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

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “Of course. And any chance you did the same for his last name?”

  The convivial fellow laughed. “Ah, now that is asking me too much. But if you call in at the office of the Varsity, they will have it in their records.”

  I was about to thank him and depart when I remembered the purpose of my coming to his pub.

  “I am told,” I said, “that a sportsman might be known to make a wager or two while sitting in The Eagle.”

  “Nooo. Who would have told you that?” The twinkle had returned to his eye.

  “I must confess,” I said, smiling back, “that I have been known to associate from time to time with such a deplorable crowd as those who wager on a good match. I’m not much for putting my money on the table with cards in my hand—which I am told might happen here as well—but on a game of rugby or cricket, or football … or perhaps a horse race. Well, we all have our human weaknesses.”

  “And I have one or two of the same, my dear chap,” he said. “If the term were in session I would invite you back this evening to join the fellows at the table in the back room. It gets quite lively back there, it does. Some of these boys come from wealthy families and it is not unknown for a hundred pounds or more to cross the table. You’ll have to return in two weeks when they are all back here, but before the examinations are close. Then the ones who are only pretending to be gamblers vanish.”

  “And the others?”

  “The true gamblers? They gamble on their exams just like they do on their cards and wagering. Usually they lose all around. I don’t suggest you join them.” He chuckled and gave me a pat on the shoulder.

  “And what about these lads I’ve been asking about? Did they do any serious betting? Were they known to hold a hand of cards through a game of whist?”

  He shook his head. “No. Not that numbers boys don’t like to play, but no one will play with them. Not after the first night. Those lads aren’t gamblers. They’re calculating machines. There’s no passion. You can see them keeping track in the heads of every card that has been played and doing and revising the odds with every round. When they know the odds are against them, they might put up a farthing. When they know they are favorable, they make a modest wager. They seldom lose. But they are no fun to play with. They would never bet a fiver just on a hunch, or on a look in another player’s eye. So, unless a player wants to end up owing them a fortune, they won’t be welcomed at a table.”

  Interesting, I thought. I thanked him and chatted a bit more but, as it was now past midday, I ordered a sandwich and a pint of ale and he returned to his kitchen. The ale struck me as a bit on the watery side.

  I dropped in at the newspaper office as advised and they gave me the name I asked for. Then I returned to the hotel and waited for Holmes to appear.

  When he did, I recounted what I had learned and, to my relief, he did not belittle my efforts as he had done in the past. Instead he paid me a compliment but then it dawned on me that he only did so in comparison to what he had discovered in his quest, which amounted to positively naught.

  “The resident leader of the academic anarchists,” he explained, “is a tenured professor of Russian literature who therefore has the freedom to rattle on about Marx and Bakunin in classes that are supposed to be about Pushkin and Chekov. He knew who our lads were and dismissed all of them as capitalist swine. They appear to have been profoundly unsympathetic to the great lumpen proletariat no less than to long-winded Russian authors. There was not the least hint of their having been connected to any respectable set of radicals. As for being spies for the Kaiser, the chap teaching advanced physics, Herr Fischer, proclaimed that every one of our boys was too lacking in muscular masculinity to be of value to the Teutonic race.”

  “Anything else?” I queried.

  “No,” he said. “No, nothing. I have toiled all day and my nets are empty Yet there must be something. There has to be. Perhaps it is in the realm of divine retribution.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Yes, we have seen it many times before. The sins of the father. Be sure your sins will find you out. It is possible that instead of looking back five years, I should be looking back much farther. It is possible that their fathers’ or even their grandfathers’ lives were intertwined and that something evil has continued to fester.”

  He took out his pipe and began to stuff it with tobacco. I thought about what he had just said and then responded with what to me seemed quite obvious.

  “Have you considered letting your nets down on the other side?”

  He gave me a sharp questioning look. I carried on.

  “Why does it have to be five years in the past? Or fifty years in the past? Why could it not be something that is only five weeks in the past? These lads all seem to have continued to be friends. They continue to meet regularly just as they did at school; every Thursday, isn’t it?”

  Holmes had struck a match with which to light his pipe and he now held it in the air whilst he stared at me. He was motionless until the match burned down to the tips of his fingers whereupon he twitched his arm and tossed the stub to the floor.

  “Watson,” he said, “it is just possible that I have at times unfairly underestimated your intellect.”

  I was tempted to correct him and note that it was not just ‘at times’ but he continued with his small paean to my insights.

  “Of course. It is entirely possible that Cambridge has nothing whatsoever to do with their deaths, except as the place where they first met.”

  He now lapsed into silence.

  “Where,” he said several minutes later, “did young Hall say that they met up?”

  “Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in the City.”

  “Yes, yes. That was it.” He lapsed again into silence but after a few more seconds he suddenly sat up and grabbed for his watch. In a most uncharacteristic fashion he muttered an oath.

  “We’ve missed the train.”

  “What train?”

  “Back to London.”

  “Holmes, there are trains right up until later in the evening back to King’s Cross. We have all sorts of time to catch one if you wish to return now.”

