The Manifestations of Sherlock Holmes

by James Lovegrove

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “You knew its presence in the lock might give the game away. Unfortunately for you, Challenger had left Eldon guarding the door.”

  “And a good thing I did.” Professor Challenger shook his head sadly. “What a sorry state of affairs this is. It has cost me a valued assistant, a prize scientific specimen, and indeed a housemaid. You will, of course, Ida, be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law for your misdeeds. I shall see to it. You may not be hanged as a murderess, given your condition, but your child will be taken away from you when it is born and you will remain behind bars for the rest of your days.”

  “I do not care!” Ida said hotly, defiant and indignant. “I loved that man too, and was used most cruelly by him. He deserved what he got. I will go to my grave without regretting my actions for a single moment.”

  3

  Professor Challenger was good enough to drive us back to Eastbourne.

  “It is all so tawdry.” He sighed as we passed through the town of Uckfield. “Would that affairs of the heart were a simple matter, like identifying minerals or the taxonomy of organisms.”

  “I myself feel some sympathy towards Ida,” I said. “However one looks at it, the girl was hard done by.”

  “That does not excuse her actions,” said Holmes.

  “No, but it does mitigate them somewhat.”

  “Sometimes,” Challenger said, keeping to his theme, “I despair of our race. Why must we humans be such contrary, devious creatures? Give me a wild beast over a man any day. With something like a pterodactyl, at least you know where you stand.”

  A wry twinkle appeared in Holmes’s eye. “I should think, judging by what we have learned today, that with something like a pterodactyl one should stand as far away as possible.”

  There was a moment of silence from Challenger, followed by a raucous guffawing that lasted for several minutes and was attended by a number of powerful claps on Holmes’s back. It seemed, after everything, that the vast, voluble scientist had decided he rather liked this reserved, ascetic detective in the passenger seat beside him and that the pair of them had more in common than would appear. One might almost fancy they were two sides of a coin, minted in the same press.

  For my part, I simply felt glad that Professor Challenger was a friend now. For, as with one of his prehistoric monsters, I would not have wanted the fellow as an enemy.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BURGLAR

  First published in Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes, ed.

  George Mann, 2017, Titan Books

  Drunken dares are bad.

  When pondering which subsidiary character I would write a story about for George Mann’s second Associates anthology, I considered and rejected all the obvious ones – Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Wiggins, Mycroft – and instead wondered who was the least obvious choice.

  I was discussing this in a London pub with my editor Miranda Jewess and half-jokingly suggested that it would be fun to do something with Toby the dog, that prince of canines who, with his unparalleled sense of smell, helps Holmes track down Jonathan Small and Tonga in The Sign of Four.

  Miranda told me I had to do it. In fact, she dared me to.

  Drunken dares are bad.

  I know that. But I accepted the challenge anyway. And here’s the result. Which, I hope, is not bad.

  The Adventure of the Noble Burglar

  Marking my Territory: Doorstep of 3 Pinchin Lane, Lambeth

  Yes, it’s me. Toby, of Pinchin Lane. My master is Mr Sherman, the taxidermist and menagerie keeper. This is our house, which lies near the river in a street full of identical two-storeyed houses. Number 3. Smells of fouling and formaldehyde inside. Every kind of animal lives there, from snakes to stoats, cats to cormorants, some in cages, the rest roaming free – those as Mr Sherman hasn’t eviscerated and turned into sawdust-stuffed statues, that is. There’s even a giant rat that he tells his customers he imported from a distant land called Sumatra but I reckon comes from no further afield than the banks of the Thames.

  Not a bad man, my Mr Sherman, as they go. Has a temper on him, fond of a drink, but he’s kind enough to me, especially when I’ve earned him a bob or two, as I did just last week.

  The tale attached to that piece of profit is still fresh in me and I’ll be giving it out in dribs and drabs while Mr Sherman takes me for a walk around the neighbourhood. Follow the trail and you’ll catch the lot.

  The leash is on. Front door locked. Off we go.

