a family of considerable means, but you are betrothed to a person from a background somewhat less monied than your own. This man is now the subject of threats from an unknown adversary and you wish me to come to his rescue. May I be direct? My first question is whether there are any rejected suitors who would wish to avenge your treatment of them and humiliate their successor.”

  She gaped at him, her blue eyes filled with wonderment. I had seen my friend’s deductions have a similar effect on countless others, from Crown Princes to cleaning women. By this stage in our relationship, I was able to follow each logical step of his reasoning, even if I could never have taken those steps without the benefit of first hearing his conclusions.

  From the cut of her dress as well as the subtle perfume which accompanied her letter, it was obvious that Miss Pyemont was a member of an affluent family. If her happiness, and the well-being of another, were at stake, one could readily surmise that her anxieties concerned a lover. In all probability, the man was beneath her station; that could account for an attempt to persecute him, and also explain why she, rather than he, was seeking Holmes’ assistance in the matter. It was safe to hazard that the guilty party was likely to be a discarded admirer.

  Once she had composed herself, Arabella Pyemont nodded. “You did not acquire your reputation through chance, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I trust not,” my friend agreed, his expression not yielding any hint of irony. “Thankfully, even though I am these days reputed to be in my dotage, I retain the ability to unravel straightforward puzzles.”

  “The matter on which I seek to consult you is far from straightforward,” she burst out.

  “Then perhaps you should seek assistance elsewhere.”

  “No, Mr. Holmes!” she cried. “My father brought me up to believe that only the best is good enough. So far as the uncovering of evil is concerned, by common consent you have the finest record in the kingdom. It is therefore to you that I turn in my hour of need.” Holmes shrugged. From the outset of our friendship, he had taken praise of his acumen as no more than his due. “Very well. Perhaps you could explain what brings you here.”

  “It is wickedness, Mr. Holmes.” Her mouth compressed into a narrow line. “I should explain that six weeks ago I became engaged to be married to William Cropper. He is an accountant working in a small practice in Brighton, a man of the utmost integrity. Yet within a fortnight of our betrothal, he became the subject of a scurrilous campaign. A series of anonymous letters has been sent to people in the town, and further afield, denigrating William in all manner of hateful ways. William is at his wits end. It seems only yesterday that the world was at his feet. He was succeeding wonderfully in his chosen profession and contemplating a move to London, where his ability would find its true reward. Now he is pathetically grateful for the loyalty of those few who continue to trust him. He is a broken man, Mr. Holmes. If the perpetrator of this outrage is not unmasked - I fear for William’s very sanity.”

  Holmes pursed his lips. “Pray tell me about the letters. Can you show me an example?”

  Arabella Pyemont shook her head. “The natural reaction on receiving such a missive is to destroy it, Mr Holmes.”

  My friend made an exasperated noise. “Very well. The handwriting, describe it, if you please.”

  “The letters were not written in manuscript. Each has been composed of letters and words cut out of The Times pasted on plain paper."

  “And the envelopes?”

  “The same. Each letter has been delivered by hand.”

  “Suggesting a local correspondent, or at least a local agent.” Holmes rubbed his chin. “What do they say?”

  Arabella Pyemont coloured. “Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, if I do not repeat verbatim the wicked accusations about my fiance that I have been compelled to read of late. Suffice it to say that the author of these fictions has a mind as creative as it is cruel. He - or she - tailors his allegations most carefully to the recipient of the poison. Thus, an important client was told a malicious and wholly invented story about William’s professional negligence in the preparation of an important balance sheet. A friend with whom he plays cricket and billiards was led to believe that William earned notoriety at Oxford for cheating at cards. Charles Follett, William’s employer - you may have read that he recently became engaged to the singer, Miss Lotty Bicknell - received a letter claiming that William had stolen funds from one of the firm’s trust accounts. The letters sent to my father and myself contained a host of disgraceful allegations, including claims relating to a young lady of William’s past acquaintance that, if true, would unquestionably have warranted criminal prosecution. It is filth, Mr. Holmes, filth and lies!"

  My friend nodded. His eyes were half-shut and a casual observer might have supposed him to be asleep. “Pray continue.”

  Miss Pyemont swallowed. “What I cannot understand is this. Who would want to hurt my William? He is the mildest-mannered of men, kinder and gentler than anyone I have ever met be
fore. I tell you this, in all sincerity. Until the inception of this wretched correspondence, I did not believe that he had an enemy in the world.”

