Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  When he wanted to, Holmes could be quite authoritative and convincing. He spoke with such firm assurance that the parents relaxed and bid us be seated. For the next half hour, Lestrade and Holmes questioned them gently but thoroughly concerning their children and the events leading up to their now apparent abduction. I took copious notes.

  When the interview had concluded, Holmes bowed ever so slightly toward the Cushings and spoke in a humble tone of voice.

  “Forgive me for making such an ill-mannered request. It is a terrible invasion of your privacy, but I have found it very useful at times to conduct a thorough examination of the residence of the people involved in a crime. May I please, with your permission, inspect all corners of your home. You have my word that nothing I discover will be spoken of beyond the ears of the people gathered in this room.”

  Mrs. Cushing signed and responded. “By all means, sir. If you think it would be of any use, please proceed. We have nothing to hide from anyone. I cannot think of anything you will discover that would be of any help in rescuing our son and daughter, but go right ahead, and may God give you guidance.”

  “In that case, I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have another small business at hand. I shall meet you back at Paxtons Head in an hour and a half. Does that give you sufficient time, Holmes?”

  “It does indeed.”

  Lestrade departed and Holmes went about his task, leaving me alone in the library. That was all well with me as I needed the time to add many more details to my notes about this gruesome case, but I had only a few minutes to myself before Mr. Cushing returned.

  “Dr. Watson,” he said with a forced smile, “I have totally forgotten my manners and abandoned a guest under my roof. Even under such trying circumstances, such a breach of etiquette should not be excused. We do not have any alcoholic spirits in this house but, please, let me offer you a cup of tea. Perhaps a sweet to go with it?”

  I was about to refuse his offer and return to my welcomed moments of solitary work, but when I looked to respond with words to that effect, I found myself looking into the face of a man whose visage I had seen countless times before from so many men who had walked into my medical office. It was the face of a man whose soul was in turmoil, who needed no medical treatment, but who had a burning need to sit and talk to another man, bare the burdens of his heart, and simply be listened to sans judgment.

  “A cup of tea would be splendid,” I said. “But only if you will join me. I think a quiet cup might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  He smiled, unfeigned this time, and pulled on the bell cord.

  “Let me have Browner organize a pot and something to go with it.”

  The same tall man-servant who had met us at the door appeared, stood at attention, and clicked his heels together.

  “Yes, sir. You rang, sir.”

  “Ah, Browner, my good man. I am your employer, not your commanding officer. Your years in Her Majesty’s Forces are showing yet again. Please, just a pot of tea and a plate of sweets for Doctor Watson and me, if you would be so kind.”

  “Right away, sir.” He clicked his heels again and stopped his hand part-way to his forehead as if he was going to salute. He spun around and marched out of the room and down the hall.

  Mr. Cushing was shaking his head slowly. “From a military family. He has only recently joined my staff. Spent some fifteen years in the B.E.F. and I fear they have got him to the very marrow of his bones. But enough of my eccentric household help, Doctor. Might I offer you anything to read while you are waiting? As you can see, these shelves are filled with excellent books.”

  I knew full-well that he did not want to give me a book and then depart, so I initiated a conversation with an observation that I thought might give him an opening to begin to chat, minus his inhibitions.

  “I have, indeed, been admiring your books, sir, but I must confess it is the plaques, photographs, and paintings on your wall that I find intriguing.”

  “Ah, yes, those,” he said, seeming to welcome the opportunity of respite from the terrible travail of the day by engaging in idle chit-chat. “I have placed some items on my walls so that when I look up from my desk I have forcible reminders of my human frailty, and my constant need for dependence on the Word and the Lord.”

  The print of Jesus I could understand in that context, but Rev. Beecher and General Gordon baffled me.

  “How in the world do an American preacher and a dead British General enhance your spiritual condition?” I asked, in innocent bewilderment.

  He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the items to which I had referred.

  “Since you are a doctor, sir, I suppose I can be frank and confess that the portrait of Rev. Beecher is there to remind me of the constant necessity to keep my physical appetites, or I should say, my sexual appetites, under close guard lest they destroy everything I have tried to build up over my lifetime. Beecher, you may recall, was an exceptionally gifted evangelist who was used powerfully by God not only to call sinners to salvation but to help right the dreadful wrong of slavery in America. He could have continued to have a wonderful ministry and perhaps even have become president of the United States had it not been for his giving in to the weaknesses of the flesh and having an affair with the wife of his friend and colleague. His example serves as a constant admonishment to all of us to be on the alert against such temptations and to be clad daily in the full armor of God so that we might be protected from the wiles of the evil one.

