Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “Excellent. Then, sir, allow me to bid you good day. Both of us have work to do.”

  Holmes rose and walked out of the parlor and toward the front door. I followed him. In the vestibule, we were met by a remarkably attractive young blonde woman. She was nearly as tall as Holmes, and broad in the shoulders and narrow at the waist. She looked upon us most curiously. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. But are you not Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the detective, and Dr. Watson, the writer? You are, aren’t you? Forgive me. I do not wish to be rude, but I am surprised. May I ask, please, what are you doing in my home?”

  “It would be better,” replied Holmes, “if you were to pose that question to your step-father.” He smiled at her and we continued on our way out of the house.

  The heat had finally gone out of the day and we walked the several blocks, without speaking, to Knightsbridge Road and hailed a motorized cab. It moved quickly enough to cause a breeze to cool our faces as we drove past Green Park – now dubbed Brown Park due to the effects of the summer drought – and turned north through Mayfair and home to Baker Street.

  Chapter Three

  How Very Noble

  IT IS DIFFICULT TO EXPLAIN to those of you who are reading this later edition of my stories just how great of a sea-change took place in London, and indeed in the entire world, between the time when I first met Sherlock Holmes in the early years of the 1880s and the second decade of the twentieth century. The world changed. Every week it seemed another invention was foisted upon mankind. Holmes and I used to write a dozen or more notes and telegrams a day and send them all over London with the help of an army of boys on bicycles or on foot. Now we picked up the telephone, called into the central switchboard, and within a matter of minutes were speaking to someone on the other side of the city. The familiar telegraph wires that sent Morse code humming around the world had been replaced by wireless telegraphy. A full decade had passed since Mr. Marconi had sent a radio signal clear across the Atlantic Ocean. Now all of the new steamships were equipped with wireless telegraphy, although that did not help to save the thousand souls who perished with the sinking of the Titanic in April of the year in which this story took place.

  But bad news was blessedly rare, and all of the western world looked forward to continued progress, to the spread of civilization, to the triumph of science, to the free exchange of capital, goods, services, and labor throughout the globe. Even our dour churchmen were no longer predicting the end times and the near approach of Armageddon. Their divine revelations now came with visions of the dawn of the new millennium, ushered in not by Conquest, War, Famine, and Death but by the upward evolution of the human race, supported by knowledge and enlightenment.

  Change was everywhere. Throughout London, service vehicles bringing milk, bread, and ice were still drawn by faithful horses, but the stalwart animal had otherwise been replaced by motorized transport – horseless carriages we called them – that roared and sputtered their way through the city, and increasingly across the countryside. A corresponding change took place in the enthusiasms of young men and women for greater speed and power than could ever be achieved by pedaling a bicycle. The most progressive of them abandoned the bicycle craze as quickly as they had adopted it just twenty years ago and embraced the motorcycle. At first, these machines were no more than a modified bicycle with a small engine that could move the rider along a flat road. By 1912 they had become powerful vehicles that surged and soared and roared up and down the peaceful residential streets of the city, across hill and dale of the English countryside, and, with each passing year, up and down race courses that we thought only a mountain goat could traverse.

  Most of the drivers were young men, accompanied by their female trophies who, perched behind the drivers, clutched onto the male bodies and pressed their bosoms against their backs as they hung on for dear life, bumping and vibrating for hours on end and, as I can assure you as a doctor, having their blood warmed and their animal spirits enlivened. A few very avant guarde young women went so far as to toss their gracious, long skirts aside and pull on men’s leather trousers, and in a most unfeminine way, take charge of these powerful machines and drive them, unaided by any man.

  As young people are wont to do, these motorcycle riders formed themselves into clubs and associations. Most were dedicated only to the pure joy of speed and travel, and social gatherings and outings. Some, however, had a much more sinister reason for their operations, as Holmes and I were about to discover.

