The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  A young man towered over the seated Holmes. He was stocky with broad shoulders, and his mouth was a gash across the coarse face. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his words came out with a sneer.

  “So, you’ve been askin’ about me, have ya?”

  Another stood off to the side, just in the corner of my line of vision. He looked a few years younger and had none of the other’s bulk. There was a definite facial resemblance, and I had no doubt that the two were at least cousins, if not brothers. There was a glint of meanness in his eyes as he watched the other confront Holmes.

  Holmes looked up at the newcomer hovering over him. He gave no indication that he had a concern of any kind. “And you are...?”

  “Don’t try any of your smart stuff with me, Sherlock Holmes. I’m Royster Sharp, as you damn well know!”

  I was not surprised to hear such rude language from the man we had been discussing just shortly before. He was certainly no gentleman.

  “Ah, yes. I can tell by your complexion you have been at sea. Returned just in time for the events regarding the Edaljis, I see.”

  His salt-weathered cheeks flushed and he leaned close to Holmes, both hands flat on the table. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His comment was echoed by the second man, whom Holmes then addressed. “And you are most certainly Rodney Sharp, providing moral support to your elder brother.”

  I looked more closely at Rodney, who didn’t respond to Holmes and seemed content to follow his brother’s lead.

  “I don’t know what business it is of yours, pokin’ your big, pointy nose into affairs around here. But if you know what’s good for ya, you’d best stay clear of me. And quit talkin’ about me to people!”

  He then put his fist under Holmes’s nose and said, “Or you’ll be gettin’ a beatin.’”

  “Watson, I believe our business here is done. There’s a foul odor I failed to notice before. I believe we should continue our investigations elsewhere.”

  With that, he rose, his eyes boring into Royster Sharp. Royster’s eyes narrowed and without warning, he drew his arm back and threw a jab at Holmes’s chin.

  Seeing this, Rodney began to move around his brother to add his weight to the attack. Apparently he regarded me as no threat, to his detriment. I caught his foot with my own and sent him sprawling to the floor, next to me. As he started to get up, I grabbed my walking stick and laid a sharp blow across his lower back. I doubt it would have stopped his brother, but it knocked him back to the ground and I heard the air woosh out of his lungs.

  Holmes had apparently moved to the side, grabbed Royster Sharp’s wrist with both hands, ducked down, stepped into his the man, and tossed him over his shoulder. I had seen Holmes use this fighting technique, which he called “baritsu,” before. Royster went flying towards the next table, which he smashed into. I heard a crack as his head smacked the table and the man fell to the ground.

  “Doctor, if you would be so good as to check on this one,” indicating his fallen opponent. “I daresay he didn’t realize what was happening to him and had no time to react.”

  Reassuring myself that his brother would not be causing any additional trouble, I moved over to the prone form of the elder Sharp. A cursory examination verified that while he would have a nasty lump on his head, no permanent damage had been done.

  Holmes addressed Rodney. “I hope you and your brother will take note of this event. I will continue my investigation as I see fit. Any further attempts to interfere in any way will be met swiftly and effectively. I could break your brother’s right arm at this moment and he would be unwilling to practice his trade as a butcher’s assistant for some time to come. Have I made myself clear?”

  Rodney Sharp had climbed to his feet, bent forward a bit and holding his side. I wondered if I had bruised his kidney with my blow. It was no more than the miscreant deserved.

  He grunted an “Aye,” and tumbled into a seat at our table. Holmes nodded in satisfaction and turned to leave. “Come, Watson, we are finished here.” I followed him out the door, glancing back as we left. Rodney Sharp, sweat on his face, paid us no attention.

  I shall now tell of the discussion that preceded that interruption. We had examined the letters given us by Parson Edalji. They were a malevolent collection of threats, inanities, and slanders. While not all directed at the family, clearly someone hated George Edalji.

  Holmes left me to my own devices and pursued his own investigations for a time. I knew of no man who could elicit information from someone as well as he. Several hours later, he returned to our rooms and related to me the fruit of his inquiries.