  “The print of the death of General Gordon is a much more directly personal reminder, Doctor. Thirty years ago, when I was an ambitious up-and-coming officer in the Foreign Service, I was promoted beyond my years to hold the desk for Egypt and the Sudan. General Gordon was sent to Khartoum to evacuate the British garrison and leave the Sudanese natives to their fate at the hands of the Mahdi rebels. He bravely refused to follow those orders, and he stayed and protected the city and all its inhabitants. For a full year, he held out and he kept sending requests for reinforcements, which were available up in Egypt, and could have been sent to relieve his men and secure the city. His requests landed on my desk and it was my job to forward recommendations directly to Prime Minister Gladstone, who kept the portfolio of Foreign Secretary for himself. I knew what the Prime Minister and his Cabinet wanted to hear. They detested General Gordon. He was an ardent Conservative and a favorite of Benjamin Disraeli. They were determined to make an example of him so as to assert their authority over the Her Majesty’s Forces. They wanted reasons to ignore his pleas and I gave them what they wanted to hear. In my heart as well as in my head, I knew the truth and I chose to ignore it and seek the favor of men instead.

  “You know what happened, Doctor Watson. Popular opinion eventually was so enraged by Gladstone’s arrogance that he gave in and sent the requested relief. They arrived two days after the Mahdi rebels had stormed the city, murdered General Gordon, and savagely killed over ten thousand of the inhabitants who had been loyal to the British Empire. The carnage was brutal. Our soldiers and our loyal natives were tortured and had terrible things, too dreadful to speak of, done to them.”

  Here he paused, gazing again at the painting.

  “Their blood is, at least to some extent, on my hands. I will have to answer at the last judgment for my actions and I will have to, again, confess that I heeded my own selfish ambition instead of doing what I knew to be right, regardless of the personal consequences. Since that day, I have, with the Lord’s help, tried to the best of my ability never to make that error again. I have steadfastly held out for doing what I believed to be the right thing, often against the concerted will of short-sighted politicians and greedy commercial interests. There has been a price to pay for it, but over time it has won me the respect of my peers and has given me a clear conscience with which to fall asleep every night. Having General Charles Chinese Gordon staring down at me every day is a constant and painful reminder I have given to myself that I must never, never again let down my
guard and sacrifice my eternal integrity for the temporal praise of men.”

  I nodded my agreement and conveyed my genuine admiration of his record. We chatted some more about some of the other pictures on the walls, and then about his children. He was very proud of them. And then we turned to the matter at hand and he just shook his head and admitted that he was entirely in the dark and simply could not understand what had happened.

  Eventually Sherlock Holmes returned from his inspection of the home and fetched me from the library. We bid our good evening to Mr. and Mrs. Cushing and walked the few blocks through Knightsbridge back to Paxtons Head.

  Chapter Four

  What Holmes Discovered

  LESTRADE WAS WAITING FOR US

  “Speak up, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “What of interest did you find? You always find something. Enlighten me.”

  Holmes slowly lit his pipe and took several puffs on it, and then a slow pull on his ale, followed by several more puffs. He and Lestrade had been at each other in their games of tit-for-tat for close on to two decades. There was no sign of a peace settlement on the horizon.

  “They are a very fine lot,” he began. “An unusual aspect of their beginning as a family was their wedding. Did you notice the photographs on the mantle in the library? Not only does Mr. Cushing have an identical twin, so does his wife. And the two identical twin brothers married the two identical twin sisters. We have to assume that the respective husbands and wives learned to identify one from the other or all manner of strange things might have occurred.”

  “We are not here,” said Lestrade, “to speculate on prurient possibilities. What did you find that could shed light on the abduction of the children?”

  “Ah, yes. I am coming to that. Your patience, please, Inspector. Mr. Cushing opened his file drawer to me in which he kept all of his records since he was a callow youth. He has assiduously accounted for every cent he has earned and spent for forty years. Although he did not refer me to it, I did note that he had tithed his gross income and then some, without fail. His tithe was donated to his Christian Assembly and many additional gifts were given to various missions and charities that provide life’s necessities for the indigent. He is a man of impeccable moral rectitude.

  “His dear wife, as far as I could see, is of the same stock. She is blessed with an abundance of material wealth from her family but also gives alms to the poor and regularly participates as a volunteer not only with the church but with Bernardo’s Homes, George Mueller’s orphanages, The Royal Society for the Blind, and the Royal Humane Society. She has received, but does not display, numerous silver plates and other tokens of recognition for her service to humanity. These were all wrapped up and stored inside the bed storage box in her room. A very fine, modest lady indeed.”

  “Is this account going somewhere, Holmes,” said Lestrade, cutting in. “What about the children? Any evidence of wild oats being sown?”

  “Surprisingly, no. Their school records were entirely positive, praising them not only for their academic achievements but also for their character and their athletic abilities. The boy, Aaron, was the captain of the harrier team and had several ribbons to attest to his endurance and success. The girl, Miriam, was a member of the school track and field team and excelled at the hundred yard dash. They had many citations from their church youth organizations and had spent all of the past month of July with the Scripture Union mission, handing out tracts and helping in vacation Bible schools.

  “Right,” said Lestrade. “Just what we would expect from young people who devote themselves to prayer and Bible study. But not a clue about their vanishing.”

  “My dear Inspector, I just gave you a very significant piece of evidence.”

  “You did nothing of the sort, Holmes. What evidence?”

  “Inspector, did you not listen to me? I pointed out to you that both of them could run.”