  “So then, Holmes,” I began as we sat in the back of the cab. “What is your opinion of Mr. Holder’s suspects? Can’t say as I know what to make of all these motorcycle riders. Both his boys, Arthur and Eric, and their mate – what was his name? George? – all caught up and devoted to nothing else.”

  “You are forgetting the young woman.”

  “The niece? Miss Mary? Come now Holmes, she may be an athletic sort and perhaps emancipated in that way, but she was the model of a refined young woman, was she not?”

  “Precisely, a refined young woman whose fingernails and knuckles have traces of grease, whose hair had specks of grit all through it and needed a good brushing from being blown in the wind, whose face was flushed but had not a spot of perspiration upon it, and who entered the back door of the house whilst we were sitting in the parlor, stood in the hallway listening to us, climbed the stairs wearing boots, and then appeared, feigning innocence, in a freshly pressed dress and in her stocking feet. Yes, that is the young woman to whom I was referring.”

  “Are you suggesting to me…”

  “I am suggesting nothing, my dear Watson. I am telling you that Miss Mary Holder arrived at the back door of the house on the back of a motorcycle and, having become aware of our presence, immediately moved to disguise her recent activity and to attempt to discover the reason for our visit.”

  “I appear to have misjudged her entirely. She seemed such a lovely young woman.”

  “As always, Watson, you are much too much the gentleman to ever suspect a sweet member of the fairer sex. But surely you have observed enough of my cases to know that a pretty face can all too often hide a wicked heart.”

  I have endured a quarter century now of feeling foolish in my conversations with Holmes. It was not a novel sensation. In reply, as I often did, I sought to recover my wounded pride. “Ah, but one thing I did not miss, Holmes, was your sly hand signal telling me not to reveal that I had served in the same regiment as his sons. I have no doubt you will now call on me to do a bit of sleuthing amongst the old boys of the Northumberland Fusiliers.”

  Holmes turned and with his unfeigned and disarming smile said “Precisely, my dear friend. As a veteran of that regiment, you have purchase where I have none. It would be a useful strategy if we did not immediately reveal that possible connection. Although I may have to ask you to make use of it before this case has been resolved.”

  My dear wife was off visiting family in the North so I took advantage of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking and the unique company of Sherlock Holmes and stayed over in my old familiar room at 221B Baker Street. I rose in the morning to find Holmes already at the table, puffing on his pipe and reading some documents.

  “Ah, good morning, Watson. It really is good to have you back here, even if only for a few days. I do believe I miss you, old chap.”

  I could not let that one go. “No doubt not as much as I missed you when you were dead for three years.” I still had not forgiven him for that escapade.

  “Oh, tut, tut, now. Let bygones be bygones. And besides, now you have a new adventure to help me with and you know, and I know, that you cannot resist the attraction. Like a moth drawn to a flame you are, old chap. And the game is afoot with this most recent affair. Holder rang me up first thing this morning saying that he had heard back from Lord and Lady Hairball...”

  “I believe the name was Hair … field.”

  “Quite right you are. Lord and Lady Hairbrain … that they were available to meet with us this morning at half past ten.
It should prove to be an interesting meeting. I fully expect fits of apoplexy when they learn that their debauched affairs are about to be fodder for the prurient press.”

  By mid-morning the sun was already beating down on the streets of London. Mrs. Hudson had plied us with iced lemonade before we departed and I pitied those poor souls who had no choice but to work in the factories and offices that would be like blast furnaces by noon hour. Fortunately, the noble couple had suggested that we meet in Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair where the management had devised a way to have their mechanical fans blow air over the tops of large blocks of ice and reduce the temperature in their dining room to a level verging on pleasant.

  Alexander Holder was waiting for us just inside the front door. He looked like death warmed over and I felt badly for him, knowing that one of his wealthiest clients was about to close his account and, in a fully justified rage, destroy the reputation of the banking firm of Holder and Stevenson.

  “Good to see you holding up so well,” I said to him as we entered. “Keep the upper lip stiff, old boy, you will make it through.” By the looks of him, I did not think he would make it alive to lunch time, but it was all I could think of to say.

