by Val Andrews
Dawlish turned pale, and put a hand to his head. ‘That damned note, of course!’
‘As you say. What was your intention?’
‘I knew about the earlier notes, of course, my uncle had talked of them to me. I thought — well, I thought that I might jump on the bandwagon, as the saying is. Not that I could afford to buy shares in Forrage’s myself, even at the lower price, but I knew my uncle would do so. I had hopes that, if he took the firm over, I would get a decent job as managing director or something of the kind.’
‘And in due course inherit the shares?’
‘Good Lord! I had no intention — Mr Holmes, you cannot think that I meant anything — Good Lord!’ said Dawlish again, and turned very pale.
‘No,’ said Holmes slowly, ‘I do not believe that you did. But your thoughtless action at Henley Grange, the interference with the fence, might have had disastrous, fatal, consequences. Mr Forrage might have been killed. Or even your uncle.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘Worse, Watson here might have been injured,’ said Holmes sternly. ‘And that would have been unforgivable.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ stammered Dawlish. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, you need have no further fears. There will be no more tomfoolery, I promise you.’
‘Very well,’ said Holmes.
Dawlish stood up and held out his hand. Holmes smiled, shook the other’s hand vigorously, and nodded a farewell as Dawlish made his way, somewhat unsteadily, to the door.
‘And what of the shares bought by Sir Hubert?’ I asked Holmes. ‘You insisted that Forrage repay those whom he had defrauded, and Sir Hubert has, albeit unwittingly, also profited by all this.’
Holmes frowned. ‘You say “albeit unwittingly”, and I think that is the significant point. The shares bought by Sir Hubert were legitimately bought,’ he said. ‘As Sir Hubert himself observed, there is a proverb about rats and sinking ships. Had the owners of those shares not lost faith in Forrage’s — and in Sherlock Holmes! — they would not have sold. I think we had best say no more about that, and let Sir Hubert keep the shares he bought, as a reward for his confidence in the store’s future.’
‘That sounds fair.’ I frowned. ‘One last little point does still puzzle me, Holmes.’
‘Only one?’
I ignored this. ‘If — no, not “if”, but rather “since” — since Forrage himself wrote the earlier notes, and did the damage, why on earth should he wish to consult you? After all, there was a possibility that you would uncover the truth.’
‘Only a possibility?’ said Holmes with a laugh.
‘Go on, then, a probability! A certainty, if you insist. You did, when all is said and done, find out that it was Forrage. And even a less able investigator might have found out the truth. Why would Forrage consult anyone, least of all the world’s best detective?’
Holmes smiled modestly, or as modestly as he was able, and said, ‘Having started writing the notes, making the threats, he had to be seen to do something about it, Watson. He could not hope to let things go on without taking, or appearing to take, some action. Indeed, I myself noted the same point, and made some discreet enquiries at the weekend house party. I discovered that Sir Hubert had been the one who insisted on my being consulted — “Might as well have the best, since we’re paying anyway,” as he told me.’
‘Sir Hubert? Another little puzzle there, Holmes, if Sir Hubert had been the writer of the latest note.’
He nodded agreement. ‘As you say. I could explain why Forrage had called me in, he had no choice. But if Sir Hubert had been the second culprit, why, as you so perceptively ask, should he insist on my involvement. That is one of the things which made me wonder, the other being that Sir Hubert had quite openly bought Forrage’s shares. Yet the latest note was indubitably written on a typewriter owned by Sir Hubert’s firm!’
‘All explained, though, now? Tell me, Holmes, what of young Herbert Dawlish? Think he will go straight from now on?’
‘I imagine so,’ said Holmes. ‘He did not strike me as a hardened villain, merely rather misguided. I think he will be a model citizen from henceforth.’
‘I wonder if old Forrage will do the same! Mind you, he will have to look out. His finances will take a savage beating,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if he has to sell Henley Grange, and perhaps even the shares he owned to begin with.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘It would be no more than he deserves, I agree. But I fancy that he will rise, like a phoenix from the ashes.’ He stood up and took his hat from the table. ‘Are you ready, Watson?’
