The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  The Adventure of the Bookshop Owner

  by Vincent W. Wright

  As I look over the files concerning the cases in which Sherlock Holmes and I became involved, I find a particular one from the summer of 1890 that had initially presented itself as fairly conclusive on all points, but like many others turned out to be less so.

  I had not seen Holmes for some weeks, and found myself in a recurring state of longing for a telegram or visit that would spark an adventure once again. My practice kept me busy, and while I was perfectly content with my work, it could turn dull quite quickly and become routine. My loving wife had lately spent a good deal of time visiting an ill friend in Birmingham, and I felt as if I were a bachelor once more. The recent sun-bathed mornings encouraged me to amble through the streets and listen to the bustle of life, while nights were when I ignored the hubbub and enjoyed Tennyson. Still, I pined for the days when my pulse quickened from the ceaseless, yet unpredictable, cases London would deliver to our door.

  On the morning of July 1st I received a short message from Holmes requesting my attendance that evening. No other hints or clues were to be found in the terse missive, but I was certain a visit would be worth my while. My appointments for the next few days were trivial and light, and I arranged for a capable colleague to attend to the cases while I made plans to be gone until at least the weekend.

  It was a perfect, cloudless late afternoon when I set out. An occasional breeze carried with it the smell of wet soil from last night’s rain. The hansom came to a stop in front of 221, and I stepped down onto the damp street. Mrs. Hudson greeted me with her usual cordiality, and I hurried up the familiar steps. As I entered our old sitting room, I found Holmes already engaged with a visitor.

  “Watson, so very nice to see you. Six o’clock! Perfect. Please join Inspector Chamberlain and me for what promises to be a most intriguing conversation,” Holmes declared, gesturing toward a strapping young man.

  “Hello, Holmes. It’s always good to see you. Inspector Chamberlain,” I said, turning to him. “I’ve followed your exploits in the papers. Allow me to offer my congratulations on attaining your position at only thirty. Putting away that sadistic animal Parker and his assistant was indeed a feather in your cap.”

  Chamberlain rose to greet me. He stood as tall as Holmes but cut a much stouter figure, and bore the large, roughened hands of a man who preferred to use them. His patent leather shoes and dark brown Scottish tweed suit indicated a man of business and professionalism, as did his neatly groomed beard and moustache.

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” Chamberlain said while shaking my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you and Mr. Holmes. I trust between the three of us we can come to some conclusion about a most curious affair.”

  As I took my usual chair, I could see a fire in Holmes’s gray eyes. It was a familiar sight, but given the unkempt state of the room, it had been some time since he had experienced it.

  Newspapers were strewn about, some sliced to ribbons, and no doubt articles had been clipped out for his files. Books teetered in uneven piles on chairs, spilling onto the floor like some miniature mountain range. The humidity that had muffled London for the past few days had left the room stale and musty. A haze clouded the front windows, doubtless due to the acrid smoke from Holmes’s preferred mixture of shag. He had not had a case in weeks, but to my relief I saw no evidence of the damaging syringe. In the middle of the room sat the dining table, surprisingly clean, upon which rested a small wooden box partially wrapped in torn paper.

  “This will be a welcome change from summer colds and dog bites.” I sat, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

  “Chamberlain was providing the details about a murder that happened in Harrow. If you would be so kind, Inspector, could you start over for my friend?” Holmes sat opposite me in his faded dressing gown, crossing his legs. He lit a cigarette and slowly blew a column of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” Chamberlain said, sitting down and re-opening his notebook. “Yesterday at 8:45 a.m., I was called upon to investigate the murder of one Jacob Collier. A neighbor found him face down in the mud behind his house. He was killed by a single stab from behind, angled upward to the heart. Hunting knife, seems to me. Other than those of the neighbor that found the body, there was a single set of footprints that led straight to Collier from the road and back. The rains made some of the prints visible in the muck. Sharp new edges on them. Had an imprint on the sole. I could make out the name F. Pine. That and a lion, I believe.”

  “F. Pinet. It’s a French brand,” Holmes said.

  “Right. Pinet. Well, the tracks went back to the road, then disappeared. Got in a carriage, no doubt. I don’t think we can gather anything from them, though.”

  “Pray continue,” Holmes said quietly.

  “I searched the home and found a business card. Collier owned a bookshop on Uxbridge Road in Southall - a place called Falstaff Books. Near as I can make out from some papers I found in his desk, he left Manchester three years ago. After I finished having a look around the home, I headed for the bookshop.” He sat forward and shook his head. “What I found there was quite odd. The door was unlocked, and the shop appeared open for business. There weren’t any signs of a robbery, though, as the register still had a few pounds in it. But there was no one tending the shop. While we were giving the place a look over, a young boy came in. He said he worked for Collier from time to time, pushing a barrow of books. He confirmed that the place had been opened by Collier that morning, and that he had spoken to him before heading out to push his cart.”

  “What time did you go to the shop?” Holmes asked.

  “I arrived at half past ten.”

  “And when was the last time someone saw Collier there?”

