The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “Your job will be simplicity itself, Lestrade!” Holmes declared. “Merely place this on Sir Henry’s desk like so - there! Right next to where the deed shall rest. A delightful conversation piece, is it not?” He beamed with his hands on his hips and admired his handiwork as we again looked at each other, baffled.

  “This is one of your tricks, is it not, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked in resignation.

  “Not at all, Lestrade. Simply remember,” he lifted his hand, “‘I swear to you that The Merripit House Collection is complete!’ Every specimen that rightfully belonged to Jack Stapleton will be returned to its walls so that Mr. Quantock can accept the deed on his terms. Mr. Quantock agreed before witnesses that he would personally repair Merripit as part of his concession to the plight of the Baldwins.”

  “Why am I thinking of a pony and a potato right now?” Sir Henry muttered with smile upon Holmes. “I’ve seen your look in a man’s eye before, friend, and it was always right before someone got their comeuppance.”

  “You give me too much credit, Sir Henry.” Holmes pursed his lips. “And now, you spoke of dinner?”

  Here my pen falters, for though I have often devoted my thoughts to this crucial scene, I still cannot give full description to how Quantock strode proudly into Baskerville Hall, only for his swagger to crumble like sand under rain as his eye fell upon Sir Henry’s desk. He paled before our eyes, and his greeting quivered in his throat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Quantock,” the baronet said. With his fingers laced together upon the blotting-paper, and his large hazel eyes unblinking upon the newcomer, our friend smiled. “I believe you wished to own Merripit House?”

  With a shaking hand, Quantock signed his agreement to Sir Henry, and Lestrade, Holmes and I added our witness. Merripit House thus passed from Baskerville Hall to Folkestone Court, and Quantock was promptly beggared in the repairwork that was past his means. He was close to penniless when he passed the house to the Baldwins. That good couple promptly sold it back to Sir Henry for no more than the value of the Candlebat Inn, and reside comfortably there to this day. It was a far better fate than Quantock’s, for he soon was forced by penury to do as he had sworn in revenge, and had to sell what he could and return to London. Allow me to say that the purchaser would have made Miss Oriana proud, for they thought her dream of a Museum a sensible one, and Folkestone breathed fresh relief at a new source of money.

  “Sentimentalism, Watson!” Holmes protested. “And of the basest kind. You would have them think it was purchased out of the kindness of the heart!”

  “I doubt the Foreign Office would like it if I mentioned their interest in the property, Holmes. They do like to keep their eyes on private entrepreneurs.”

  “Bah,” Holmes sneered. “In any case, your tale is missing large chunks. You will have to splice in a build-up of atmosphere with our journey to Folkestone and keep up an over-inflated account of my behavior to unsettle Lestrade.”

  “I thought to put that in later. Tuesday is almost upon us.”

  “At least there will be fresh milk.”

  “All right, Mr. Holmes.” Sir Henry had gathered us all before the fireplace, for even summer in Dartmoor is chilly. He gnawed on the stem of a new pipe in a seeming picture of content. Only the gleam in his eyes and the smile on his lips said otherwise. “You played a long game, and you came out on top again, but it is done and time for the magician to spill his tricks.”

  Holmes bowed with a pleased mien to be compared to a magician, and bowed again as Lestrade and I leaned forward.

  “Quantock only pretended to be callous of his Aunt’s work. In reality, he was quietly replacing choice specimens and selling the originals. He could do this because of her failing eyesight, and he started with the pieces high up, knowing she would be content with examining her paintings and sketches. But the real plum, the prize specimen, was the Vandeleur Moth, which you so kindly placed on Sir Henry’s desk, Lestrade.”

  “What!” Sir Henry stared wildly at the silent moth. “You mean that Moth named after Stapleton back when he was passing as Vandeleur?”

  “The same.”

  “By thunder!”

  “Yes. I asked myself if it was indeed that worthy moth, but although my suspicions were strong, I had no confirmation until Lestrade gave me the proof I needed with the news of Quantock’s sudden desire for Merripit House.