Epilogue - A Return to Forrage’s
Holmes was right. As a result of his uncle’s having a large shareholding in Forrage’s, young Herbert Dawlish was appointed to the board, and he actually acquired a reputation for being somewhat conservative, if not downright fuddy-duddy, in his business dealings. Many years later, on his uncle’s death, Herbert became chairman of Forrage’s, and did a remarkable job as such. As for A.W. Forrage himself, he recovered from the little set-back very rapidly, and was spared for almost exactly twenty years. It was perhaps a month after the announcement of his death that Holmes and I again visited the big store in Holborn. Sherlock Holmes had been retired for many years, and it was on one of his rare visits to the metropolis that we found ourselves once more ‘foraging around Forrage’s’.
One could say that the store was not much changed, and in substance that would be true. It was those topicalities of theme and decor that had changed to suit the times. As we sat in the café where once we had heard a string trio we were now entertained by a quartet of Indian musicians with brass instruments. Will Goldston was no longer manager of the conjuring department, having departed to open his own magic store near Leicester Square. And in the basement, where the circus had been, a roller-skating rink now did a thriving trade.
Yet it was all still a part of Forrage’s, where it is said to this day that one can buy anything from a thimble to an elephant!
If you enjoyed Sherlock Holmes and the Holborn Emporium by Val Andrews, you might be interested in Sherlock Holmes at the Raffles Hotel by John Hall.
Extract from Sherlock Holmes at the Raffles Hotel by John Hall
Chapter One: I Received an Urgent Summons...
In the early part of the year 1905, I was at a low ebb. My second wife had died in tragic circumstances eighteen months before, and I had been unable to concentrate as I ought on my medical practice. This had led to my losing some of my former patients – to competitors in the medical field, I hasten to add, not to the ‘Grim Reaper’. And that in turn had perhaps gone to make me yet more cynical, and hence more lackadaisical about my work. In a word, I was becoming convinced that Dr John H. Watson, general practitioner, writer, and biographer of the world’s first consulting detective, had about come to the end of his useful working life. I felt that I was ready to retire, to sell my practice for what it would make, and do as my old friend Mr Sherlock Holmes had done, sever all links with a world that was fast becoming uncongenial to me.
On the particular morning of which I write, I had sat in my little consulting room waiting for patients. Waiting without result, for I had not a single call upon my professional services all the three or four hours that I sat there. I sat there, trying to read The Lancet, or some more popular journal as the fancy took me, but unable to concentrate even on the most frivolous of articles. And after a minute or two trying to read and failing, I would put down whatever magazine I had just taken up, and stare out of the window at the grey London around me. There was a thin drizzle falling, and I could see rivulets of rain trickling down the outside of the window; so melancholy was I that it seemed to me that I was seeing the last years of my life trickling, useless, into the great ocean of nothingness.
At ten-thirty I had a word with the maid and popped round to the bank, drawing out some money for the week’s expenditure – a fortunate circumstance, as you shall see.
When I returned, there had been no callers, nor were
there any in the hour or so that immediately followed my return. At a little before noon I had had enough, I could stand the monotony no longer, and so I determined on an earlier luncheon than was usual with me. I took my hat, coat and stick, called out to the maid that I should be back in an hour or so, and marched to the front door.
As I pulled the door open, a young lad in the uniform of a messenger boy was just about to ring at the bell, and I caught him off balance. He quickly recovered his footing, touched his cap, and asked me, “Doctor Watson, is it, sir?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Telegram, Doctor.” And he held out the little square, buff- coloured envelope.
“Ahah! An urgent case, perhaps?” My spirits rose at the prospect, and I tore the envelope open, taking in the contents at a glance.
It was signed by Martha, the elderly and respectable lady who acted as housekeeper for Mr Sherlock Holmes at his little cottage on the Sussex coast, and it read thus:
Mr Holmes very bad. Can you come home at once?
“No reply,” I told the lad, handing him what I thought was a shilling.