  “A gentleman across the street runs a little haberdashery - a Mr. Arnold George,” Chamberlain said, looking at his notes. “He recalled seeing a postman enter the place around ten. I confirmed this with that postman once I found him.”

  “So this postman saw Collier?”

  “Well, according to the postman, he didn’t notice who signed for the package. Seems he was busying himself with a volume about photography. A little hobby of his, he claimed. Now I figure it must have been the murderer who was behind the counter. He obviously went to the store to rob the place with the owner out of the way.”

  “What of the delivery signature?” Holmes asked.

  “Unreadable. Shaky. Seems as though the murderer made a poor attempt at Collier’s signature, for it appeared to read Jack, not Jacob. The two names look enough alike, I guess. Nerves, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps. Were there any receipts in the register?”

  “None. The gent across the street said business was slow that morning. Not much foot traffic to speak of.”

  “Thank you. Please go on,” Holmes said, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.

  “Well, I found nothing at the shop that would indicate what happened to Collier except for this package. It was on the main counter.”

  Holmes handed it to me, and I turned it over in my hands. How many times had I watched Holmes take a mundane object such as this and deduce its history? Sheer repetition should have left an impression, but I was unable to discern anything useful. It was a simply built wooden box wrapped in plain off-white butcher’s paper, tied with twine. The paper had been ripped open, one end of the box was pried off, and any contents had been removed.

  “There was blood on the box,” Chamberlain continued, “as you can see. The blood was far from fresh when I arrived there. Some had dripped down to the papers under it. Inventory papers that were dated from the same day. Someone opened the box and then left it sitting there. I thought it might be important, so I brought it with me. One thing I noticed was that the handwriting on the package matched perfectly with that on the papers under it, and to o
ther papers about the place. The high loops and slant made it easy to identify.”

  “You have a good eye, Inspector. What do you make of the box, Watson?” Holmes leaned forward.

  “I can see nothing about it that would lead to any conclusions,” I said. “It’s of simple construction, about the size of a small cigar box, and the address of the shop is in a man’s hand. The paper has been torn away rather savagely, and the twine is still knotted. Strange that the box wasn’t fitted with a hinge or panel, so the only way to open it is to destroy it.”

  “There isn’t much to be gathered from the box, that is true, and unfortunately the postmark has been smudged. I can make nothing of it,” Holmes said as he took the box back. “However, there are a couple of minor points. The person who made it has little experience with carpentry, is right-handed, enjoys black sausages, and may have spent time in the Navy. The last point is purely speculative, I’m afraid.”

  I frowned at the box. “Once more I am at a loss about how you come to these conclusions,” I said.

  “Allow me to enlighten you. The box is made from scrap wood, unevenly cut, with nails much too large for this size box. They have caused the wood to split in one or two places.” Holmes pointed to cracks in the side panels. “Add to that the marks of a hammer from a right-handed man who missed his target several times, and you can conclude this was not made by an experienced woodworker. The paper and twine are types regularly used by butchers, and you can just smell the hint of sausage - a rather unique recipe, I might add. There were no contents in the box, so we must conclude that someone took them.”

  “And the Navy?” I asked.

  “Again, this is pure speculation, but the type of knot used to tie the twine is called a figure-eight knot. It is used primarily by sailors, but can be found anywhere there are boats. I cannot see a sailor making the box, however, for that well-known nautical neatness of hand is contradicted by the shoddiness of construction.”

  “I’ll be, Mr. Holmes,” Chamberlain said, shaking his head. “I’ve heard of your abilities when it comes to reading things, but I’m glad to finally see it for myself.”

  Holmes eased back in his armchair.

  “Can you describe the dead man?” I asked. Holmes shot a quick glance and smile at me.

  “Mid-forties, fifteen stone or so, about five and a half feet, with graying hair. Had a scar on his left cheek just below the eye. He was wearing working clothes, and his muddy boots were old. Certainly not the ones that made the footmarks. Blood had pooled on his back and ran down both of his sides. Mud caked his pant cuffs.”

  “What can you tell us about the home?” Holmes inquired.

  “Quiet place. Small. Country furniture. Local items. Nothing of any terrible cost.” Chamberlain again opened his notebook. “A kitchen table and chairs, a writing desk, a small fireplace, one large bed, wardrobe, and a couple of parlor chairs. One big room for everything. Sits on about an acre or so with a small barn in back. A few pigs and chickens. No signs of a wife or children. Simple, really. Rather fond of his own face, though. Had a painting of himself hanging on the wall. Scar and all. Nice frame, too.”

  “Did you look in the barn?” Holmes asked.

  “Of course, sir. Found some work clothes like the dead man was wearing hanging on a line in the loft, and a small unmade bed in there, as well. Curious as the one in the house was perfectly made. Looks like Collier preferred to sleep near his animals. Outside of that it was a standard barn. I should also add that there were no witnesses to the crime.”

  “What of the bookshop? Any footprints?” I asked.

  “Several in the store, but only one person’s behind the counter, Doctor. The light rain last night left enough mud to leave tracks, but I could find only the one set past the counter and down into the cellar,” Chamberlain said.

