by Rob Nunn
Soon after that, I realized that my mind needed an outlet other than study. While walking down Tottenham Court Road one afternoon, I happened to see a beautiful violin in the window of a broker’s shop. On a whim, I went inside and found it priced at only fifty-five shillings. My course of studies had led me to have a working knowledge of instruments and immediately recognized the violin in my hand as a Stradivarius, worth two hundred times what the broker was asking for it. I gladly bought the instrument and took to learning it every day, coming to rely on it as a form of introspection and enjoyment.”
“Well, your talents are certainly remarkable, and enjoyable for me as well.”
Suddenly, the bell rang. “Who would come tonight? Some friend of yours perhaps?” Watson asked.
“Except for yourself, I have none,” Holmes answered. “I do not encourage visitors.”
Holmes and Watson received a man named John Openshaw.
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes, from Major Prendergast. He told me how you saved him in the Tankerville Club Scandal.”
Holmes smiled at the memory. “Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”
“He said that you could fix anything and that you are never beaten.”
“He said too much. I have been beaten four times - three times by men and once by a woman. I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire, and favor me with some details as to your problem.”
“It is no ordinary one.”
“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal. Pray, give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important.”
The young man pulled up his chair and told Holmes his tale. Eighteen years ago, Openshaw’s uncle returned to England after serving as a colonel in the Confederate Army and living as a successful farmer in Florida in the United States. He took a small estate in Sussex, and his quick temper and foul mouth made him disliked by most that met him. He allowed his nephew, Openshaw, to stay with him after taking a liking to the boy, but young Openshaw was forbidden from entering a certain room in the house and looking at his uncle’s trunks from America.
In 1883, Openshaw’s uncle received an envelope from Pondicherry, India that contained only five orange pips and the letters “KKK.” The uncle immediately ran to the closed room and burnt stacks of papers from inside his locked trunk. A lawyer was also called that day and a will was drawn up, leaving the estate to young Openshaw’s father. His uncle from then on would keep himself locked up in his room, or would become so drunk that he would tear about the garden with a pistol in hand. One night two months after the date of the strange mailing, his uncle was found dead: face down in the garden pond. The official cause of death was suicide, but Openshaw had an ominous feeling.
The estate was turned over to Openshaw’s father, and two years later, he received an envelope postmarked Dundee, Scotland, containing five pips, three K’s, and instructions to leave the papers on the sun dial in the garden. Young Openshaw pleaded with his father to take this message seriously and call the police, but his father did not pay attention to his warning. Three days later, Openshaw’s father was found dead at the bottom of a nearby chalk pit.
Openshaw had inherited the cursed estate, and two days before his visit to Baker Street, he had received the same message that his father had two years earlier. The police believed that it was a practical joke, and Openshaw shared his despair with his friend, Major Prendergast.
“He pulled me aside, and told me confidentially of a man that fixes problems in London. The major has high words for you, Mr. Holmes, but to tell the truth, I feel helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against.”
“Tut! Tut!” cried Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost. It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us - no suggestive detail which might help us.”
“There is one thing,” said Openshaw, handing Holmes a piece of discolored, blue-tinted paper. “The day that my uncle burnt his papers, I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which had fluttered out from among the others. The handwriting is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”
Holmes read the paper and handed it back to his visitor. “Now you must not lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the box which you’ve described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert in such words as will carry conviction. Having done this, at once put the box out upon the sundial. Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. Do you understand?”
“Entirely. Thank you,” said Openshaw, rising and pulling on his coat. “You have given me fresh hope. I shall certainly do as you advise.”
“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. The streets are still crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”
“I am armed.”
“That is well. Tomorrow I shall set to work upon your problem. Call upon me in two days with news,” Holmes directed.
Openshaw shook hands with Holmes and Watson and left. Sherlock Holmes sat in silence with his head sunk forward for some time, eyes staring into the fire. After a while, he lit his pipe, leaned back in his chair, and watched the smoke drift upwards.
“I think, Watson, that of all our current irons in the fire, this is the most worrisome,” Holmes remarked. “This John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid peril.”
“But have you formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?”
“There can be no question to their nature. But there is something larger than the imminent threat behind this. The ideal reasoner would, when he has once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it, but also all the results which would follow from it. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavored in my case to do.
“In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits, and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, India, the second from Dundee, Scotland, and the third from London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board a ship.”
“Excellent,” Holmes replied. “We have a clue. There is the strong probability that the writer was aboard a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfillment; in Dundee it was only some three or f
our days. And the last one came from London. Now you see the deadly urgency of this new problem, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always come at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from here in London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay.”
He continued, “The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s jury. There is an organizing force with resource and knowledge behind all of this. The letters KKK is commonly known in America as the Ku Klux Klan, a terrible secret society formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the southern states after the Civil War. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some generally recognized way, a sprig of oak leaves, melon seeds or orange pips.
“They are a force in America, but how are they availing themselves upon the Openshaws here in London? That is the question which lies at the heart of this problem. But our first responsibility is to our paying customer. Once his matter is resolved, I will delve deeper into who is behind these murders.”
The next morning, Watson arrived at the breakfast table to find Holmes already eating.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said Holmes. “I foresee a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?”
“It will depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to visit Openshaw today after all.”
Watson lifted the unopened newspaper and glanced over the morning’s headlines. A chill ran through him. “Holmes! You are too late.”
“I feared as much. How was it done?” Holmes asked calmly, although Watson could see that he was deeply moved.