  First Instalment: Corner of Pinchin Lane and Park Street

  It began, as my best exploits do, with the arrival of a certain person by the name of Sherlock Holmes. I always know when Mr Holmes pays a call that there’s adventure afoot, and I get fair excitable at the prospect. Wouldn’t you? Nothing compares with being useful to good humans, not least if it involves bringing bad humans to justice.

  I knew he was coming. I smelled him a mile off. That coarse tobacco he likes to smoke. His clothes reek of it. Hangs around him like a brown haze.

  His friend Dr Watson was with him, too. Nice fellow. Smells warm, like gunpowder and old leather. They always go around in a pair, a pack of two. Mr Holmes is the alpha, but only by a small margin.

  Well, as is my wont I became agitated when I caught wind of them approaching. Whined and danced, such that Mr Sherman fetched me a couple of kicks and snarled, “Pipe down, you mangy mongrel!” But I couldn’t pipe down. I pawed at the front door, whimpering. He soon got the drift.

  “Company we’re expecting, is it?” said he. “And would it by any chance be a famous consulting detective and his faithful companion?” He licked his palm and neatened down the fur on his head, then straightened his collar. A bottle of something cheap but potent was swigged from and stowed away.

  Then came the sharp rap at the door, and in stepped the aforementioned two gentlemen.

  Second Instalment: Railings on Park Street

  Mr Holmes immediately bent down and proffered me the back of his hand to sniff. Once I’d wagged my tail to show him I accepted him on my home territory, he ruffled my ears, just the way a dog likes it.

  Dr Watson was a bit more circumspect around me. He wasn’t that way when we first met, but since then something has happened to make him mistrust our species. Once, a couple of years back, I caught a whiff off him, such as belonged to an enormous hound from somewhere out in the countryside. That beast had been trained to kill humans, which is a wrong thing if ever there was one; and, if I’m not much mistaken, it had pursued Mr Holmes and Dr Watson with a view to causing them grievous harm. Dr Watson has not forgotten that. I have tried every time to reassure him that I am friendly and would never so much as growl at him, let alone bare my fangs, but he remains hard to convince.

  Mr Holmes slipped me a morsel of dried beef from a pocket of his overcoat. It was gone down my gullet in a heartbeat. Delicious!

  Then it was down to brass tacks.

  “Mr Sherman, I require the loan of Toby once again.”

  “Of course, Mr Holmes, of course. Wery happy to oblige. Usual rates apply, eh?”

  Money changed hands, and in no time I was on the leash with Mr Holmes at the other end.

  “Now, Toby, you look after these gents,” my master said, patting me on the head. “Use that magnificent nose of yours to track down another willain. He’s knocking on a bit,” he confided to Mr Holmes, as though I couldn’t hear. “Eleven’s a ripe old age for a dog. But he still doesn’t miss a step, does Toby. His powers ain’t dimmed, not one jot.”

  Mr Sherman is only free with the compliments when there are customers to be impressed, but I don’t mind. Praise is praise.

  I strained at the leash, impatient to get going.

  Mr Holmes took the hint and we were off.

  Third Instalment: Lamppost on the Corner of Sumner Street and Southwark Street

  Popular spot, this. Just about every dog in the vicinity leaves a dribble here when passing. Basil the beagle, of Tabard Street. Isambard the Labrador cross,
of New Cut. That Jack Russell from Gravel Lane, Georgie I think she’s called. All the local characters, plus the strays as loiter around Bethlehem Asylum, those slouchy semi-feral curs.

  And there we are. Leg cocked. My business done too, giving all-comers the next portion of the story.

  So it turned out that Dr Watson had only just then joined Mr Holmes on the case and had no idea what crime they were investigating. As we walked westward – me happily lolloping along at their heels – Mr Holmes caught him up.

  “Have you heard, Watson, of the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt Esquire, sole son and heir of Viscount Harrington of Warwickshire?”

  “I have heard of the Dishonourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt. A scoundrel and a rogue, by all accounts. One of those young aristocrats who shames the nobility with his scandalous behaviour. He has left a trail of ruined women in his wake, has he not? They say he has sired so many illegitimates that he ought to found a school to educate them.”

