The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  Holmes sat back in his armchair, his fingers steepled against his lips. “And where does this gambling take place?” asked Holmes.

  Our guest looked up wearily, saying, “At a gentleman’s club. Bairstow’s, in Westminster.”

  Holmes’s eyes now burned. He obviously knew the name and was eager to involve himself in this matter. “And where will you sleep tonight, Mr. Stewart?”

  Stewart shook his head, saying, “I am unsure... I left the small amount of money that I have, together with a letter to my wife and children, in my rented rooms in Putney. I believed that this was to be my final day on Earth.”

  Standing, Stewart continued, “I have taken too much of your and the good Doctor’s time. I must make my way back to Putney somehow.”

  Holmes reached into his pocket and from it he took half a crown. This he pressed into the hand of our guest, saying, “This will be sufficient for your cab fare, Mr. Stewart. Your story intrigues me. Have no fear, we will meet again, and I will enquire further into this Major Cooke.”

  Our guest was clearly moved by Holmes’s gesture, and he took Holmes’s hand, saying, “Have a care, Mr. Holmes, for the Major is a violent man towards those who do not pay their debts or have crossed him.”

  Holmes nodded and guided Mr. Stewart to the door. With a nod to Holmes, he was gone.

  I sat a little bemused by the evening’s happenings. “This Major Cooke seems to be something of a scoundrel, Holmes. What do you propose?” I asked.

  Holmes had returned to his armchair and had taken up his pipe. Drawing steadily upon it, he replied, “I think I need to have some breakfast with my brother.” Having said this, Holmes took a page from his notebook before dashing off a telegram and ringing for Mrs. Hudson.

  This reply was of no help and did little to enlighten me... but I would have to wait until the morning and breakfast with Mycroft.

  II - Major Tobias Cooke

  I arose quite early and was looking forward to the visit of Mycroft to our rooms for a little breakfast. Often the intellectual interplay between the two brothers was sufficient to provide at least some small stimulation for Holmes. However, a brief look towards Holmes suggested that the previous evening’s events had seemed to have only provided a temporary relief from his depression.

  Mycroft arrived promptly at eight o’clock and I welcomed him on the landing outside our rooms. In a few brief words, I recounted my concern for his brother’s health. I could see from Mycroft’s face, as I took his hat and coat, that he had, with a single glance into our sitting room, immediately assessed the situation.

  With a nod in my direction, Mycroft proceeded to seat himself on our settee and fill his pipe. Holmes was firmly ensconced in his leather armchair, his old dressing gown draped over his shoulders. He looked up briefly as Mycroft sat but uttered not a word of welcome. I rang the bell for Mrs. Hudson to bring up the breakfast tray and sat in my own chair and waited.

  Mycroft moved forwards a little on the settee, saying, “I am most grateful for your invitation, Sherlock, for I, too, have something I wish to discuss with you.”

  Holmes did not look up. He simply blew out a cloud of blue smoke from his pipe and followed this with an unintelligible grunt. Mycroft looked across at me and I nodded to him in encouragement.

  Mycroft continued. “This fellow at Bairstow’s, I need to have your opinion of him.”

  Holmes again said nothing, but I was pleased to see some slight spark of interest appear upon his features.

  “Bairstow’s?” I questioned, as the name now seemed unfamiliar to me.

  Holmes had shrugged off his dressing gown and looked towards me. “Come along, Watson. It is the Gentleman’s Club by the river in Westminster that Stewart spoke of. What is it, Mycroft? Has he also taken a liking to the club’s silverware?” asked Holmes, somewhat testily.

  Mycroft gave a wry smile, saying, “Would that it were so simple. There are a handful of members at the club who like to place wagers against each other on the results of horse races. There is one member in particular, the one whom you mentioned in your telegram, who has had spectacular luck of late and has, in a matter of weeks, won some tens of thousands of guineas.”

  Holmes cried out, “Luck? Pah! As you well know, there is no such thing, Mycroft! The man is plainly a cheat and a scoundrel!”

  Mycroft was now sitting back on our settee and nodding. “Yes, those are entirely my thoughts, Sherlock, but as of yet, I have been unable to determine how he does it.”

