The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “No, Watson, I think that justice will be served better without the intervention of the constabulary. Just be prepared to leave tomorrow at four-forty p.m.”

  Then, opening his violin case, he continued; “Now, it is time for sweetness and light. Please fix each of us Scotch and soda while I supply some music before we order our supper from Mrs. Hudson.”

  The following day, I arose a trifle late, even for me, full of a desire to question Holmes about our coming adventure, but alas, he had already stepped out. I was required to fill the day as best I could, walking to Marble Arch and listening to the orators, and then returning for a solitary lunch of fish and chips, and a bitter ale.

  Holmes arrived at four p.m. already attired in his conservative business dress. He glanced at my selection of dark frock coat, silk tie, and grey striped pants. He nodded in affirmation of my attire. We each picked up our most ornate walking sticks, walked down to the street, and retrieved a four-wheeler that our servant had secured for us.

  Holmes winked at me and said, “We will make a stop along the way.”

  Then, we stopped at the residence of Bracket, who was now very elegantly attired in his military dress uniform. Our threesome pulled up at the chic entry to the most expensive tea room in the West End. A liveried footman emerged, opened our carriage door, and guided us past the little old ladies who populated the front room of the shop. We then were escorted up the stairs to the palatial rooms reserved for the special guests. The fashionable décor indicated that we appropriately dressed for the surroundings. The tables were set with glistening silver spoons and stylish imported tea cups and saucers, with matching pitchers and lemon service. The walls were adorned with masterworks of art, among which were several oil paintings by Holmes’s great uncle, M. Vernet.

  The heralded proprietor of the Paladinium Tea Room, Mr. Brooks, was garbed in afternoon formal attire. He greeted each of us individually as an honored guest. His thin moustache accented a very narrow nose on a slight well-shaven face that matched his slim build and tiny feet. He carried himself with the grace expected of a doyen of such a fine establishment.

  When he approached Sherlock Holmes and shook his hand, he said, “Mr. Holmes, I have always wanted to meet you. I have been following your exploits closely.”

  Turning in my direction, he extended his hand and gave me a firm shake. “Doctor Watson, I’m extremely pleased to meet the famous author and biographer of Mr. Holmes.”

  He also greeted the Commissionaire with the respect usually afforded an aristocrat, shaking his hand and thanking him for his courage and service to our Queen. He then motioned to a tray of small glasses and invited us to join him in a sherry as we awaited our other visitors.

  The two additional men arrived about five minutes later, separately, and each was accompanied by his man servant. After the valets removed the top hats and light overcoats of our visitors, they took away the walking sticks and went down the stairs to the servants’ area. Sir James Green and Mr. John Alexander were men of a type who could be considered aristocrats and men of affairs. In many ways, they resembled Holmes’s former school mate, Musgrave. Their attire was in the latest fashion from the best tailors. Their shoes were glistening in the light of the tea room. They were both very pale of skin, and had fair hair. They held their noses up as if to avoid any foul odors, and their faces bore the obvious signs of disdain. As they approached the earlier residents of the room, they bowed formally as a sign of recognition. However, they did not offer their hands. They especially looked askance at the uniformed military figure of Commissionaire Bracket, who gave each a military salute.

  The man identified as Sir James Green said, “Mr. Brooks, I thought that this was to be a private showing. What are the other men doing here?”

  Brooks responded as courteously as well as he could under the circumstances saying, “I thought that you would enjoy the company of other noted gentlemen at this event.”

  Mr. Alexander said, “Let’s get this over with. As long as we are here, I can stand the company of Sir James Green for this short time. Next time, please make certain that you meet us separately. The other men are welcome to join us.”

  With that, Mr. Brooks clapped his hands and a waiter appeared, pushing in a large carboy sloshing hot water. The men were invited to take seats of their choice, and were each provided with a dollop of tea in a strainer. He then poured hot water through each.

  Immediately, Sir James burst out, “Are you trying to kill us? This tea is poisoned!”

