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

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “That’s Wright’s Man Friday back there, is it not, Holmes?”

  He turned around and looked at the gentleman to whom I was referring.

  “Yes. Arthur Pinner, if I recall correctly. But who is the chap beside him. The two look remarkably alike, as if they were brothers.”

  Indeed, the man standing next to Pinner was of similar stature, coloring and facial features.

  Holmes stared at the fellow for some time and I knew what he was looking for but could not see.

  He turned to my wife, Mary. “My dear Mrs. Watson, do you see that chap back there with the mustache, and grayish hair?”

  “Yes. Oh, the one standing beside Arthur Pinner. What about him?”

  “Would you be so kind as to go and see if you can make him smile for us?”

  For a moment, she looked at Holmes as if he had come undone but then she herself broke into a glowing smile.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Mary stood and worked her way back through the crowd until she was standing beside Arthur Pinner. We watched as she bumped into him and then in convincing feigned surprise greeted him as if he were a long-lost friend. He smiled and introduced her to the fellow beside him. We watched as Mary smiled and laughed and elicited a friendly grin from the fellow.

  The gleam of a gold canine tooth was unmistakable.

  Mary returned and sat down again beside us. “It’s his brother all right. Freddie is his name. Can’t say as I liked the looking over he gave me. Will there be anything else, gentlemen?”

  We laughed and thanked her. Whereupon Inspector Lestrade, who had not been part of the escapade, turned to us and demanded to know what the joke was. I explained it to him, causing him to turn and look directly at the two men who had so recently been accosted by my wife.

  A cloud immediately swept across his face.

  “Who did you say they were?” he demanded.

  “Arthur Pinner.” I said. “Wright’s Two I C, and the chap beside him is his brother, Fred Pinner.”

  “The deuce it is.”

  That caught Holmes’s attention. “Obviously, you know them, inspector.”

  “Bloody right, I know them. I should know them. I sent both of them to Holloway twice for three years at a stretch. They’re none other than the Beddington brothers, Jack and Bill. Both of them inveterate thieves and cutthroats. You say that one of them was working for Wright?”

  “Working very closely,” said Holmes.

  “Well then, Holmes, I think we now have found our prime suspects for the murders.”

  Lestrade turned and looked intently at the two men. The one who had given his name as Arthur Pinney happened to look directly back at Lestrade and we could see him grab his brother’s arm and lead him out of the courtroom.

  “Are you going to follow them?” I asked Lestrade.

  “No. My men can always find them and we have nothing to charge them with at the moment; not until the trial is over.”

  “How will that make a difference?”

  “If it goes against Wright, which I suspect it will, he will face a long prison sentence. We’ll put his nuts in a noose and see how long it will take before he agrees to play along and spill the beans on his thugs.”

  The visitors, spectators, and press were all seated and chatting when Mr. Rufus Isaacs and his colleagues entered. He was followed a minute later by Whitaker Wright and crew of lawyers. Wright was impeccably dressed, not at all underfed, and smiling confidently. I heard a low mutter of displeasure coming from Lestrade.

  “Is something wrong with Wright?” I asked.

  “No, not Wright. His barrister. He’s hired Edward Marshall Hall. He’s the best in the country. The press calls him the Great Defender. He’s very good at swaying juries. Brilliant. Our man, Rufus, has his work cut out for him.”

  The jury then entered and again I gave a nudge to Lestrade. “They look rather like common folk,” I said. “Not what I expected at a trial involving complicated high finance.”

  Lestrade whispered back. “For a trial like this they do not have chaps from the City on the jury. Too many of them or their clients lost a fortune by betting on Wright and would be biased against him. So, to be fair, they conscript the common man.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  At Last, the Trial

  JOHN CHARLES BIGHAM, the judge, then entered the court as we rose out of respect. He called the proceedings to order and went through the opening formalities. A long list of charges was read and the defendant was asked how he pled. Before his barrister could answer on his behalf, Whitaker Wright bellowed out “Absolutely not guilty! One hundred percent innocent of every one of those ridiculous false accusations.”

  The courtroom erupted in laughter and chatter, leading the judge to bang heavily with his gavel. Once order had returned he glared down at Wright and Edward Hall.

  “Sir, you will instruct your client to control his outbursts. I remind him that mockery and laughter in a court of law are punishable by up to six months in prison. Mr. Wright, do you understand that?”

  Wright leaned back in his chair and gave a wave to the judge. “Of course, I do. A most reasonable condition. Without it entire juries would be imprisoned. Wonderful law, yes, wonderful.”

  Again, the room burst into laughter, followed by a round of applause. And again, the judge demanded order and gave a tongue lashing to Whitaker Wright. He wisely said nothing in response but appeared to be hugely enjoying himself.

  The Crown prosecutor was called upon to present his opening statement. He refrained from getting into very specific numbers and transactions and pointed out to the jury that thousands of people had lost their savings in the collapse of the Wright group of companies but that Mr. Wright, his family members, and close employees continued to live in luxury. He announced that he would not only prove that the actions taken by the companies were intentionally fraudulent, but that the damage done to individual lives was tragic. The jury would meet and hear from some of those who were so terribly affected. He promised to provide “chapter and verse” to prove all of his accusations but closed by claiming that the privileged condition of Wright and his ilk and the suffering of those who trusted him spoke for itself. This was a case, he reminded the court, of the established legal principle of res ipsa loquitur.