  “Show me the man who has no enemies,” Sherlock Holmes said softly, “and I shall show you a man who has lived in vain. And now, Miss Pyemont, perhaps you would care to satisfy my curiosity. Am I right in surmising that your betrothal to Mr. Cropper has not met with universal approval?”

  She flushed, but when she spoke her voice was steady. “There is someone who - believes that he and I had an understanding. A misunderstanding might be nearer the mark. When I broke the news to him about William, he was shocked.”

  “His name?”

  “Samuel Noone. He is a business partner of my father’s and is fifteen years my senior. I have known him since I was a child. His wife died two years ago and I felt sorry for him.” Miss Pyemont lowered her eyes. She might, I thought, have been sixteen years old. “We spent a good deal of time together and it is possible - that certain things I have said to him were capable of misinterpretation. But I always regarded him as a friend, a benevolent uncle if you like. Never as a prospective husband.” Holmes nodded. “I must ask you to tell me what he said to you when you told him you intended to marry William Cropper.”

  “He told me I would never be happy,” Arabella Pyemont said in a low voice. “He lost his temper and said Cropper was a nobody, someone who was only interested in his own advancement and getting his hands on my father’s money. It was an outrageous accusation to make, Mr. Holmes, and my response was anything but temperate. We argued furiously. My father told me to apologise and I refused.”

  “Your father wanted you to marry Mr. Noone?”

  “He thinks his partner would make an admirable husband,” she said bitterly. “But Samuel is staid and set in his ways. I could not commit the rest of my life to him.”

  “Can you conceive that Mr. Noone may be responsible for sending the anonymous letters?”

  She shook her head. “I have contemplated the possibility, I cannot deny it. But the letters are so vicious, so terrible. I shudder at the thought that he might be capable of such vileness.”

  “A scorned lover may wreak a terrible revenge,” said Holmes and from the note of awe in his voice, I surmised that he was recalling the case of Chilton, the Walthamstow plumber.

  Tears had formed in Arabella Pyemont’s eyes. “The truth is, Mr. Holmes, I no longer know what to believe. If the persecution continues, William will be destroyed by it. Frankly, Mr Follett has shown more forbearance to date than one might have anticipated, but he has indicated that if any of the allegations are substantiated, he will have no choice but to dismiss William. This, of a man who has been a faithful servant and who, a short time ago, had the world at his feet. So, Mr Holmes, there you have it. Will you help the two of us to identify the destroyer of our happiness?”

  “A man’s reputation is a precious thing,” Holmes said quietly. “Miss Pyemont, I am at your service.”

  The firm of Pyemont and Noone was at that time one of the most prominent property agencies on the south coast of England. The principal office was in Brighton, a stone’s throw away from the ornate folly of the Pavilion. We accompanied Arabella Pyemont there for the purpose of interviewing her father and his partner.

  Gervase Pyemont was a tall, stooping man with a grey beard who greeted us civilly but with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm. When his daughter announced that she had engaged Holmes with a view to identifying the persecutor of her fiancee, he uttered a weary sigh.

  “Do you really think, my dear, that it is necessary...?”

  “I do, father,” Arabella Pyemont said firmly.

  “Your loyalty to Cropper does you credit,” he replied. “But I fear that you are allowing your heart to rule your head.”

  “You have received a malicious letter concerning your daughter’s fiancee," Holmes said. “Did you keep it?”

  Pyemont shook his head. “I have no use for anonymous correspondence. As soon as I had read it, I threw the letter into the fire. The allegations made against Cropper were disgraceful. I do not suggest that I believed them.”

  “But...?” Holmes prompted.

  Pyemont shifted uncomfortably. "The very fact that Cropper has inspired a person to such loathing that these foul lies - I assume them to be lies - are being disseminated is, shall we say, disquieting. The fellow clearly has a dangerous enemy.”

  “And such a man is an unsuitable husband?”

  Pyemont folded his arms. “I shall say merely that my daughter is not short of admirers. She is young and there is no need for her to hasten into a match which may prove...unfortunate.”

  Arabella Pyemont reddened and seemed about to respond angrily, but Holmes quietened her with a look that would have doused any fire. “I gather that your colleague, Mr Noone, is amongst the admirers whom you mention and that he too received one of the scandalous missives. Would it be possible for us to speak with him?”