  “Lord and Lady Hairfield are in the parlor,” was all he said. We followed him and were greeted by an exceptionally well-dressed couple who I judged to be both in their early sixties. Lord Hairfield was shorter than me and somewhat heavier. His wife was shorter than he, and significantly heavier.

  “Come in. Come in,” His Lordship called cheerfully to us when he saw us in the entrance of the parlor. “Come in. Sit down. You must be hot. Beastly out there, isn’t it? Let me have the staff bring you a cold drink. What will it be? A cold beer? How about a gin and tonic with some ice? Too early in the day for that? Oh my, it is never too early for a cold G and T, at least not in the summer.” He laughed loudly.

  “Oh, Bully,” said his wife, and she laughed too. Her heavy bosom, as well as the rolls of fat around her stomach, bounced as she giggled.

  “Our lucky day, is it not, Honey-Pot? We get to meet the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. Now this is what I call a superbly hot day.” Again, he laughed and took another quaff of his drink. He laughed again, nodding his head up and down as he did so, causing the folds of flesh beneath his chin to alternate between bulging and retreating.

  “Oh, Bully,” said his wife, again laughing, and again causing a repeat of the bodily fluctuations noted above.

  Holmes and I stole a glance at each other. I could only conclude that Mr. Holder had asked for the meeting without revealing the reason behind it, and the impending destruction of the reputations of the all-too-jolly Lord and Lady.

  “Alex, how can we thank you?” continued Lord Hairfield. “We’ve been reading the stories about Sherlock Holmes for years and finally, we get to meet him, in the flesh. And Dr. Watson with him, the most popular writer in all of England. A splendid day, even if it is god-awful hot outside.”

  Mr. Holder introduced Holmes and me to the couple. We were seated and immediately supplied with large tumblers full of ice, gin and tonic water.

  “Your Lordship,” began Mr. Holder, “you did read the message I sent to you yesterday, did you not?”

  “Why of course we did, Alex. Gave us the best laugh we have had all week, didn’t it Honey-Pot?”

  “Absolutely, divinely, hilarious,” replied his wife, giggling.

  “And this morning, just as you predicted, this arrives in the post. And, oh my, didn’t we get another good laugh out of that. Jolly lucky I was not drinking my tea while reading it.” He opened the letter, gave it a quick glance, emitted several loud guffaws and placed it on the coffee table. Holmes picked up the letter and read it quickly. He handed it to me. The brief note demanded ten thousand pounds else all would be revealed in the press within two days.

  “You will excuse me, sir,” said Holmes quite sharply. “I fail to see how the destruction of the reputation of your family, which is about to be dragged through the mud in every newspaper in the country, is a laughing matter. Do you not understand what this letter is demanding?”

  “Oh, my good man, of course, I understand what it is demanding,” replied Lord Hairfield, with a warm, if condescending, smile. “They are going to print the names, and with luck the photographs, of all those delightful people who are kept on the family payroll. And, deluded fools that they are, they believe that doing so will ruin our reputation. Really, Mr. Holmes, how stupid can our English criminal class be? Kindly let me enlighten you. We are living in the twentieth century, not the Inquisition. My wife and I have worked very diligently to establish our reputation as the most progressive, most modern, and most advanced thinkers amongst the nobility. We both took our degrees at Cambridge and we embraced the correct understanding of human sexuality, a scientific understanding. Human beings are highly evolved animals, the paragon of animals, the pinnacle of Nature’s long slow climb from the primordial mud. As such we are free to enjoy all the pleasures of the flesh, just as our lesser relatives in the animal kingdom do. And the English speaking people, as the apex of the human race, the most highly evolved, have a moral obligation to lead the rest of the world out of the dark ages of absurd religious restraint and demonstrate to them that the joys of sexuality should be embraced … do pardon the pun … and enjoyed by, between, and amongst all ages, all races, all religions, and all sexes.

