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

by Craig Stephen Copland

The man sucked in his lips ever so slightly and, after holding that pose for several seconds, shook his head.

  “I am terribly sorry, gentlemen. But I cannot help you with that one. There is no one here by that name now, and if she taught here in the past, it must have been more than five years ago. That has been the duration of my tenure and no one by that name has served here in my time. As I said, I am terribly sorry, gentlemen. I can ask our Headmistress on your behalf when she has finished her classes. Or, have you considered trying the Post Office? They sometimes keep addresses on file. Our local one is just around the corner on Cromwell, right across from the V and A. One of our senior students could take you there if you require directions. Shall I ask for one of them?”

  “That,” I assured him, “will not be necessary.”

  Once back out on the street, I turned to Holmes.

  “That was not particularly productive. Mind you, if I were the father of daughters I might wish to send them here. What now, Holmes. Back to Baker Street?”

  “Until the end of the school day and then we shall pay a call on the former Mrs. Melody Musgrave.”

  I gave him a raised eyebrow. “And just where are we going to do that, Holmes?”

  “She lives on Elm Park Road. It’s in Chelsea, not far from here. We can give her a call once the school day is over. Around 4:30 this afternoon should do quite well. Come, Watson, let us find a cab back to Baker Street.”

  It was not the first nor would it be the last time I was struck dumb by something Holmes had said. Once in the cab, I recovered my voice enough to demand an explanation.

  “My dear, doctor,” he replied. “Will you never remember to look around you whilst you are engaging in an investigation? To begin with, on the roster of teachers’ names on the notice board was one that read ‘Mrs. Melody Cushway.’ The name Melody is not rare, but neither is it all that common. That was the first clue that not only was our lady here at the school, but that she was also the wife of the school administrator. Upon entering his office his office, I could see the scribbled notes on the paper in front of him that included the words ‘Strand, murder, attic, and seniors,’ all of which he used in his immediate greeting with us. There was nothing nonchalant in his conversation; it was entirely rehearsed in his mind just before we entered. He wanted to appear off-hand, but I rather suspect that he knew perfectly well why we were making our visit. He had an envelope on his desk that had been sent to his personal residence, bearing an address on Elm Park Road. Therefore, that shall be our next stop this afternoon. Now, if we make haste, we may be able to persuade our dear Mrs. Hudson to prepare some lunch even if we most inconsiderately arrive without warning her.”

  Over lunch and for two hours following, Holmes said nothing. He had retreated into his exceptional mind and was clearly attempting to put some order to the multitude of facts and suspicions that were emerging in this case. At four o’clock we hailed another cab and drove to Chelsea and knocked on the door of a nondescript brick row house. It was opened by a woman of a certain age whose face immediately conveyed her recognition of Holmes and me. Before she could say a word, Holmes immediately spoke sharply to her.

  “Mrs. Cushway, I wish to speak to you because I have evidence that your son, Shaw Musgrave, was murdered and did not take his own life. Are you willing to listen to me?”

  The poor soul immediately lost the color from her face and gasped. In a voiceless whisper, she responded, “Go away.”

  Regaining control over her emotional state, she raised her voice, “Go away!”

  As we made no move to comply, she then screamed at us. “GO AWAY!”

  This response brought her husband, who most likely had heard what Holmes had said, running down the stairs. He looked at us, and the anger spread across his face.

  “Get out of here,” he ordered. From the hallway, he picked up a cane of the sort used on the backside of misbehaving schoolboys and raised it above his head.

  “I said, be gone.” He then apparently thought better than to assault us with a weapon and slammed the door.

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes, “we should make a strategic retreat, but I do not suggest that we leave the battlefield.”

  He walked back from the door and a few steps along the pavement. We waited for several minutes until the door re-opened and Mr. Cushway emerged.

  “Holmes, Watson, come here!”

  We did as bid.

