Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “That is an interesting coincidence, inspector.”

  “Right, well I always say that if a tragic event happens once, it’s happenstance. If it happens twice, it’s a dreadful coincidence. But if it happens three times then it’s a criminal conspiracy.”

  Holmes was looking more than a little annoyed. “I believe, my dear inspector, that is what I have been known to say. Not you.”

  Lestrade looked at me and gave an exaggerated wink. “I knew that would get his goat, eh, Watson?”

  He turned back to Holmes. “Right you are, Holmes. And like I also say, we cannot jump to conclusions before we have enough data. So, all we have is a coincidence. You’re right.”

  He paused and looked around the room nonchalantly and then continued.

  “I really would rather be home having my Sunday dinner with my dear wife, but I thought you might want me to tell you about that one. And the next one too. Another tragedy. A fellow named Geoffrey Delacroix went and shot himself in the head on Friday night. His landlady found him lying on the floor of his room. Still in evening dress. A revolver in his hand and a hole in his head.”

  Lestrade stopped, enjoying his little piece of theater.

  “Keep going,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, another fine young lad. Still had his white gloves on and managed to shoot himself behind his ear without getting a spot of blood on them and not even a trace of gunpowder. It’s been a bad week for these chaps from Cambridge.”

  “Cambridge?” queried Holmes.

  “Oh, yes. I suppose that is significant. Graduated five years ago. King’s. Did his Tripos in mathematics. Now, what was it you were saying about the third time?”

  Holmes’s eyes were now alive and he was rubbing his hands.

  “I do not wish to be presumptuous, inspector, but is it possible that you are wishing to engage my services to investigate this coincidence that appears to have become a conspiracy? If so, I assure you that I could clear my schedule and devote some time to your case later this week.”

  “Wrong again, Holmes. I am not here to hire you to do anything later this week. I’m here because I want you to pack up straight away and get yourself up to Cambridge and find out what went on there five or more years ago that has resulted in three brilliant young men being murdered. If you get out of here within the hour you can catch the last train on a Sunday afternoon. And take your Boswell with you. I’ll need full written reports.”

  Lestrade stood and turned toward the door. “And if you will excuse me, I am going home for my very late Sunday dinner. Here are some notes on the three fellows. Good day, Dr. Watson … Good-day … Snot-nose.”

  I’m sure he strutted down the stairs after that one.

  Chapter Four

  We Go to Cambridge

  I GAVE HOLMES a sharp look of disapproval, to which he responded by ceasing to rub his hands together in unfettered glee.

  “My dear doctor, I stand reproved,” he acknowledged. “Thank you for reminding me that the loss of life of three fine young men is a terrible tragedy. My pleasure in having a truly challenging case must needs be severely tempered by that awareness.”

  He appeared entirely sincere and I smiled in return.

  “I am happy as always to assist you,” I said. “And I do believe that I can be of more use than just taking notes for Inspector Lestrade.”

  Within an hour, both of us had packed a small valise, found a cab, and taken it to King’s Cross Station. At four o’clock the train pulled in to platform number nine and we entered our cabin, located about three-quarters of the way up. Once settled, Holmes took out the dossier Lestrade had left us and began to read.

  “Anything of interest?” I asked.

  “Not much. He found some photographs of each of them. Those will be useful. We already knew whatever is here about Kenneth Arkell. The chap who drowned, Arnold Bush, was some sort of accountant with the Bank of England. Good family. Church of England. Hailed from Surrey. The boy who was shot in the head had a French name, Delacroix, but his family dates back to the Conquest. Old money. Minor nobility in his past. Attended Cambridge and did well but not terribly ambitious afterward. He was employed in the engineering department of the City of London. The only things they had in common were their age, and their studying mathematics at King’s, Cambridge all at the same time. So reason tells us—as it did Lestrade—that we must begin in Cambridge.”

  “That does seem reasonable,” I said. “And just where do we begin once we get there?”

  “I have said, more than once,” he said, “that when you eliminate …”

  “You have indeed,” I interrupted. “Many times more than once.”

  “The immediate problem with this case is that the list of possibilities requiring elimination is rather longer than I would have liked,” he said.

  “Is that so? Very well, I’m listening,” I said.

  Holmes sat back in his seat and furrowed his brow. “It might be of use to me to have your comments, if only for their being so obtuse as to spark a contrarian insight on my part. Quite so. All right, let me begin at the top of the list. There is no family or blood connection among these lads, so we can safely rule out one of the most common causes of murder; issues of inheritance. The other common cause leading men to murder other men is jealousy over a woman. These were all young chaps in their early twenties and all with the uncontrollable animal instincts that accompany that age, so that is a possibility.”

  “Do you really think so?” I asked. “I can imagine one man killing another over the attraction to one particular woman. But if the object of your passions has already been courted by three other suitors, then I suspect that even the most inflamed of suitors would see that it is time to look for another lady.”

  Holmes smiled and nodded. “Once again, my friend, I bow to your superior knowledge in that department. We shall rule out jealous rages over the opposite sex.”

  “The opposite sex,” I said and raised my eyebrow. “We are on our way to Cambridge.”