  “Certainly. Come with me.”

  Pyemont led us out into the corridor, leaving his daughter in the office. He closed the door carefully before turning to us.

  “I regret, Mr Holmes, that you have been embroiled in this little matter.”

  “For your daughter,” my friend said, “I believe it is the most important matter in the world.”

  Pyemont grunted. “She is infatuated. But these things pass. She is no fool. Soon she will see sense.”

  “And break off the engagement?”

  “It is inevitable.”

  “Would that not be exceedingly harsh upon young Cropper?” Pyemont shrugged. “I have some sympathy for him, I must confess. He has struck me as amiable enough on the occasions when I have met him. Bright, keen and anxious to please. The firm he works for is of no consequence and I have always thought that the principal would benefit from spending more time at his desk and less putting on airs. But Cropper is plainly competent as well as ambitious. Even so, no prospective son-in-law is ever quite good enough for a doting father, Mr Holmes. I was disappointed that Arabella saw fit to choose a young fellow of, as yet, limited means in preference to a reliable older man who would have taken the utmost pains to ensure that she had whatever she wished. Yet it seemed she might have chosen worse than William Cropper until those damnable letters arrived.”

  “So the timing of the letters might have been calculated to wreck your daughter’s marriage plans?”

  “If you care to put it that way.” Pyemont’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you are not implying that Noone might have had a hand in this business, Mr Holmes. Any such suggestion would find you in need of an expensive lawyer.”

  “I make no suggestions, Mr Pyemont. I simply pose questions.”

  “I have known Samuel Noone for nigh on twenty years, Mr Holmes. He is a friend, as well as my partner, Mr Holmes. The salt of the earth. But this is his door. You can judge for yourself.”

  Samuel Noone proved to be a short, hearty Yorkshireman with a florid expression and a clammy handshake. To my mind he was an improbable match for the lovely young woman who had brought us to Brighton, but as soon as Pyemont explained the reason for our visit, he assured us of his willingness to answer any questions that we might care to put.

  “It’s a bad business, gentlemen. A bad business indeed. As you have may have gathered from Arabella, William Cropper and I are, in a sense, rivals. Rivals for her hand. He has youth and good looks on his side. If I may speak bluntly, I have certain other assets. I have achieved a certain success in my career and I am willing to share the fruits of it with my heart’s desire. As you will have gathered, at one time I thought she was receptive to my overtures. Perhaps I presumed too much.” He sighed. “I hope, even now, that it is not too late for her to change her mind. Yet it is understandable that she is upset by what has happened. Deeply upset, and of course reluctant to believe that there is any truth in these wretched letters.”

  “And do you share that reluctance?”

  “Naturally.” Noone
nodded with vigour. “If you have anything to say, say it to a man’s face, that’s my motto.”

  “Then why should anyone pay the letters any heed at all?” Frowning, Noone said, “Well, Mr Holmes, you will be acquainted with the old saying. No smoke without fire.”

  “If I may say so, Mr Noone, few adages are more apt to mislead.”

  Noone’s eyes narrowed. “Possibly. Yet one cannot help wondering what has prompted this campaign against a supposedly decent professional man. Is there, perhaps, more to young Mr Cropper than meets the eye? But you are the detective, Mr Holmes, I wish you good fortune in your enquiries.”

  When we rejoined Arabella Pyemont a few minutes later, it seemed to me that we had established precious little. Noone had, like his partner, destroyed the letter he had received. He told us that it had accused Cropper of consorting with women of the street. When Holmes asked whether he had ever met Cropper, he denied it. Nor did he have any idea why the anonymous correspondent should have chosen to write to him.

  “Well, Mr Holmes," the young woman demanded when we were outside the building. “What do you make of what you have learned from your visit."

  “What you told us has thus far been borne out,” my friend replied. “Neither your father nor Samuel Noone has seen any evidence to justify what is said in the letters. The attacks upon the unfortunate Mr Cropper are as wide-ranging as one could imagine. They represent a concerted effort to blacken his name, both personally and in a professional capacity. Messrs Pyemont and Noone infer that there must be a kernel of truth in the allegations. In short, they proceed upon the assumption that a man is not persecuted unless he has done someone a great wrong. And if he is capable of one great wrong, then perhaps he is capable of others.”