“When my boys left England, they were puffy-faced callow college lads. When they returned, they were hardened men. In my day, British soldiers came back as heroes. Men slapped their backs and bought them drinks. Ladies fussed over them and girls flirted. That did not happen for my boys. Before the war had ended that woman, Mrs. Emily Hobhouse, had reported on the horrible things that our soldiers had done to the women and children of the Boers. Over twenty-five thousand of them died in the camps – the camps that my boys were standing guard over. When Art and Eric got back to England, they walked out to the pub on the first night home, proudly wearing their uniforms. No man bought them a round. No girls flirted with them. One of the ladies spat on them and called them monsters and bade them leave and go to hell. You have read the reports, Mr. Holmes. You know what our lads had to face. They had their white plumes with red tips, and badges proclaiming Quo fata vocant, but they had no pride. They and many of their comrades became outcasts, scapegoats who risked their lives to serve the Empire and then had to pay for the evils of their leaders. It did not take long before they fell in with other veterans of that war. First, they just met to play sports and sit around in the pub. Beginning about five years ago they discovered motorcycles. Now that is all they live for.”
As a veteran myself, indeed having served in the same regiment, I knew these things to be true. I did not “have a good war” and came home with naught but misfortune and disaster; my health ruined. I was about to acknowledge my concern and my shared military service when I detected Holmes’s raised index finger telling me to hold my tongue.
“Why,” queried Holmes, “did you not give them positions in your bank? What with Sandhurst and the battlefield behind them they should be quite capable chaps.”
“Oh, I did. On paper they have positions. Good ones. But it has been no use. They have been to me a grievous disappointment. They only show up to work when there is nothing else to do. If there is a motorcycle rally or a race they are truant. If they do happen to be present and a client asks for advice on investing, all they can do is recommend Triumph or Norton. They cannot be bothered reading the latest on stock and bonds. Their heads are lost in plans for their club meetings, or outings, or parties. They draw a salary, but it is all a pretense. As employees, they are useless. Their loyalty now is solely to their club, the Beryl Bikers they call themselves, and to their fellow members.”
“And any loyalty to their father has vanished?” asked Holmes. “Have you reached that conclusion?”
“What is the alternative?” replied the dejected client. “Whatever I have tried to do for them; whatever money I have given them, obviously has not been enough. No one else could possibly have entered my office and opened the safe. I have been betrayed by my own flesh and blood.” At this point, he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face into his hands and began to sob. His entire large body heaved with each cry.
Holmes said nothing for a minute and then, ignoring our client’s distraught state, spoke. “Sir, I need to carry out an inspection of your premises. You will have to get up and out of your chair and wait for me in your parlor. But before you do so might I ask you to give me your wallet?”
Mr. Holder raised his head and looked at Holmes, his bloodshot eyes wide with question. He said nothing but stood and reached into his pocket and extracted his wallet. Holmes took it from him, and then rose, walked over to the safe, placed the wallet inside, closed the door and spun the dial. “Thank you, sir,” said he. “That has been quite helpful, now could you please wait for me in your front room and please, lock this office door behind us as we leave.”
Again, a puzzled look, but the man meekly obeyed. He and I moved to the front of the house. Holmes moved past us and opened the front door, leading out onto the gray pavement. “And kindly lock this door behind me. I shall return in no more than thirty minutes. Thank you.”
The shades in the parlor were still drawn to reduce the merciless heat of the sun, but the room was sufficiently light and comfortable. I sat on a sofa, picked up a magazine that was lying on the coffee table, and pretended to read an article. Mr. Holder paced back and forth, from time to time looking at his watch to see if thirty minutes had passed. When that time neared, he left the room and stood by the front door, waiting for Holmes to return. At the twenty-eight-minute mark, he opened the door and looked out onto the street.
A voice came from the hall behind him. “I am afraid that you will not find me out there, sir,” said Holmes as he entered from the hallway that led back to the office. Mr. Holder turned and looked at Holmes in absolute shock. It would have been rude of me to laugh out loud, as I could have predicted Holmes’s grand entrance and our client’s reaction, so I sat and continued to read without rising from my place, as Holmes breezed past our speechless client and dropped into a chair across from me.
“Please sir, do be seated. Oh, by the way, here is your wallet.” He placed the item on the coffee table and sat back, all expression deliberately wiped off his face as if nothing whatsoever of note had just occurred.
Our client said nothing, glaring at Holmes. “Mr. Holmes,” he said after his speechless pause. “Please explain what you just did.”