  “Ah, yes,” replied Holmes. “Indeed we are, and so some connection to the love that dare not speak its name cannot be ruled out. An excellent insight, my good doctor.”

  I was feeling quite confident, having achieved success so far.

  “Gambling?” I offered.

  “Always a possibility,” said Holmes.

  “Anarchists?”

  “The place is full of them.”

  “Spies? Possibly working for Kaiser Bill?”

  “I believe that we are about to enter the prime recruiting grounds,” he said. But then he added, “If they were working for the Kaiser and are now dead then our side must have done them in. Hmmm. We could be treading on Mycroft’s turf. Best be careful on that one.”

  “Longstanding athletic rivalries?” I offered.

  “A possibility. But these were all young Englishmen. They had good sportsmanship drilled into them since they could walk. If they were Italians, or Spaniards, I could see them holding a grudge over a lost match for several decades. But quite unlikely for a boy from our fine public schools.”

  My list had run out. Holmes made no other suggestions but moved on to our tactics.

  “Time is of the essence, my friend,” he said. “I must impose upon you to make some of the necessary visits and interviews without me and I will cover the rest. You shall have to trust me to give you an account for your records.”

  “And you,” I said, feeling more than somewhat chuffed with his confidence in me, “shall have to trust me to ask the same questions and make the same observations as you would.”

  “I trust you completely to do your best.”

  I was not sure if I had been paid a compliment.

  Upon arrival in Cambridge, we took a cab and checked into the Garden House Hotel, pleasantly situated alongside the River Cam. Over supper, Holmes gave me my assignment for the following day.

  “It is nearly two weeks before the beginning of Michaelmas term. The faculty have all arrive
d but the students are still enjoying their summer vacations. The chaps we need to speak to should all be quite free to chat. So, might I suggest that you investigate the gaming and gambling dens, and the fellow who is in charge of the theater troupe.”

  “The theater troupe? What in heaven’s name for?”

  “It was you, my friend, who brought to my attention the underground network of men who engage in unnatural romantic pursuits, and where better to find a concentration of them than in the theater? As to the gamblers, I recall from my previous visits to this great university town that gambling took place in every college residence and pub, but the only venue in which bets were placed of sufficient magnitude to lead to murder was in the back room of The Eagle. I suggest that you begin there. Meanwhile, I shall investigate leaders of the anarchists and spies. They should not be difficult to identify, as they all have tenure and offices with windows.”

  I rose the following morning at what I considered to be an early hour only to find that Holmes was already up and gone. I took breakfast on the terrace of the hotel and enjoyed the serene vista of the lawns, the river, and the swans. It seemed incongruous with my purpose in being there and I was somewhat certain that my peaceful morning would not last long.

  It did last, however, for at least another hour as I elected to walk the half mile or so up the River Cam from Granta Place to the Bridge of Sighs and thence to the Cambridge Union Building, where the office of the Cambridge University Amateur Dramatic Club was located. The sight of swans floating by and young men in their rowing shells pulling hard against the current lifted my spirits yet again.

  I was in a jolly mood by the time I knocked on the door of the office. The small brass plate on the door read Godfrey Tollemache-Fiennes, Director. From an inner room came a modulated baritone response.

  “Who … is … it? Who dares disturb my morning before the rosy-fingered dawn has yet to flee the sky?”

  Without answering, I walked in and found the fellow to whom the voice belonged. He was seated in a cluttered office, behind a cluttered desk, and dressed in a black suit with a black shirt. His feet, shod in sandals and sans socks, were propped up on the desk. I bade him a pleasant good morning and presented my card.

  The feet immediately withdrew from the desk and the eyes went wide.

  “Oh … my … goodness! Oh, be still my heart. The one and only, the divine Doctor John Watson? The author? The most popular writer in England? No, it cannot be!”

  He had risen to his feet and was walking around the desk to accost me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I fear you exaggerate…” But that was all I was permitted to say.

  “Oh ... my … goodness gracious!” he exclaimed, the volume increasing and his hands clasped together under his chin. “Oh my … what can I say? This is an honor … no… it is a blessing … yes … how utterly exciting … no not just exciting… truly enchanting. Yes, enchanté. And to what do I owe this faaaabulous visit, my dear man?”

  He reached out his hand and I responded in kind. Instead of shaking mine in the manner to which I was accustomed, he turned my hand so that the back of it faced upwards and proceeded to pat it with his other hand.

  Taking my cue, I gave a quick furtive glance around the room and then sotto voce, answered.

  “Three young men, all from the King’s class of 1894, have died in the past week. The official reports say they all committed suicide.” Here I stopped and glanced around one more time. “Sherlock Holmes believes that they were murdered.”

  “Oh!” he gasped, placing both hands against his sternum. “You horrify me.”

  “Sherlock Holmes,” I whispered, “may be in need of your help in solving the mystery. He believes that it is tied to something quite nefarious that took place here in Cambridge several years ago.”

  I had whetted his appetite and carried on. “Please take a look. These are the three young men. Do you recognize them? Were any of them involved in any way in the Dramatic Club?”

