The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “I am twenty-five,” Miss Finney said. “My name is Melinda.”

  “Melinda is a beautiful name.” Mary smiled warmly. “Let me start with your face, dear.” She began to clean the young woman’s cheeks with gentle touches.

  “Mr. Holmes is a good man,” my own lady continued as she worked. “On our ride here he told me he wants to help you, but you’ll need to tell him more of what happened to you.”

  “I know,” Miss Finney said with a quivering voice. “But... it’s so difficult to... talk about it... there’s so much...”

  “I cannot imagine,” Mary agreed. She patted the young woman’s face with a dry towel. “But perhaps if you and I break the whole ghastly thing up into tiny, little pieces, discussing it won’t be so trying. In fact...” Standing, she went to Holmes’s desk and took up a piece of foolscap, pen, and ink. “I shall write some notes, and we can tell him these little pieces when he comes back.”

  “Little pieces? What do you mean?” Miss Finney’s pale eyes were wide.

  Mary set the paper next to her on the side table. “Thinking about everything at once is just overwhelming, so we focus on one little thing at a time. For example, when you were in the room alone, I understand your eyes were covered so all you could do is listen. Did you hear anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  Miss Finney swallowed hard. “The rats.”

  My eyes shot over to my friend standing across from me. He winced.

  “Good God,” I whispered.

  Holmes again held his finger to his lips and I went silent once more to listen.

  “Shall I roll up your sleeves, dear, so I can wash your hands?”

  Miss Finney tenuously put forward her arms, and allowed Mary to wash the dirt, blood, and ichor from her arms and fingers.

  “Did you remember hearing anything from outside?” Mary asked as she worked.

  “Church bells.”

  “Church bells? You are certain it wasn’t a clock tower?”

  “Yes. The bells didn’t ring every quarter hour, but every few hours. I am sure it was the Angelus. I prayed it...”

  Suddenly, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed midnight. Miss Finney started, but Mary soothed her by placing a firm hand on her shoulder. Dropping her face into her wet hands, Miss Finney sobbed.

  Mary pulled the young woman to her shoulder and let her cry there. She rocked her gently, stroking her tangled hair. I turned my gaze to my friend, who stood by the door wearing a thoughtful expression.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Mary said finally. “It’s another little piece that’ll help him find where you were imprisoned. It could help lead him to... to the one who did this.”

  “Y-yes. I see.” Miss Finney sniffed.

  Mary brushed loose hair from the woman’s face. “Did you hear anything else that you recall?” Mary asked, she dabbed Miss Finney’s tears away with the towel, and returned to bathing the young woman’s wrists and fingers.

  “A gurgling and swishing, like water in pipes... only louder.”

  “Excellent. That’s another thing that Mr. Holmes might find useful. I’ll write that down.” Mary set aside the rag a moment to write on the paper.

  I looked over at Holmes and saw a gleam in his eyes. This had apparently indeed triggered a thought in his mind.

  “Now, in this room... did you smell anything that stands out in your mind?”

  “Oh.” Miss Finney rolled her eyes. “That I shall never forget. It smelled so foul there. There was waste... some of it my own, I fear. But mostly it smelled like... bread yeast... only the strongest I have ever smelled. It was mixed with the scent of beer. It was overwhelming. I don’t know that I shall make bread or smell beer for an entire year after this.”

  I saw a slight smile curl at the edge of my friend’s lips.

  “Did the... man who attacked you smell this way, too?”

  “Yes, he smelled strongly of it. That, and tobacco. A very acrid tobacco, much like what I smell here. I’m afraid when I entered Mr. Holmes’s sitting room, I wanted to retch.”

  Holmes sighed. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall.

  “He put a gag on you, I understand,” Mary prompted.

  “Yes, it was... so horrible.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Mary said gently. “Did the cloth he use taste of anything?”

  “Oh, it tasted rank. Like stale beer.”