“Thank you, sir.” He touched his cap, and I realized it had been a half-crown; but what of it? The main thing now was to get to Holmes, and that without any undue delay!
I mentioned the telegram to the maid, giving her the address at which I might be contacted and leaving some instructions in the event that a sudden crowd of patients should come knocking at my door. A word to my near neighbour, Anstruther, who looked after my practice – such as it was – in life’s little emergencies, completed that side of the arrangements. And then a few minutes spent packing the bare essentials for the journey, and picking up my stethoscope and what have you, and in less than a quarter of an hour after opening the fateful telegram, I was in a cab on my way to the railway station.
An hour later, I was sitting in a first-class carriage, staring aimlessly out of the window, down which the rain still coursed, though in a more lively fashion now, as the passage of the speeding train produced its own little gale. I sat there, alone in my compartment at that time of day and that season of the year, my mind totally occupied with thoughts of Holmes, as the train headed through the grey weather towards Brighton.
Holmes’s little cottage – his ‘villa’, as he dignifies it, with modest pride – is a mile from the little village of Fulworth, itself at no great distance from Brighton, that seaside resort so beloved of Londoners. I had visited Holmes on several occasions before, and on many of these visits, the weather being fine, I had walked from the station to his cottage, enjoying scenery and fresh air alike.
Today, however, time seemed to be ebbing away from me, I had the wildest fears and fancies as to what might not be happening in that lonely cottage on the high downs. Moreover, the rain had still not entirely abated. Accordingly, I hired a pony and trap at Brighton, and drove into Fulworth village. The path to Holmes’ cottage is a steep one, too steep for the poor pony, so I did as I had done on a couple of previous visits, and left pony and cart at the local inn, to be collected later.
Never did that cliff-side path seem so steep, so slippery, or so long. I hastened as I have seldom hastened before, the drizzle soaking in a most insidious manner into my clothing. It was growing dark as I passed Holmes’ nearest neighbours at The Gables, some sort of school, as I understood it from Holmes. They were lighting their lamps there as I scurried past the gate, and the friendly cheerful glow seemed to mock my damp and miserable condition.
Another half mile through the damp turf, my boots ruined, my trouser legs soaked, and there stood Holmes’ little cottage. Some sort of creeper, now bare of leaves, circled round the door, and in my sombre mood it seemed like an icy tentacle round a man’s heart. A few pots, empty of plants, seemed to reflect the emptiness of existence; and the little beehives, the study of which had latterly engaged all of Holmes’ attention as readily and as deeply as the study of London’s underworld had once engaged it, stood silent and forlorn, their occupants presumably still deep in their winter slumbers.
Worst of all, the place was in total darkness. The blinds were down, the curtains closed, not a lamp, nor a candle, nor a match was lit. Fool that I was, I ought to have known – easy enough to say, with hindsight, of course. If Holmes had indeed been gravely ill, so ill as to warrant the sending of a telegram to me in London, then of course old Martha would never rely solely on my going down there. She would send for a local medical man.
I reproached myself bitterly, as I made for the door, the darkness closing in on me. It should have been I, not some stranger, who attended Holmes in his hour of need. He had never looked after himself properly, had always disregarded the dictates of medical advice and common sense alike, and this was the result! I had done what I could, of course, when we shared rooms, but latterly I had all but forgotten him, who had once been my best, my only, friend. I ought to have made it my business to visit him regularly, give him good advice – and, more to the point, make sure that he took it. Instead, some young whippersnapper, fresh from medical school, had prodded and probed my old friend, doubtless made entirely the wrong diagnosis, and packed Holmes off to the hospital in Lewes, or perhaps Brighton, from whence I had just come. It was not to be thought of – Holmes, once so hale and hearty, Holmes, who could twist a poker into a knot with his bare hands, Holmes, who had thrown Moriarty over the falls at Reichenbach, Holmes who could go days without food, Holmes, my old friend, Holmes, in hospital.
That, or worse. That, or worse!