  “What you just did was vile, inhuman and despicable. However, my wife wishes to know what you believe happened to her son. You may enter and explain.”

  We stood just inside the entry and the lady, Mrs. Melody Cushway, returned and stood beside her husband.

  “Mr. Holmes,” she said, her voice trembling, “yesterday I was informed by the police that my son, Shaw Musgrave, had taken his own life and that he had left a note saying that his doing so was a result of his being falsely accused of the murder of his father. Even though I have had limited contact with him in the past few years, he was still my son, and that news was very difficult to bear. I know who you are, and I have to assume that you have reasonable evidence to support what you said. Please, tell me why you believe he was murdered and who could possibly have done that to him.”

  Tears were running down her face as she spoke. Her arm, which had been supported by her husband, was now taken back to her side, and she stood resolutely in front of Holmes, looking straight at him.

  Holmes patiently and methodically explained the evidence that we had observed at the graveyard and on the body of Shaw Musgrave, leading to the inevitable conclusion that her son had been the victim of foul play.

  “As to your question, madam, of who might have done this, I have, at the present, no answer. I am, however, determined to find whoever was responsible and bring that individual to justice. I am attempting to gather as many insights into what has taken place as possible. To that end, I would also like to speak to your son, Trevor. Does he reside with you?”

  “No,” said Mr. Cushway. “Master Trevor is of age and has acquired his own residence.”

  “And where might that be?” asked Holmes.

  “That is none of your concern,” said Cushway. “We shall meet with him and inform him of the news you imparted. We have no wish for you to assault him in your tactless manner. And now, Mr. Holmes, unless you have more to say, we bid you good day.”

  “I do have one more thing to say. I am also of the opinion, although with less evidence to support it, that your former husband, Mr. William Musgrave, may also have been murdered and not merely suffered a heart failure.”

  At this news, the lady again became distraught, and she turned and walked back into the house. Without saying anything more, her husband opened the door and gestured to us to leave.

  “Do you,” I asked Holmes, “now wish to find the brother?”

  “Oh, we have already done that,” said Holmes. “Once again, they did not think to cover the addresses on the unopened mail on the hall side table. A letter to Mr. Trevor Cushway was sitting there with his forward address written on it. It appeared to be from a hotel in Paris.”

  “Are we now to pay a surprise visit on him?”

  “Allow me, my friend to ponder that one for the time being.”

  And ponder he did. I resigned myself to another supper during which any conversation would be absent. Holmes picked away at his food and, leaving most of his dinner on his plate, returned to his chair and lit his pipe. I had lit a cheery, small fire in the hearth, and Holmes turned his chair so that he could look directly at the flames, and for an entire hour that was all that he did.

  I picked up yet another of Dickens’s novels—this time Great Expectations—and caught up with Magwitch, Pip, Mrs. Havisham and the beloved lot of them. My enjoyment was suddenly interrupted by Holmes leaping to his feet.

  “Oh, Watson,” he shouted, “How could I have missed it? It is utterly elementary, Watson.”

  “Merciful heavens, Holmes. What is?”

  “The inscr
iption. It explains it.”

  “Holmes, what are you talking about?”

  “The inscription, Watson. The inscription: lector, si fortunae requires circumspice.”

  “What about it?”

  “Look around. Look around. And what did we see as we looked around? Standing on the top of the hill, what did we see?”

  “A lovely view. Acres of field and forest and sheep and crops. What were we supposed to see?”

  “The fortune, Watson, the fortune. He spent it.”

  I had to think about that for a moment. “Ahhh, yes,” I said. The light was dawning on me as well. The current Musgrave estate in Sussex held over seven thousand acres. There were a dozen or more other properties in other parts of England and Scotland and several on the Continent. The royal fortune had all been spent on property.

  “The father,” said Holmes, “who was loyal to King Charles, kept the fortune safe, but his son took it and spent it. No wonder the First Earl of Sussex became so wealthy so quickly. And so much for loyalty to the Crown.”