  Holmes nodded, as if he expected to hear this. “Now the man,” he murmured. “Ask about the man.”

  “Now here’s one more thing, and I think this may be the most difficult of all, dear.” Mary shifted her seat closer to the young woman and taking the younger woman’s hands in her own, held them tightly. “Was the man who did this... could you tell if he was large or small in size?”

  “He... was... broad shouldered, average build, I think. But not so tall.”

  “Were his hands rough, or smooth?”

  “S-smooth. If I’d not known him otherw-wise, I’d say he was a gentleman. And the way he spoke was educated. He had a rasping voice, not very deep.”

  “So he spoke to you. Did he say anything that stands out in your mind? Something specific?”

  “Not much I’d repeat. He said such foul things.”

  “But you’d recognize his voice if you heard it again.”

  “Yes. I don’t think I can ever forget it.”

  “Melinda, you are doing brilliantly. See how much easier it is to take it piece by piece?” Mary wrote these down on the paper she had beside her.

  “I feel badly that I could not tell Mr. Holmes this. He asked some similar questions, but I just c-couldn’t...”

  “It’s all right, dear. I’m sure he understood. But you see? We have all these notes here that will help him.”

  “There’s one more thing you might write down.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He had a beard. A short one. It was very strange... coarse, like horsehair. He had a moustache, too, but it was not as rough.”

  “Very good. I know that will be helpful.”

  Holmes patted me on the shoulder and gestured with his head for me to follow him. He went out into the hall, walked quietly downstairs and led me out the front door.

  Once downstairs, he reopened the front door noisily and walked up to the landing, taking care to walk heavy on the stairs. I did the same. Holmes knocked lightly on the door, and heard my wife say, “Come in.”

  “Hello again, Miss Finney, Mrs. Watson,” Holmes said, entering the sitting room. “I have located the doctor.”

  “I think Miss Finney is doing better, Mr. Holmes,” my wife said. “She shared some things about her ordeal that I recorded for you.”

  Holmes took up the paper my wife held out to him and glanced over it. “Ladies, this is marvellous. It will help tremendously.” He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Miss Finney, I assume you live with relatives?”

  “Yes. My father.”

  “Do you wish me to contact him to let him know where you are?”

  “Yes, please. He is the proprietor of the Celtic Knot Public House, on Surrey Row in Southwark.”

  “If I may,” I interjected. “I’d like to examine her injuries.”

  “Of course, Watson. Miss Finney?”

  I sat before the young woman, and when I reached out to touch her chin to inspect her bruises, she shied away, pressing against my wife who sat beside her. Mary placed her arm around her shoulders reassuringly. “It’s all right, Melinda,” Mary said. “My husband is very gentle.”

  With Mary’s reassurance, she allowed me to give a superficial inspection of her injuries. She needed a more thorough exam, but I determined that she would be all right for the time being.

>   Mary then said to me, “Do you think I could have the maid draw a bath for Miss Finney? Then I can finish caring for her?”

  “That is an excellent idea, dear. I can give you some ointment and bandages for her wounds.”

  “Meanwhile, the doctor and I have some other work to do,” said Holmes. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Watson.”

  “You are very welcome, Mr. Holmes.”

  After Mary led Miss Finney from the room, Holmes went to the mantel to fill his long clay pipe from the tobacco slipper. Halfway through this process he paused, set aside the pipe, and took a cigar from the coal scuttle.

  “Holmes, this is simply monstrous.”

  Holmes lit his cigar and paced the floor, puffing and thinking.

  “Southwark.” He stopped in his tracks.

  “Southwark?”

  “Anchor Brewery, Watson. It is right next to St. Saviour’s Church in Southwark. That is where she was imprisoned. I’m certain of it. The smell of yeast and stale beer. The gurgling pipes, rather loud from her description. A good deal of water, malt, and hops. Clearly a brewery. The Celtic Knot Pub is also in Southwark, and her father would likely order from a local brewer. I believe this monster works for her father’s beer supplier. He probably kept her in the brewery’s cellar. The closest supplier is Barclay’s Anchor Brewery.”

