The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “I would put the box out every morning for the postman, and Jacob would bring it back inside before the man was scheduled to arrive. That was the arrangement. If the package shipped it meant that something was wrong, and that I needed to flee. If I didn’t see it by lunch I could rest a little easier that the morning had passed uneventful. When I saw the package I left immediately. I jumped in a hansom. There is a room I keep in Brentford should I need it. Near the docks.”

  Holmes nodded. “Of course. But as you were leaving, you saw Thomas Cady lurking about.”

  Collier straightened and once again stared at Holmes in disbelief. He sat for a moment in silence and then cleared his throat.

  “Tower’s money has long arms,” he said, nodding. “Cady would stop at nothing for him. I knew it was Cady, though I only caught a glimpse of him. He prefers to do his work in the mornings. That’s the reason a signal between Jacob and me wasn’t necessary later in the day. After I saw Cady, I hurried back to the shop. I quickly made my way into this hotel here and got a room that gave me a view of the shop. I watched it constantly. Every moment I was awake. I was going to wait until I saw no one I might even slightly recognize, but with my nerves being on edge it seemed everyone looked suspicious. My mind was torn between staying long enough to see my beloved brother buried, and leaving the city for my own self-preservation. I could not even claim Jacob’s body for fear of being seen. It has torn my heart apart. I have, however, paid to make sure he gets a proper burial. Anonymously, of course.”

  “How could you be certain that the package arriving meant his death?” I asked.

  “It would almost have to be,” Collier said. “Jacob was very healthy, and as strong as Samson. He lived a clean life. Never had a vice. Didn’t know of them. He had put on a few pounds recently because of those awful smelling black sausages. Still, it wasn’t a concern.”

  “And when you came to Baker Street earlier, you thought perhaps I wouldn’t realize I was talking to someone in disguise?” Holmes asked. “The lifts in your boots were a clever touch, but merely made you look clumsy. I will compliment your attempt, however, as you managed to add four inches to your height.”

  “I needed this disguise. I’m thinner now than my brother, but we still resemble each other. I couldn’t risk being seen. I would have been a dead man for sure. So, I dyed my hair and moustache this morning and then went out to buy the shoes. I did it just so I could come to see you and find out what you knew. I had no idea what was happening with my brother’s murder case. I went out bundled up late last night and spoke with the constable across the street at the shop. That’s how I came to know about your involvement.” Collier removed his hat and used a jacket sleeve to dab his brow. “I must say, I was shocked to get your message. Figured I must have given myself away again. However, I was on my way.”

  “It was necessary to draw you out,” Holmes said. “The closeness of your room here would have been dangerous for everyone involved.”

  “How did you ever find me? I gave you no idea of who I was,” Collier said.

  “I took note of the cab you used as you left. The mare pulling it was brown and white, the rear legs themselves being completely white. The cab itself had damage to the right side window. It was easy enough to have found. I could only hope you didn’t stop and change carriages, but I suspected you wished to get back to wherever you were staying and take off those uncomfortable boots. It took my informants only a couple of hours to determine where you had been taken. After that, they only had to wait to see someone matching your description.”

  “That seems to be everything, but who is this Cady fellow you talked about, Mr. Holmes?” asked Chamberlain.

  “He is one of Tower’s henchmen, and the murderer of Jacob. I know of his crimes, even though his name is always kept out of the paper. However, he does have a fondness for a particular brand of French boot.”

  “I’ll track him to Hell’s doorstep if needed,” Chamberlain said. He lifted Collier up by the arm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take you in, sir. I believe there’s a charge of embezzlement you’ll have to answer for.”

  It was some weeks later I read in the Times that Chamberlain had shot and killed Thomas Cady on a foggy morning in Derby. The murderer of Jacob Collier, as well as countless others, was dead. Chamberlain was unable to connect him to Benjamin Tower, and so Tower was never brought to trial for any of the crimes of which he was suspected. Upon speaking with Holmes afterwards, I had the impression that he was unlikely to stop trying to make sure he paid for his offenses.

  Jack Collier had pleaded his case before a Manchester judge. He was not allowed to go free, but instead was given a sentence of two years at Wandsworth and ordered to pay back any money he had left that had belonged to Tower. Upon his release he promptly disappeared again.

  The Singular Case of the Unrepentant Husband

  by William Patrick Maynard

  Of the many adventures that I shared with Sherlock Holmes, the case I record here may well stand as the most troubling. It began, unremarkably, with a telephone conversation. My wife had come to rely upon that infernal device which so often disturbs a man’s thoughts at the most inconvenient hour for the most mundane reasons. It was not unimportant in this instance, as it happened, and my wife insisted that I pay a visit to my old friend as a consequence.

  It was half past twelve in the afternoon of the following day when I arrived at the great house on Baker Street. Mrs. Turner answered the doorbell and I saw a glimmer of relief flash across her features.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner. Is he home?”