  Shocked by this outburst, the other men pushed their chairs back. Sherlock Holmes asked, “How do you know this tea is poisoned? Is it the smell of rye?”

  Sir James shouted, “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “No,” retorted Sherlock Holmes, “You are accusing yourself.” And with that, Holmes finished preparing his cup of tea and began to drink. “Is it the smell of rye? I thought that this was a very pleasant taste.”

  At Holmes’s signal, Bracket and I also drank our tea. Seeing that there was no danger, Mr. Alexander also consumed his tea. Chagrined by this, Sir James followed suit, but with some degree of trepidation.

  “What is this about?” asked Sir James angrily. “You tricked me!”

  “You tricked yourself,” replied Holmes. “Now please seat yourself. I have a story to tell you.”

  Sir James stood up and attempted to leave. “I have no interest in your tales, you busybody. I’m leaving.”

  “We three will hold you in here until we have concluded the business of the evening. Mr. Brooks, I think that the Scotch and soda that I brought would be better suited to what follows. Thank you very much for your courtesy. Please sit and listen, since what follows many also be of interest to you.”

  Mr. Alexander said, “Yes, stay. I want to know what this is about.”

  After each man had been supplied with their alcoholic beverage, Sherlock Holmes began his recitation. “I received a desperate call from Dr. Watson that Sergeant Major Bracket’s wife and children were stricken with ergot poisoning. Now, Dr. Watson is an expert in nervous system disorders. He was able to save the lives of the three individuals, all of whom had ingested tea smelling of rye. Neither Mr. Bracket nor his daughter was affected because they went to the hospital before they could drink any tea, due to an attack of pneumonia suffered by the youngest child. When Dr. Watson and I inspected Mr. Bracket’s domicile, we noted a strong smell of rye. Subsequently, we examined the tea dregs in my laboratory and saw, in the microscope, fragments of rye wheat and Claviceps purpurea therein.”

  “What has that to do with me,” yelled Sir James. “I don’t even know this man or his family.”

  As he started again to leave, Holmes, Bracket, and even Alexander threw him back in his chair saying, “Somehow, I think that tea was meant for me. My cook told me that it was sent over and I refused it, telling her to destroy it.”

  “You have been after me all of the years as well. But you can’t prove that I’m the source of the poisoned tea.”

  Sherlock Holmes resumed his professorial manner and continued. “According to Mrs. Bracket, she received the tea from Mrs. Alexander, who thought that she was doing a kindness. But the tea, which wreaked havoc with the Bracket family, was clearly intended for Mr. Alexander.”

  “Then where did the ergot in the tea come from?” asked Sir James belligerently.

  “Thank you for the next entry to my story. It seems as if land belonging to you is infested with rye wheat contaminated with ergot.”

  With that, Sherlock Holmes passed around material clipped from the Guardian, and more detailed accounts of cattle poisoning from the local press in Holmes’s university town. Holmes said, “I also visited the area with Dr. Watson, and looked at all of the land holdings in the area. You, Sir James, had access to the ergot-contaminated rye.”

  “If you think that is the
case, why don’t you turn this over to the police?”

  “Because, I do not plan to besmirch your name or that of Mr. Alexander in the press. The society pages would have a field day. Also, it would harm the excellent and hard-earned reputation of the Paladinium Tea Room and its proprietor Mr. Brooks. I have another story that you may find interesting as well.” went on Sherlock Holmes.

  He continued, “I researched ancient English charters, almost to the beginning of our nation from the Norman conquest. There was a brave and ferocious knight who served William the Conqueror. As a reward for his service, the man was first made a baron of the realm, and later was awarded the position of Earl. This gentleman had a succession of heirs, each bearing the noble title and serving the kings of England. Unexpectedly, one of the men had twin sons. He died before the land could be officially awarded to the appropriate heir. After that time, descendants of both have quarreled over the ownership of the estates. Gentlemen, those men were your ancestors. Your quarrel dates back to that time. You gentlemen are of the same blood, first cousins several generations removed from the great Earl, who is your ancestor. I now have the copies of all of the documents and land grants. I suggest that you join together in a court action and split the properties equitably, and to cease these useless attempts to murder each other.”

