Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2

by Puhl, Gayle Lange

  Johnny Flynn was as good-looking as the picture in Kathleen Nebelung’s locket. He was of medium height and broad in the shoulders, dressed in gaiters and a Norfolk jacket suit of grey tweed. When he removed his cap he displayed a head of wavy black hair. Katrina Manx bore a resemblance to her cousin Kathleen, except that her hair was light brown and her dress was a touch richer, as befit the daughter of a successful haberdasher.

  The service was short. After the mourners had filed past and tossed handfuls of dirt on the lowered coffin, the crowd began to disperse. As the young man, a cousin on either arm, started to guide them out of the churchyard, Sherlock Holmes stepped forward.

  “Excuse me, Miss Nebelung, I believed you dropped this.” He proffered her the kerchief found in Kitty’s hand.

  “I told you, Mr. Holmes, that that is not mine.”

  Holmes bowed. He offered the scrap of lace to Miss Manx. “Is this yours?”

  Katrina Manx bent over the kerchief. “Yes, that is mine. I embroidered the “K” myself. But how did you get it? I gave it to Johnny last week.”

  Kathleen Nebelung’s face went pale, then red. “You gave it to Johnny? Why?”

  Miss Manx blushed. “It was just a little keepsake. We had been talking about the wedding…”

  “Wedding! What wedding?”

  “I was going to tell you, cousin, but then Kitty disappeared and everyone was upset. Johnny and I…”

  Kathleen Nebelung’s attitude became arctic. Her face was white again. She dropped Flynn’s arm. Her face was a study in anger. She ignored her cousin’s explanations and turned to the young man.

  “What is she talking about, Johnny?”

  Johnny Flynn was staring at the kerchief in Holmes’ hand with a sort of sick fascination. He raised his eyes to Miss Nebelung. His expression said it all. The young woman stared at him wordlessly and then she slapped his face. He didn’t react. After a moment she turned abruptly and walked away, her back straight and her step firm. She didn’t look back. Katrina Manx tugged at his arm.

  “Johnny, stop her, tell her. We’re going to be married in the spring. You said you wanted something of mine to carry with you. I gave you that handkerchief. How did this man get it?”

  “It was found in Kitty Cymric’s hand after she was pulled from the well,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  Miss Manx pulled her hand away from Flynn’s sleeve. “You gave my handkerchief to Kitty?”

  “No, no! It wasn’t that way at all! Listen, Kat, I can explain. Kitty was spying on me. She was carrying tales back to Kathleen. She…”

  “Kathleen! Why would Kathleen be interested in what you were doing?”

  “Well, Kathleen and I saw each other a little. But, Kat, it didn’t mean anything!” The young man’s face was twisted in misery. He stammered in his frantic efforts to salvage the engagement. Miss Manx’s attitude became as cold as her cousin’s.

  “It must have meant something to Kathleen. Were you walking out with her all this time? Yes, I can see you were. I wish she had hit you harder. Under the circumstances, please consider yourself released from any obligations to me. Good-by, Mr. Flynn. I never want to see you again.”

  With that last parting shot, Miss Katrina Manx trotted toward her cousin. As the two women met, we heard a scrap of conversation. Miss Manx said “Johnny never told me,” to which Miss Nebelung responded “Then Kitty was telling the truth.” They left together, their arms around each other’s waists.

  Johnny Flynn stared after the two girls forlornly. Sherlock Holmes cleared his throat and the young man looked at him.

  “Mr. Flynn, do you want to explain how this kerchief ended up in that poor girl’s hand?”

  “Hey, mister, I don’t know who you are, but I think you’ve done enough damage for one day. I’m not talking to you. I’m going home.”

  Constable Chartreux placed a beefy hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “I suggest a stop at the police station first, Johnny. This gentleman, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I have some questions for you.”

  “Sherlock Holmes!”

  Holmes handed the kerchief to the constable. “Ah, I see you have heard of me, Mr. Flynn. How very gratifying. But I don’t think you will have to ask any questions, Constable. I believe I can explain how Kitty Cymric died and the part Mr. Flynn played in her death.”

