The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “ ‘Very good, sir,’ replied the clerk with a nod.

  “He returned some moments later with a tray, upon which was a pot of tea and two cups, and a plate of what looked like a most appetizing fruit loaf, cut into slices.

  “ ‘Oh, how lovely, Kent, thank you,’ said Wagstaff when he saw the tray, ‘and we’ve got some of my dear wife’s beautiful recipe; we are in for a real treat, Mr. Radford.’

  “Kent placed the tray carefully on the corner of Wagstaff’s desk. ‘Would you like me to pour it, sir?’ he asked.

  “ ‘No, I’ll deal with it Kent, thank you,’ said his employer. ‘Now, Mr. Radford,’ he said turning back to me, ‘you would like to make a will. May I ask how much your estate is worth?’

  “ ‘Well, I’m not really sure—a reasonable amount, I suppose, as I do own my own house on Hartington Place, and I have some savings.

  “I saw Wagstaff’s eyes gleam behind the lenses of his spectacles. ‘And presumably you want to secure your daughter’s future in case something unthinkable happens to yourself?’ he asked.

  “ ‘That’s right, but I don’t know what I can do, that’s why I contacted you. I remember a neighbour said how kind you were after her husband passed away. Your assistance appeared timely as, sadly, she herself died shortly afterwards. Thank goodness she managed to put things in place to protect her young son.’

  “ ‘Well, I can’t talk about individual clients, you understand,’ said Wagstaff, bowing and shaking his head, ‘but it is true that I have experienced such tragic affairs.’

  “ ‘What would you recommend in my case?’ I asked.

  “ ‘I think the sensible thing to ensure that little…erm?’

  “ ‘Katy.’

  “ ‘Of course, Katy, how delightful. To ensure that little Katy’s inheritance is secured.’

  “ ‘That sounds perfect,’ I said.

  “ ‘What I suggest therefore is that we make your will, which will list Katy as the sole beneficiary. In the unlikely event of your passing, your estate will be held by a trust called the Dulwich Children’s Fund until Katy reaches an appropriate age when she can access her inheritance. In the meantime, the trust would identify a family home in the area where Katy would be raised commensurate with the high standards demonstrated by yourself and your dear late wife.’

  “ ‘I see,’ I said, rubbing my chin in thought. ‘In the unthinkable event of myself and Katy passing away, what would happen to my estate?’

  “ ‘I have known clients in the past requesting that their estate be given to the fund to continue their excellent work in supporting orphaned children.’

  “ ‘I suppose that would be as good a solution as any, although I’m sure that doesn’t happen very often.’

  “ ‘Oh no, no, no, hardly ever,’ replied Wagstaff, ‘The tragic events involving your neighbour comprise the only occasion I can ever remember. Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that,’ he added in mock horror.”

  Holmes broke off momentarily from his narrative. “I must say, Watson, he is amongst the most wicked of creatures.”

  He resumed.

  “ ‘There is one thing I would like to alter,’ I said, in the role of Radford.

  “Wagstaff looked slightly chagrined at this revelation. ‘Alter?’ he repeated.

  “ ‘Yes. I was speaking with the friend Katy and I are currently staying with, and he suggested that he could act as Katy’s guardian in the unlikely event of me passing away before my daughter comes of age. I wonder if we could include that in the will?’

  “Wagstaff sat down and was silent for a while. ‘Yes, I don’t see why not,’ he said at last.

  “ ‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Wagstaff, that would be most kind and a great relief to me. I would therefore like you to make the necessary arrangements to that effect.’

  “ ‘Excellent, excellent,’ cried the solicitor, ‘now let’s have some tea.’

  “He poured the tea and delicately put two slices of loaf onto separate plates.

  “ ‘I have a model will here, Mr. Radford,’ said Wagstaff, bringing a document out of his desk drawer. He offered it to me and then reached across to the tray. He put a cup of tea and a slice of loaf in front of me and attempted to do the same for himself. As he did so, however, the saucer of his cup collided with the teapot, causing him to spill the contents over his own piece of loaf and part of the blotting pad that covered half of his desk.