  Lestrade was silenced. He shook his head, took a sip of his ale, and responded. “Yes Holmes, I suppose you did. And if they were accosted while walking back through Kensington Gardens it must either have been by a group of men who suddenly overpowered them, or by someone they knew and trusted. At the very least, someone they did not run away from. The lawns in the Gardens are wide open. Unlikely anyone could have caught up with them. Very interesting, Holmes. Right. Anything else?”

  Here Holmes moved his body in such a way as said to me that he was not entirely at ease with what he was about to say.

  “This next observation is only speculation and I hesitate to make it so early on and without anywhere near sufficient data.”

  “Right,” said Lestrade. “Get on with it anyway. We are not here to pander to your moral scruples.”

  “Although it is beneath the dignity of a gentleman to do so, I examined in some detail the lady’s toiletries, dressing closet, and even her lingerie.”

  “Blimey, Holmes,” sneered Lestrade, “you are getting downright strange. So, what did you find?”

  “The lady refrains from any use of lipstick, powders, or other cosmetics, and has only a few small, howbeit expensive, pieces of jewelry. But she does make use, to a very limited degree, of perfume.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Holmes. Get on with it. I’m getting old waiting,” said Lestrade.

  “She uses Mille Fleurs, and only that brand and no other. It is one of the more popular of the high-end perfumes. Her clothing, her pillow, her bed linen all bore that faint but unmistakable scent.”

  “Holmes, I’m waiting.”

  “Her husband's clothes, but to a lesser degree, all had the same scent attached to them, which is to be expected. What was not expected was that some of his suits and shirts also had a very faint scent of Yardley’s Lavender.”

  Here Holmes paused, waiting until the importance of what he had just said sunk in.

  “Good heavens, Holmes,” I gasped. “You cannot be suggesting that he has been so physically close to another woman as to acquire the scent of her bodily soaps and perfumes.”

  “I fear, my friend, that is exactly what I am suspecting.”

  “What about the daughter?” demanded Lestrade. “She’s just fifteen but that’s when some young women today start to spread their wings and get a little bit of you-know-what in their blood.”

  “I examined the daughter’s boudoir as well. And yes, the young lady has started to use some perfume. Secreted away in her closet was a small bottle that was only half full.”

  “Was it Lavender?” I asked. “A loving father would be expected to give his daughter a tender embrace from time to time.”

  “As he should, of course,” replied Holmes. “But alas, no, it was Jockey Club, the brand most prized by young women today who are intent on asserting their femininity.”

  All three of us sat in silence for the next several minutes, not at all sure about what to do with the information we had acquired.

  “I suggest, my friends,” said Holmes, “that we install this data in the backs of our minds until we know more. However, it does open to us the possibility of actions driven by passions, jealousy, and revenge. These all too often overtake reason and even greed as motives for the most diabolical of crimes.”

  Lestrade and I nodded our agreement and, the discussion having concluded, we returned to our abodes for the evening.

  I spent the next day at my medical practice, attending to my patients. At the end of the day, since my dear wife had not returned from depleting my bank account up north of the River Ribble, I hastened back to 221B Baker Street. It was still a hot August day, but the heat had gone out of the afternoon by the time I climbed the familiar seventeen steps and was greeted by the indefatigable Mrs. Hudson. She sat me down and returned a minute later with an iced lemonade. I remarked yet again to myself how lucky Sherlock Holmes had been to find such a women who, having determined that Holmes was the most dreadful tenant in all of London, still not only put up with him but positively doted on the chap.

  “Mr. Holmes,” she said, “went out e
arly this morning, and has not returned. He did say that he would be back by suppertime, so I have it prepared and waiting. I expect him shortly.”

  She hardly had these words out of her mouth when I heard the door on Baker Street open and then the thuds of Holmes bounding up the stairs two at a time.

  “Merciful heavens,” I said as he entered the room. “You must have had a rewarding day. Have you found the missing children?”

  “Oh, no. Not yet. But I have had excellent results from my hours of plodding and slogging. Tomorrow we have a very good chance of identifying the kidnapper. Or, possibly the day after tomorrow. But he is within my grasp. It will not be long.”

  Over a plate of Mrs. Hudson’s perfectly poached salmon, he chatted on happily about his various escapades. He had started with the stationery, the very refined writing paper on which the ransom demand was written.

  “It took several hours but I was able to assemble a list of all of the shops that sell that quality of paper. It is a linen base, not mere pulped wood and costs at least two pence a page. There are, in fact, only ten shops in all of London that sell it. Of course, it might have been purchased in another city, but I think that unlikely. I was able to visit several of the shops before they closed for the day and eliminate five. That leave me only five to return to tomorrow and secure from them their list of recent customers for this very peculiar purchase. Then we shall move on and find the fellow.”

  In between forkfuls of salmon, and swallows from a bottle of claret, he would occasionally rub his hands in unfettered glee. When dinner ended, we retired to our chairs in front of the unlit hearth and he poured a generous brandy for both him and me.

  “To your health, Doctor. And to the relentless pursuit of justice.”

  Holmes then spent the next few minutes talking about nothing other than violins, narrating with great exultation how he purchased his own Stradivarius. This led him to Paganini and anecdote after anecdote about that extraordinary man who played with such inhuman skill that his listeners, in wonderment, thought him possessed by the devil.