  Our conversation was halted by a knock at the door of our rooms, followed by Mrs. Hudson entering with a handsomely spread breakfast tray. Three places had already been laid at our dining table, and we were soon tucking into rashers of home-cured bacon, fresh farm eggs, and freshly baked bread. I have to say that I was greatly relieved to see that Holmes was enjoying the meal to the full. His appetite had recently dwindled to almost nothing. After the meal, we sat almost in silence and enjoyed a cup of Darjeeling. I could see that Holmes’s interest had been piqued and he was now fully alert.

  “Tell me more of this ‘lucky’ fellow, Mycroft, for I am intrigued,” demanded Holmes.

  With the briefest of raised eyebrows in my direction, Mycroft proceeded thus: “Well, Major Tobias Cooke is a retired cavalry officer. From what I have seen of his military record and my discreet enquiries at the War Office, he appears to have retired under somewhat of a cloud. Apparently, there seems to have been some unpleasantness regarding ‘irregularities’ in the officers’ mess accounts.”

  Holmes nodded briefly before asking, “How and where does this gambling take place?”

  Mycroft drew upon his pipe before answering, “There are, perhaps, five members of the club who gather in one of the side rooms off the main lounge, usually once or twice a week. Here they will select a race and, after consulting the runners and riders, they will wager against each other. It appears that they may place a bet at any time before the result of the race is known, even up until the very last second before the envelope is opened.”

  I was troubled. “Envelope? What envelope is this, Mycroft?” I asked.

  Mycroft turned to me slightly, saying, “There is no telegraph at the club. A messenger boy is sent to a telegraph office nearby, and an arrangement has been made with the telegraph company whereby they will receive the result of the race and seal it in an envelope which is then brought to the club by the messenger boy.”

  Thinking for a moment, I asked, “I presume, then, that no-one will know the result of the race until the envelope is opened?”

  Mycroft nodded, saying, “Quite so.”

  Holmes looked thoughtful. “This envelope, is it possible that it is opened and the contents conveyed to Major Cooke before the winner is announced?”

  Mycroft slowly shook his head. “No, those were my first thoughts but I have seen it for myself. The chairman of the club was so concerned by the losses of some club members that he took me to one side and asked me to observe the proceedings. I was shown the envelope privately before it was opened publicly and all was intact.”

  Holmes had drawn his knees up to his chest and was now deep in thought. “What of the members? Are they free to leave the premises at all?”

  Mycroft again shook his head. “They have agreed amongst themselves that none of them may leave the club once the race has started and until the result is known. This fellow, Major Cooke, has wagered thousands of guineas on horses with poor form only to have them win.” Mycroft paused for a moment before continuing, “It is a bad business, Sherlock. Some of the members cannot afford these losses and may well be ruined if they continue.”

  Holmes blew out a thin stream of smoke, saying, “Yes, that poor wretch Stewart, for one! I have little pity for gamblers, Mycroft, but I detest cheats. I would like you to arrange to invite Watson and me to the club, as your guests, the next time thes
e fellows meet.”

  Mycroft smiled. “It is already arranged. You are expected at half past three today. Their next wager is to be on the result of the four o’clock race at Lincoln.”

  Holmes could not help but rub his hands and smile, crying, “Splendid!”

  Mycroft rose, gathered his hat and coat and, with a nod to me, he was gone. I have to say that I was indeed relieved to see that my friend was once more animated and looking forwards to the challenge ahead. It was apparent from his posture, his knees drawn up tightly to his chest and his eyes half closed, that even now he was considering a multitude of possibilities.

  III - A Visit to Bairstow’s

  That afternoon, we dressed formally and made our way down the stairs to Baker Street. Holmes quickly hailed a hansom and gave the cabby an address in Westminster. Once on our way, I was curious about how these wagers were made, and asked Holmes to enlighten me.

  Holmes sat forwards slightly in the cab, saying, “In my experience of these things, a group of fellows will wager on the winner of a race and perhaps also take bets on the minor placings. It is commonplace not to consider the bookmakers odds, but merely place or accept a bet on the horse’s position at the finish.”

