“Oh, I am sure you are, Mr. Holmes. That is why I come to you now – to offer you my services. If there is anything you think I can do to bring you closer to the truth, to the conclusion of the case, please do not hesitate to ask. I am at your service.”
Holmes gave an indulgent smile. “Well, is there any information you have that you believe may have some bearing on the case?”
Sanderson shook his head. “None that I am aware of at the moment.”
“When did you arrive at the house today?”
“About ten this morning. Celia telephoned me with the dreadful news and I rushed around here right away to comfort her. By the time I arrived, the police were in full possession of the property.”
“What did you do last evening?”
“I don’t see why that has any relevance,” Sanderson said, with some irritation.
“Indulge me,” said Holmes. “The fuller the picture I have, the clearer events become.”
“Celia and I went to the theatre and then had a little supper. I brought her home just after eleven.”
“Did you come into the house?”
“No. I saw her to the door and passed her into the safe hands of Langton. I gather Sir Ronald had already retired for the night.”
“Everything seemed as normal?” I ventured.
Sanderson cast a brief glance in my direction. “Yes.”
“What is your profession, Mr. Sanderson?” asked Holmes.
I could see that once again my friend’s enquiry annoyed the young man, but after an awkward pause he answered in a strained monotone. “I am a novelist.”
“How interesting. What kind of fiction do you write?”
“Human drama. I am the author of Shades of Envy.”
“Excellent. Who is your publisher?”
Sanderson faltered in his reply. “It has not yet been published. It is with an agent at the moment.”
“Well,” said Holmes with some enthusiasm, “I wish you all good fortune with your literary endeavours. Now, be assured that I will not rest easy until this case is concluded. The best thing you can do, Mr. Sanderson, is to comfort your fiancée and wait patiently for developments.”
This was expressed in kindly tones, but plainly it was both a stern instruction and a dismissal.
Alan Sanderson’s face clouded with disappointment. He had not secured whatever information he had hoped to obtain from this brief interview.
“But surely you can tell me what actually happened to Sir Ronald?” he said.
“The police will explain everything in due course, Mr. Sanderson. You will excuse me now, I have pressing matters that require my attention elsewhere.”
Sanderson took a few steps backwards, gave us a curt nod and without another word made his way back upstairs.
Holmes took my arm and led me towards the front door.
“What now, then?” I asked.
Holmes glanced at his pocket watch. “It is just after one. I suggest we partake of a little lunch before moving on to the Cavalier Club to see if we can track down Simon Martin.”
Holmes suggested we dine at The Artichoke, a little vegetarian restaurant in Soho. Sometimes my friend veered towards this particular kind of fare, stating that vegetables were in essence mind food. While I much preferred a thick steak to a mushroom pudding, I did not mind the occasional sampling of a non-meat delicacy. On our cab ride to the restaurant, I asked him what he made of Alan Sanderson and his request to aid us in our investigations. Holmes leant forward, his chin resting on his cane, and pondered a moment before replying.
“The fellow certainly seems keen to see how this affair develops. Whether it is because he wants to ensure that he is in no way contaminated by the air of suspicion regarding the murders or he is genuinely concerned for his fiancée, I have not yet determined. One can easily understand how a penniless author would be loath to lose such a prize as Miss Martin who, it seems, stands to gain a substantial inheritance.”
This cynical observation was typical of Holmes. I said nothing in response, but I could tell by his wry smile that he knew what I was thinking.
On arriving at The Artichoke, we both plumped for a bean broth followed by onions in butter, and very tasty it was. A glass of crisp Muscadet helped to put us in an optimistic mood as we made our way down the Strand, away from Trafalgar Square, past the Aldwych to Old Mitre Court where the Cavalier Club was situated.
As the name suggests, this is a venerable establishment, respected in its heyday in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Rumour had it that more recently the quality of the membership had declined and the club’s finances were on an uncertain footing. This had apparently prompted the controlling committee to admit fellows who were perhaps of a less acceptable standing than had previously been the case. It would seem that Simon Martin came into this category – if we had been presented with an accurate picture of him. Certainly, such a character would not have passed the portals of my own club, let alone be enlisted as a member.
Holmes gave me instructions before we entered, passing through the revolving door into the spacious entrance hall. An ancient commissionaire sat behind an equally ancient desk, perusing a sporting paper. He looked up at my approach.
“May I be of assistance?” he enquired in a bored, snooty fashion, the tone of his voice at odds with the substance of his enquiry.
“Indeed, indeed,” I said enthusiastically. “I was a guest here last evening and left my cane behind. I wonder if it has been handed in. It has my initials, ‘J.H.W.’, embossed on a silver band.”
“I don’t think so,” he replied gruffly, obviously dismayed at having his reading interrupted.
“Would you mind awfully if you checked?” I placed a shilling on the counter.
His eyes glimmered with greed. “Very well, sir. If you’ll wait a moment.” His eager fingers scooped up the coin and he disappeared through a door behind him. As he did so, Holmes, who had been loitering in the shadows by the door, rushed forward and slipped around the side of the desk. With great alacrity he examined the members’ signing-in book, his gloved finger swiftly tracing down a list of names.
