The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes

by George Mann

  I stood. “Indeed I do.” I indicated the sorry specimen crumpled in the chair opposite. “This, Holmes, is Mr Xavier Gray.”

  Holmes looked from one of us to the other with a wideeyed expression. “I... well... is it really, Watson?”

  Xavier Gray glanced up at Holmes. “Dr Watson is correct, Mr Holmes. I am indeed Mr Xavier Gray,” he said, his voice low and moribund.

  “How extraordinary,” said Holmes. “How very extraordinary.” He seemed genuinely surprised by this development. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “This business with the unusual beast?” he asked, after a short moment of reflection.

  “Quite so,” I said, proudly. “You were wrong to dismiss it, Holmes. It’s proved to be the most remarkable of cases. The beast was in fact a bizarre, amphibious submersible being piloted by Mr Gray.”

  “Indeed?” said Holmes, without even a flicker of irony. “Well, perhaps I was wrong to be so dismissive, Watson. If it wasn’t for your tenacity...”

  “Don’t mention it, Holmes,” I said, with a smile. “So what now? I’m afraid we haven’t questioned him yet regarding his motives. I fear he’s rather in the grip of a severe case of shock.”

  Holmes nodded. “Very good, Watson. If I could prevail on you for a short while longer, I’ll send for Mycroft immediately. Of course, you’re welcome to the spare room this evening, if you should wish it?”

  The thought of my old bed reminded me of just how tired I was. By this time it was almost two o’clock in the morning. “Thank you, Holmes,” I said, nodding in gratitude. “The spare room will be most appreciated.”

  I waited with Gray while Holmes bustled off to make the necessary arrangements. He returned a few minutes later, looking rather pleased with himself. “Mycroft will be here shortly. Now, Watson, if you’d be kind enough to pour Mr Gray a brandy?”

  “What was that?” I said, somewhat startled. I’d been dangerously close to drifting off before the fire.

  “A drink for Mr Gray, Watson. Make it a substantial one.”

  With a sigh, I pushed myself out of my chair and crossed to the sideboard. When I turned back a moment later, glass in hand, I was annoyed to see Holmes had helped himself to my seat, opposite our visitor.

  “Mr Gray, I should like to talk with you,” said Holmes, his voice low and even.

  Gray seemed not to hear his words, or otherwise chose not to engage with them.

  Holmes leaned forward in his—or rather, in my—chair. “I know what became of your family, Mr Gray.”

  At this the other man’s demeanour seemed to alter entirely. He stiffened, lifting his head to stare directly at Holmes, who smiled calmly and waved at me to deliver the brandy. I placed it on the side table close to where Gray was sitting and retreated, moving round to stand behind Holmes.

  “I didn’t kill them,” Gray said, gritting his teeth, and I was startled to see tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he spoke. His fists were bunched so hard by his sides that his nails were digging into the flesh of his palms, drawing little beads of blood. “Despite what they might say, I only wanted to protect them.”

  “I believe you,” said Holmes, levelly. “It was immediately clear to me upon examining their remains that you were not to blame. Rather, it was the work of a criminal organisation, a network of thieves and robbers known as the ‘Order of the Red Hand’. All of their typical hallmarks were in evidence.” He paused, as if weighing up his own words. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

  Xavier Gray reached shakily for the tumbler of brandy I had provided for him and drained it thirstily, shuddering as the alcohol did its work. He returned the empty glass to the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I tried to save them,” he said, and his eyes implored us to believe him. “I tried to help. But I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t stop them. They held me back while they did it. They made me watch.” He began to weep openly then, tears trickling down his pale cheeks. “And all for what? For a few measly pounds. I only wish they’d killed me, too. Then I wouldn’t have to live with the memory.”

  Unsure of what else I could do, I collected his glass and poured him another generous measure. The story unfolding before me was not at all what I had expected.

