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

by Craig Stephen Copland

  He turned away, leaving me at a loss for words.

  The first person to be called to the box that morning was Mr. Wright himself. He stepped, with a bit of a bounce, up to the front of the room, turned and gave a wave to the assembled spectators and reporters. Several waved back at him.

  After being sworn in, he sat down in the witness box and smiled at the assembled people in the room. Rufus Isaacs approached him and opened with several standard questions.

  “You have given the court your name. Might I ask you to state your date of birth?”

  “The ninth day of the month of February.”

  “What year?”

  “Every year.”

  The room laughed and Wright smacked his hand down of the ledge of the witness box. Justice Bigham immediately reprimanded him and Wright feigned a look of contrition.

  Isaacs continued. “And do you agree that your appearance here this morning is pursuant to your having been charged with several instances of criminal fraud?”

  “Nope. Don’t agree. My appearance this morning is exactly like it is for any business meeting. I’m wearing my suit and a clean white shirt. How about you?”

  This brought forth a round of applause and Wright smiled broadly and waved at the reporters. Yet again he was reprimanded by the judge. He assumed a look of shock and surprise. “Your honor, I was just answering the question truthfully, wasn’t I?” He shrugged his broad shoulders and spread his hands, palms up.

  Rufus Isaacs quickly interjected before the matter was allowed to go any further.

  “Mr. Wright.”

  “Yes, Mr. Isaacs.”

  “I am assuming that you are an intelligent and honest man.”

  “Why thank you. I would dearly love to return the compliment, but unfortunately I am under oath.”

  This brought forth howls and hoots from the courtroom. The judge raised his gavel but put it down slowly and smiled. He turned to Rufus Isaacs and said, “You did rather set yourself up for that one, Barrister Isaacs.”

  Isaacs returned the smile. An air of frivolity had swept across the room and everyone seemed to be enjoying the sporting exchange.

  Isaacs had one of his assistants erect a large easel that had pages of paper attached to it. He took out a grease pencil and walked over to it before turning to speak to Wright.

  “One of your companies has been responsible for the financing of the new Underground line from Baker Street to Waterloo station, has it not?”

  “It has. That was our Imperial Victoria Company. I named it in honor of our dearly beloved queen. Wonderful woman. May she rest in peace. I said we were going to build the finest line in England. The most beautiful. Most modern. A true monument to the dear woman. So, yes sir. That is the company.”

  “And you issued bonds and debentures to finance this venture. Is that correct?”

  “I did. One of the most successful issues of new bonds in the past decade. Very successful. Incredibly successful. Completely subscribed. Oversubscribed. Had to turn away hundreds of investors.”

  “And which brokerage firms did you use to handle the bond and debenture issues?”

  “Two of the best. Fine firms. Hichens Harrison and Mawson and Williams. Love working with both those firms. Good men. Smart men. Honest men. We work well together.”

  “Ah, you consider them to be honest and competent.”

  “Like I said. Fine fellows. Smart and always honest. That’s why we get along so well. Honest men trust honest men.”

  “Do you happen to recall how much available cash your bond and debenture issues brought in for use in the constructing of the new underground line?”

  “Hey, now c’mon lawyer man. That was five years ago and a lot of water has gone under the bridge since then and I have done dozens more deals. Dozens more. Maybe a hundred since then. Big deals. You can’t expect me to remember exact numbers. But believe me, it brought in a lot. Big time pounds, and dollars, and even francs. Big time.”

  “Of course,” said Isaacs. “According to the records the court has received from the two brokerages, the total sale of the bonds and debentures amounted to three hundred and seventy-five thousand, two hundred and six pounds. If we take away their commission that provided you with three hundred and thirty-seven thousand, six hundred and eighty-five pounds for use on this construction venture. Does that sound correct, Mr. Wright.”

  “I already told you, there are far too many things, many many things, that I’ve done and built for me to remember specifics.”

  “Here is the report from the two brokerage houses, sir. You have said that they are honest men and so will you agree that these are honest figures?”

  He handed a set of pages to Wright who looked at them and shrugged. “If that’s what it says, then that’s what it was.”

  “Very good, sir. Now I have here the accounts submitted by your contractors for the construction of the stations and the tunnels and the rails and every item that has been spent to date on this line. I must say, it has not been a cheap venture.”

  “We went first class all the way. First class. That’s what I always insist on. First class. I wanted to give to people of London a line they could be proud of. A beautiful line. Beautiful stations. So, it has not been cheap. Nothing I build is ever cheap. Always first class.”

  “Very commendable, sir. But it looks as if the Baker Street station alone has already cost more than one hundred thousand pounds. Could that be correct, sir?”

  “Yeah. It was a big one. Had to go deep, real deep. There were four lines already meeting there and we had to go under all of them. But it’s gonna be a beautiful station. Fabulous. Really important to the people of London. It’ll cut their time in half getting to Waterloo. Thousands of them have said they can’t wait for it to be finished. We’re so proud of what that station is gonna be.”

  “As you should sir. Now the station at Regent Park, well, that appears to be far more economical.”