  “That is good news, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea that we were kin. I only knew that we each were told that the entire tract of land was ours to fight over,” said Mr. Alexander. “It does not behoove us to fight each other when, in tandem, we can join our forces and reap the harvest that we deserve. James, I forgive your attempt to harm me if you can see it in your heart to do the same for my past actions.”

  Sir James stood up, held out his hand and said, “Cousin, it is time that we were partners. We are both very clever at affairs and could reap a great harvest. By now, the value of the land itself is far less valuable that our holdings in properties, money, and investments. “

  To everyone’s surprise, the two cousins shook hands in friendship and said, in unison, “To making our fortunes.” Then, they embraced each other and started to leave arm in arm.

  Sherlock Holmes ordered, “Just a minute, gentlemen. I’m satisfied that you have made a friendly alliance, but there is still the matter of Mr. Bracket and his family, who were the innocent victims of your rivalry. Mr. Bracket, thank you for your attendance. Now I wish to speak to the cousins in private, with only Doctor Watson as a witness. Mr. Brooks, would you please see the Commissionaire to a cab and pay his fare? I will reimburse you soon.”

  As they left, Mr. Brooks said, “It is the least I could do for saving my reputation.”

  After they left, Sherlock Holmes took some very formal looking documents from his pocket. He handed a copy to each gentleman, saying, “Here are contracts that I have had formatted by my attorney, binding you to an agreement to provide financial remuneration to Mr. Bracket’s family. Please read them carefully. You may have a solicitor read over them, but I am firm on the requirements. You will collectively provide money to support a suitable home for Mr. Bracket and his family, and scholarships to excellent schools and a university education for his children.”

  Both gentlemen carefully read the short document, nodded their agreements, and quickly signed both copies.

  Sherlock Holmes said, “Thank you gentlemen for your cooperation. I’m happy that everyone will benefit by this day’s events. I will have my solicitor finalize these contracts for my signature, along with Dr. Watson, as witnesses.”

  Both men smiled broadly. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You are truly a miracle worker,” said Sir James.

  “Yes,” added Mr. Alexander. “The words of Dr. Watson’s narratives ring true. If ever I am troubled with a serious problem, I will contact you. Expect a check for one-thousand pounds for your expenses.”

  “I will add the same amount to that.” Said Mr. Alexander, as he two aristocrats strolled off arm in arm.

  Sherlock Holmes turned to me and said, “Now for some great food, wine, and repartee. We have both been invited by brother Mycroft to join him at his club for dinner.”

  I turned to Holmes and asked, “How does he know about this?”

  Holmes replied, “Brother Mycroft seems to always know what is going on, sometimes before it takes place.”

  Then off we went seeking transportation to the guest dining room at the Diogenes Club.

  The Man on Westminster Bridge

  by Dick Gillman

  I - Meeting Anthony Stewart

  It was an occurrence during a cab ride, as we returned to Baker Street one pleasant evening in the latter half of May 1895, that was to begin the case that I have here recorded as that of “The Man on Westminster Bridge.”

  Holmes had become increasingly frustrated over the past weeks as nothing of great note had occurred to stimulate the great machine within his head that needed a constant challenge. For the last few days, he had prowled our rooms in Baker Street like a caged beast, avidly devouring The Times each day, hoping to find a case worthy of his talents. Each day I had found the newspaper torn and tossed aside in disgust.

  In an attempt to distract Holmes, I had suggested an outing to one of the Royal Parks. Holmes, after a great deal of persuasion, had grudgingly agreed. In truth, he himself could recognise that he was close to the edge of that abyss that would surely take him if his mind remained unchallenged and turned in upon itself.