  “And so you decided to take matters into your own hands?” prompted Holmes, leaning back in his chair and making a steeple with his fingers.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” said Gray between sobs. “It was all I could think of. All of those machines, those weapons, just hidden there in storage, covered in dusty tarpaulin. No one would know. Those ruffians needed to pay for what they’d done.”

  Confused, I glanced at Holmes, who shook his head minutely to indicate that I should refrain from interjecting with any questions.

  “So you took the submersible and set about searching for the perpetrators of the crime?”

  Gray nodded. “Yes. I knew they wouldn’t lie low for long. People like that never do. And so I made my nightly excursions in the stolen submersible, hoping to find them.”

  “In the very same location where your own family perished at their hands?”

  Gray nodded. “Cheyne Walk. That’s where they set upon us. I pleaded with them to stop. I tried to reason with them. I promised to give them everything if only they would spare the lives of my wife and children. But it was as if they were punishing me for only having a few pounds in my wallet. They wanted to make me pay, one way or another. And so I wanted to make them pay in return.”

  “It would never have been enough,” said Holmes. “You would never have been able to live with yourself.”

  “You think I can live with myself now?” said Gray, burying his face in his hands. “I have nothing left to live for.”

  I hardly knew what to say or do. I’d seen men like this before, broken because of a grave loss. It was clear that Gray had been driven to do what he had because of grief, and that temporary, blinding madness it inspires.

  I was still somewhat unsure of the full picture, but in listening to the conversation I had managed to piece together something of the story. It seemed to me that Xavier Gray had been the victim of a terrible, random crime, and that a gang of thieves had set upon him and his family in the street. His family had been brutally murdered before his very eyes, and as a consequence his mind had snapped. He had stolen the experimental submersible from—I assumed—the government facility where he worked, and had set out to seek revenge. It was a shocking tale, and I felt no small measure of pity for the wretch. I cannot say I wouldn’t have done the same in his circumstance.

  I jumped at the sound of a cane rapping against the front door, down in the street below.

  “Mycroft,” said Holmes, leaping out of his seat and disappearing to welcome his brother.

  We remained silent for a moment. I heard Mycroft bustling into the hallway downstairs. “I’m sorry,” I said to Gray, watching as he downed the remains of his second brandy.

  “So am I,” he replied, and I knew the words were not really intended for me.

  Mycroft entered the room then, ahead of Holmes, and I once again found myself taken aback by the sheer presence of the man. He was heavyset, with an ample waist and a broad, barrel-like chest, and taller even than his brother. He looked decidedly put out at finding himself there at Baker Street at nearly three o’clock in the morning, and his forehead was furrowed in a deep frown.

  “Watson,” he said, levelly, by way of greeting. “I understand my thanks are in order.” His tone was businesslike and clipped.

  I smiled and gave the briefest of shrugs. “You’re welcome,” I said. “I did only what I felt was necessary.”

  “You did me a great service,” said Mycroft, quickly, before turning to Gray, who was still sitting in the armchair opposite, clutching an empty glass. “Come along, Gray. It’s over now.”

  Xavier Gray looked up to meet Mycroft’s intense gaze. “Is it?” he asked, softly, before placing his glass on the side table and
getting to his feet. “I don’t think it shall ever be over.”

  Mycroft didn’t respond, other than to place a firm hand on Gray’s shoulder and to steer him swiftly towards the door. “Goodnight, Dr Watson,” he said, without glancing back. “Until next time.”

  Holmes saw his brother and their charge into the waiting carriage, before returning to the drawing room, a sullen expression on his face. “A dark business, Watson,” he said, quietly. “A dark business indeed.”

  “I’m just pleased that it’s over,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “Oh, I think for Mr Xavier Gray, Watson, the pain is only just beginning.”

  On that note, I repaired to my old room with a heavy heart, intent on a long and restful sleep.

  * * *

  The next morning I arose late to find Holmes had been up and about for hours. Indeed, I had my suspicions that, as I knew he was wont to do, he had not visited his bed at all.