  The matronly Scotswoman rolled her eyes theatrically as she stepped aside to allow me to enter.

  “Where else might he be, Doctor Watson? Where else could he conduct his odious scientific experiments or pace the floor at all hours of the night? How my sister tolerates that man is beyond my ken. I’ll be the one needing the holiday once she returns.”

  “Right you are. Silly of me to have asked in the first place, I suppose. Well, never mind. I’ll soon have him out of your hair.”

  “You have a case for him, I hope?”

  I detected the hint of anticipation in her voice and knew that Holmes must have driven the poor woman to her limit.

  “If all goes well I do, Mrs. Turner.”

  The last I saw of her was the smile creasing her lined face as I made my way upstairs to Holmes’s rooms.

  My old friend lay sprawled upon the davenport. Street maps were unfolded and lay strewn over the table and on the floor. An empty tea cup was overturned on top of the map nearest the front legs of the table.

  “What is it this time, Mrs. Turner?”

  Holmes did not even glance up as I entered the room. His toneless voice betrayed his boredom with his enforced solitude. I was relieved he had long since broken his addiction to that awful drug that so often claimed him at times such as this. I cleared my throat pointedly.

  “Watson! What an unexpected surprise!”

  His face registered what appeared to be genuine delight at seeing me.

  “It shouldn’t be unexpected, Holmes, I have rung you three times since yesterday morning. You told Mrs. Turner on every occasion that you had no wish to speak with me.”

  “Did she tell you that?” Holmes asked as he sat up, stiffly. “The woman’s incorrigible. It’s high time I had her put down for distemper. Perhaps I’ll have her stuffed. I could keep her in the hallway next to the hat stand. She’d make a lovely conversation piece.”

  “One must entertain visitors if one is to have conversations, Holmes.”

  “That is a fair point, Watson, and a welcome reminder that you have business to attend to unless I’m very much mistaken.”

  “Did I say anything of the sort?”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t extend an invitation.”

  “Th
at’s perfectly beastly of you, Holmes, but also oddly appropriate.”

  “Is it? Pray tell me more.”

  “I have a case for you to consider taking and, coincidentally, it involves an acquaintance of mine who will not stay dead.”

  “You interest me, Watson. Go on; go on... while I search for my socks.”

  “Try looking at the end of your feet.”

  “Not these socks, Watson!” he shot me a reproachful glance as he wriggled his toes. “I mean the socks I removed when I retired last night - or this morning.”

  “Alfred Habersham is the gentleman who refuses to rest in peace.”

  “Habersham... Habersham...” Holmes muttered as he leaned over to peer underneath the davenport.

  “Yes, the late Alfred Habersham was a patient of mine. Not a particularly lucrative one, but respectable nonetheless. He was an author as well, although I daresay he couldn’t have made a go of it had he not been fortunate enough to come into a princely sum of money at an early age which allowed him to indulge his passion without fear of wondering where his next meal was coming from.”

  I had started to wander about the room as I spoke. It was the only way to keep my concentration while Holmes continued to be preoccupied with his missing socks. I spied the stray animals resting on the small writing desk by the window. Lifting them gingerly, I brought them back to Holmes, who was on his hands and knees like a hound upon a scent, peering intently under the davenport. I dropped them on his back as I continued.

  “Very conservative fellow our Habersham was. He spent precious little of his wealth except when absolutely necessary. He married well. A nice sensible girl, although I fear she left her girlhood behind quite some time ago. No children, but he did have a ward. A distant relative he sent to a boarding school in Switzerland.”

  Holmes sat upright suddenly and the socks fell from his back and onto the floor in front of him.

  “Ah! There they are! Darn socks!”

  “Really, Holmes, such humor is beneath you.”

  “Humor is beneath everyone. That’s what makes it humorous.”

  “Are you paying attention? I daresay you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  Holmes’s brow furrowed in irritation at my rebuke. “Of course I have! Alfred Habersham died leaving a widow and a ward well off since he was a miserly old sod, and you have yet to get to the interesting bit about how he is refusing to stay dead. Not very respectable behavior for a chap you seem to consider so respectable.”

  I smiled with unhidden amusement.

  “Well said, Holmes. Although I should make it clear that it is the claim of Mrs. Habersham that her husband is not resting peacefully in his grave. She claims he has appeared to her twice during the past week. The first time she thought she was dreaming. The second time she says she was wide awake and had only just retired for the night.”

  “Sounds like her nerves are frayed.”

  “There is little question of that, yet somehow... I believe her.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  “You see, there’s more to it than just seeing her late husband. He speaks to her.”

  “He speaks to her?”

  “Yes, he speaks to her. Confesses might be the more appropriate word. He apparently cannot rest with a guilty conscience and has told her some rather terrible things.”