  “But how does that put us any closer to the murderer?” I asked.

  Holmes did not answer. He gave a small shrug and returned to his pipe and his chair but turned it around so that now he was facing me.

  “Watson, we were not the first to discover the crypt.”

  “No, young Shaw had been there before us. We know that from what he told us.”

  “Yes, he did. But he was led there. Someone had previously discovered the old book, deciphered the clues, found the crypt, and opened the cases. He must have understood that the treasure now consisted of the vast Musgrave estate. The same person created the fraudulent book with the simple clues and placed it where Shaw would find it. And somehow by murdering both father and son, the estate, or at least a portion of it, would come his way.”

  “But who? And how?”

  “Ask me that later.”

  He brought his feet up under his body, closed his eyes and sat like a swami with his hands together and his fingertips pressed against each other. I could see that the conversation had ended and returned to Dickens. From time to time I glanced up as I turned the pages and twice caught Holmes looking at me. However, I said nothing as I was quite engrossed with the story.

  Suddenly he leaped to his feet.

  “Ah ha. Ah Ha! AH HAA!!” he bounded across the room and leaned down toward me, clapping both my shoulders with his hands and then doing it again.

  “Oh, my dear, dear chap, Watson. How splendid of you. You have given it to me.”

  He was leaning his face very close to mine.

  “Oh, my dear, friend,” he was shouting. “Oh, if I were French I would kiss you on both cheeks. Since we are English, you will just to imagine that sensation. How good you are to me.”

  He quickly stood up and rushed off into the bedroom. I sat in total bewilderment until he came charging back a few minutes later bearing his small overnight valise.

  “My dear doctor. I have some things I must do at once. Do arrange to meet me the day after tomorrow in the village. Noon at the Horseshoe Inn would do perfectly. Could you do that?”

  “Of course, I can, but what is going on? You must tell me.”

  “Havisham,” he shouted as he departed the room. “We have been tricked by Miss Havisham.” These last words faded as he ran down the stairs and out the door. A second later the door re-opened.

  “And bring your service revolver.”

  Chapter Ten

  In the Library with a Revolver

  IT WAS DIFFICULT the following day to give my full attention to my patients, and I was relieved when the day had ended and I had not inadvertently poisoned anyone. I slept only a few hours and rose early. I was out of the house well before first light and assumed that if I were going to wait I may as well do so whilst looking out over the rolling hills and old castle of Herstmonceux as the interior of our rooms on Baker Street.

  I got off, as before, at the Polegate station, just ten minutes in advance of Eastbourne and the ocean. I arrived at the inn just before eleven o’clock and took a chair outside along with a hot cup of tea. The first of December had come and passed, but I was only a few miles from the south coast, and the weather was mild and sunny. At eleven thirty a police carriage pulled up and out of it climbed Inspector Lestrade and Constable Duncan. Lestrade acknowledged me and walked over.

  “Good morning, doctor. I assume that you have no more idea than I do as to why Sherlock Holmes has summoned us here.”

  “Quite correct, Inspector. I am as blind as a mole on this one, I’m afraid. However, the tea is excellent, and the view is pleasant.”

  He grunted and waited inside.

  At noon, a dog-cart came up the road from the estate manor house and stopped at the inn. Holmes got out. I recognized the look on his face. It was a smug smile of triumph I had seen so many times in the past when he was about to pounce on his prey.

  “Ah, so good to see you all,” he said. “We must make haste back to the house and be sure we cannot be seen. If that were to happen the game would be up. So please, come with me.”

  We clambered into the police carriage and were delivered to the stately old house. Once there we were met at the door by Sinden, the butler, and led into the library.

  “Holmes,” whispered Lestrade. “Have you conscripted the butler into your venture? Surely not.”

  “Yes. He is quite reliable and was eager to help.”

  “Holmes, he’s a raving unionist. He’s right on the top of my list of suspects.”