  “Ah, Watson!” he said jovially, as I poked my head around the drawing room door. He was sitting with the morning newspapers, snipping away with a pair of silver scissors, taking cuttings for his scrapbooks.

  “Morning, Holmes,” I said, somewhat taken aback by his jollity.

  “Come and sit down, Watson! We’ll have Mrs Hudson rustle you up a late breakfast.” The thought was most appealing.

  “Tell me, Holmes, have you had word from Mycroft?”

  Holmes nodded. “Indeed I have, Watson.” He returned to his clippings.

  “And?” I prompted, exasperated.

  He glanced up from The Times with a mildly confused expression.

  “Xavier Gray?” I said. “There are those of us still anxious to understand his story,” I said, taking a seat opposite him. “As well as your role in the matter,” I added, for in truth that was my real motivation.

  Holmes set down his scissors. “Ah, yes. Of course. Xavier Gray, Watson, was a government scientist and spy. He was working on a number of highly sensitive projects in the area of mechanised warfare, when, a week ago, he suddenly disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” I echoed.

  “Quite so,” replied Holmes. “His superiors were, of course, concerned for the man, and even more for the sensitive information he was party to. Had he defected? Had he been captured and taken prisoner? The usual means of investigation turned up nothing. His home had simply been abandoned, and his family were gone, too.”

  “And now we know why,” I said, gravely.

  “Indeed. But at the time, the men responsible for tracing him had been unable to turn up any evidence of where he might have gone. Mycroft feared he might have fled somewhere untraceable in order to sell his secrets to a foreign agency, taking his family with him. In desperation, he called on me to investigate.”

  “And?”

  “I soon discovered what the others had, of course, missed. Gray’s family—his wife and two young boys—had been horrifically murdered just days prior to his disappearance. It appeared to be the work of the criminal gang I spoke of, the Order of the Red Hand, a network of robbers and thieves who had set upon them in the street and cleared out their pockets before disappearing. The bodies were still lying unidentified in the morgue.”

  “But why did Gray believe he was under suspicion? Last night he was most anxious to clear his name when you raised the matter.”

  “Once I had discovered the truth about his family, the imbeciles at the Yard were quick to proclaim his guilt, despite my evidence to the contrary. They simply could not fathom why a man might flee in the aftermath of such harrowing events, unless he was himself the killer or somehow connected with the perpetrators.”

  “That’s preposterous!” I said.

  Holmes laughed. “An all too familiar story, I fear, Watson.”

  “One can hardly blame him for taking matters into his own hands when faced with that as an alternative. I should imagine any man in his position might have chosen to do the same.”

  “Grief drives people to do terrible things, Watson, as you well know.”

  “Indeed,” I said, quietly. “What will happen to Gray now?”

  “Most likely an institution, I’d wager. At least until he’s had time to recover from the shock and torment that drove him to such extreme ends.”

  “Extreme ends indeed. I can only imagine that, when he attacked Sir Maurice, Miss Hobbes and I, he’d mistaken us for the very same criminals who had attacked and killed his family. Particularly when Newbury tossed a flare in his direction.”

  “I believe you’d be safe in that assumption,” said Holmes. “I imagine he saw only what his shattered mind had conjured.”

  “And what of the Order of the Red Hand?”

  “Ah,” said Holmes, brightly. “Their story is far from over. We shall face the Order of the Red Hand again. I am sure of it.”

  “I have no doubt you’re right,” I said, knowingly. “Well, that’s an end to a remarkable sequence of events, Holmes,” I continued, with a sigh. “And a most satisfactory resolution. For both of us.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, rising from his seat and crossing to the fireplace to search for his pipe and Persian slippers. “I believe the old adage, Watson, is ‘to kill two birds with one stone’.”

  “Quite so,” I agreed. “It is almost as if...” I paused, hesitating to give voice to a nagging doubt that had been plaguing me since I’d woken that morning. “It is almost as if someone masterminded the entire thing.”

  “Really, Watson?” said Holmes, laughing. “You do have a tendency towards the fanciful.”