  “Yeah. No other lines. Just an entrance to my new line. So, you can get on and off right at the park. People are gonna love it. Everybody is saying what a great idea it was.”

  “I’m sure it will be enjoyed by all,” said Mr. Isaacs. “However, the remainder of the stations—Oxford Circus, Piccadilly, Charing Cross, and the Embankment—each have cost you more than fifty thousand pounds already and they’re not yet finished.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because we had to go deep again to get under the lines that are already at those stations. But that’s what will make it so convenient. So great for the people of London. That’s why I’m building it. For the people. They’re gonna love it.”

  “I am sure they will. But it also appears that you had to dig your own new tunnel under the Thames to get to Waterloo Station.”

  “Do you know any other way to get under a river?”

  The spectators and reporters chuckled at that response.

  “No, Mr. Wright, I do not. But it appears that the tunnel alone cost you over half a million pounds. Can that be true?”

  “Sure, it’s true. I had to make it safe. Beautifully safe. You go cheap on a tunnel, you’re asking for trouble. So, you gotta ask yourself something, Mr. Isaacs, like, how long can you tread water?”

  Again, more chuckles and Isaacs again smiled in return and walked over to his easel and began to write down numbers for the jury to see.

  “Mr. Wright,” he said once he had finished putting a column of numbers on the board, “do correct me if I am wrong, but it appears that at the time the construction was halted on the Baker Street to Waterloo line, you had already spent over one million pounds paying for it.”

  “So? Building something beautiful gets expensive. Have you seen our stations? Beautiful. Real artistic. And we have lovely artwork in the stations. Beautiful art. And when it is finished, thousands of Londoners are gonna use it every day. And they’ll be happy to pay for it. Great investment. Beautiful investment.”

  “So, you spent over one million pounds, but you o
nly brought in about three hundred and fifty thousand in capital. Please tell the court where the rest of the money came from? It appears that at least seven hundred thousand pounds was provided to the Imperial Victoria Company. Where did it come from?”

  “I loaned it from some of my other companies. Perfectly legal. Normal smart business practice. If you got more money than you need in one company and less than you need in another, you can do a loan. Companies do that all the time, don’t you know?”

  “I do know that, sir. But they do so with the reasonable expectation of getting the money back some day, do they not?”

  “Which they will with interest. Fabulous investment.”

  “Will they? Not according to the predictions of the City of London. I have a report prepared four years ago by the engineering department of London and it shows that your stations cannot support more than a seven-carriage train and that the highest possible level of ridership for your line will never exceed two million riders. Unless you charge every one of them a pound per ride, which would be prohibitive, you will never do much better than break even on your annual operating costs, let alone ever pay back those loans.”

  “Claptrap, sir. Pure claptrap. What do engineers know about running a business? I’ll tell you how to run a business. You give the customers what they want and you do it better than anyone else and you have a business. A beautiful business. That’s what we are doing. That’s what’s called business. It’s gonna be a great investment. So great.”

  “But now those other companies have no money. And they closed their doors and went bankrupt. Funds that were supposed to be used to expand the mines were used for the Underground. And dividends that were due to your shareholders were never paid.”

  “That’s business. You know what people say in America? People say ‘Some days you win. Some days you lose. Somedays it rains.’ They’re talking about baseball but it applies to business. And if you can’t stand the heat, get outta the kitchen. Business is a tough game. You gotta play hardball. That’s how I play and that’s why I’ve been such a success. An incredible success.”

  “Indeed, you are, sir. You are a fabulously wealthy man and your estates and investments are secure. So, what do you say to all those people who trusted you with their money? Not only other wealthy investors, but churches, charities, widows, working men? All those ordinary folks? How is it that you are sitting high and dry whilst they are impoverished?”

  “That’s called being smart.”

  “Ah, so if you’re smart, all the others who trusted you are stupid. Is that what you are telling the court, sir?”

  For once, Whitaker Wright had no immediate response. I could see the reporters scribbling madly. The laughter and chuckles in the courtroom had vanished. Mr. Wright seemed quite uncomfortable.

  Rufus Isaacs did not give him a chance to recover. He returned to his easel and began to write more numbers on the paper.

  Slowly and laboriously he forced Whitaker Wright to walk through the filings and accounts of one of his companies after the other. Each time the chicanery and obfuscation of the loans and share transfers between the companies was exposed. The painful process continued for the rest of the day.

  And then it continued for two more weeks. The only defense that Wright could offer was to continue to declare that everything he had done was entirely legal, and just normal smart business practices. If a company failed, it was a shame but that was business.

  The stories in the press took on a different tone. Rufus Isaacs was doing a masterful job of making the clandestine machinations of the Wright group crystal clear to the jury, the spectators, and the reporters. The press in turn copied his explanations and printed story after story informing the public of just what all had transpired. Mr. Wright slowly became a monster in the eyes of the citizens of England.

  Edward Hall, Wright’s barrister, did his best to defend his client, but the facts were stacked against him. High sounding orations about the need for visionary titans of business could only be repeated so often before they were falling on deaf ears.