  We had spent a pleasant enough time strolling for perhaps an hour in the sunshine and, although the physical exercise had helped Holmes, the machine inside his head continued to race towards destruction. Having done all that I could, we hailed a cab and set off back towards Baker Street.

  Throughout the journey, Holmes had remained silent and looked straight ahead, seeming oblivious to his surroundings. It was as we crossed Westminster Bridge that he suddenly cried out, “Stop!” and began hammering on the roof of the cab. The cabbie in response pulled back hard on the reins and the cab slewed to a stop. Holmes leaped from the cab and ran full tilt towards the stone balustrade of the bridge. For one dreadful moment, I thought that he had decided to end it all and leap headlong into the Thames.

  As quickly as I could, I followed crying out, “Holmes! Holmes! For pity’s sake, wait for me!” but it was to no avail. Holmes by now had mounted the balustrade and was seen to be reaching down towards something below him.

  As I grew near, I heard him say, “You seem to be having some difficulty climbing back from there, friend. Allow me to help you.” After a few moments, and as I watched, I saw a hand reach up and grasp the one offered by Holmes. Gradually, its owner came into view and Holmes assisted the figure back over the balustrade.

  The figure before us was that of a middle-aged man and clearly in some distress. He was dressed as one would for The City, although some of his clothes had become unbuttoned and flapped like limp, black wings in the evening breeze. Looking at his face, I noted it was streaked with tears, and his eyes were wild with emotion. He nodded to Holmes, saying, “I do not know whether to thank you, sir, or curse you.”

  It was at that moment he collapsed before us. We were barely able to grasp his limp figure to prevent his head smashing onto the stone flagstones of the pavement. Propping the lifeless man against the balustrade, I reached for my hip flask and poured out a sizeable measure of medicinal brandy into the silver cup of the flask. Holmes took the cup from my grasp and poured a little into the mouth of the limp figure before us. Almost instantly the man coughed and became animated as the fiery spirit trickled down his throat.

  Holmes grasped the fellow beneath one armpit and I followed suit. Together, we staggered with him towards the cab and somehow managed to seat him inside. I rode with him whilst Holmes joined the cabbie at the rear.

  By the time we had reached Baker Street, our fellow traveller was much improved and was able to climb the stairs to our ro
oms almost under his own steam. Once inside, I immediately rang for Mrs. Hudson and asked her to provide a pot of tea.

  Our guest sat on our settee, and for the first time he seemed able to make some sense of his hosts and the surroundings in which he found himself.

  Blinking slightly, he said, “I am most grateful for the help you have given me this evening, gentlemen. It is far more than I deserve, for I am a wretched man. I do not deserve your kindness. Had you implored me not to jump, then I fear that that would have been the trigger for me to end it all. I don’t even know your names, or indeed where I am. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anthony Stewart.”

  I looked towards Holmes and I could see that he was nodding in agreement. Holmes began thus, “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Doctor John Watson. You are a guest in our rooms in Baker Street.”

  A slight knock at the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Hudson with the tea, and after pouring out three cups, we settled back and sipped in silence. After perhaps five minutes had passed, Holmes leant forwards slightly, asking, “What has brought you to this position, Mr. Stewart?”

  Our guest regarded Holmes with a face full of woe. “Mr. Holmes, I am a weak man. I have a good position in The City, but I have a weakness that clouds all my judgement and is the ruin of me. I am a gambler and, Lord help me, it has ruined me... or one accursed man has. I have lost everything: my wife, my children, my home... everything. I know it is my fault, but he has taken everything in a way that is against all the odds. He is a cheat... I know it, but it is nothing I could prove... and it is not just my life that is forfeit. He has ruined others’ too.”

  I could see a spark of interest in Holmes’s eyes as he listened to our guest’s story. “Who is this man that you accuse?” asked Holmes.

  Stewart’s face hardened. “His name is Cooke, Major Tobias Cooke. He is a retired army officer, and I rue the day I ever set eyes upon the man. He appears to have the luck of the Devil himself.”