  “I didn’t kill her! I don’t know anything about it!”

  There was a stone bench under a yew tree nearby. It was inscribed with the words “Sacred to the Memory of Elizabeth Muffet, who Lived and Died Sitting on her Tuffet.” Holmes sat down and pulled the bundle of witness statements out of his coat. He gave the bundle to Constable Chartreux.

  “If I am mistaken in any part of this account, I am sure Mr. Flynn can correct me. After Dr. Barnes told Dr. Watson and me the story of Kitty Cymric and her unfortunate fate, I stayed up late last night reading the reports given by the people who knew her. I had a good idea of the facts of the case by the time we arrived at the shed in the mews behind the “Ingbong Bell”. I looked over her dress and noted the thorns that remained snagged in the fabric from the bush by the well. I examined the bruises on her arm and determined that they were inflicted by an attacker who was trying to get Kitty to drop the handkerchief she held. Since the kerchief was demonstrably not hers she had to have stolen it. Kathleen Nebelung said that Kitty had been warning her about Johnny Flynn, that he was not the man she thought he was and that he was keeping a secret from her. Miss Nebelung didn’t believe her accusations about Flynn and demanded proof. Kitty set out to obtain that proof.

  “The kitchen maid had been absent from her duties, even refusing to tell her employer where she had been and what she had been doing. That was because she had begun following Flynn whenever she could. I shared the contents of my flask with Tim Purcey, Flynn’s best friend, this morning after Dr. Barnes and Dr. Watson went back to the surgery. He told me that the night Kitty disappeared Purcey, Flynn and a couple of other men were playing billiards at the “Old Oaken Bucket” just north of Fletcherford in the Northern Road. Flynn pulled out this handkerchief and showed it to them. He bragged that Katrina Manx, the only daughter of one of the richest men in Fletcherford, had given it to him and that they were going to get married.

  “He put the kerchief back in his coat, then took the coat off and hung it on a peg when he began the next game. A few minutes later, while the men were concentrated on the game, the front door slammed shut. Purcey saw Flynn’s coat lying on the floor. Flynn picked it up, went through the pockets, and suddenly ran out that same door. Through the window the men saw Flynn running across the road and toward the woods behind the “Ingbong Bell” a mile away. Purcey thought he saw another figure crossing the field beyond the road, but he couldn’t be sure because there was no moon. Flynn didn’t return to the “Old Oaken Bucket” that night.

  “After Kitty Cymric was reported missing and people began to search for her, Purcey asked Flynn to join him in hunting for the girl. He refused. Purcey joined the search and gave no more thought to Johnny Flynn.

  “The bruises on the victim’s arm showed that Flynn managed to catch up with Kitty, and squeezed her arm in an effort to make her drop the kerchief. She broke away and ran into the woods. The next few minutes are at the crux of this case. Did Johnny Flynn break off his pursuit and let the girl run away? Then did Kitty fall into the well in the darkness by herself? Or did he follow her into the trees and during another struggle, push Kitty Cymric into the well, thus causing her death?”

  “I never went into the trees,” said Johnny Flynn. “She kicked my shin and I left her go, then she ran into the woods. I’ll roll up my pant leg and show you the bruise. See that? I lost sight of her. It was too dark to follow, even darker under those branches than out in the field. I didn’t want to risk braining myself on some low-hanging branch. I recognized Kitty during the fight and I knew she wou
ld go back to the “Ingbong Bell” on the other side of the woods. I circled round and stopped only when I reached the mews. I hid in a stable where I could see the back door and waited for her to return. I watched until morning but she never came back. When the alarm was raised I decided to say nothing and went home.”

  “A very pretty story,” rumbled Constable Chartreux. “I think it will be up to the authorities to determine if any part of it is true. Meanwhile, John Flynn, I arrest you in the name of the Crown for the death of Kitty Cymric. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

  “I swear it was an accident! You big dumb copper, don’t you hear me?”