“Oh really sir, it was nothing to make into a matter of importance. I did no more than what could have been done by perhaps five other men in the current criminal class of London. I suppose we could add another hundred or so if we included the locksmiths, but they are required to be bonded and do not generally stoop to thievery, bad for business, you know. I merely walked around to the back of your house and climbed the tree in your back yard. Of course, it took me longer than it would have when I was twenty-five years of age instead of fifty-seven. But from the tree, I stepped onto the balcony of a room on the third floor. The lock on the window was undone in a trice. I descended by way of the servants’ back staircase and entered your office. The safe was a bit of a sticky wicket, I have to hand you that one. I thought I could have it opened in five minutes, and my colleague, Dr. Watson, will no doubt chastise me for getting a little too cocksure, since it took me much longer to decipher the combination, and then I walked back to greet you. All rather elementary, would you not agree, doctor?”
“Quite so,” I nodded in feigned nonchalance. “Yes, quite elementary, I must say.”
Holmes now turned to our client. “You will please forgive my little exercise in drama, but it was necessary that I irrefutably disabuse you of your excessively premature conclusion about your sons. Demonstrating how easy it was to remove the contents of your safe does not, I will concede, prove that either one or both of your sons did not betray you. It does, however, indicate that the list of possible suspects must be enlarged to include all those who knew the contents of your safe, not merely the combination.”
The big banker slowly nodded his head. “I suppose I should be grateful that you have relieved me of that portion of my personal disaster and must withdraw my hasty accusation of my sons. However, I do not feel any better overall knowing how easy it was to burglar my safe – the ones in the bank are made by the same firm – and that there is now a longer list of those who must, of necessity, be suspect.”
“It is,” replied Holmes, “entirely reasonable that you should feel much worse than you did before. But, quite frankly sir, we do not have time to dwell on your feelings. The calumnious information has already had several hours to be at work. Time is not on your side, and we must move with all possible alacrity. You will excuse me if my comments and questions are hurried and brusque from this time on.”
Holder sighed. “You are excused. Lay on Macduff.”
“Very good, sir. Permit me to return to your sons. Are they as close in their temperaments and in their bond with each other as they are in appearance?”
“They are not at all similar in their appearance. They are fraternal twins, not identical. The younger, Arthur, has a fair complexion, blue eyes, and blond hair. His body is tall and lithe, nearly devoid of body hair, and with long limbs and
fingers. His brother, Eric, is a small bear. Shorter than his brother by half a head but built like a brick privy. His eyes are dark, his hair black and curly, and he sports a beard that begins under his nose and continues uninterrupted until it merges at the base of his neck with the hair on his chest. The hair on his arms, legs, chest and back would lead one to think he was more simian than human. In temperament, they are likewise as different as chalk and cheese. Eric is all hail-fellow-well-met, he gives bear hugs and slaps on the back to all and sundry. He would spend the day on a sports field – any sport, he excels in all of them and will play, even if injured, until he drops from exhaustion – and when it is too dark to play he retreats to the pub with his friends, sings, laughs and plays darts and billiards until past midnight. He rises with the sunrise and starts all over again the next day. If he has a farthing in his pocket, it will be spent on his friends, on wagering, and on his blessed motorcycle.
“Arthur, on the other hand, is more toward the phlegmatic; much like his mother. He is a fine athlete, but has gone out for harrier, single sculls, boxing, and fencing, and those sports that make demands on the individual rather than the team. He is frugal with his money and uses it to buy the finest in clothes, goods, services, and travel. His income is the exact same as his brother’s, but he has never once approached me for an advance on his salary, while Eric has on many occasions.”
“Is he investing it?” asked Holmes. “Buying land or securities? Putting it aside for a rainy day?”
“Ah no. He is still a young man and not yet thinking in those terms. He saves up his income and then spends it all at once on those things he has set his heart on.”
“And what might those be?”
“I said earlier that both of my boys had become caught up in the motorcycle craze. They both had quite good machines on which to ride. But three months ago, Arthur came home with what all agree is the finest motorcycle in the entire country. There is no bike in the nation to match it. He spent weeks at the Brough factory having George Brough make him a custom-designed machine. There are only a few hundred motorcycles in the country made by Brough. They are said to be the Rolls-Royce of motorcycles. They expanded the engine for him from one thousand cubic centimeters to over twelve hundred. The suspension has been improved. The seats are of the finest Morocco leather, and every part of it has either been plated with chrome or painted in gleaming black. He has even embedded two massive cut glass gems, which look for all the world like emeralds, on the flanks of the fuel tank. He shows it off at every rally and picnic held by the club. He has already won several races where the size of the engine is unrestricted. It is his pride and joy. He beams and grins like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just opened his new train set. His brother congratulates him but is green, emerald green no doubt, with envy.”
“Does such envy,” asked Holmes, “lead to enmity? Is there conflict between them?”
“As schoolboys, they were constantly bickering and competing with each other. At times, I despaired that they would ever get past it. But three years in South Africa got rid of that forever. When brothers are being shot at by the same enemy, sharing the same loads on a forced march, burying the same comrades, and hiding behind the same rock to avoid the deadly sprays of grapeshot, it tends to forge a bond between them that no amount of rivalry over their toys, or on a sports field, or even over a lovely young maiden, can ever damage.”