  “It cannot be that simple, Holmes. Can it?”

  “Usually it is. Most victims of this crime know their attackers in some way. Human nature, really. We covet what is most familiar to us. The difficulty lies in finding the man within a brewery establishment that fits her description, but I believe I know where to start.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in, Hopkins.”

  The youthful, primly-dressed Scotland Yarder stepped through the door. “How the devil did you know who it was through the door?”

  “I was expecting you, and you have thick knuckles.”

  “Of course.” He gave my friend an amused grin. “What’s this about then, Mr. Holmes?”

  As Holmes explained in delicate terms the situation at hand, Hopkin’s expression clouded.

  “Dark business,” he said. “There was a report this morning of a missing young lady from Southwark. It wasn’t my case, so I don’t know the details, but I wager it’s the same one. I can send word to the Yard.” He pulled out a notebook. “So you want to look in at the brewery? No one will be there at this hour.”

  Holmes went to the closet and took out a dark lantern. “Which is precisely when I wish to go, my dear fellow.”

  “Now, wait just a moment. There are laws to follow.”

  “And you should follow them, of course. I place all the legal formalities of entering the building in your capable hands. You shall meet us there when you have papers.”

  “Meet you there? You mean - ?”

  “The rest shall remain unsaid, Hopkins, lest you find yourself in a position of having to lie to your superiors. Here is the address. Join us as soon as you can. Watson, I trust you have your revolver? Right then, let us be off.”

  As we made our way to Southwark in a hansom, Holmes asked, “What do you make of it, Watson?”

  “As I said before - monstrous.”

  “What of her description of the man?”

  “Medium build, I think. With a beard.”

  “Yes. She said the beard was like horsehair. What does that suggest to you?”

  “It was fake?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then the man would be clean-shaven.”

  “Most likely. Ah, here we are.” Holmes tapped the roof of the cab with his cane.

  The brewery loomed dark and large in front of us as we approached it. Holmes lit the lantern in his hand, and began to walk around the building.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to see what’s here in the daylight, Holmes? Why did we have to come at night?”

  “Seeing evidence would be better during the day, I admit. Now, however, our quarry will not be here. He took her in the evening, left her alone late at night, and abused her, I would surmise, earlier the next day. She was gagged so she could not be heard as he left her here. That’s why she took the late night opportunity to escape, for she knew he’d leave her to herself. I wanted to find this prison now and inspect it before he can return.”

  “Will you have enough light?”

  “I’ve found clues in less light than this, my friend. Hello, here is a coal chute.” He held his lantern over the rusted entryway and crouched. From the edge of the rusted metal chute door, he removed a tiny piece of fabric and thread.

  “Hold the lamp won’t you, Watson?” I did as he asked, and he examined the fragment closer to his eyes.

  “Pink calico. This is where she crawled out of her prison. The room is beyond this wall.”

  I walked a few steps along the building. “There’s a window here, Holmes, but it seems to have been blacked over on the inside.”

  He looked over my shoulder. “Close the lantern.”

  “Why?”

  “A precaution. Let me see if we can open this window.” He bent down in the dark, and I could see his shadow moving in a pushing motion. “Ah, for shame. It is a crank window, locked from the inside. Very well, then, I must break it or find another way in.”

  “Someone will hear you if you do that.”

  “Yes, I’d rather find another way.” We walked together down the length of the wall, and around the back of the building. There we found a simple wooden door, which was locked with a padlock. I opened the lantern slightly so he might inspect it.

  “This Aquire model is not much of a challenge.” From his the pocket inside his coat, Holmes pulled out what I recognized as his lock picking tool kit, selected and instrument and went to work. It wasn’t long before we were inside and making our way down a set of creaky wooden stairs into an unused portion of the giant brewery cellar. I say “unused” in that it didn’t seem to be currently employed for the brewing and ageing of beer. It was, however, filled with old barrels, equipment, bottles, sawdust, and tools which were layered in dust.