  The judge turned to Wright’s lawyer and asked, “Sir, is it fair to assume that your client is familiar with the legal maxim of res ipsa loquitur?”

  Edward Hall leaned over and conferred with his client and then rose to respond.

  “Your honor, my client assures me that in the bars and brothels of Philadelphia they talk of little else.”

  Again the courtroom broke into laughter and I watched as the members of the press scribbled furiously, with two of them pausing to slap their thighs in glee.

  Rufus Isaacs announced that he would begin his case by calling a selection of the many stockholders who had signed the complaint against Wright. The first was an elderly lady who walked slowly to the witness stand, supported by a cane and somewhat bent over in posture. She identified herself as Mrs. Ruth Anderson, a widow from Camberwell. In reply to Mr. Isaac’s patient questions, she confirmed that she had taken one hundred pounds of her savings out of the bank and invested it in the London and Globe Company. She did so because she was having a very hard time getting by and she had listened to Mr. Wright give a speech and read about him in the press and she trusted him to help her double her meager investment within a year. When the companies collapsed her hundred pounds disappeared. Now she did not know how she was going to get through the remainder of the winter. She did not even have enough to spare to buy feed for her pet budgie, Gladstone. She pulled out her handkerchief from her cuff and dabbed her eyes.

  I could see the reporters attempting to stifle their laughter. One of them held up his notepad to another with the words “Gladstone Chirps No More” hastily written in bold letters. They really were a cynical lot.

  They were, however, nowhere near
as ruthless as Edward Hall, Wright’s lawyer. He began his cross by expressing his deep condolences for the dear lady and especially for poor Mr. Gladstone. He asked a few sympathetic questions and then, seemingly out of nowhere, he asked her if she knew a Mr. Bartholomew Bishop. The lady looked perplexed and answered.

  “Yes, I know Bartholomew Bishop.”

  “In what capacity are you acquainted with this man?”

  “He is the spirits merchant in Camberwell.”

  “Is he now? And how often during the course of a month would you chance to chat with him?”

  “Once a week, every Thursday,” she replied and I detected a worried expression coming across her face.

  “Once a week, you say. And where does this chat take place?”

  “In his shop.”

  “In his shop? Indeed. And why, my dear Mrs. Anderson, would you happen to be in Mr. Bishop’s shop once a week. Are you one of his customers?”

  “I am.”

  “And what do you purchase in Mr. Bishop’s shop once a week.”

  “A small bottle of spirits which I require for medicinal purposes. My doctor has advised me to do that.”

  “A small bottle of gin for your health, of course. But perhaps you could define what you mean by small. You see, I have a copy of a receipt from Mr. Bishop’s shop that says that last Thursday you purchased two bottles of gin and they were both the twenty-six-ounce size. Is that what you consider small, Mrs. Anderson?”

  He did not give her time to answer. “And it appears that you make a similar purchase every Thursday. And that during the past year you have spent over one hundred pounds of your pension and savings at his shop. Is that correct, Mrs. Anderson?”

  The woman was terribly flustered and quietly muttered, “I suppose it is. I have not kept track of it.”

  Mr. Hall looked as if he were prepared to ask more questions, but then he smiled graciously and announced that he had no further inquiries and politely asked the widowed lady to step down and return to her seat.

  I admit that I found what just took place disturbing. I glanced over at Holmes and Lestrade and was surprised to see that their faces were impassive, as if nothing untoward had happened.

  The next shareholder of London and Globe who was called to bear witness was a young nobleman, a Lester Deleon, the Marquess of Horseley. He was an exceptionally attractive young man with pale skin, bright blue eyes and wavy blond hair. He was dressed in the latest fashion, bordering on the dandy in my opinion, but certainly a comely witness who would, I hoped, inspire a more sympathetic response from the jury than the previous one.

  Rufus Isaac led the young chap through a series of questions that brought out a very clear picture of an innocent young man who completely trusted the honesty and integrity of Whitaker Wright. He had inquired concerning supporting documents before investing in the company that claimed to be successfully mining for gold in Western Australia. He had been shown extensive financial and assay reports. He had, conscientiously, taken copies of them to his father and his uncle and had their opinion and support. There was nothing he had not done by way of due diligence. He was now of the firm opinion that he had been lied to and deceived by Whitaker Wright.

  The final question from Rufus Isaacs asked him to tell the court how much he had lost.

  “Three thousand pounds,” he said quietly.

  “I’m afraid, sir, that I shall have to ask you to speak up so that the entire room can hear you. Would you please state again the total amount that you entrusted to Whitaker Wright?”

  “Three thousand pounds,” he said, clearly and distinctly. There were gasps throughout the room. A gentleman’s income for an entire year did not often exceed three hundred pounds. Even if this lad came from a titled family, he was undoubtedly swindled out of a small fortune. The room was murmuring loudly and again the judge demanded order.