  “Oh, yes, Watson, of course. I know that. But we have missed the train that will get us back into the City before the offices close for the evening. But please, go and fetch your bag and meet me back here in ten minutes. We need to get back. And we need to get back before it is too late.”

  “Too late for what?” I demanded.

  “Five of them met every week and they must have been on to something. Three are dead. I fear that the lives of the other two are at risk. Please, enough. Fetch your bag and let us be on our way.”

  I hurried to do as he had requested and within twenty minutes we were back on the station platform waiting for the next train to London. An hour and a half later we arrived back in London. Holmes was moving quickly.

  Chapter Six

  At Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese

  AT KING’S CROSS, Holmes hailed a cab and gave the driver an address on Fleet Street. It took us a good half hour to work our way down Gray’s Inn Road and into the City, but close to five o’clock we entered Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub and took a seat. A pretty young barmaid came up to our table. She was wearing one of those barmaid’s dresses that has a very low-cut square bodice into which her substantial breasts had been confined until they were ready to overflow. I suppose that this attire was proven to encourage well-paid young men from the City to spend more than they should at the pub, but I found it distracting all the same. Holmes was oblivious.

  “And what may I bring to you two handsome gentlemen?” she asked as she leaned over to take our order. “No need for posh chaps like you to order at the bar. I am Lucy and I will be happy to attend to your every wish.”

  She was all smiles and flirts and clearly well-practiced in the art of legally relieving gentlemen of the contents of their purses.

  She looked directly at me and then at Holmes and then stood up, the smile having departed
from her fair countenance. In a whisper, she continued. “Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I am,” Holmes replied, not entirely pleased to have been identified.

  The comely lass brought her head close to Holmes’s ear and she whispered into it.

  “Are you here about the numbers boys?”

  I could tell by Holmes’s nearly imperceptible reaction that he was surprised. In a low voice, he replied, “Yes, we are, and your question tells me that you are likewise concerned about them.”

  She gave a suspicious glance around the room. “I have ten minutes of relief time coming up in half an hour. Could you please wait here until then? I have to talk to you.”

  Holmes nodded his assent and we ordered a round of ale and fish and chips as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

  Half an hour later Miss Lucy arrived bearing three generous glasses of what appeared to be whiskey.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but we can only fraternize with the gentlemen customers if they are buying us drinks, and they have to be select spirits not just ale. I’ll pay for these, myself, but I could not sit here without them.”

  “Young lady,” said Holmes, “you shall do nothing of the kind. It is an honor to share a drink with a lovely young woman and Dr. Watson has insisted that he will buy this round.”

  I gave a mocked look of shock and the three of us forced a laugh. We raised our glasses and each took a sip. Miss Lucy took a generous swallow.

  “I know,” she said, “who you are. I have read all about you. You’ve never been in this pub before, not since I’ve been here. But I read in the newspapers over the past week that three of the numbers boys had died. They said that it was accidents or suicides and that seemed hard to believe. And then you walked in and I knew. I just knew that something terrible must have happened. Somebody killed Kenny and Arnold and Geoffrey, didn’t they? And maybe Simon and Hall are dead too. What happened, Mr. Holmes? What happened?”

  “Please, my dear young lady. Enjoy your drink and allow me to ask the questions. You are doing your job wonderfully well, now please permit me to do mine.”

  She took another swallow and looked at Holmes. I could read the fear in her eyes.

  “How long,” asked Holmes, “had the boys been coming in here?”

  She shrugged. “I have only been working here for the past two years and they were here when I started. Before that, I do not know, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing at all to be sorry for, my dear. Now give me their names and tell me what you know about each of them.”

  “Well, sir. All I know is their first names. There was Simon, he was sort of the leader of the group, or at least I should say that he was the loudest. A bit of a bragger, I guess you could say. Always trying to be funny but I only laughed because he was a customer. He worked for a newspaper, the Financial Times, so he did not have much money and I guess he had to make himself seem important to make up for that. A lot of the blokes who come in here are like that.”

  Holmes nodded whilst I scribbled.

  “Then there was Arnold. He was the most handsome of the lot and I think he worked for the City of London. The barmaids all liked him because he was good looking and strong and even though he only drank lemonade or tea, he always paid as if he had been drinking cognac. He wasn’t rich, but he was generous all the same. Kenny was a Birmie and the rest of them teased him about that but it was all in fun and all of them got on well. Never any cross words at all. Just lots of laughter. Geoffrey and Hall were always the best dressed. They had jobs in finance. Geoff was at the Bank of England and Hall at Hichens Harrison. Hall usually left early. I could tell you what they ordered for their drinks, if you think that is important.”

  “No, my dear. But you said they got on well. Never any arguments?”

  “Never. They were usually loud and chatty, but during the past month they were all real quiet, like. They kind of huddled in close together after Hall had gone, because he always left early on, like I said. And they did not order nearly as many drinks. It looked as if they had something serious that they were talking about.”

  Holmes nodded again and again I scribbled.

