The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  As it was a Monday morning, smoke was rising from the chimneys to indicate that the weekly wash was in progress. It was then that I observed that there was no smoke from one set of chimneys.

  “Who’s in that house, Stringer?” said I, indicating with my head the end house on our side of the road.

  “Dunno, guv’nor,” was his reply. “Never seen em what’s supposed to live there. They ain’t never comes art with their knives when I calls.”

  Despite my impatience to get back to the others and tell them of my suspicions, I had to restrain myself and continue to play the part of the knife grinder’s mate for another quarter of an hour.

  Back with the others, Stringer was dismissed and threatened with the resurrection of past offences to be taken into account if he told anyone of what had happened.

  “Let us hope Holmes is in that house,” said I. “Of course, we could be wrong and he is being held somewhere else.”

  “Now what is our next move to be?” asked Mycroft Holmes.

  “We’ll have to move most carefully,” said Shershay, “or they might kill your brother.”

  “If he is in there, he is in great danger,” said Mycroft. “We cannot just rush the front door.”

  I considered for some moments about how we could enter the house, seize the villains, and release Holmes. We might create a diversion, such as producing smoke and shouting “Fire!” That had worked on at least two occasions in my accounts of Holmes’s career. Or should we force our way in, either from the back or through the front door?

  As we stood there debating our next move, a member of the Salvation Army approached carrying copies of the War Cry.

  With an impulsive decision, I said, “Superintendent, I could wear the uniform jacket and hat of the Salvation Army and get close to the house.”

  “Doctor, I think you should let me or the Inspector try to do that. It could put you in great danger.”

  “I realise there is danger in such a plan, but I owe it to my friend to do everything I can to rescue him. I believe I may be able to detect certain clues that Holmes may have left near the house. They could be of a nature that only I could understand their meaning.” As I spoke, I was inwardly debating the folly of my decision. Nevertheless I summoned up my limited store of courage to continue.

  Shershay spoke to the Salvation Army Captain and asked for his help. At first, he was most reluctant to assist. He did not consider that his duty in the Army equated with helping the police to make an arrest. It took much persuasion to convince the Captain that my intention was to save someone’s life. He stood listening to what I intended to do with a frown of disapproval. However, I suggested that I would make a handsome contribution to the Army’s funds if I might be allowed to borrow his uniform jacket and hat. Shershay assured him that he would be given full access to any who were arrested, so that he could provide them with both religious and moral support, and try to direct them to a better way of life. He relented.

  For the second time that morning, I found myself “play-acting,” as my friend would say. I was astonished at the reception I received when the doors of some of the houses opened in response to my knock. Some were polite and made a contribution, and commented on the good work the Army was doing among the desperately poor. Others assailed me with some of the offensive and abusive words I had become accustomed to hearing when I was in the army.

  At the door of the house where we assumed Holmes was being held, I knocked but there was no response. I knocked again. I could just hear some voices and then there was a succession of bangs, as if someone was stamping on the floor. Then there was a shout followed by silence. I looked around to see if Holmes had left any clues. All I could find was a flower pot lying in pieces in the small front garden. When I looked closer, I could see that the flowers which it had held were still fresh. I deduced that someone had knocked it flying when mounting the steps up to the door, and that it had occurred recently. I visualised Holmes struggling against his captors as they forced him up the steps into the house. In doing so, I imagined him striking out so as to send the pot down the steps as a clue. I peered through the letter box, and could just make out a cane lying on the floor. I looked again and realised it was Holmes’s sword stick with its distinctive silver furnishings. I moved away and rejoined the others.

  “He’s in there,” said I, “no doubt of it.”

  “There’s nothing for it,” said Shershay, “we must force our way in. Remember, the villains have guns.”

  The constables used their heavy boots to kick down the front door. As I followed Shershay and the Inspector into the hall, a shot came from the top of the stairs and I felt a slight burning sensation on my right ear. The bullet smashed into the door frame. An inch to the right and I would not have been able to pen this account. Another shot was fired at us but missed, and a voice shouted, “Comes any closer and this bleedin interfering detective bloke gets it. Get art of the ous.”

  “That’s not done much good,” said the Inspector. “They’ve got Mr. Holmes, alright.”

  “How many of them do you think there are, Doctor?” asked the Superintendent.

  I replied, “In the old fort, I am sure there were about ten of them. Whether they are all in the house, I cannot say. Of course, there may be only two or three, because they have not been moving the heavy machine about.”

  “There’s nothing for it. We’ve got to charge up the stairs,” said Shershay.

  Although as a doctor I had not been expected to be in the van of a charge against the enemy in Afghanistan, I had had to follow as close as I could to tend to any wounded. Now, I was expected to lead. What followed was a confused scene of shouting and the sound of my gun being fired up the stairs. I did not aim it, but fired off all six shots one after the other to confuse whoever was guarding the landing. To my astonishment, one of my shots hit someone. There was a cry of pain and one of the villains tumbled down the stairs.

  “Good shot, Doctor!” exclaimed the Superintendent.