  “ ‘Oh dear!’ he cried, ‘I am so clumsy. Do forgive me, Mr. Radford, I will go and get a cloth to clean this mess up. In the meantime, please carry on reading the document and don’t stand on ceremony when it comes to your refreshment. I will return shortly.’

  “During Wagstaff’s absence, I folded the piece of loaf on my plate, and another from the cut slices, into a handkerchief. I also took a small sample of tea from my cup in a vial I was carrying and poured the remainder back into the pot. It was ten minutes before the solicitor returned.

  “ ‘Sorry about that, Mr. Radford, I was looking for the maid. How are we getting on?’ he asked as he started dabbing away at the excess liquid.

  “ ‘Yes, I’m sure that will do fine,’ I replied referring to the sample will.

  “ ‘Good, good. And I see you have enjoyed your refreshment in my absence?’

  “ ‘Yes, it was delicious, please compliment your wife on her wonderful baking. I hope you don’t mind, but I helped myself to a second piece.’ I indicated the plate that was still on the tray, containing the remainder of the sliced loaf.

  “ ‘Oh, no, not at all, sir.’ Wagstaff seemed positively excited. Then, observing my empty cup, he asked, ‘Can I get you some more tea?’

  “ ‘No, thank you, it was most refreshing.’

  “ ‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Wagstaff, rubbing his hands lightly.

  “ ‘Could I make a suggestion?’ asked the solicitor. ‘If you give me the details of your friend, I will write out the will and invite you back to have it signed up. I can ask my clerk and maid to act as witnesses. You could even bring your friend along.’

  “ ‘That would be fine, thank you.’ I gave Wagstaff details of my fictitious friend Robert Wilson, and he told me that he would hope to have the document completed for the end of the week.

  “ ‘Excellent, excellent. One thing I should add, in the interest of fairness and disclosure. I myself am one of the trustees of the Children’s Fund, along with three other solicitors.’

  “Wagstaff gave me a piece of paper with three names listed and then added, ‘We could be listed as your executors if that would be convenient. I appreciate that I myself appear slightly older than yourself, but two of my colleagues are considerably younger and therefore the chances of everyone pre-deceasing you are extremely remote.’

  “I assumed Wagstaff was amusing himself inwardly at this last comment, as he would make sure that he would not pre-decease me, but I played along at face value. ‘Yes, that sounds like a good idea also.’

  “ ‘Wonderful. In that case, I will draw the documents together. Would it be convenient to call again toward the end of the week?’

  “ ‘Yes, I suppose that would be fine.’

  “I gave Wagstaff all of my details as John Radford and—given my supposed temporary living arrangements—asked him to correspond with me via the Post Office on Marylebone Road.

  “ ‘I will indeed, my dear sir; I will confirm it by letter, but let us provisionally say Friday morning at ten o’clock?’

  “ ‘That would be ideal Mr. Wagstaff,’ I said shaking his hand heartily. ‘I will look forward to hopefully seeing you then.’

  “Prior to returning to Baker Street, I set about doing some research into the so-called Dulwich Children’s Fund. It transpires that it is listed in the index of London charities, but that is where any legitimacy begins and ends. The three names of fellow-trustees given to me by Wags
taff turn out to be a deceased gas-lighter, a retired tailor who knew nothing about the matter, and a plumber’s mate from Bermondsey. Ha! The effrontery of the man!”

  “I’m sure all of his other victims were too grief-stricken to think so lucidly,” I said, almost to myself.

  “Indeed,” said my friend as our cab slowed to its destination. “Now let us see how he reacts to someone who can.”

  Four

  The office of Silas Wagstaff was on Wyndham Avenue, a stylish Regency thoroughfare with a long sweeping crescent and trees either side of the road. It was this elegant tranquillity that afforded the solicitor a perfect cover which allowed him to carry out his heinous activities unmolested and unsuspected.