  “Was it always just the five of them? No others.”

  Here the pretty young woman leaned her head closer to the two of us and dropped her voice even more.

  “It was always just them, sir. At least it was up until three weeks ago. And then again two weeks ago. Another chappie joined them. He was quite a bit older than them and I had a queer feeling about him. So did the other girls here.”

  “Indeed, please explain.”

  “I don’t know if I can, sir. I’m sorry. But it’s just one of those things that a girl knows. And especially if you’ve been serving men for years, you get feelings about them. And we did not like this chap. None of us did.”

  “Please, miss, try to be more explicit. What was it about him that you did not like?”

  She paused and looked ill at ease.

  “It’s hard to say, sir. But there’s a friendly look that a gentleman gives a girl and you know that you can trust him as if he were your older brother. And then there’s a look …well, I don’t know if I should say this, but behind the bar when we’re talking to each other, we call it the three-legged look. Do you know what I mean, sir?” The young lass blushed as she spoke.

  “I do, please continue. Did you catch his name?”

  “No, sorry, sir.”

  “Not at all. But I am sure you can tell me what he looked like.”

  “Oh, yes. I can do that, for sure, sir. He was quite on in years, about your age, sir. And about your height, but much heavier. A bit of a tummy where you have none. He had grey hair, salt and pepper as they say, but a widow’s peak. Dark eyes, and bags underneath them. And there was a gold filling on his left dog tooth. It was all gold, that tooth. Stuck out when he grinned at us. A bit creepy, if you know what I mean, sir.”

  “And have you seen him again, since?”

  “Well no, sir. Those boys were not here last week. They didn’t show up at all. We thought it a bit strange and were worried that we had said something to offend them and that maybe they had taken their business over to the Olde Cock. But that didn’t make sense, because we know that our ale is two pence less a pint than theirs. And then I got to thinking and I knew, just the way a girl always knows, that something was not right and that it was tied to Mister Three-leg. And then I read about the fellows being dead and then you show up. So, I know that something is not right. And I’m awful worried for Hall and Simon.”

  “As are we,” Holmes confided. “As are we. Now, Miss Lucy, you have been exceptionally helpful. Please do not speak of our conversation to anyone else, unless an inspector from Scotland Yard shows up. But no one else. Can we trust you to do that?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. You can trust me not to say a word. But does that even mean my mum? She would be right tickled to know that I was chatting with Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Even your mum. Although I think it would be all right for you to tell her on Sunday. Can you wait until then?”

  “I can do that, sir. Yes sir, I can do that.”

  I paid our tab, including the three select whiskeys, and we departed.

  “Shall we call a cab?” I asked.

  “No. The office of the Financial Times is only a block away. They have a newspaper to get out tomorrow morning and I expect that most of the staff will still be on the premises.”

  He was right. We walked through the door and found ourselves in a noisy beehive of activity. Framed copies of front pages, all in the well-known pinkish salmon color, adorned the walls. Everyone seemed to be too busy to even notice us and our initial attempts to make inquiries were flatly ignored. Then we observed a fellow on the far side of the room hand off some sheets of paper to a runner, who dashed away to the stairwell. The fellow then sat back, lit a cigarette and put his feet up on his desk.

  “Excellent,” said Holmes. “A reporter who has just f
iled. A perfect time to chat.”

  We walked over and Holmes handed him his card. The reporter looked at it, and looked at Holmes, and then at me. He appeared bewildered.

  “You sure you’re in the right place, mate? This is the Financial Times. We don’t cover murders. Robberies maybe, but only by banks, not of them. Shouldn’t you be over at the Chronicle? Bullets and bombs are their beat, not ours.”

  “I assure you we are at the right newspaper,” said Holmes. “And it is very important that we speak to one of your colleagues, a young man named Simon Woodhouse. Could you point him out to me, please?”

  “You’re right. Simon Woodhouse is one of ours. You see that desk over there? The empty one? That’s Simon’s desk. But he hasn’t been at it since last Wednesday. He said he was working on a stunner of a story and wouldn’t tell the rest of us what it was about. So, I hope he has something. Otherwise his editor will have his pecker in a press.”

  While I pondered the unpleasant metaphor, Holmes continued his questions.

  “As I said, sir, it is terribly important that we reach him and quite important to his story and this newspaper. Might I bother you to ask if you have a staff directory listing the home addresses of your colleagues?”

  The reporter took his feet off of his desk and opened the center drawer. He took out a spiral bound notebook and handed it to Holmes.

  “He’ll be in there. And if you find him tonight, tell him he better put in an appearance here tomorrow morning, or his editor will bust his balls.”

  “I will pass that message along,” said Holmes. He quickly looked through the directory while I contemplated the potential injuries that were to be visited upon poor Simon’s nether region.

  Chapter Seven

  The Arrogant Young Reporter

  SIMON WOODHOUSE lived on Grafton Mews in Fitzrovia. It was a well-to-do neighborhood and I concluded that he was still living at home with his parents in spite of his having completed his university years. Some young men are inclined that way.