  I laid out the images of Geoffrey Delacroix, Kenneth Arkell, and Arnold Bush. The drama director looked them over slowly and carefully.

  “I remember these boys. Yes. They were at Cambridge a few years back and I seem to recall that they were all specializing in mathematics. Numbers boys, we called them. Not a dramatic bone in their bodies. I doubt they could do anything onstage except recite pi to the forty-ninth place or the first eighty-nine prime numbers. So, I am sorry, doctor, I wish I could be of greater assistance, but, sadly, I cannot.” He sighed and looked at me with puppy-dog eyes.

  I moved on to more delicate matters.

  “If they were not directly involved in the theater, do you recall seeing any of them in the company of actors, or perhaps musicians. Might they have had a close friendship with anyone in the dramatic club?”

  The warmth disappeared from the man’s face and he gave me a hard look. All affectation was gone from his voice.

  “Look here, Dr. Watson. I don’t care if this is about murder and Sherlock Holmes. It could be about saving the bloody empire and matter not a whit. I will have you know that I do not tell tales out of school and I find it offensive that you would even hint that I might.”

  The man was visibly offended. I took a different tact.

  “Oh, my goodness, of course not. Sherlock Holmes merely assumed that if any of the lads from the theater knew these boys well, they might have some knowledge of their political activities. You know, an interest in radical movements. Did they associate with anarchists? And if you were able to help us, and the mystery were solved, then I do believe both Mr. Holmes and I would be more than happy to express our appreciation by giving the Dramatic Club the rights to write and produce a splendid play about the story.”

  That worked. He was smiling again.

  “Oh, yes. Why, yes, of course. But I still cannot help you, I’m afraid. All those lovely numbers boys simply do not have sufficient passion, sufficient charm or wit to be of any attraction to those other lovely young boys who give their hearts to the theater. The two play to audiences that come from separate universes.”

  He went on for several more minutes expounding on the passion required for acting and script writing and how it was non-existent on those who aspire to be actuaries and accountants. I listened politely and, when he paused for a breath, I interrupted and thanked him and excused myself.

  Chapter Five

  The Numbers Boys

  THE NEXT STOP was the Eagle Pub. It was only a short walk down St. John’s and then Trinity Street. The Eagle proudly claimed to be the oldest pub in the town. During the school term, I was sure that it would be crowded with students, professors and the assorted hodge-podge of academia, but in the mid-morning of a weekday before the start of the term, it was deserted.

  A loud “Halloa!” as I entered brought the publican out from his kitchen. He was a pleasantly round fellow who smiled at me, possibly suspecting that I was an inspector from the government and there either to inquire about his taxes or his serving of diluted ale. I bade him good morning and handed him my card. He looked at it, pursed his lips into a duck bill, nodded twice and gestured to me to have a seat. He smiled and I could see a bit of a twinkle in his eye.

  “Aye, and did a murder take place in my establishment and no one bothered to tell me?” he said.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Nothing of the sort.”

  “Ah, now isn’t that a shame. It would do wonders for business. Terribly slow when the lads are not in school. Do you think maybe Mr. Sherlock Holmes could arrange for one of his famous murders to happen here and you write about it in The Strand? I would be eternally grateful.” He was grinning at me and having fun pulling my leg.

  “No,” I again answered. “But you are not too far off.”

  That got his attention. He sat back, tipped his head to the side and opened his eyes wide.

  “Am I now? Well then, Dr. Watson, you best tell me about it. I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to bring the curious and prurient all the wa
y from London to come and have a look.”

  I explained to him the purpose of my visit and laid out the photographs of the three young men.

  “Dead, you say. Ah, that is a shame. All joking aside, sir. That is sad news. I remember them. Of course, I do. All three of them. They used to sit at that table over there every Thursday evening. And if I remember correctly, there were five of them, not three. Numbers boys, they were. They would have their pads of paper and pencils out and be arguing about numbers, numbers, numbers. If I think for a minute, I might recall the names of the other two. One was Paul. No, not Paul…Hall. Yes, that was him. Hall. He was the fourth. Now he did not usually stay long into the evening. Hall was a sweet lad who said good night and went back to his rooms to study.”

  “But you said there was another as well?”

  “Yes. A red-haired lad. Nice fellow. He was also a numbers boy but a bit of a writer as well. He wrote a few articles for the Varsity. I remember reading them. He was quite interested in the world of business and finance and, if I recall, he had a flair for making sense of stock and bonds and dividends and share prices and all that. Some of the other lads used to ask him what they should be investing in, and he would always tell them to spend whatever they had on beer and barmaids and worry about the stock market when they were forty. He was friendly that way, he was. I’m glad to hear that nothing untoward has happened to him. And I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do harm to these three you have in front of me. They were all such fine boys.”

  “The redhead,” I asked. “Do you remember his name?”

  He looked up at the ceiling for several minutes and then smiled again. “Simon. Yes. I always put a picture in my mind that helps me remember names. It is a good thing in this business to know the names of the lads. You never know when they are going to return. So, this boy I pictured as meeting a pie man. You know, the nursery rhyme?”