  “What sort of terrible things?”

  “Crimes he claims he committed when he was younger... indiscretions that she knew nothing of during their long marriage.”

  “Are these claims credible?”

  “Well, his wife certainly thinks so.”

  “What do you propose I do about it, set a trap to catch a ghost?”

  “What I expect you to do, Holmes is to restore peace to a poor widow. Prove that these ghostly visitations are the result of nervous excitement or grief. She is beside herself with the thought that the man she loved was a blackguard. Imagine her pain to hear that he wronged others when he was a young man and, worse still, was unfaithful to her for decades. She could scarcely keep from crying when she told Mary about it.”

  “Ah, your scheming wife put you up to this. I might have known.”

  “That is uncalled for and you know it, Holmes. Mary merely relayed the story to me and I sought your aid on my own.”

  Holmes sighed and sunk back in the davenport, arms folded across his chest.

  “You’re being disingenuous on that last point at the very least.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Holmes, I’ve known Alfred and Olivia Habersham for ages, and Mary and Olivia have become quite close since we’ve been married. You have only to speak with her and make her see reason.”

  “Watson, the woman sees and converses with her husband’s ghost. She is not likely to be receptive to anything approaching reason.”

  Silence hung over the room. I stood still and stared at the well-worn carpet beneath my feet.

  “Oh, all right. I’ll come along, but not more than twenty minutes, do you understand? If she has not come round to the idea by that time, I want to hear no more about the matter.”

  I shook his hand effusively.

  “Thank you, Holmes. Mary will be thrilled.”

  He grumbled in response, but I caught the flicker of a smile cross his sullen face.

  “You know... you’re not nearly the curmudgeon you pretend to be some of the time.”

  My old friend snorted derisively.

  “I fear that I never mastered the art of disguising my feelings.”

  “That is hardly true and we both know it, Holmes.”

  He sat there silent for a moment before breaking into a hearty laugh.

  We arrived at the modest Praed Street residence of the late Alfred Habersham a short while later. Olivia Habersham answered the door to their apartment. She was an attractive woman whose beauty remained undimmed by the passing years. I noted that her eyes betrayed both exhaustion and emotional fragility. Her eyebrows arched in irritation, a tell-tale sign of her Irish heritage, at being disturbed by unwelcome visitors, but her features quickly softened when she recognized my face.

  “John! My word, what brings you here? Do come in. You should have telephoned first. Oh dear, I must look a fright. Is Mary with you?”

  Olivia’s mouth quivered as she caught sight of Holmes standing to my left, just out of sight of the door.

  “Good afternoon, Olivia. Allow me to present my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.”

  Olivia stared at him a moment, her mouth curling into a look of mild repulsion.

  “Oh dear,” Olivia repeated, listlessly. “You’re that consulting detective everyone talks about, aren’t you?”

  Holmes responded with a slight inclination of his head.

  “If it isn’t too much trouble,” I asked, “might we come in, Olivia?”

  She stepped aside for us to enter, but never took her eyes off Holmes.

  “I can’t understand the need for it myself, what with Scotland Yard and all.”

  “Yes, well that’s why we’ve dropped by you see. Mary mentioned to me this morning that you have been troubled of late, and while Scotland Yard would not be of much use, I do believe Holmes, who has considerable experience handling some fairly peculiar cases such as yours, might be of some assistance.”

  Olivia blinked a few times, her mouth hanging agape.

  “I don’t know what to say, John, other than you really should have telephoned first. I don’t wish to be rude, Mr. Holmes, but this is a difficult time right now, and I don’t see what you could possibly do that would...”

  “Mrs. Habersham, I beg you...” Holmes’s tone was calm and conciliatory, “please at least share with me in your own words what you have experienced and then let me judge whether or not I can
prove to be useful to you.”

  The Irish eyebrows arched once more as her cheeks flushed with emotion.

  “I’m sure you both mean well, gentlemen, but this is hardly a matter for Scotland Yard, much less consulting detectives. However, should I find myself in need of such services as you render, I would not hesitate to call. Good day to you both, gentlemen.”

  Without a further word, we were ushered back out into the hallway as the door promptly closed in our faces and was bolted shut.

  “I’ll be damned!”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t go so far as to damn you for this wasted trip, Watson,” Holmes sighed, “so long as you listen to me and not your well-meaning wife the next time round.”

  The incident left me in a foul mood the rest of the day. I was sullen and ill-tempered with Mary and retired for bed early, instead of staying up late reading as was my fashion. I awoke dreadfully early the next morning to an unexpected phone call.

  “John?” the voice on the other end trembled.

  “Yes. Who is this, please?” I asked, bitterly rubbing my bleary eyes.

  “It’s Olivia.”

  “Olivia...” I repeated the name, momentarily puzzled, “...of course, Olivia! Good morning! What can I do for you?”