  “His offences against morality are great in number, but so are his offences against the law.”

  “Yes, he has a reputation as a thief.”

  “A gentleman thief, the worst kind,” said Mr Holmes. “One who robs not because he is short of money but because he is short of entertainment. He does it solely to amuse himself and bring excitement into what is otherwise a life of idleness and indolence. Yet he has never been caught. That is the remarkable thing. He carries out audacious burglaries, stealing from the homes of the wealthy, sometimes right under their noses, but no one has been able to pin the blame on him.”

  “At least it would seem he targets his own kind, taking only from those who have plenty, those hailing from the same refined circles in which he himself moves,” said Dr Watson. “I would rather that than him preying on the poor. Tell me, is it too much to hope that you have evidence on him, proof that will finally see him brought to account for his misdeeds?”

  “Patience, Watson, and I shall explain.”

  Fourth Instalment: Heywoods the Pie Makers, on Stamford Street

  Always nice to take a pause for relief outside a pie makers’ shop. The aromas of meat, lard and pastry wafting out through the door – heavenly.

  Now, where was I? Oh yes.

  Mr Holmes related to Dr Watson the latest events surrounding the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt and how he had been called upon to involve himself in the affair.

  It went like this.

  In recent months Farnaby-Coutt’s crimes had grown both more frequent and more bold. Time and again a diamond necklace would go missing from some duchess’s dressing-table drawer; a safe belonging to Lord Such-and-such would be cleaned out; a priceless portrait hanging in the hall of a grand mansion would vanish. And on every occasion the finger of suspicion would point firmly at Farnaby-Coutt. He was the common factor in each crime because just days before he would have been a guest at that particular household, attending some swanky soirée or lavish dinner. In other words, His Nibs was using these parties as cover while he indulged in what is known in common parlance as “casing the joint”. He’d craftily identify where the valuables were, then return a week or so later, usually on a night when he knew the owners were going to be absent, and break in and help himself.

  Very cunning, but what baffled me when I heard about it was that, if he was known for this racket, which he was, why did these noble folk ever invite him round? Wasn’t that asking for trouble?

  Dr Watson put this query of mine into words, and Mr Holmes replied that Farnaby-Coutt was notoriously charming. The same rakish looks and fine speech that he used to seduce his female conquests he also applied at social gatherings. Put simply, nobody believed that someone so handsome and nicely spoken could possibly be a crook, and even if they did have their suspicions, they were too constrained by politeness and etiquette to voice them. Farnaby-Coutt relied on the good manners of the well-bred to continue having his devilish way with their belongings. Perhaps they even liked the fact that he had something of the dark about him. It introduced a thrill into their safe, staid lives.

  Moreover, it had lately become apparent that Farnaby-Coutt was more innocent than he was generally held to be. For, since the middle of last year, every single one of the burglaries for which he was the likeliest culprit, he could not have perpetrated. He had a cast-iron alibi each time. He would be seen out and about at the exact same moment the felony was being committed. He would be sitting in a box at the opera, twirling gaily at a formal dance, or telling jokes at his club. He would be there in full public view, with dozens of witnesses around him, while elsewhere in town precisely the sort of misdemeanour he was renowned for would be occurring. His metaphorical fingerprints were all over the crime, but there was no earthly way he could have committed it.

  “Remarkable,” said Dr Watson, and I had to agree.

  Fifth Instalment: Outside the Main Entrance to Waterloo Station

  However, all that had changed. Just last night, Farnaby-Coutt was finally caught in the act.

  It happened at the home of Sir Reginald Theakswood, the parliamentarian and industrialist who had made several fortunes in the wool trade. A no-nonsense Yorkshireman with a forthrightness to match the size of his bank balance, so Mr Holmes described him.

  Sir Reginald, Mr Holmes said, had played host to a literary salon last week at which Farnaby-Coutt was a surprise attendee. The knight of the realm had been reluctant to let the arrogant, caddish son of a peer in through his door. Rather than turn him away, however, he had been persuaded by his wife, Lady Angela, to act hospitably, so as not to cause a fuss and upset the proceedings. He had watched Farnaby-Coutt like a hawk the entire evening, but the latter had behaved impeccably throughout, applauding the poetry recitals and the literary readings with the appreciation of a true connoisseur.