  I will not dwell on the method used by the Inspector to convince the villain who lay on the hall floor to reveal how many of his companions were above.

  “Damn yer bleeding eyes. Find out yerselves. Ouch, ouch.” After a pause, the Inspector put the question again to his prisoner, and this time the answer was, “There’s only one, it’s me mate. Ouch, es in the front bedroom.”

  We rushed up the stairs. At any moment I expected to be shot. Once on the landing, we approached the front bedroom door. Keeping to one side, Shershay pushed the door open to reveal Holmes, tied to a chair and gagged, with a pistol pointed at his head by one of the villains.

  “Don’t come any closer or he gets it,” came the response. “Only one of yous got a gun, and I counted six shots.”

  Had this been a play, it might have seemed to have been well rehearsed; which of course it was not. What followed took only a few seconds, but at the time it seemed as if time stood still. I could not take my eyes off the villain’s trigger finger. I could see the muscles tightening. Simultaneously Holmes bowed his head and Shershay’s life-preserver hit the gun. The gun fired, and before the villain could draw back the hammer again, we were on him.

  Holmes was released. Apart from the back of his head suffering a burn from the gun being fired less than an inch from his skin, he had not been harmed much, although he admitted his ears were ringing.

  Back in Baker Street, Mycroft said that he was free to tell us what the affair had been about. However, we were enjoined never to reveal what he was about to tell us.

  “Apparently the machine is capable of printing five pound notes, and at the rate of five hundred an hour. The paper and the quality of the printing are such that it is hard to distinguish one of the counterfeit notes from the real thing. Had the villains succeeded in the first place, they could have flooded the country with counterfeit five pound notes, a
nd also distributed them in other countries and throughout the Empire to an extent that would have undermined the value of Sterling.”

  I am pleased to record that, once again, the nation was in debt to my friend, the great scientific detective. However, the monetary reward he received from the Treasury included a proviso that, for the foreseeable future, neither he nor I must reveal the existence of such a lethal, in financial terms, machine. That is why this account has had to remain locked away for many years.

  As with all my friend’s cases, there were a number of questions for which I sought an answer. One was, “What was the significance of the two hops you picked up?”

  “Oh, those. Well, you see, they provided me with a possible indication of the direction taken by the furniture van. One, or all of the villains, may have come from the northern part of Kent where hops abound. I deduced that there was a slight, I emphasise slight, possibility that they might have been intent on going in that direction rather than in any other. However, I did observe one lying on the road that led down to the crossing and the marshes.

  “Watson, you said you were delayed during the dash to Plumstead station because the harness came apart.”

  “Yes, I found one of the buckles had come undone. Did the crossing keeper attempt to delay me?”

  “Too much drama, my old friend. Neither he nor the gang of thieves would have anticipated our presence at the crossing. It was nothing more than a buckle that had not been fastened properly.”

  The Adventure of the Sunken Parsley

  by Mark Alberstat

  The summer heat of 1898 had somewhat abated as Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I enjoyed a rare morning of inactivity in early September. We had left the city on several occasions throughout the all-too-short British summer, but each of those trips had been in response to a summons for Holmes to help untangle the rat’s nest of clues and scents of some mystery laid before us. This morning, however, was a leisurely one. We sat in front of a cold fireplace, tobacco at hand, and a variety of the daily papers scattered about our intimate sitting room.

  The year so far had been a busy one. My notes, however, indicate that there was only one case which I could lay before the public, and that was the affair at Wisteria Lodge. The other undertakings of my friend Sherlock Holmes were to that point either inconclusive, repetitive tropes from previous exploits, or too delicate for those involved to even consider exploring in the public press.

  “Is it your eyesight or your reflexes, Watson?” asked Holmes.

  “My eyesight or my reflexes? What are you getting at, Holmes?” I replied

  “Is it your eyesight or your reflexes that are not quite what they used to be to allow you to be hit so hard on the knee with a cricket ball that you are not playing today?”

  “Once again, I feel you are partially a warlock. How on Earth did you know I was hit yesterday? You did not see me come in after the match, and I was seated here when you came down to breakfast. And, I would like to add, it is neither my eyesight nor my reflexes. I was distracted by someone in the crowd which led to my injury,” I replied.

  “Yes, someone in the crowd. I am sure that was it. As to how I know you were hit is simplicity itself. There in an account in this paper of the Players versus Gentlemen match in which you were participated yesterday at Lords. That was the second day of a three-day match. Although today’s activities do not start for another two hours, you are clearly not preparing to be there. That raises the question as to why. You are sitting in the chair a bit more stiffly then is your usual relaxed mode, and your left leg is crossed over your right, an atypical pose for you. I have to conclude an injury to your leg is keeping you home today, and being hit in the leg by a pitched ball seems the most likely injury event to a non-sportsman like myself.”

  “As is often the case, Holmes, you are correct in your observations and conclusions. Although I hate to let my side down, I just can’t make it to the pitch at Lord’s today, despite it being a stone’s throw from our door. If I were there, the pull to put on my whites and have a go would be too strong and, I feel, detrimental to the Gentlemen who were kind enough to invite me to play with them,” I said.