  “My dear wife, Her Ladyship, has just written a brilliant new book explaining all of the scientific principles on which our reputation has been established. You did bring a copy of your book, did you not Honey-Pot?”

  “Of course, Bully darling,” replied her Ladyship. “Just the final proof, mind you. To be released in a week from now. Would you like a copy, Mr. Holmes? I can sign it for you.” Not waiting for an answer, she opened the book to the title page, added her signature, and handed it to Holmes.

  Holmes handed it to me.

  The Riddle of the Human Race Solved – The Scientifically Proven Basis for Free Love

  Inwardly I shuddered.

  Lord Hair … whatever it was, continued. “As soon as I read the letter from our would-be blackmailers I called my publisher and read it to him. And, my goodness, if he didn’t let out a whoop of joy and laughter you could have heard a mile away. He immediately doubled the first run of the book. Those silly fools said they would send off our secrets to every leading newspaper in the country. Why, for a million pounds we could not have arranged such tremendous publicity. The timing could not have been better.”

  Holmes was uncharacteristically speechless. I looked at Her Ladyship and said, “Surely you understand that countless people who have never heard of you are going to form their opinions based on what they read in the papers. Does that not concern you at all?”

  The rotund lord let out a loud, blustering, sputtering laugh. “Heavens above, Dr. Watson, every newspaper in the country does nothing more than pander to the prejudices of their readers. The Daily Mirror is read by people who think they run the country. The Guardian is read by people who think they ought to run the country. The Times is read by people who actually do run the country. The Daily Mail is read by the wives of the people who run the country. The Financial Times is read by the people who own the country. The Daily Worker is read by people who think the country ought to be run by people from another country. The Daily Telegraph is read by people who think it is.”

  “Sweetheart, what about those who read the Evening Star?” asked his wife.

  “It is read by men who never think at all and can only turn to page three and ogle at the latest young miss with enlarged mammaries.”

  “Oh Bully,” said his wife, her entire torso now convulsing, “but you mustn’t forget to add that they are also the men who can hold the Evening Star in one hand while ogling.” She gave her husband an impish smile.

  For a moment he said nothing and then exploded in laughter, slapping his thigh repeatedly. “Oh, Honey-Pot … oh, my dearest Honey-Pot … that was bril
liant. I must remember it. Dr. Watson, did you write that down? For readers who hold the paper with one hand, oh my. Their left hand, of course. That was brilliant darling.”

  Lord Hairbra… Lord Hairfield,” snapped Holmes. “The press is about to print the names of nearly fifty people who have been blackmailing you. Blackmail is a serious criminal act. You are about to be forced to testify in endless criminal cases and every aspect of your personal life made public. Sir, this is not a matter for frivolity.”

  The Lord and Lady looked at each other and broke out into yet another round of laughter. His Lordship used his handkerchief to wipe a tear from his eye. “Mr. Holmes, sir, do let me help you in your detective work. Blackmailers, by definition, would be our enemies. All those folks to whom we send money are our friends. Our favorites. Do you really think they would keep coming to our parties if it were not for the money? Look at us please, sir. We are well into our sixties. Good living and gravity have taken their toll. What cute young groom, or pretty young maid, or handsome young actor could we ever induce to engage in delightfully pleasurable acts were it not for having them all on an allowance? Please, sir, use your famous sense of logic. We only demand that they keep their mouths shut because if all of their friends knew how they earned their allowance, we would have no end of eager applicants. Half of Oxbridge and the entire scouting movement would be lined up outside my office the next morning. If all their names do become public, we shall just cut them all off and replace them.

  “So, tell me, mister detective, under what system of logic would I pay someone not to give me better publicity than money could ever buy? Sales of Her Ladyship’s books will soar. I fully expect to be invited to do a lecture tour of America. My adult children will establish a trust for the promotion of free love and invite subscriptions from around the world. And here… look at this. This is our reply to our blackmailers. Clever isn’t it. My son drew it. Quite the brilliant artist, isn’t he?”