  “Watson, it is surely of note that the letters stopped suddenly for a time, then resumed. I also wondered about the key to Walsall School appearing at the parsonage. You agree?”

  I had not given the matter any thought. “Why, yes, surely.”

  He gave me a knowing grin as he loaded his pipe with some tobacco he had brought from Baker Street. Once he had a small stream of blue smoke emanating from the briar, he resumed.

  “You may, of course, open the window if it becomes a bit thick in here.”

  I nodded but made no move to do so.

  “Very well.” He puffed contentedly. “I think it quite possible that the person or persons, for I believe there is more than one, who could write those letters could also be involved in the mutilations. We are not dealing with the greed and cunning of a Milverton, or the shrewd planning for profit of John Clay. I believe in this case, we deal with a simpler, base meanness of spirit. Someone who is lacking in the mores of right and wrong. The type who, as a youth, tortured small animals just for the fun of doing so.”

  I listened in silent agreement.

  “So, I asked shopkeepers, tradesmen and the like about such a lad from several years ago. Some were recalcitrant, while some obviously took advantage to disparage folk they have disliked for years. With each name, I also inquired if the person had left the area for some time and recently returned.”

  He looked at me with a grin.

  “Come now, Holmes,” I blurted out. “You can’t refrain from telling me what you discovered. It’s obvious you have a suspect in mind.”

  He chuckled. “Good old Watson. You know me well.”

  He adjusted himself in his chair and fiddled with his pipe. “There is a young man named Royster Sharp who was quite unpopular in this town. He was a troublesome youth, consistently performing vandalous acts, bullying the weak, and just behaving like a rotten egg.”

  He eyed me with amusement. “Would you care to guess what school he attended?”

  I thought for a moment. “Walsall!”

  He nodded. “Yes. The same school from which the mysterious key was stolen. He was suspended more than once before being expelled. His younger brother, Rodney, is rather simpleminded and followed his brother’s lead, often joining him in his trouble making.”

  I was excited, seeing a much more likely suspect than George Edalji, though whether for the letters, the mutilations or both, I could not yet say.

  “Sharp signed on to a boat as a butcher’s apprentice. He was at sea for some eight years, returning not long before the letters and mutilations began.”

  “Why, Holmes! A butcher’s training. Surely he would know how to cut these animals and would have an instrument for doing so. Or know how to easily obtain one!”

  He removed the pipe from his mouth and eyed it critically. “Most assuredly, Watson.”

  I continued on, excitedly. “And if his character is as poor as you indicate, he’s just the type of man who would write those letters and be involved in the mutilations. His easily led brother could be a confederate!”

  “While it’s by no means a sure thing, I have no doubt that Captain Anson would have done better to look into the Sharps, rather than pursue Georg
e Edalji.” He paused, grimaced. “At least, if his aim were justice.”

  I was one who always gave the official force as much benefit of the doubt as I could. But in this instance, I feared their intentions towards Edalji were less than honorable.

  “What now, Holmes?”

  “We eat, my good man. I have worked up an appetite this day.” So saying, he arose and opened the window, dissipating some of the blue cloud that had formed at the ceiling.

  It was shortly after that we encountered the Sharp brothers, to their unfortunate experience.

  Sadly, I do not set forth before you, dear reader, a story of one of Holmes’s great successes. The defense counsel, whom I shall not name here to avoid the direct casting of an aspersion, ignored all advice on the path to follow. He believed the evidence was so weak that a thorough defense was unnecessary.

  Ignoring the insistent pleas of the Reverend Edalji and Holmes and myself, he did not call a single expert to testify to young Edalji’s extensive myopia. Nor did he point out the speciousness of the footprint identification. He was so convinced that the jury would see the local prejudices against the Edaljis and the lack of fair investigation by the local constabulary that there was no need for “unnecessary expense and potential confusion by clouding the matter.”