  “Your injury could not have come at a better time. I am in need of a sounding board, and you would do well with some country air and a ramble to reinvigorate your leg,”

  “Sounds capital, Holmes. Where are we off to?”

  “Hertford. County town for Hertfordshire. If you would be so kind as to reach for the timetable, we can plan our trip.”

  My military background did me proud, as within ninety minutes Holmes and I found ourselves settling into a first-class carriage that was pulling out of London’s Liverpool Station. Holmes said it was to be a day trip, so nothing more was needed other than a Bradshaw.

  The countryside often put Holmes in a philosophic mood, and today was no different. Although attached to the great metropolis by a thousand filaments, he longed for the clean air and solitude of the realms beyond. He often talked about buying a cottage somewhere, and as he gazed out the window, I was sure he was thinking about it again.

  “How many pounds of honey per annum, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Honey? Pounds per annum? My dear Watson, you are attempting to break into my thoughts as I have often done to you on occasion. Well done, well done indeed,” replied Holmes.

  “However, I will disappoint you and inform you that I was not thinking of my retirement cottage, but the mystery at hand.”

  “We have slightly over an hour in this carriage for me to give you an outline of the errand we are on. An hour to pass through the metropolis and into the pastoral setting of Hertfordshire’s farms. Sadly, Watson, we are heading into dark matters, a far cry from Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, set in this bucolic locale,” said Holmes, gazing out the window.

  “And what is it that whisks us out of the city and into rural England, Holmes?”

  “A summons, Watson. A summons from Inspector Neal.”

  “I am not aware of that name.”

  “Possibly not. Neal is still young and putting in his time away from the city. He does have promise and shows enough intelligence to call me in when he is out of his depth. This is one such incident,” said Holmes.

  “Neal has a murder on his hands, Watson. A murder with no physical trauma, and the local doctor has said that his initial tests for poison have been inconclusive. This is why you are with me. You may see something medically that the local doctor has missed, and with your ever-growing knowledge of murders, thanks to my practice and our partnership, you may be considered an expert in your own right.”

  These were indeed high words of praise from Holmes. However, finding fault in another professional man’s work and opinion is something I did not look forward to.

  “The Thorntons have been a prominent family in the town since Elizabethan times, and their estate, Hartham House, at one time was the largest in the county. You may remember, Watson, that Queen Elizabeth spent time in Hertford when the Plague was on in London. It was the Thorntons who hosted her until Hertford Castle was ready for the Queen and her retinue. Today’s family, of course, does not host royalty, but they still have cache and sway in the town, if not the county.”

  “And the murder, Holmes? Who has been murdered?”

  “Always the man of action. Sir Evan Thornton is dead, Watson. He is the latest patriarch of the family and was found deceased in his bed this morning. He and his wife, Lady Elizabeth, have separate bedrooms, and it was Sir Evan’s valet who found him. From the pained expression on his face, the state of his nightclothes, and the bed itself, it was instantly believed that Sir Evan did not die peacefully,” said Holmes.

  “And there are no suspects? No smoking gun?”

  “No, there are no smoking guns, as you put it, Watson. After the body was found, the local doctor was immediately sent for. Neal tells me in
a telegram that what this local practitioner found was so far out of the ordinary that he immediately thought of us. You for your medical background, and myself to see and find things which he cannot.”

  With that brief précis, we arrived at Hertford Station. We were immediately met by Inspector Neal when we alighted the train.

  “So good of you to come on such short notice, Mr. Holmes,” said Neal.

  “Murder rarely finds a convenient time, Inspector.”

  “Quite so, quite so. Hartham House is just at the other end of town,” said the inspector, issuing us into a carriage which was clearly marked as property of the local constabulary.

  “As you instructed, Mr. Holmes, the body has not been moved. The rest of the house has also been left as it was when I arrived earlier this morning and began the investigation,” said Neal.

  “Tell us about the household. Who lives there, size of staff and the property itself,” commanded Holmes.

  “The primary concerns in the house are Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, of course, but also Mrs. Thornton’s brother, who arrived a couple of months ago. He is here studying horticulture, and splits his time between the estate and a rental property in London. The household staff includes Sir Evan’s valet, Michaels, who is the only staff who lives on the estate. He is much more than a valet and butler to Sir Evan. He assists in running the estate. There are a few other domestic staff who do not live in the house, as well as a full-time gardener. Lady Thornton is expecting us.”

  “What can you tell us about Sir Evan and his wife?” asked Holmes.

  “Well, sir, they are generally well-liked in the town. They are the benefactors for various charities and events through the year, which brings them in contact with most of the town. They received their honorary titles just last year for the work they have done with the local poor. Lady Thornton has established three charities in the town, and her husband donated land and resources for people to grow their own produce. Despite their prominence, Sir Evan has never sought public office, and seems to spend most of his time managing the various businesses the family owns, puttering in his extensive gardens which are open to the public once a year, and attending various private functions through the summer months. Sir Evan was born in this house some forty years ago. His father was a bit of a queer duck, and had the boy schooled locally and not sent away as most of their class do,” reported Neal.