  “No signs of a struggle? No forced entry?”

  “Nothing.”

  Holmes clutched his hands together, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against the worn fabric of the chair.

  “What do you make of the blood on the counter, Inspector?” I asked.

  “It must have come from the man who opened the box.”

  “Yes. The blood,” Holmes interrupted, “was from the man cutting himself when he opened the box. He was desperate to get at what was inside, and in his haste caught his skin on the splintered wood. There is nothing more to be learned from it.

  “This case certainly has some curious points about it, Inspector. I should like to contemplate it further. Thank you for stopping in,” Holmes said as he stood and walked to the door.

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes.” Chamberlain’s brows rose. “I do have a murderer to catch. I’ll inform you if we find anything more, but, to be honest, I was hoping for better tonight.”

  “I’m afraid there is nothing more I can tell you. Goodnight, Inspector.”

  Chamberlain shook our hands and made his way to the door. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said with a tip of his bowler.

  The door closed behind him, and Holmes smiled at me.

  “An excellent case to end my dreary days. What do you make of the whole business, Watson?” Holmes asked as he retook his chair.

  “Perplexing. It seems to me that the murderer certainly could be the one who signed for the package at the bookshop. He must have gone there looking for something. Who else would have known the place would be vacated?”

  “It is a possibility,” Holmes said softly. “He could easily have assumed the role of an employee. And if he were searching for something, it could very well be whatever was in that box.” Holmes sat forward, put his elbows on his knees, and pressed his fingertips together. “Curious that it has the murdered man’s handwriting on it. He must have sent it to himself to avoid having it found. But why? Why not just take it along with him when he went to work? It is paramount that we find out what was inside.”

  “I must confess at being absolutely befuddled. What do you think we should do next?”

  “Dinner and a walk. What do you say, Watson - are you up for a little night air? I find it most restorative to the senses.”

  “I should be delighted.”

  We dined and passed the time in splendid conversation. Many and varied were the subjects we spoke of. I talked about the newest advances in medicine, and how I was enjoying my married life, after which Holmes thrilled me by recounting the recent championship boxing bout between Dixon and Wallace in Soho. The evening was brought to a close with both of us lounging at Baker Street with pipes in hand, and enjoying the occasional recollection or memory. Not a word was spoken about the case. We retired early, both ready for the resumption of the case the next day.

  The next morning dawned fair. I made my way down to breakfast to find Holmes already dressed and drinking his coffee.

  “Good morning, Holmes.”

  “Ah, Doctor. I trust you slept well.”

  “Very. Thank you,” I said as I picked up the newspaper. A small article had been emphatically circled.

  “The piece you see there is about the murder. Nothing new to be reported. It reflects everything we already know. However, I have a few items I would like to look into concerning the matter. Would you care to join me?”

  “Certainly. Where are we going?”

  “The paper that wrapped the box is nothing special in itself, but the smell of the sausage it had once covered was a particular type that is only made in one or two places in the city. I have some questions I would like to ask the proprietor.”

  “Sounds like the perfect way to spend a morning,” I smiled.

  “Excellent. Let us finish Mrs. Hudson’s fine eggs and toast and we’ll be on our way.”

  Within the hour we were in a cab headed for Southall. Our ride, like many before in our partnership, was spent in silence.

  We
stopped on High Street in front of a butchery. The windows displayed the rather grotesque and elongated carcasses of numerous hogs and fowl. A breeze carried the smell of cooking animal flesh. The bakers, confectioners, and brewers that lined the street added their own unique smells, resulting in an aroma that confused the senses but roused the appetite.

  We stepped inside and found ourselves between two long glass counters which contained all matter of headcheeses, rumps, and shoulders on mounds of ice. Sausages and hams hung from hooks above, and bones for soup and stock were in buckets on the floor in front of the display cases.

  “Fancy a taste of somethin’, gents?” From behind a curtain stepped a small, thin man with large sideburns and liver spots beneath the remaining strands of hair on his head. He took off his bloodied gloves, tossed them behind the curtain, and wiped his hands on a clean corner of his spattered apron.

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend, Dr. Watson. I was hoping I might take a moment of your time and ask about a customer of yours.”

  “Mr. Sherlock ‘Olmes. Pleasure to meet you, it is. Stevens is my name. C.L. Stevens.” The man gave a nod to Holmes. “Fine work on that nasty murder of the Prime Minister’s cousin. Read about it in the paper, I did.”

  “Thank you. Now, to the matter at hand, my good man. It is my understanding that you have done business with Jacob Collier.”

  “‘Ow come you be needin’ to know that?” the man said, cocking his head to the side.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Stevens. Collier is an old acquaintance of mine. Back to our college days, actually. Rugby players. I’m responsible for the scar under his eye.”

  “Scar, Mr. ‘Olmes?” Stevens asked in some confusion.

  “Well, that was many, many years ago. Perhaps it has healed up completely.” Holmes pointed at the links around the ceiling. “Mr. Collier said your black sausage was the best in the city.”