  “Stapleton knew from his friendship with Mortimer that the Folkestone Collection was worthy of a visit, and one day he did just that. He must have felt as though his secret days were numbered when he saw the very moth credited with his old name from East Yorkshire was under glass! If its presence became common knowledge, eventually a Yorkshire expert would come to visit, and his disguise would be circumspect. He did not think that his distinct hobby was already a danger to his identity, but we have established his ‘hazy thinking’ in the past. Naturally he had to have the moth, but he could not ask overtly - Miss Quantock’s dream of a museum was public. No, he had to recover this specimen covertly.

  “Thieving was on his mind that fateful May, but not just for the silver. The moth was his true goal, though he was already dangerous with his need for money. Little Artie may have seen him take down the case; we will never know. He shot him down in cold blood and fled with silver and moth, leaving behind a wreck of the specimens on the wall.

  “What with the loss of her closest confidant’s son, which Miss Oriana felt responsible for by securing the child’s post, and the devastation of her beloved collection, she was not far from the grave. Stapleton must have thought himself safe, for even he had no idea Abraham Quantock was a savvy moth-man, chafing at the believed destruction of the rare moth.

  “For this was a very rare moth indeed with reverse-patterned wings. This happens less than three times in five thousand specimens - which Stapleton had estimated but had never been able to personally collect.”

  “I still can’t imagine it.” Sir Henry’s expressive face was clouded. “All of this for a little moth.”

  “Do you know the root of entomology, Sir Henry? From the Greek entomos, ‘that which is cut in pieces.’ The entomological world is as complex as the creatures they study. The fanciers of moths alone will guarantee you a fair share of rivalries, destroyed careers, and thefts of far more than specimens.

  “Sadly for Mrs. Baldwin, in helping restore the room of her son’s murder, she discovered the forgeries within the cases. With Miss Oriana’s failing health, she had taken over for her mistress more than anyone could guess. She knew it could have only been the nephew’s work. But what could she do? The shock of learning her Abraham was a thief would surely reduce the old lady’s life further. In miserable silence, this poor woman kept watch over her friend, but grief is difficult to mask, and Abraham not only learned she had his secret, but that she was very easily bullied into submission. It was the work of a minute to remind her of the slender financial thread upon which their livelihood hung at the Inn. It took only a minute more to force her to swear to silence. And so this sad affair continued through Miss Oriana’s decline into death. Unable to bear the strain, Mrs. Baldwin consciously cut her income by moving back to the Inn, and Quantock’s greedy soul must have thrilled that she had by choice ran away. She had sworn never to speak, and he firmly believed in the superstition of the peasant against breaking their word.

  “Alas for his schemes! Stapleton’s perfidy was exposed the moment Quantock saw the newspaper photo of Sir Henry by the rescued Merripit Collection! For there by his arm was his aunt’s Vandeleur Moth, a spectre from the past! In a single stroke, Quantock thus gasped Stapleton’s blow and plotted frantically to get the moth back.

  “Quantock hit upon the idea of using Sir Henry’s need to clean Stapleton’s stain from Baskerville honour by ploy of Merripit House. If he had the full collection of Stapleton’s plunder, he would have the precious Vandeleur again, sel
l it, and easily do as he vowed in repairing Merripit. But he dare not tell Sir Henry his true goal, for his greedy soul could not imagine so much honour in a baronet. His need for the moth and its verified price on the market was twenty times that of Merripit House, and almost equal to that of Folkestone.”

  Sir Henry exploded. “I wouldn’t sell him his own family’s moth back to him!”

  “Be calm, Sir Henry. It is no slur on you that a morally destitute man viewed you with his own limited lens.” Holmes soothed. “One may very well ask an ant’s opinion of a pine tree.”

  “Maybe so, but all this effort to lie when they could have just kept to the truth!” But the baronet quieted, his fists thrust into his pockets as he listened.