  While recognizing the local antipathy towards the Edalji’s, said counsel clearly underestimated the degree of it. Also, by failing to establish a vigorous defense, he did not account for the fact that the police investigation did not bring evidence against any other possible culprit.

  The jury, hearing from a confident police force and a handwriting expert, and knowing the local feeling against the Edaljis, brought in a verdict of guilty. Young George was sentenced to seven years, hard labor.

  Holmes, disgusted by counsel’s obstinate refusal to properly defend his client, had returned to Baker Street in my company. I read him the verdict as it was reported in the Times. He sighed and stared into space.

  “Ah, Watson. There is no greater bastion of legal justice than the English courts, but I do believe it is lacking some type of court of appeal. I fear that our American cousins have excelled us in that particular area.”

  I silently read the article, my heart sinking into despair as I thought of this earnest young lawyer confined to a prison cell. Holmes puffed away on his pipe, a cloud of blue smoke ever expanding in our rooms.

  “Watson, you recall that journalist, Sims, raised quite a hue and cry at the wrongful conviction of Adolph Beck.”

  I paused, letting the paper settle in my lap. “Yes. Gordon... no, George R. Sims, I believe his name is. Say, Holmes, didn’t Gurrin testify in that case as well?”

  “Yes, Watson. I believe history will show that Thomas Gurrin, handwriting charlatan, played a significant role in sending two innocent men to the gaol.”

  “Sims made Beck’s conviction a bit of a cause célèbre.” He shook his head. “Though I don’t know that it played any part in his parole for good behavior.”

  He eyed me with the faintest trace of a smile. “The Home Office is as stiff-necked as an oxen in harness, but perhaps your agent could lead a memorial on Edalji’s behalf...” His voice trailed off.

  I jumped to my feet, the paper falling to the floor. “By Jove, Holmes, this is just the sort of thing that would get Conan Doyle’s blood boiling. Now that you mention it, Arthur had mentioned to me that he believed Adolf Beck was innocent.”

  I moved over to my writing desk and began a letter to my literary agent, setting down those findings of Holmes’s that were contrary to the verdict. “My dear Doyle, as a man of integrity and with interests in the world of crime, I am sure that you have closely followed the trial of George Edalji. Holmes and I were involved in the investigation, and I would like to share with you the terrible injustice...”

  I have several notebooks with events and partially written accounts of affairs involving Sherlock Holmes. For a variety of reasons, they remain fragments. There are also a few that are complete and could be published at any time, but won’t be for reasons I choose not reveal. It is possible that in time, the injustice involving the parson’s son, George Edalji, will find print. Through absolutely no fault of his own, Holmes’s work could be declared unsuccessful. So, I write this record of the matter, knowing that it will likely be placed in my tin dispatch box for some time.

  The Adventure of the Botanist’s Glove

  by James Lovegrove

  The autumn of 1903 found my friend Sherlock Holmes in a ruminative and occasionally melancholy frame of mind. Again and again in our conversations he would raise the subject of retirement, not only his own but mine. “Watson, do you ever feel you have done enough?” he might say. “Seen enough patients, cured enough ailments, fulfilled your vocation as a general practitioner? Do you begin to wonder if it is not time to step back and take the respite that more than two decades of hard work has earned you?”

  I might respond by telling Holmes that I was in fine fettle and believed I had another four or five good, productive years in me. If he took the hint - for I was, of course, encouraging him not to sheathe his sword just yet - he did not show it. Poring over the property sections of various Sussex-based periodicals had become one of his favourite pastimes. He had estate agents in the South Downs area scouting for a suitable smallholding for him to purchase. Increasingly his thoughts were turning to a rural retreat and a life of quiet contemplation and research.