  Edward Hall approached the witness, smiling, and began his cross. He was shaking his head and he strolled forward.

  “Three thousand pounds. My, now that was a terrible loss. Just terrible. And yes, you were, indeed, very diligent. Very diligent before putting such a sum at risk. I admire your diligence. A very responsible young man.”

  “I thank you, sir.”

  “Yes, very responsible. Now could you tell the court what you as a responsible young man were doing this past July. On the twenty-fifth to be exact. The last Saturday in the month. Do you recall where you were that day.”

  “I was at Sandown Park, in Surrey.”

  “Ah, you have an excellent memory. What was taking place that you remember so clearly?”

  “The Eclipse Stakes race was being run.”

  “And you were there observing?”

  “I was.”

  “Alone?”

  “Several of my friends were with me.”

  “And were you merely observing, or might you have wagered a pound or two on the race?”

  “I did place a bet.”

  “On which horse?”

  “On Ard Patrick.”

  “Bit of a risk, I must say. Wasn’t that horse injured after the Epsom Derby the year before?”

  “He was.”

  “What were the odds? Must have been quite high, given that he had been injured and had not run all season.”

  “They were twelve to one to win.”

  “And you bet on him? With those odds against him?”

  “I did.”

  “How much was your bet?”

  The young lord paused for a moment as if trying to remember. “I believe it was one thousand pounds.”

  There were gasps again throughout the room, and several quiet rounds of applause could be heard. Justice Bigham banged on his gavel.

  “Well now,” continued Wright’s barrister. “You are a brave young gambler, aren’t you? Wagering a thousand pounds on a risky horse and taking home twelve thousand.”

  “I was very lucky that day.”

  “Are you always so lucky?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What club do you belong to?”

  “The Reform Club.”

  “Ah, yes. Phileas Fogg’s club if I recall. It has quite the reputation for attracting those who like sporting adventures.”

  “I suppose some would say so.”

  “Is there not a room in the back of the club where a sportsman might play a friendly game of whist now and again?”

  “There is.”

  “And have you ever played cards there?”

  “I have.”

  “Have you now? And when was the last time you played a round in your club?”

  “On Saturday evening.”

  “Oh, quite recently?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you win anything on Saturday evening. Maybe a pound or two.”

  “No. I lost.”

  “Ah, so sorry to hear that. And by the end of the evening, how much had you lost?”

  Again, there was a brief pause before the Marquess answered. “A thousand, five hundred.”

  “A thousand five hundred what?”

  “Pounds.”

  Again, the chatter erupted in the court, and again order was called for.

  For the next half hour, the questions were relentless. The young lord had lost six hundred on a polo match, won four hundred on a cricket test, lost three hundred on rugby and then won it all back again. He had laid down two thousand on the Grand National and came away with his original wager plus another five hundred. I was jotting down numbers and it was soon apparent that this young gambler had over fifty thousand pounds pass back and forth through his hands in the past year. I looked around the court and observed the reporters gazing at him in rapt admiration. Two young women were flushed and looking all goats and monkeys at the fellow. He most certainly was an adventurous soul if ever there was one, and a disaster as a witness.

  The judge called for a brief recess and we shuffled out onto the pavement so that Holmes could indulge in his habit of tobacco.

/>   “That was a disaster,” I said. “How could Isaacs have not known what those witnesses were going to say? They were no help at all.”

  Holmes looked at me and gave a condescending smile. He then gave a glance to Lestrade, who offered a shallow nod and a wink. Apparently, they knew something that I did not.

  Before the day ended, two more shareholders were brought forward as witnesses and were again thoroughly discredited. I was entirely certain that Whitaker Wright was going to walk away scot-free. Holmes bade me good day and said that he would see me tomorrow. My wife and I walked all the way back to Marylebone and talked of nothing else but the fiasco we had witnessed. My mind was not so much on those folks who had lost money investing in the ventures of Whitaker Wright but on the five people whose lives had been snuffed out over three years ago, and for whom no justice had yet been obtained. What I found inexplicable was that Holmes did not appear to be in the least concerned.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It Does Not End

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the newspapers were full of the first day of the trial. The jokes were given many lines of ink and the cartoonists had their sport making fun of the prosecutor and even poking a bit of fun at the judge. I had picked up three of our morning papers on our way back to the Strand and angrily read them while waiting in my seat for the day’s events to commence. Holmes sat down beside me and I could not resist voicing my displeasure.

  “That Isaac’s fellow,” I said, “reminds me of some sort of bumbling fool out of the pages of Punch.”

  “Does he now?” replied Holmes. “I would say he reminds me more of Sidney Carton and Charles Darnay.”

  “Good heavens, Holmes. The cats? What are you talking about? Please, I do not see this as a time for frivolity.”

  I have already reminded the reader that over the years I have noted many times Holmes’s habit of smiling at me in a condescending manner. He did so yet again.

  “Elementary, Watson. Have you never observed how a cat at will play with its prey for as long as it wants and then grab it by the neck and shake it to death?”