  On the morning of the twenty-fifth of January, 1904, the trial was concluded and the final presentations were made to the jury. The twelve true men retreated to their jury room and we returned to our homes, not knowing how long it would take them to reach a decision.

  To my surprise, I received a note from Holmes early the following morning informing me that the jury had reached their decision and would be making their report at ten o’clock. We hastened back to the Strand and to our places in the courtroom. The room was packed to the rafters and there must have been another fifty reporters standing outside the door.

  The jury returned. Not one of them looked at Mr. Wright. The judge asked the foreman if they had reached a decision.

  “We have, your honor.”

  “And what is your decision.”

  “We find the defendant guilty as charged on all counts.”

  A chatter erupted in the room and Justice Bigham demanded order. He then thanked the jury for their service and ordered a brief recess prior to his announcing a sentence.

  The Crown argued for a severe sentence of at least ten years, owing to the magnitude of the crime and the long history of Whitaker Wright’s enriching himself at the expense of those who trusted him. Wright’s barrister pleaded for a much more lenient sentence, noting his client’s wonderful history of public service, his generous support of many charities and his record of being an admired employer and neighbor.

  All of us sat in silence as Justice Bigham called for the defendant to rise. Slowly he read off the charges and then placed the list on the bench in front of him.

  “Mr. James Whitaker Wright, I hereby sentence you to seven years in prison.”

  He made a few more remarks and then declared the case closed and dismissed the court.

  Wright maintained an impassive face and sat down. The reporters scrambled over each other to race out of the court and back to Fleet Street to file their stories. The rest of us slowly made our way out to the lobby.

  “What happens now?” I asked Holmes and Lestrade.

  “We will wait,” said Lestrade, “for the Crown and Mr. Wright’s lawyers and arrange a time to meet and start to do some hard bargaining. I suspect that the last thing Wright wants is seven years in Millbank or Holloway or wherever they stick him. I would be willing to settle for three or maybe even two years if he helped us convict the Beddington boys of murder. Would you agree, Holmes?”

  “It is far from what he deserves, but if that is the way the game has to be played then so be it.”

  Rufus Isaacs joined us and together we waited for Wright’s retinue. When they approached we clustered together but before any talk got underway, Wright spoke to the officers of the court who were accompanying him.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen, but I must excuse myself for just a moment. There are some bodily necessities to which even an innocent man is subject.” He nodded his head in the direction of the WC. It was an entirely understandable request and the officers stood back and let him depart.

  “Oh, Mr. Wright, sir,” called a younger member of his legal team who was carrying an armful of papers, pens and other accessories. “I have your watch here. Do you want it?”

  Wright smiled back. “No, but thank you. I really do not need it where I am going.” He continued on his stroll to the WC.

  As it was not appropriate to carry on making the intended arrangements, we all stood in silence.

  Five minutes passed. Then ten minutes. And then fifteen minutes.

  “Did he take a newspaper in there with him?” asked one of the court officers, attempting to break the silence.

  Edward Hall turned to the chap and said, “Perhaps you could go and check on him and see if he needs any assistance.”

  The man nodded, said nothing, and walked over to the men’s WC and entered.

  A few seconds later the door burst open and the court officer came rushing over to us. He eyes were wide and hi
s mouth was gaping open.

  “He’s dead! He’s dead. He’s lying on the floor in there and he’s dead.”

  The group of us, minus my wife, all rushed into the WC. There, in the middle of the tiled floor was the large body of James Whitaker Wright. He was prostrate on his back, fully clothed, and with his hands clasped behind his head as if to form a pillow. I immediately dropped down beside him to check for his pulse.

  There was none. Holmes knelt by his head and leaned over to his face and sniffed slightly. He looked up at the rest of us.

  “Cyanide. Mr. Wright has taken his own life by swallowing cyanide.”

  Lestrade did a quick inspection of the suit pockets and extracted three large capsules. He also pulled out a Webley Bulldog revolver. Having found it, he laid it back on top of the body and departed. We could hear his whistle summoning the nearest police officers.

  Pandemonium broke out in the lobby. Most of the reporters had already fled to Fleet Street but those who were still on the scene pushed and shoved and tried to enter the WC. They were restrained by several burly police officers.

  In fairly short order an ambulance wagon arrived and the attendants loaded the body of Whitaker Wright inside and drove off.

  The crowds dispersed and we were left standing on the pavement in the wintery, bleak afternoon of 26 January, 1904. For no reason I can remember, we walked slowly and in silence south through the Temple Gardens until we were standing on the Embankment, looking out over the dark, cold Thames.

  Lestrade spoke first.

  “Somebody else will sort out the estates, the shares, the bankruptcies, and the unfinished underground line. Those matters are not my concern. But four years ago, five people were murdered and they were all connected to this case. My plan for arresting and convicting the killers disappeared in the WC. Dead men tell no tales.”

  Here he paused and gazed out over the water. He then turned to Sherlock Holmes.

  “I will vow,” he said, “to work at this case until justice is done. May I count on your assistance, Holmes?”