  As if to confirm his general state of ennui, the cases he had been accepting of late displayed a marked penchant for the macabre and the outré. It seemed that nothing else was sufficiently spicy for his jaded palate. There was the affair of the blanched soldier, and the bizarre episode that I have chronicled as “The Creeping Man”, not to mention those adventures of that period which I have yet to set down on paper such as the sighting of fairies in Epping Forest, the hair-raising affair of the Dorking Demon, and the Gerrards Cross meteorite which had such a singular effect on any who touched it.

  Thus it came as somewhat of a surprise that Holmes agreed to investigate the death of Sir Peregrine Carruthers, given that on the face of it the eminent botanist’s demise appeared to be nothing more than a tragic accident. There were no eerie overtones, little of the Gothic about it - yet it piqued his curiosity nonetheless.

  It was as I was paying one of my increasingly infrequent calls at 221b Baker Street one September evening that an unannounced guest arrived. Billy, the page, had gone home for the night, so it was left to Mrs. Hudson to escort the visitor up.

  “A Miss Mary Smith,” she said, ushering in an anxious-looking woman of perhaps only twenty, comely in a rather unremarkable way, with features that spoke of honesty and a familiarity with hardship. “No card,” Mrs. Hudson added, with all that that implied.

  Indeed, Mary Smith was a person of no great means, as was evident the moment she opened her mouth.

  “I am sorry for coming at such an inconvenient ‘our, Mr. ‘Olmes,” she said in broad Cockney tones. “Especially when you already ‘ave a guest.”

  “Dr. Watson is no mere guest, my dear girl. He is a colleague, a coeval, a comrade, and you may speak as freely in front of him as you would me.”

  “Thank you, sir. Really, I am at my wits’ end, and I pray that you can ‘elp.”

  “I shall endeavour to assist if at all I can,” Holmes replied. He was never less than gracious in his dealings with the fairer sex. “Please be seated. I see that you have travelled up to London by train and that this has depleted your financial resources, such that you walked here from the station rather than took a cab. I see, too, that you are in service to a wealthy household and that your late mistress was a larger-proportioned woman. Is it on the matter of her death that you have come to consult me?”

  Miss Smith’s look of astonishment was one I had beheld many times before, on many a face. Holmes’s facili
ty for inferring facts about a person through logical analysis of their appearance and comportment was old to me but never failed to elicit startlement from those on whom it was practised for the first time.

  “‘Ow did you...? Why, it’s incredible! It’s true, Lady Jane was not small and is, as you say, no longer with us. Are you one of them psychic mediums, sir, what ‘as the power to read minds?”

  “Hardly. There is nothing supernatural about anything I do. I merely observe. In this instance, it was immediately clear to me that your dress - a very expensive silk creation - is a hand-me-down. It has been substantially altered to fit your figure, which is by inference much trimmer than that of its erstwhile owner, since so many extra seams have been required to take in the material, especially at the waist and bust. The needlework is good, but not of professional quality, leading me to the conclusion that you yourself carried out the alteration.”

  “That is so. But ‘ow could you tell Lady Jane is dead?”

  “It is unlikely a woman would part with so elegant and fashionable a garment otherwise. You must have, as it were, ‘inherited’ it. Either she bequeathed it to you, or her widower insisted you have it rather than let it be thrown out. As for your being in service to a wealthy household, the dress - in tandem with your, if I may say so, un-aristocratic accent - allows room for no other interpretation. I can tell you came up by train because the ticket stub is tucked into your sleeve, making an unmistakable impression against the material, but the fresh mud on your boots suggests you had to walk across town thereafter. It has been raining lately and the streets are not at their cleanliest. You would not have gone on foot if you had the funds left over to hire a cab.” He shrugged his shoulders. “These deductions are mere child’s play.”

  “You are incorrect only on one point.”

  Holmes arched an eyebrow.

  “It is not Lady Jane’s death what brings me ‘ere. ‘Er ladyship succumbed to dropsy two years ago. Dreadful it was. The doctors kept draining the fluid but there was nothing else they could do, and in the end ‘er poor ‘eart gave out from the strain. No, the problem is what’s become of my master, Sir Peregrine.”