  We climbed the few steps to the front door and Holmes rang the bell. Moments later, a tall thin man with a ramrod-straight back opened the door. Upon seeing my friend, his self-assured demeanour appeared to alter slightly. I assumed from this that he recognised my companion from his previous visit but—knowing my friend as I do—no doubt Holmes had altered his own attire and demeanour in order to confuse and distract his opponent.

  “Good morning, Mr. Kent.” Holmes ignored the clerk’s uncertainty and strode past him with characteristic confidence across the hallway. “I assume Mr. Wagstaff is in his office?”

  I followed Holmes across the reception area toward the door at its furthest point. Kent came scampering behind us and, as Holmes entered, the clerk bundled past us to announce, with some uncertainty, the arrival of his employer’s client.

  Silas Wagstaff was a short, rotund man of around sixty, with a high forehead and a wide nose on which was perched a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. As he looked up from his desk, his expression mirrored that of his clerk some moments earlier.

  “Mr…Radford,” he said hesitantly, “and this must be your friend, Mr. Wilson.” He rose from his desk and appeared to regain some composure. “Gentlemen, please, sit down. Kent, please bring us some refreshment.”

  The clerk left and we remained standing. Again, Wagstaff attempted to break the uncomfortable silence. “Please, gentlemen, sit down. I have drafted your will, Mr. Radford, and I think you’ll find everything is in order, including Mr. Wilson here acting as Katy’s guardian in the unlikely event of your passing.” He had a strange manner of speaking which was both obsequious and patronising; all the while I sensed that he was inwardly amusing himself by deliberately misleading his vulnerable clients.

  “Unlikely?” queried Holmes. “Come, come, Mr. Wagstaff, I think my passing would be extremely likely if I continued to allow you to act for me.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said the solicitor, whose disposition appeared to be changing from one of uncertainty to one of concern.

  At that point Kent entered with a tray on which there was a steaming pot with three cups and a plate containing what appeared to be slices of fruit loaf.

  “Ah, please come in, Kent,” said Holmes. “I see you have some of that distinctive loaf I so enjoyed earlier this week.”

  Kent put the tray on Wagstaff’s desk and, with a dismissive nod from his master, left the room.

  “Shall I pour the tea, Mr. Wagstaff?” asked my friend. “I wouldn’t want you to accidentally spill it again.”

  The solicitor sat in silence, unsure of how to respond, as Holmes poured one cup of tea and placed it in front of him. He then lifted one slice of the loaf onto a plate with the serving tongs and put it beside the tea.

  “I don’t think I am particularly hungry, actually,” spluttered Wagstaff.

  He reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk, as if to retrieve some papers that were pertinent to the matter, but Holmes was alive to his intentions—he slammed down his cane on Wagstaff’s wrist, trapping it in the open drawer. Under the solicitor’s splayed fingers I saw a revolver.

  Holmes eyes darted from the weapon to its owner. “A pretty affair this is turning out to be, Mr. Wagstaff.”

  “Who are you? What is this all about?” Wagstaff attempted to keep up the façade of confidence and authority, but it was draining away by the minute.

  Holmes moved his cane from the solicitor’s wrist to under his chin and pushed him back in his seat, closing the drawer with his foot as he did so. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

  Wagstaff’s eyes went wide behind his thick lenses.

  “I see my name is familiar to you,” added Holmes.

  “You have deceived me.” Wagstaff tried his best to sound like the wronged party.

  “I salute your effrontery, but it simply won’t do. You are the deceiver, the thief, and the murderer.”

  Rarely have I seen Holmes so angry, as he jabbed his cane under Wagstaff’s chin to emphasise each accusation.

  “I…I don’t know what you are talking about,” Wagstaff said, desperate now.