  I nodded... but in truth, I was still a little unsure.

  Holmes saw my confusion, sighed, and then continued. “Suppose, then, that I think horse number three will win and I announce a wager of five hundred guineas. You may accept the wager and if it wins, you must pay me five hundred guineas. If it loses, then I must pay you five hundred guineas. Of course, these fellows will know the previous form of the horse and so they will place or accept bets accordingly.”

  Again I nodded, confident that I now, at least, knew the rudiments of placing a wager.

  In but a few minutes, our cab slowed to a stop at the kerb outside the rather grand façade of a fine Victorian building, having one side facing the river. A discreet brass plaque to one side of the arched and fluted stone doorway said simply “Bairstow’s,” and beneath that, “Members Only.” On our approach, a liveried doorman touched the brim of his top hat with his gloved hand and opened the heavy, half-glazed, oak front door.

  Once inside, I was immediately aware of the fine crystal chandelier that lit the elegant atrium. Sparkling brightly, it sent out shards of coloured light that highlighted the moulded plaster ceiling and the half panelled walls. We were clearly strangers and were straightaway approached by one of the staff who took the card proffered by Holmes. Almost immediately, we were whisked away to a smoking room where the familiar figure of Mycroft Holmes could be seen, seated in a deep-buttoned leather Chesterfield chair, drawing contentedly on a fine Havana cigar.

  Upon our arrival, Mycroft rose from his Chesterfield and beckoned us to sit in the two empty chairs beside him. “Ah, Sherlock, may I offer you a little refreshment? I am told that they serve a very passable glass of sherry.”

  Holmes held up his hand, saying, “Thank you, no, but I would like one of your fine Havana’s, Mycroft. A little sherry for you, Watson?” he questioned.

  I nodded, replying, “Err... yes, a ‘fino’ would be most pleasant.” I smiled and nodded at Mycroft.

  With barely a raised finger, Mycroft summoned one of the ever alert waiters, ordering a glass of ‘fino’ sherry for me and a Havana for Holmes. Within moments, the waiter returned with a small silver tray which bore my sherry in a lead crystal glass, and beside it a fine Havana cigar. I carefully took the glass of straw-coloured sherry and sniffed at it before taking a sip. It was indeed very pleasant, like a mouthful of Spanish sunshine.

  Holmes had taken the cigar from the tray and had used the cigar cutter proffered by the waiter to slice the very tip from the rounded end of his cigar. He now took a Vesta from his silver case, struck it, and then carefully toasted the end of the cigar before drawing contentedly upon it.

  It was as we sat there that Mycroft reached over and touched the sleeve of Holmes’s jacket. Inclining his cigar slightly, he used it to discreetly point towards a gentleman who was standing some ten feet away at the entrance to the room and now framed by the doorway, saying quietly, “That is Major Cooke, Sherlock.”

  I looked towards the doorway and there stood an impressive figure, every inch a military man, well-dressed and finely groomed. He stood some six feet in height, with hair that was iron grey. His slightly ruddy face was lined and bore fine almost mutton chop, whiskers. Looking around him, he gestured to three seated gentlemen who rose and left the room. With a sweep of his gaze, he left, seeming to have ensured that no-one else remained whose presence he required. As we watched, another member joined the group and the five now disappeared from our view into a side room.

  Holmes turned slightly, saying, “An interesting fellow. The polo injury must be quite painful in the damper months.”

  Mycroft nodded. “Yes, those thirty-guinea, hand-lasted shoes, undoubtedly from Harrison and Ball of Old Bond Street, must give his ankle some vestige of support, I would imagine.”

  Holmes nodded, saying, “Yes, but it is what he carries in his right-hand jacket pocket that intrigues me, Mycroft.”

  Mycroft nodded sagely in agreement. I sat amazed looking simply from one brother to the other. I, as had they, had only seen the man for, perhaps, barely twenty seconds. I had a brief impression of his face and clothes, whilst they had observed so very much more. As we sat, it became clear to me that Mycroft had chosen his position in the smoking room very wisely. From our chairs, we had a clear view of the atrium, and also the door to the side room where the five club members had gathered to place a wager and await the result of the race.