  Holmes continued his explanation. “His foggy scheme, which is only slightly better contrived than Stapleton’s theft, would have been successful had he remembered Mrs. Baldwin. Her sense of duty was no less as strong as a Ghurka’s, and when she saw the same newspaper article, she recognised the moth for what it was. Suddenly there was a shard of her beloved lady’s legacy - survived! She had to protect, and so she wrote her grief to her husband, circumventing her oath to never talk. Together they hatched a clever plan to avoid Quantock’s spies using the Onion Johnnies.

  “The Onion Johnnies are a stout brotherhood, and word passed amongst the ranks in their Breton tongue until they found a rather clever one with the idea of directly appealing to Sherlock Holmes.” Holmes paused for a moment, his grey eyes twinkling, and we saw Lestrade straighten in surprise. “I was soon on my way to Folkestone. The Johnny did not need to know much. He was simply an Onion Seller who happened to know a consultant able enough to go where Sir Henry and Mr. Lestrade could not. It was a moment’s work for the Baldwins to slip a detailed confession to me within the head of the largest onion - the Captain’s Head, as it is called in the vernacular, and according to the proverbs of these folk, the Head keeps all secrets. By these means, I was able to learn of the Baldwins’ plight without anyone else the wiser.”

  “I was certainly not the wiser!” I breathed. “I heard a crackle when you lifted the onions up, and thought it was only the papery skins! It was the message, wasn’t it?”

  Holmes bowed again.

  “All this made possible by an Onion Johnny!” Sir Henry whistled. “Well, I knew I liked the fellows for a reason. Good with delivering mail when you need them to, and honest to a fault.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Lestrade agreed evenly, and it was all Holmes and I could do to keep our countenance intact. “Mister Holmes, this is one of your queerest cases yet, but it seems to be what you excel at. Still, solving a case backwards is amazing even for you.”

  “Why, thank you, Lestrade.” Holmes glanced at his watch. “But I fear the congratulations must be cut short. We have just enough time to return to the Inn and pack before the next train leaves Folkestone.”

  And here I have paused. Holmes is finally asleep. I do not pretend I aided this step to recovery; doing nothing is worse for him than doing too much, and keeping him occupied with my poor writings has served this cause before. He rests when he is busy, and frets when he is not.

  But it is my sincere hope that with this sleep he will overcome his illness and rise up, as our equally weary England struggles to rise from her sick-bed. I do not lie when I say my friend is indistinguishable from England.

  But I must stop now. I can hear the milk-cart rattling up the shell drive, and with it our long-awaited guest...

  “Halloa the house!” A familiar cry makes me smile. As I limp outside with my cane on the uneven earth, the milk-man hurries his cargo to the cool-room for the housekeeper. Our guest is lowering a small bag to the earth, and despite his considerably advanced years compared to mine, he remains as stubbornly spry and active as ever. Only the bright silver wings sweeping from his temples suggest his age, and a jaunty beret perches upon his touseled head.

  I cannot but laugh to see an Onion Johnny here in the Sussex Downs, but they seem to be everywhere, now that there has been just barely enough time for the first crops since the War. And the Bretons will not choose in their loyalties of England or France - it is like asking a child to say which parent they love the most.

  He limps unevenly to me, and his own stick is no longer for show. A chapelet of Roscoff’s finest droops over his shoulder.

  “What is this?” I exclaim. “I thought you had retired!”

  “Lestrade has retired, Doctor Watson!” is my response. “But Onion Johnny still works.”

  I laugh out loud and take the chapelet. “For himself or for the Foreign Office?”

  “They are much the same.” This old friend reassures me. “You are looking better! I take it Holmes finally gave you permission to write about that last mess with the moth? Why else would he ‘put in an order’ for onions?”

  And the truth strikes: I had thought I was seeing to Holmes’s health, but all this time he was seeing to mine. He kept me from fretting over him and the wake of the War by concentrating on a long-awaited tale.

  “I had thought to hide my health from him, since his was so much worse.”

  “Hum.” Lestrade snaps a cigarillo alight between his lips. “Well, anything I can do to help?”

  “Only answer how you could turn from browned Johnny in London to pale Inspector in Folkestone so quickly.”