  Then last night Farnaby-Coutt had struck.

  Sir Reginald was a collector of rare Ancient Egyptian artefacts. He owned, among other antiquities, a set of canopic jars, which are clay pots containing the dried-up internal organs of some long-dead monarch, Pharaoh Somesuch – I did not quite catch the name. Worth a pretty penny, those jars, and they were openly on display in the drawing room of Sir Reginald’s Kensington home, the same room in which the literary salon had been held.

  Sir Reginald had supposedly gone up north to a place in Yorkshire called the East Riding, to visit his voters. But that was just a lie he had put about so as to make it seem as though his house would be unguarded. Instead, while the rest of the household had indeed upped sticks and headed to Yorkshire, he remained in London. He was dead set on bringing about Farnaby-Coutt’s downfall.

  So it was that the man who sneaked into the house shortly before midnight, having eased open a casement window at the rear, was in for a rude shock.

  Sixth Instalment: Parapet of Westminster Bridge

  Sir Reginald, Mr Holmes continued, caught the miscreant red-handed. In flagrante delicto, as the lawyers have it. Lying in wait in his study, he heard furtive noises coming from the drawing room, and sure enough, as he burst in, there was the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt, busy stuffing the canopic jars into a knapsack.

  The Yorkshireman let out a roar and lunged. Farnaby-Coutt was too quick for him, though, and managed to trip him up so that he fell hard against the fireplace. Farnaby-Coutt then fled, exiting by the selfsame window he had entered through. Sir Reginald recovered and, pulling out a revolver he had taken the precaution of arming himself with beforehand, gave chase. Farnaby-Coutt was at the far end of the garden and clambering over the back wall by the time Sir Reginald was finally able to take aim. He had a clear shot. He loosed off a round, which struck Farnaby-Coutt in the calf. The wounded man gave a yelp of pain but nonetheless managed to scramble over the wall into the garden beyond and, though limping, made good his escape.

  Sir Reginald summoned the police, who accordingly went round to Farnaby-Coutt’s house in Chelsea.

  But here is the queer thing. Farnaby-Coutt had, it appeared, just returned home from an
evening carousing with friends. The policemen found him dishevelled and definitely drunk, preparing to turn in for the night.

  And he did not have so much as a scratch on him. His leg was intact – no bullet wound.

  Not only that but two of the aforesaid friends were present and swore they had been with Farnaby-Coutt all evening, accompanying him from pub to pub and onward to a private members’ club where they had gambled at cards until just past midnight.

  In short, Farnaby-Coutt could not have been the one who had stolen Sir Reginald’s canopic jars. It was simply not possible.

  And yet Sir Reginald swore blind that the man he had confronted at his home had been him.

  Naturally, with the police at a loss what to do, Sir Reginald travelled to 221B Baker Street first thing the next morning to engage the services of Sherlock Holmes.

  Mr Holmes told Dr Watson that he had driven with Sir Reginald in the latter’s private brougham to Kensington and immediately conducted an inspection of the crime scene.

  “As ever, the policemen had trampled over everything like a herd of cattle,” said he, “erasing much that could have been useful in the way of clues. But,” he went on, “I was able to procure a small piece of evidence that, with Toby’s help, could prove crucial in securing a conviction.”

  “And what is it?”

  “You shall see shortly, Watson. In the meantime, perhaps you might care to advance a theory as to how Farnaby-Coutt could be in two places at once and, more to the point, recover almost instantaneously from a bullet wound so that it left not the slightest trace on his body.”

  “You wish me to offer a few blundering, misguided suggestions that you can then mockingly dismiss.”

  “It does you good to exercise your brain.”

  “And it does you good to vaunt the superiority of your intellect over mine. Well, regardless, I will oblige. First of all, perhaps Sir Reginald’s shot missed. In the heat of the moment he only thought he hit Farnaby-Coutt.”