  The rather grand, gilded wall clock in the atrium struck four o’clock. I had finished my sherry whilst Sherlock and Mycroft were still drawing contentedly upon their Havanas. It was a few minutes after four when I noticed that Major Cooke had hurried out of the side room, had turned left, and was now climbing the fine mahogany staircase. Holmes laid aside his cigar in the ashtray beside him and immediately gave chase... at a respectable distance. Perhaps two minutes later, the Major was to be seen hurrying down the stairs and heading towards the side room, followed by a now frowning Holmes.

  Holmes approached us, clearly deep in thought. He sat for a moment in silence before turning towards the atrium, clearly impatient for something further to happen. I observed Holmes straighten and his jaw become firm, as a messenger boy crossed the atrium and walked towards the side room, clutching an envelope. Within moments, there could be heard a muted cry and, a minute or so later, the members from the side room emerged from their conclave.

  As I watched, the faces of the five men were a testament to their fortunes. One was holding his head and, seemingly, almost in tears; another’s face clearly showed anger and was almost scarlet, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. A third looked resigned to his loss, whilst the Major and another fellow were clapping each other on the back and had beaming faces.

  Holmes turned slightly and stood with his back to the Major. Leaning forwards towards his brother, he said quietly, “I want to meet this fellow, Mycroft.”

  Mycroft nodded and waved a hand in the direction of the Major and shouted “Cooke! Come and meet my brother.” The Major looked towards Mycroft, raised his hand in greeting, and he and his companion approached. Holmes still had his back to the Major and just as he drew level, Holmes turned abruptly and bumped awkwardly into him.

  Holmes cried out, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I was tending to my cigar.” Holmes smiled broadly and proffered his hand, saying “Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Doctor John Watson.”

  The Major looked us both up and down with a somewhat wary eye and shook our hands. Holmes continued, “My brother Mycroft, he is the sensible one, says that you like a flutter on the horses. My friend Watson also has a penchant for such things, don’t you, Watson?”

  In truth, I was flabbergasted by this su
dden change in persona by Holmes. He had become this brash, casual fellow that I certainly did not recognise as my friend. I somehow managed to mutter, “Err... yes, I have been known to wager a few sovereigns.”

  “Nonsense, Watson! I have known you to drop a thousand or two at one go,” cried Holmes.

  I could only nod and smile, but, as Holmes said this, I could see that the Major had suddenly become interested in my wagering habits. Smiling broadly, the Major said, “Well, Doctor, as it happens, we are having a small wager on the outcome of the half past three race at York tomorrow. Would you like to join us?”

  I looked towards Holmes and was about to open my mouth when he cried, “Of course he would. However, we are, of necessity, required to be elsewhere tomorrow, but Watson would be pleased to oblige the day after!”

  The Major smiled, saying, “Splendid! We are having another wager that day on the result of the half past three race at York.”

  “Excellent! Come along, Mycroft, I will treat you to some tea.” Grasping his brother’s arm, Holmes hurried from the room with me smiling and nodding a “good bye,” and then hurrying in his wake.

  As we left Bairstow’s, Mycroft reached out and held Holmes’s arm, asking, “What is it, Sherlock? Why this charade? Do you know how he does it?”

  Holmes was once more his old self. Nodding, he replied, “I believe so... but I need a day to confirm my suspicion. I would be grateful if you were to meet Watson here in two days’ time when he places his wager.” Holmes paused for a moment before asking, “I take it, Mycroft, that you do not mean to ruin the man, but simply to recoup the other members’ losses and warn him off?”

  Mycroft nodded. “Quite so. The members do not want a scandal.”

  Holmes nodded and, after a good bye to his brother, Holmes quickly hailed a cab to take us back to Baker Street.

  IV - Surveying the Course

  Once more back in our rooms and settled in our respective chairs, I began to reflect on the events at Bairstow’s. “Tell me, Holmes, what did you make of our new friend, Major Cooke? I am intrigued to know more of his polo injury.”