The dreadful thought chilled me more than the rain, unmanned me more than the growing darkness. I had to stop in my tracks, my heart pounding, and make a deliberate effort to calm myself down. Hindsight, that good familiar creature, came to my aid once more, telling me that I should have knocked at the door of The Gables, for they would have been sure to know just what was going on and would tell me if Holmes had indeed been moved to hospital, or – or anything of the sort. Well, I was but a few paces from his own door now, I might just as well try here first. If I had no reply, I would retrace my steps to The Gables, make enquiries, and very likely beg the favour of a bed, even if it were on their billiard table, they would surely not be so heartless as to refuse me under these grim circumstances.
I took the last few yards in a couple of giant strides, and pounded upon the little door, loud enough, I thought without humour, to wake the dead. There came no answer. I pounded again, louder this time, and I fancy that I called out, though I could not tell you what I said.
And then, came a light. A blessed light, from inside that darkened place. Through the little window at the side of the door I could see that a match was struck, a candle – no, a lamp – was lit, and the yellow glow came closer.
Then I was thunderstruck to hear Holmes’ own voice. “I shall see to it, Martha,” he called out, sounding for all the world as hale and hearty as ever.
The light dazzled me as the door was flung open. “Yes? What is it? A case, perhaps?” It was Holmes, Holmes himself, alive and well. Looking, perhaps, a touch thinner, a little paler, than when I had last seen him, too long ago, now, but alive and well at the very least.
He stared at me. “Watson?”
And I stared back in my turn. “Holmes?”
“Well, at least that is established, Doctor.” His voice had lost none of its edge. “What is it, Watson? You look as if you’d seen a ghost, man. Come inside, and tell me all about it. You have some luggage there? You plan to stay?”
“Well … that is … if I may?” I shook myself, like a wet dog, and not just because of the rain that trickled down my neck. “Holmes, enough of this nonsense. Are you quite well?”
Holmes leaned towards me, and sniffed delicately. “H’mm. You have not been drinking, and your eyes indicate that you have not prescribed strong opiates for yourself …”
“Really, Holmes!”
“… and so I deduce some powerful mental disturbance. Now, I know you well enough to believe that if it were a case,
an investigation requiring my own limited talents and abilities, you would at once have blurted out such details as you knew. Incoherently, it is true, and with a fine disregard for the essentials, but you would have blurted it out …”
“Holmes, you go too far.”
“… and thus I conclude that it is something entirely out of the ordinary that brings you here.” He held out his hand, and I shook it mechanically. “Come inside, Doctor, and cease to drip upon my doorstep in that unruly fashion. Remove your wet coat and hat … the shoes, I fear, are beyond hope, but there are some slippers in the corner there … and then take a glass of brandy and hot water, and thaw out a little by the fire.”
He led me into an inner room, and I saw that there was indeed a good fire going in the grate. And through a partly open door I saw the lights of the kitchen, heard homely sounds and smelled food cooking, and caught a glimpse of old Martha. I realized, firstly that I was very hungry, having not thought about food since I decided on an early lunch, which I had entirely forgotten to have, and secondly that if I had gone to the back of the cottage, I should have seen the kitchen lights and not been quite so alarmed as I had been.
Feeling a little foolish, I allowed Holmes to take my coat, hat and bags. “I say, though, Holmes, are you quite well?”
“Well enough, Doctor.” He gazed at me quizzically. “And why do you ask that?”
By way of an answer, I produced the crumpled telegram from my pocket and handed it to him. Holmes took it in with a quick, alert glance, then turned and called out, “Martha!”
There came no response, and after a minute or two Holmes went to the door that led on to the kitchen, calling out once again, “Martha? Could you come in here a moment, please?”
The door opened, and Holmes’ old housekeeper appeared. Martha was a short, stout lady, not entirely unlike the late Queen Victoria in general appearance, and like the late Queen she favoured black for her costume. Martha entered the little parlour, reluctantly as it seemed to me, glanced at Holmes, and then at me, and seemed indeed quite taken aback that I should be standing there by the fire, for she staggered slightly, and put a hand to her forehead in a somewhat theatrical manner.