“Well and good,” said Holmes. “Your lads are more Castor and Pollux than Cain and Abel. Jolly good. Who else knew the contents of your safe? Friends of your sons? Your household or office staff? Are there other members of your family? Have you other children?”
“I have no other children who are direct issue. My older brother married a young widow and became father to her daughter. He and his wife were killed in a tragic accident many years ago and their little girl, Mary, became my legal responsibility. I have raised her as if she were my own daughter and she has matured into a fine young woman of four and twenty years.”
“Is she still single? What does she do? Does she live under your roof?”
“In order, sir. Yes, she is still single. Not out of lack of interest by no end of heartsick suitors, including both of my sons, who love her devotedly. But whereas they are married to their motorcycles, she is married to her sport. She is a magnificent athlete, a runner, one of the top in all of England in middle distances. She has competed all over Europe and in America in the 5000 meter and five-mile races and is infuriated that the men who control the Olympics will not sanction track and field events for women. I have sponsored her in her sports since she was a child and paid for her coaches and travel and equipment. She is totally devoted to me, every bit as much as my sons are estranged from me. When she is not competing, she has a position in the bank and works diligently there from dawn to dark. And yes, my little Mary lives in this house and is the sunshine of my home, a delight to share conversations with over breakfast and supper.
“As to friends of my children, there have been many over the years but only a few have lasted. George Burnwell, from the Burnwells of Henley-on-Thames, served with Art and Eric in the war and has reappeared recently and become a close friend. He is also besotted with the motorcycle nonsense. Mary has several close friends from her athletic teams, all, like her, sturdy and sterling young women who are dedicated to their sport. They come by frequently and talk about nothing except the latest healthy diets and newest athletic shoes. They have no turn for business. I doubt they know a farthing from a fence post.
“As to the help – there is the man-servant and the maid. Both have been in service with my family for decades and their parents worked for my parents before that. That they would ever betray me is unthinkable. They could have done so a thousand times in the past and have never so much as claimed a minute to which they were not fully entitled. The maid, Mrs. Allingham, recently hired a young assistant, a second cousin, Miss Lucy Allingham. She came not only from our maid’s family but had good references. She is an uncommonly pretty girl and has attracted no end of young men who follow her home from the market, and find all sorts of excuses to wait around, lovelorn and sad of face. But she cannot be faulted for that. She does not make any attempt to attract them. All she has to do is appear and they come like flies to the honey jar.
“All of these have been privy to conversations, held from time to time, that made reference to my files. In looking back, I confess that I have sometimes made use of veiled references to the contents to enhance attention to my conversation. No one is immune to the attraction of juicy gossip, especially when it concerns the high and mighty and righteous of the nation.
“I could continue with my miserable story, Mr. Holmes, but in a nutshell that is my household. Other than my partner, Stevenson, those are the only ones who have any idea of what is kept in my safe. If there is something I have missed, please inform me.”
“I believe, sir, that you have covered all the essentials for now. We must move on, and quickly. Please give me your focused memory and concentration. If I were to read through these files of yours, who would immediately strike me as the easiest person to blackmail? Who has the dirtiest laundry? Who is most at risk? Which fruit hangs the lowest?”
“That is not a difficult question,” replied Holder. “Lord and Lady Hairfield of Wharram Percy are far and away the most dissolute, degenerate, and depraved of all the noble families in the country. Perhaps in the entire Empire. They are swimming in their filthy riches, from all the rents they collect and the shares they own in countless profitable firms. They must have at least fifty people to whom they make regular monthly payments; all paid to do nothing but keep their mouths shut. On the list are young men, their grooms past and present, who were abused by His Lordship and by all three of his depraved sons; maids who were abused first by Her Ladyship and then His Lordship and then both; at least seven bastard children, sixteen mistresses, and fourteen young male actors, all at one time favorites of Her Ladyship. They hold debauch
ed parties in the estate home and have been known to hire photographers to take obscene and humiliating pictures of their guests in various immoral acts contrary to the laws of nature. The negatives of the photos were subsequently sold for outrageous sums to the fools who appeared in them. All these things and much more are recorded in their file. So, in answer to your question, Mr. Holmes, if I were you and I held the files in hand, I would start with them.”
“An astute recommendation, sir. There is but one amendment to add. It is not ‘I’ but ‘we’ who will start with them. As difficult as it will be, you and I together must visit these noble persons as soon as possible and disclose to them their recently acquired status. We must gain access to whatever communication they will receive from the extortionists. Such information will be our first clue. So, may I ask you, sir, to make contact with these good people and request an immediate interview for you, and me, and Dr. Watson. May I count on you to do that, Mr. Holder?”
The poor fellow’s shoulders sank and he let out an audible sigh. “I do not want to do that at all, Mr. Holmes, but it has to be done. So, I shall do it and get it over with as quickly as possible. I will let you know as soon as I receive a reply.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 19