Watson read the report to him. “Tragedy near Waterloo Bridge. Between nine and ten last night Police Constable Cook of the H Division heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night was extremely dark and stormy, so that in spite of the help of several passersby, it was quite impossible to affect a rescue. The alarm was given, and by the aid of the water police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured...”
“That is enough,” Holmes interrupted. After sitting in shaken silence for some minutes, he said, “That hurts my pride, Watson. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this American gang and expose their London agents. That he should come to me for protection, and that I should send him away to his death!”
Holmes sprang from his chair and paced the room. “They must be cunning devils. How could they have decoyed him down there? The embankment is not on the direct line to the train station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!”
Returning home that evening, Watson found that Holmes had not returned yet. Finally, after ten o’clock, he burst through the door. “I have them in the hollow my hand, Watson. Young Openshaw shall not remain long unavenged, and this client will not be a complete failure upon my name. I will first deal with the Americans. I will put their own devilish trademark upon them.”
Holmes took an orange from the cupboard, tore it to pieces and squeezed the pips from it. Taking five of these, he thrust them into an envelope and wrote “S.H. for J.C.” on the inside flap. He addressed the envelope to Captain James Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia.
“Who is Captain Calhoun?” Watson asked.
“The American connection; I shall have the others but he is first. I have spent the whole day over Lloyd’s registers and old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were thirty-six ships which were reported there during those months. Of these, the Lone Star instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the States in the Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
Holmes nodded. “I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone Star was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to vessels which lay at present in the port of London. The Lone Star arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert dock, and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend, and learned she had passed some time ago. As the wind is easterly, I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins, and not very far from the Isle of Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He is the only native-born American on the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I also know that he was away from the ship to deliver payment before the ship left this morning. I had it from the stevedore, who has been loading their cargo. By the time their sailing ship reaches Savannah the mail boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that the captain is badly wanted here upon a charge of murder.”
But the man who ordered the murder of John Openshaw never received his orange pips. Holmes and Watson waited for news of the Lone Star in Savannah, but none ever reached them. At last, they heard that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered sternpost of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L.S.” carved upon it.
“Perhaps we will never know of the storm that sank the ship,” Watson commented.
“Or perhaps the one hidden behind the whole affair did not wish me to have my vengeance and saw to it that the ship sank,” Holmes mused. “There is a force at work here, Watson. Make no mistake we are about to tread into deep waters ourselves.”
Chapter 6: Bold and Active
Over the next four months, Holmes busied himself with other endeavors while gathering information on the organizing force quietly working out of the Seven Dials and Whitechapel sections of London. Not allowing himself to become hyper-focused and exhausted as he had with Baron Maupertuis, Holmes slowly collected his information as to not arouse suspicion of his wily opponent. In the meantime, he wrote a monograph on the use of typewriters for detection, helped a Mr. Dundas disappear from his wife, and sent out a team to collect a back payment from Silas Etheredge, who had gone into hiding from him.
Then came a Saturday morning at the end of October. Watson was reading Holmes a news story about James Windibank, a petty thief who was headed to the gallows, when one of Holmes’ street Arab messengers arrived with a note. After dispatching the boy, Holmes sprang up and clapped his hands.
“It is time for one of my greatest endeavors, Doctor!”
“You’ve found your rival finally?”
“No, but that will wait. Business must continue in the meantime, and tonight will certainly be business of note. A city branch bank has recently come into possession of 30,000 French gold napoleons, and I plan to have them. All of my wheels are in motion, and you will find today to be a glorious one.”
Later that morning, a stout-built man with a splash of acid upon his forehead came to Baker Street.
“Watson, this is John Clay, the fourth smartest man in London. Not only is he a trusted thief, smasher and forger, but also a graduate of Oxford. I’ve sure you heard his name before.”
“Of course,” Watson nodded. “I believe I’ve sent you a note or two in the past at Mr. Holmes’ request.”
“Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson,” Clay responded. “Everything is ready, Mr. Holmes. You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you.”
“An
d I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and effective.”
Turning to Watson, Holmes explained. When he first heard of the possible gold shipment to the bank, Holmes placed Clay as an assistant to a redheaded pawnbroker that had a shop next door to the bank. Discussing possible ploys, Clay suggested hiring the pawnbroker under the guise of a club for red-headed men. Liking the idea, Holmes organized everything. Clay and another employee lured the pawnbroker from his shop every day for a few hours to do what he thought was work for a red-headed league, allowing Clay to dig a tunnel from the cellar of the pawnbroker’s shop to the basement vault of the bank. Clay informed Holmes that the tunnel would be completed tonight as planned.
Watson laughed at the genius of the plan. “The red-headed buffoon surely won’t be seeing his four pound this week!”
“On the contrary, my friend,” Holmes said, “we cannot risk the pawnbroker arousing suspicion from the police or anyone else. He will surely be paid. He will have his alibi when the bank discovers the robbery on Monday morning, but he will be without his new employee.”
Turning back to Clay, Holmes said, “Tonight’s plans are laid out and I trust that you and Archie are equipped to deliver the gold. Once that is done, you will of course need to disappear for a time, as your pawnbroker will be able to describe you to the authorities.”
“You may not be aware, Mr. Holmes, that I have royal blood in my veins. My family is known to be a charitable one, and I will be spending my time raising money for an orphanage in Cornwall. Once my alibi has been established, I plan to spend some time in Scotland.”