“Ah,” he cried, “that one will do.” With a broad grin he joined me at the other side of the desk just as the commissionaire reappeared.
“No stick, sir,” he said tartly. “Perhaps you left it somewhere else.”
“Perhaps I did,” I replied in the same stiff manner.
“Oh, John, you are so careless with that stick of yours. It is mislaid at least once a month,” cried Holmes. He leaned on the counter and grinned at the commissionaire. “I’ve never known a man to be so careless with his belongings. But enough of John’s stick; we are here to see one of your members. We have an appointment with Dr. Samuel Peters.”
The commissionaire consulted the signing-in book. “Yes,” he said at length, “the doctor is in the club today. You will probably find him in the smoking room. Go through the double doors and it’s the second room on your left.”
“Thank you, my good man. Come, John, and make sure you haven’t put your gloves down somewhere.”
We passed through the double doors before I spoke. “Who is Dr. Samuel Peters?”
“I have no idea,” replied Holmes, smiling. “His name provided an open sesame to the club. Otherwise I am as much in the dark as you are about the fellow – but I am hoping that he may well be able to furnish us with some valuable information.”
I had no idea what Holmes was talking about, but I knew it would be to no avail to ask him to explain. It was his habit always to play his cards close to his chest, as the saying goes, and he gained some perverse pleasure from keeping me in the dark when the fancy took him.
An aromatic fog seethed gently in the environs of the smoking room, enveloping the members of the club who were sitting in chairs reading newspapers or books, chatting quietly in small groups, or staring contemplatively into the pale grey air.
Holmes collared a club waiter carrying a tray of dr
inks. “Can you point out Dr. Samuel Peters to me, please?” he said.
The waiter inclined his head towards the window. “He’s the gentleman by the tropical fern playing patience.”
We both glanced over to see a large, elderly man, resplendent in white mutton-chop whiskers and deeply absorbed with an array of playing cards on a small round table. He was rubicund of visage and wore a monocle, which glinted in the dim light.
Holmes gave a brief nod of thanks and we made our way over to Dr. Peters.
“My apologies for disturbing you, sir,” Holmes said.
Peters glanced up from his cards with a cheery expression. “Always delighted to be interrupted, especially when I’m losing – against meself.” He gave a chesty chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure…”
“I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
Peters screwed his eye up behind his monocle. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes? Not that detective feller?”
“Indeed. And I am in search of information.”
“Are you, by Jove. On a case, are we?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Sounds damned intriguing. Much more interesting than a blasted game of patience. Information, you say. Well, I’ll be blowed if I know anything that will be of use to you.”
“It is about a member of the club. I am not sure if he is still a member, but I am trying to trace his whereabouts.”
“Who is this cove?”
“Simon Martin.”
At the mention of the name, Dr. Peters’s monocle dropped from his eye. “Oh, him. Mmm. Well, I haven’t seen him about the premises for some time. Didn’t really know the feller, but I gather there was some sort of a scandal concerning him. Don’t know the details, I’m afraid. But you want to speak to Carmichael about it. That’s Captain Henry Carmichael. He was a pal of the Martin chap. No doubt he’ll be able to fill you in about him.”
“Where will I find Captain Carmichael?”
Dr. Peters replaced his monocle and gazed around the room. “There he is now! He’s just come in. The thin feller with the pencil moustache and shiny black hair.”
We gazed across the room and saw a smartly dressed man in his early thirties walking towards a window seat. His straight-backed bearing brought to mind the military man, even though he was carrying a cane and had a slight limp.
Captain Carmichael greeted us with much less bonhomie than Dr. Peters. Indeed, he eyed us with suspicion, and after Holmes had introduced us even some animosity.
“Are you members?” he asked, his voice sharp and strangely high-pitched.
“We are guests… of Dr. Peters,” replied Holmes smoothly, nodding at the medic who gave us a little wave of acknowledgement in return, thus helping to strengthen the lie. “Captain Carmichael, my friend here is an old army man.”
I nodded. “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”
“A fine outfit,” said Carmichael, withdrawing a grey handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbing his mouth in an affected manner.
“And you, sir. What regiment?” I asked.
“The Grenadier Guards. I relinquished my commission when I came into a spot of money.” He grinned briefly. “Now I live the life of a boring gentleman. But enough of my biography – what do you want of me?” The note of impatience had quickly returned.
“We believe you are acquainted with Simon Martin,” said Holmes.
“What of it?”
“We are very keen to get in touch with him. We have some important news regarding his father.”
“His father? That old devil. Simon is estranged from him. I am sure that he will not wish to hear any news concerning him.”
“Not if it involves an inheritance?”
Carmichael was for a moment taken aback by this statement. “You don’t mean the old man is dead?” he said eventually.
“You will appreciate the details are confidential and private. I need to communicate them to Mr. Martin personally. Can you assist me in locating him?”