  “No great secret. Most stains come right off, but it was a bit close. I took the chance. People were watching a late-napping Inspector Lestrade, not the in-and-out Johnnies at the inn.”

  “I am glad.”

  “As am I.” We pass the tobacco between us and nod to the departing milk-cart. “Come. Holmes will wake soon, and if he hasn’t improved, I am making him a plaster!”

  “Not from my onions, you won’t!”

  “Certainly not. There is always a rude friar in the kitchen...”

  The Case of the Murderous Numismatist

  by Jack Grochot

  After I sold my medical practice in Kensington to Dr. Verner and returned to Baker Street to share rooms again with my friend Sherlock Holmes, life in the summer of 1894 became hectic. I had re-joined Holmes at a time when he was juggling three or four cases at once. Consequently, my own erratic schedule, to say the least, took me hither and yon unprepared, for I usually accompanied Holmes on his adventures, but now I was writing down notes of his movements or encounters haphazardly, with the hope that my memory of events would not fail me when I sat at our dining table to compose a magazine article about the ingenious methods and mind-numbing accomplishments of this peripatetic consulting detective. What follows is an example of my remembrance combined with those sketchy notes:

  One day at lunch in our flat - a meal of turkey pot pies served graciously by our landlady, Mrs. Hudson - Holmes flipped a coin onto the tabletop and watched it twirl noisily until it came to a stop.

  “What can you tell me about this piece, Watson?” he wanted to know.

  I picked it up, examined it, and told Holmes the date the crown was minted, 1707, the very year it was introduced as currency to commemorate the Union of the kingdoms of England and Scotland.

  “Is that all there is to it?” Holmes persisted, as if to entertain himself.

  “Only that this is a rare coin, a collector’s item,” I added.

  “Wrong on all counts, as I anticipated,” he blurted with an exaggerated wink.

  “Wrong? How can you allege it?” I insisted.

  “This is not a genuine crown. It is counterfeit,” Holmes revealed, surprising me. “It is not solid silver, it is silver-plated and made of lead, weighing approximately a half ounce more than it should.”

  “Where did you get it?” I quizzed.

  “From a new client, or I should say a group of clients,” he answered. “Here is a letter from them that arrived in yesterday’s post, along with the sp
urious coin.” He unfolded a sheet of correspondence that was in his jacket pocket, then tossed it over to me, and I read it aloud:

  “We, the undersigned, represent the Society of American Coin Traders, an organization of more than two hundred members,” the message began. “One of us, one whose identity will remain anonymous, purchased this coin by mail from a London dealer, a Joseph Smisky, for the sum of ninety dollars. This specimen is worthless, for it is a fake.

  “We have sent a telegraph to Mr. Smisky to demand that the money be returned, and he has ignored our plea. Instead, he has continued to advertise in the newspapers that he possesses a 1707 crown for sale in mint condition. We suspect he actually possesses several reproductions of this valuable coin.

  “We urge you to bring an end to his fraudulent scheme and to intercede for us with your Scotland Yard contacts to see that justice is served. We shall reward you with a fee in whatever amount you deem sufficient under the circumstances, providing, of course, that it is reasonable.”

  The letter gave the impression Holmes’s task was a simple one, but he informed me otherwise. “If Mr. Smisky is to be prosecuted, it must be proven that he not only peddled a counterfeit, but that he knew it was counterfeit when he did so,” Holmes advised. “Thus, the sticky wicket.”

  “How do you intend to establish he knowingly sold a bogus collectable?” I wondered with skepticism. “What was in his mind is hardly possible to decipher.”

  “My plan-” Holmes started to say, but a knock at the door interrupted him.

  “It is only I, here to collect the dirty dishes,” said Mrs. Hudson cheerily, letting herself in and directing a comment toward Holmes. “That pot pie should help put meat on your bones. The way you have been running about at all hours takes a toll on the frame, and you can’t stand to lose any more than you have already.”

  “It was delicious and abundant, my lady, and no doubt it will amount to as much as a pound on my sorry frame,” he responded, then charmed her with a compliment about her hair.