  Holmes took the lantern from my hand and stood gazing at the slate floor. Footprints were clear in the dust, leading to the end of the room and another singular, wooden door, which was bolted shut.

  Holmes slid open the bolt and stepped into the chamber beyond. A foul odour struck me first as we passed into what had been the young woman’s prison. I took my handkerchief from my sleeve and pressed it to my nose and mouth to block out the stench. Holmes held up lantern to illuminate the entirety of the grim space.

  “Here are her bonds,” he said, touching bits of thick rope with his cane. “Being a tiny woman, she wriggled free of them. What have we here?” He handed me the lantern, and bent down. He then lifted up a small glass bottle in his gloved fingers. Opening the top, he sniffed.

  “Spirit gum. That confirms the fake beard, Watson.”

  “He put it on here?”

  “I think not. Most likely he carried this small bottle in his pocket to re-affix the hair piece as necessary. They fall off with oil from the skin and perspiration when worn too long. This bottle is not empty, so he probably did not drop it on purpose.”

  “He then left the premises wearing the beard.”

  “I think so.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be much else here,” I said, walking the length of the room to the coal chute. “Other than that burlap sack, which you say covered her head, and this cloth.” I picked it up off the floor. “Her blindfold, I’d assume.”

  “Yes, and this is the gag.” Holmes said, pointing with his cane to another crumpled, stained rag. “No, nothing much else, Watson. He brought her here three days ago, used her, and left her here for his next convenience. Ultimately he would have killed he
r, I believe.”

  A slight movement near my boot caused me to jump. “Good heavens. The rats. I’d forgotten. It seems we’ve startled them.” I looked up at Holmes, and saw he was gazing at me with a peculiar glint in his eye. And yet it was as if he was not seeing me. His jaw and fists were clenched tight and his lips were pressed into a firm line.

  “Holmes-” I began.

  “Let’s go, Watson. I have had enough of this atmosphere.”

  I followed him outside, and, as we returned the way we had come, we encountered Inspector Hopkins with two constables.

  “There you are, Holmes. You’ve been inside?”

  My friend described the inner chamber we found, and handed Hopkins the bottle. “You might want to leave a constable here in case he returns.”

  “Are you off then already?”

  “Yes, to the Celtic Knot Pub. The owner is Miss Finney’s father, and I suspect he knows who this villain is, though he might not realize it. The villain works for this brewery, and knew Miss Finney already. He knew when she’d be vulnerable, and he followed her. He also knows where that room is, knew it was abandoned, and that he could use it with impunity.”

  “You don’t mind if I come along, do you?”

  Holmes smiled. Hopkins was a student of his methods, if an imperfect one.

  “Of course, Inspector. Let’s hail a cab, shall we? The pub is in Southwark but too far too walk.”

  When we reached the pub, we encountered the owner turning down the gas lamp outside the shop. He was a small man, whose pale face and shock of white hair betrayed his own Celt heritage.

  “Ach, fellows, I cannot help you tonight. As you see I’m closing the doors a bit early. We’ve had some family trouble.”

  “We are aware,” said Holmes. “That’s why we are here. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and these gentlemen with me are Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard, and my associate Doctor Watson.”

  “Sherlock Holmes - Scotland Yard.” He nodded. “You are quick, gentlemen. I only submitted a missing person’s report today, as they’d not let me do it sooner.”

  “Shall we go inside?”

  “Surely, surely.” He led us into the pub, and locked the door behind us once we were inside. It was a clean, bright establishment inside, not as grim or dark as others I’ve visited. In fact, I’d say that while the establishment was one a man would frequent, it had the prim, orderly touch of a woman’s influence, with shining glassware, well-swept floor, and dust-free artwork and lamps.