  Sherlock Holmes addressed the policeman. “That bruise could have come as he said, or he may have gotten it when she tried to escape from him in the woods. I draw your attention to the two tiny rosebush thorns that are snagged in the left leg of his trousers just above the gaiters. They are identical to the ones caught up in Kitty’s dress. After I gave my last drop of brandy to Tim Purcey I examined the field and the woods where the well was hidden. The dirt had been churned up by the searchers, but I was able to isolate two distinct sets of footsteps. One pair belonged to a man and the other was that of a small woman. They came from the field and ended at the well’s edge. A trail left by the man then ran off in the direction of the Fletcher estate.”

  Johnny Flynn had been glaring at us all. Now he spun around and spat at Sherlock Holmes. Constable Chartreux pulled him back as Flynn vented his fury.

  “That miserable brat! She poked her nose into my business and stole my handkerchief! I was just trying to get it back before she could show it to Kathleen. I just wanted to get it back.” He suddenly realized what he was saying and fell silent. As Constable Chartreux fastened handcuffs to his wrists he darted murderous glances at us and began to mutter to himself.

  “Sherlock Holmes! The great meddler! The famous snoop! Why should I swing for what he says? He wasn’t even there!”

  His voice died away as he was led out of the churchyard. Holmes stood up. He turned to Galen Barnes.

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Doctor, but I think it’s time for us to return to the city. I saw by the London newspaper that Inspector Lestrade has been put in charge of the Col. Runcible Spoone case. If he doesn’t realize the importance of the awl and the pudding vat, he will never solve it. The next train to London starts in an hour, Watson, and our first stop will be at Scotland Yard.”

  The Case of the Braided Basket

  One summer day my friend Sherlock Holmes and I returned to Baker Street from a walk along London’s streets. As I closed the door of the vestibule between the front door and the seventeen steps that led up to our sitting room, I noticed Holmes was bent over something on the hall table.

  It was a large oval wicker basket with braided handles at either end. I looked inside and was surprised to see a tiny sleeping infant, with only its head and hands exposed, resting comfortably on a bed of folded cloths.

  “What an extraordinary thing!” I exclaimed.

  “Might I take it from that remark that you have not seen this child before, Watson? That it is not a patient or perhaps a relative?”

  “Of course not, Holmes!” I replied indignantly.

  “You may take it as read that it is a stranger to me as well. Since it belongs to neither of us, questions arise. What is it doing here? Where is its mother?”

  “She could be visiting Mrs. Hudson.”

  “Then why leave the basket with its little occupant here in the hall? Wouldn’t it be expected that such a young child be kept in near proximity to a parent?”

  “Perhaps it relates to a case concerning a client of yours.”

  “Currently I have no client, but the thought raises definite possibilities. First let me garner what information I can from the available source.”

  Gently Holmes probed the basket and its tiny inhabitant, turning back cloths and feeling beneath the child. He unwrapped the covers on the infant and took note of what it was wearing. Finally he tucked the last blanket back in place and straightened up from his search. The baby had woken during the examination, but remained quiet, its large brown eyes fixed on Holmes’ face.

  “The infant is plentifully supplied with material goods, including three receiving blankets, two acting as a make-shift mattress and one as the cover. It is dressed in a nappy, still clean, and a newly-washed lace-trimmed sacque. This cotton bonnet, also laced-trimmed, was tucked inside. The basket is woven of willow withes and the supports and handles have been braided of ash strips, apparently to add strength.”

  Holmes pulled out his magnifying glass and examined the bonnet and its lace. He also applied the lens to the oval basket. I held out my hand and the baby grasped one of my fingers.

  “The cotton of the blankets and the sacque is undistinguished, but the lace is machine-made and similar to that sold at Gammidge’s, the People’s Emporium. The weaving shows the basket is Japanese and such baskets are also sold at Gammidge’s.

  “Judging by the state of the nappy and the fact that the infant shows no signs of hunger, we may conclude that it has not been left alone long. Why would anyone leave a young baby in a basket at the home of Sherlock Holmes without even a note of explanation?”

  “It must be a case!” I said.

  “But what sort of case, Watson? What sort of cases could involve a small baby?

  “A kidnapping for ransom.”