Carmichael turned his head away from us and stared into the middle distance. “I did promise not to reveal his whereabouts to anyone,” he said softly, as though talking to himself. “But I suppose this is different,” he added in the same tone.
“I assure you that we mean Mr. Martin no harm. We simply wish to pass on to him some important information which very shortly will affect his life.”
“For the better?”
“One must assume so.”
“Very well. Take a seat, gentlemen, so we can discuss this matter discreetly.”
We did as requested, pulling our chairs close to his.
“I am well aware of the reckless nature of my friend Simon, but he is a good chap at heart. I formed a friendship with him when he was a regular here at the club. We shared a passion for billiards and the turf. Alas, the latter was the undoing of him.”
“He gambled.”
Carmichael gave a wistful smile. “Compulsively, and not very successfully. I warned him often not to take so many risks, and I bailed him out several times, but then I drew the line, hoping that this would curtail his addiction. But no. Unbeknownst to me, he approached other members here and built up a large debt, money that he could not pay back. As a result, he was blackballed from the club.”
“What happened to him then?” Holmes enquired.
Carmichael contorted his features. “I helped him for a while. Found him cheap lodgings and eventually got him a job as a clerk in a shipping company. He seems now to accept his fate and behaves in a moderate way. He no longer has funds for gambling, which is perhaps a good thing. It is such a pity that he lost the support of his father over a foolish incident.”
“You mean the theft of the amulet.”
“Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you?” Carmichael pursed his lips in distaste. “Yes, that blasted amulet and that blasted liar Carrington. I know for certain that Simon never took the amulet and, in fact, he had never even met Hugo Carrington. He swore to me that he was innocent of the theft and I believe him.”
“Who then was the thief?”
Carmichael shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. “I’ve no idea – but the real villain in this scenario was Carrington. He simply lied to Sir Ronald in order to twist the knife. He was burning with hatred at the way Sir Ronald had beaten him in the search for Ramesses’s tomb. Carrington was not satisfied with just getting his hands on the precious relic. He wanted to create a rift between father and son as well and bring disrepute upon poor Simon. Well, the devil succeeded. I am so glad the blackguard did not enjoy his triumph for long. I tried on more than one occasion to persuade Sir Ronald that the story was a pack of lies, but he wouldn’t believe me.”
Carmichael had now become quite animated in his recital. It was clear that he felt passionately about his friend’s misfortune.
“You visited him at Monkton House?”
“I was a frequent caller in those days, and I have to admit that Sir Ronald was always charming with me, as was Miss Martin, even after the theft of the amulet. It was Simon who received the force of their ire.”
“Their ire? Was Miss Martin also convinced that Simon was a thief?”
“She sided with her uncle.”
“Thank you for being so frank,” said Holmes. “You have been most helpful.”
“In return, then, you can tell me what all this is about. What brings you here seeking information about Simon?”
“The matter is a delicate one and I cannot go into details at the moment, but I can tell you that Sir Ronald Martin has died under tragic circumstances, and I need to communicate this information to his son personally.”
“There has been foul play?”
“I can say no more.”
“I understand, but if Hugo Carrington were alive I would bet money on him being involved in any dark deeds concerning Sir Ronald.”
“Can you provide me with an address for Simon Martin?”
“He lodges in a rooming house in W
andsworth, 13 Southwick Street.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes warmly and then rose, touching my arm. “Come, Watson. We have further business to carry out.”
“Interesting fellow,” I observed as we stepped out onto the pavement.
“Indeed,” replied Holmes, thoughtfully. “I was most interested in his handkerchief.”
* * *
Dusk was falling fast by the time we reached Wandsworth. Southwick Street was a narrow shabby thoroughfare of two-storey brick houses. It was made grimmer by the thin drifts of discoloured snow that still lingered on the pavement and by the kerbside. We soon found number thirteen and the door was opened by a middle-aged woman who peered at us with some distrust.
“Good evening, madam,” said Holmes suavely. “We’re here to see one of your lodgers, Simon Martin.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Is he in some sort of trouble?”
Holmes shook his head. “No, no, nothing to be alarmed about. We are here on personal business, but it is rather urgent that we speak with him.”
The woman stared at us for a long moment as if digesting the simple information Holmes had provided and deciding how to act upon it. At length, she stepped back from the doorway. “You’d better come in then,” she said with some reluctance.
She closed the door behind us and pointed to the narrow staircase leading to the first floor. “He’s just come in, has Mr. Martin. You’ll find his room the first one at the top of the stairs. Don’t keep him long. I’ll have his tea ready in half an hour as usual.”
“We shall be as brief as possible,” said Holmes, mounting the first step.
Holmes knocked and Simon Martin opened the door a few inches, peering out at us through the crack.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We have some important information to impart to you, Mr. Martin,” said Holmes.
“What about?” came the brusque response.
“It concerns your father.”
Martin gave a short braying laugh of disgust. “I am not interested in anything that involves my father.” The door began to close, but Holmes pressed his hand upon it.
“You can either talk to us or the police.”
“The police?”
Sherlock Holmes Page 27