  “Then, my dear inspector, you will have to adjust your list. Please follow me.”

  We followed him into an alcove off of the great library. Holmes sat down on the floor, and we did likewise and ceased making a sound. He motioned for Lestrade to sit in a place that offered an opportunity to look into the main room. We all curled up our legs and sat and waited.

  At just before one o’clock we heard the door of the room open and one man’s footsteps walk toward the desk in the back corner. Then, for another ten minutes, there was nothing and we continued to hold our positions in uncomfortable silence. At about ten minutes past the hour I heard voices chattering and the door open again. This time, several people were entering the room and walking across it. Lestrade held up his hand, his thumb curled in and four fingers extended.

  “Good afternoon,” said the voice from behind the desk. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

  I recognized the mellifluous baritone of Rochester Musgrave.

  “There is nothing good about it,” came the sharp reply, “and this is not a pleasant journey.”

  Although I could not see the speaker, I remembered hearing that voice recently. It was the school administrator, Mr. Cushway.

  “Then I am sure,” said Rochester Musgrave, “that a candid conversation amongst us will clear up any concerns and keep us all on track. Now please, all of you, have a seat and let us sort things out.”

  I could hear chairs being moved and assumed that the group of them had gathered together and seated themselves.

  “You say that you have some concerns,” said Mr. Cushway. “So do we. You had promised us that all we had to do after Billy’s death was to claim that the divorce had never been completed and that the bulk of the estate would then come to us.”

  “It was,” replied Rochester, “a splendid opportunity that we all agreed to take advantage of. I could not have known that a copy of the certificate would be on file at the village clerk’s office.”

  “And then,” continued Mr. Cushway, his voice now quite a bit louder, “you told Trevor that all he had to do was reconcile with his brother, and he would have his share of the estate. But you somehow failed to know that Shaw had got himself a wife. How stupid could you have been?”

  “Nobody knew that! They kept it a secret!” Cushway snapped back.

  “Yes, and you said that she was nothing but a stupid farm girl.” These words came from a young woman whose voice I did not recognize. �
�So, you had me pay the local brute to intimidate her, but instead she ends up talking to a lawyer and that detective.”

  “And now,” shouted Mr. Cushway, “that detective, Sherlock Holmes, arrives on our doorstep all full of questions and accusations.”

  “Did you…,” said an older woman’s voice, “did you murder my son?”

  “Oh, my dear Mrs. Cushway, I know it is hard to bear, but your son and my nephew, of whom I too was terribly fond, took his own life.”

  “That is not what that detective said,” said Mrs. Cushway. “Sherlock Holmes has informed us that regardless of what the press reported, the police know that Shaw Musgrave was murdered.”

  “Did you kill my brother!?” came a shout from another man’s voice. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “And you murdered Billy!” shouted Mrs. Cushway.

  “You used us,” said Mr. Cushway. “You used us to commit fraud and be part of your murderous scheme so that you could get part of the estate that never came to you. You used us, and you are a murderer!”

  Several voices were now shouting. The shrillest of them all was Mrs. Cushway, who kept screaming “Murderer! Murderer!” at Rochester Musgrave.

  “Bloody hell,” he screamed back. “So what if I am? You fools can send me to the gallows if you want and then you will all spend years in prison as accomplices to murder and fraud, or you can keep you bloody mouths shut, live in peace and have millions!”

  For several seconds, no one spoke.

  “Is that,” said Mr. Cushway, “why you demanded that we come here? So you could force our silence?”

  “Do not be foolish. I did not demand that you come here. You told me you were coming and demanded that I be here. That bloody detective must have terrified you.”

  “We did no such thing. You sent us a telegram saying that some great problem had come up and that we all had to come here immediately, at precisely this time.”

  “Are you insane? I did no such thing. You demanded this meeting. I have your telegram right here and …”

  He suddenly stopped speaking. Holmes looked at the rest of us and smiled. In truth, he grinned.