  “There is no note, remember. Please continue.”

  “An unfortunate birth. Maybe the mother wants you to find the child a good home. Or the mother wants you to locate the father and deliver the child to him.”

  “Again there are no such directions left with the baby. This island, not to mention Greater London itself, is a very wide field without a compass.”

  “It could be a missing person. The basket may have been picked up by mistake in a busy neighbourhood. When it was discovered that the baby was in it, it was left at a safe location to be returned to its parents.”

  “But if it was a simple mistake the child could have been returned easily. Again, there is no note with name and address.”

  “Perhaps the mother was attacked and the child taken away in the confusion. It was dropped here to get rid of it.”

  “You scintillate today, my friend. Can you think of any other scenarios that might fit these circumstances?”

  “I’m afraid I have exhausted all the possibilities.”

  “Not everyone, Watson. I could tell you four more. However, this palaver isn’t bringing the child back to its family. Our next step will be to…”

  At this point I withdrew my hand and the infant started to make sounds. That diverted our attention. As we bent over the basket again, Mrs. Hudson bustled into the hall from the corridor that led to the kitchen in the back of the house.

  “Ah, I see you gentlemen have met our little visitor. Isn’t that such a good baby! I put that basket out here just fifteen minutes ago and have heard nary a peep from it.”

  “Are we to understand, Mrs. Hudson, that you placed this child out here in the hall fifteen minutes ago and left it untended?” asked Sherlock Holmes sternly.

  Our landlady put her hands on her ample hips and looked Holmes right in the eye. “I just said so, Mr. Holmes, didn’t I, and why should that be a problem? He was asleep until your talking woke him up. I agreed to watch little Bailey Bunting while his mother went to the stores. Her husband is out hunting for work and there was no one else to do it. I was in the middle of putting up preserves and the kitchen was too hot for the baby to stay in for long. I’ve finished now and the kitchen is cooling off nicely.”

  I was apologetic. “We…I…just thought that…well, the baby…”

  Mrs. Hudson frowned and picked up the basket and its contents with a sniff. She turned back the
way she had come. “Not everything in this house is a mystery, Dr. Watson. I sometimes think that you may be spending too much time with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  The Case of the Callous Collector

  “Someone is going to kill me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! I am certain of it! You must save my life! I’ll pay any price for your protection if you will agree to start this very minute!”

  I looked with wonder at the agitated little man who sat trembling on our sitting room sofa. His card, which he handed to Holmes when he arrived at 221b Baker Street, stated that his name was Mr. Twain Todd, gentleman. His appearance was unusual, for he looked for all the world as if he had grown to a normal height then been pushed down by a heavy hand until he was left barely five feet tall. His head was large and his curly hair was cut short, so it fluffed out in all directions at the same length. He had no neck to speak of and the rest of his body was squat and blobby. He had short thick legs and very broad feet. He had a wide flat nose and his large pale blue eyes were watery and bulged out of their sockets, indicating a possible thyroid condition. He wore a tropical weight suit with a heavy watch chain bearing a small carved oval of stone slung across his generous stomach. He wrung his wide hands together as he waited for my friend’s response.

  Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his armchair, fingering Mr. Todd’s card and eyeing him closely.

  “Watson, please get our visitor a brandy. It is early, but I am sure that Mr. Todd will welcome such refreshment. There, pour him another. Now, Mr. Todd, beside the facts that you ate your dinner last night at the Langham Hotel, have spent some years in Egypt, smoke a hookah for your nerves and only recently returned to England, I know nothing of your circumstances. I cannot decide if I can help you until you tell me your problem.”

  The little man stared at Holmes with the astonished and suspicious look with which I had become so familiar. “You have heard of my collection and have had me followed, sir. You are part of the plot! Oh, I have fallen into a den of thieves! I am lost!” He staggered to his feet and looked wildly around for escape. He bolted for the door and we sat astonished as he thundered down the stairs and out into the street. I looked out of the window in time to see him bounding down the pavement toward Baker Street Station, his hat clutched in one hand and his coattails flying behind his squat body.