  “Hmm,” I replied. “So where were you last night while all of the excitement was going on?”

  Holmes smiled, returning to his seat and beginning to meticulously stuff the bowl of his pipe with shag. “A violin concerto. German. It was quite exquisite, Watson. The company was only in London for one night. It was truly not to be missed. Not under any circumstances.”

  “A violin concerto!” I exclaimed, astounded. “Really, Holmes!”

  Holmes laughed. “Now, Watson. Breakfast!” he said, lighting his pipe and ringing the bell for Mrs Hudson. “There’s a little matter I wish to discuss with you, regarding a missing jewel...”

  * * *

  The story of the Higham Ruby is a tale for another time, of course, and following the peculiar events of which I have just given account would seem entirely prosaic.

  I sent word to Newbury that the matter had been successfully concluded and took pains to outline the story recited by Holmes, regarding Xavier Gray’s unfortunate circumstances and the true nature of the mechanical beast we had fought. I received a brief note of thanks from Miss Hobbes, who explained that Newbury had been detained with other matters but wished to extend his thanks for the part I had played in proceedings, and to reassure me that the submersible stolen by Gray had been given over to the appropriate authorities.

  It would be nearly two years until I once again encountered Sir Maurice Newbury and Miss Veronica Hobbes, in connection with the incidents I have previously set out in “The Case of the Five Bowler Hats”. Events at that point would take a decidedly more sinister turn, and perhaps if I’d had the foresight I might not have wished so readily to find myself engaged in another mystery with that ineffable duo.

  As it was, I’d found myself most invigorated by my association with Newbury and Miss Hobbes, and knew that, should the circumstances again present themselves, I would most definitely enjoy the prospect of joining forces with them once again to investigate a mystery of the improbable.

  Moreover, as I tucked into Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfast, I was content to know that for once in the long history of our friendship, I had been able to successfully surprise Mr Sherlock Holmes.

  THE SACRIFICIAL PAWN

  LONDON, OCTOBER 1902

  “Unhand me, you darned scoundrel!”

  The familiar voice reverberated throughout the old manor house like the bark of a cornered dog. Sir Maurice Newbury looked up from where he slumped against t
he wall of his makeshift cell, and smiled.

  Despite the circumstances, he was relieved to hear the voice of his old friend, Charles Bainbridge, to know that the chief inspector was still alive. He’d been worried that the people responsible for their capture might have proved less inclined to keep Bainbridge alive when they’d discovered he didn’t have what they were looking for. Thankfully, that seemed not to be the case. So far, at least.

  Newbury heard boots thundering in the hallway on the other side of the door. There were at least three of them, he estimated, along with their uncooperative prisoner. Consequently, he decided it wasn’t the time to try to make a break for it, especially given his own rather beleaguered condition. He’d have to bide his time for a while longer.

  The bolt grated in the lock, and then the door to the room was flung open and Bainbridge was shoved rudely inside.

  “God damn you!” he exclaimed loudly, as he stumbled and caught himself on the edge of the fire surround, barely managing to keep himself upright. The door slammed shut behind him, allowing Newbury only the slightest glimpse of their black-robed captors.

  Bainbridge glanced around warily, taking in his surroundings. His eyes fixed on Newbury, who remained slumped in the corner on the other side of the room. Bainbridge’s relief was immediately evident from the look on his face. “Newbury! Thank goodness you’re still alive!”

  Newbury grinned, and then winced as the gesture set off a series of sharp pains in his head. He’d taken quite a beating as he’d tried to evade capture, and even after three days, he could barely move without being reminded of it. Then, of course, there were the further beatings he’d received twice daily ever since he’d been holed up in the room. “I see the rescue attempt is going exactly as planned, Charles?” he said, with a chuckle.

  Bainbridge sighed and crossed the room to stand over him, limping ever so slightly as he walked. Newbury realised Bainbridge wasn’t carrying his cane. That meant yet another hope of escape was dashed. He must have lost it in the fight or had it confiscated by their captors.