  Holmes released the cane and took a calming breath. “I notice you haven’t eaten your cake,” he said. “Of course, neither of us should be surprised by that; when I visited the other day, I took some away with me, along with the tea you served. It was not made by your wife as you claimed; amongst other things, I discovered that you are unmarried. I tested the…refreshment and confirmed my suspicion that it was poisoned—both tea and cake laced with aconitine.

  “What a nice person you are, Wagstaff; you pray on the bereaved by poisoning them and stealing their estates, while leaving their children starving and destitute.”

  “That is a serious charge,” blustered the solicitor.

  “One that you can discuss at length with Inspector Hopkins, who has a warrant for your arrest,” replied Holmes.

  As if on cue, I heard a four-wheeler pull up outside, and a kerfuffle in the hallway resulted in Stanley Hopkins barging into the office with three uniformed men.

  “Good morning Mr. Holmes, Doctor,” said the inspector, and then, turning his attention to the seated Wagstaff, “So this is the man you informed us about, Mr. Holmes.”

  “It is indeed, Hopkins,” replied my friend. Holmes proceeded to repeat his findings to the inspector and informed him of the solicitor’s modus operandi, including handing over the letter he had picked up from the post office that morning.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, another triumph. We’ll take it from here.”

  His men marched the criminal out in handcuffs, and we returned to Baker Street.

  In the weeks that followed, the body of the unfortunate Gerald Rutherford was exhumed, along with three other suspected victims. As Holmes had predicted, traces of aconitine were found in each body, and it was enough to convict Wagstaff, who went to the gallows as Holmes had hoped.

  His clerk was found guilty as an accessory and sentenced to hard labour, after it was established that, after Wagstaff had murdered the surviving parent in each case, Kent had taken the orphaned children and discarded them in some far corner of London to fend for themselves.

  In the days following the conclusion of the case, I read in the Pall Mall Gazette of the latest atrocity in the East End, and it struck me for the first time that two such killers were operating in different parts of London simultaneously. The methods of Wagstaff and the affluent setting of South London may have been very different from the horror and violence perpetrated by the so-called Ripper in the slums of Whitechapel, but the net result was the same: multiple deaths of innocent people. Unfortunately the latter murderer has yet to be apprehended, but at least the good people of South London have had their threat removed.

  As for Holmes, I recall him commenting of his exhaustion following the Jonathan Small case and that of the Dulwich Solicitor, and how he would welcome an escape from London for a while. We would be in luck, as the following weeks would be taken up by not one, but two cases in the fresh air and spectacular setting of Dartmoor.

  The Adventure of the Missing Master

  By Phil
lip Vine

  Islington, London, September 2021

  The knocking seemed familiar, but I could not put a name to the rat-a-tat-tat tune that was played by a cane walking stick upon the oak veneer of the front door of our Islington flat.

  “Aren’t you going to get that, John?”

  My wife’s urgent voice threaded its way from the bathroom, through the living room, and into my study.

  “Alright, Mary, alright.”

  I heard the impatience, the unkindness in my words.

  I had hoped, with the assistance of my wife’s planned expeditions to the coffee shops of Upper Street and to the Estorick Collection of Modern Italian Art in Canonbury Square, to enjoy undisturbed time to complete my monograph on the polyphonic motets of Orlande de Lassus, the subject closest to my heart since the completion of my doctorate in Renaissance Musicology at Brunel University.

  I shuffled through the apartment, pausing to admire the Modigliani sketches recently purchased by my wife and hung in the hallway, hoping all the while that the knocking on our door would cease.

  “Hurry up, darling, or we will miss our visitor.”

  I glanced behind me to see Mary, her body enveloped in a brilliant white bath robe, her hair wrapped in a turban of towel. I waved unfriendly arms at my wife, signalling that her state of undress was inappropriate with a stranger at our door.

  The knocking, meanwhile, had become a constant hammering.

  The man—and the postulant had to be male, I was sure of it, with the unabated violence of his demands for entry—was persistent, aggressive, and rude. I determined to send him away with a flea in his ear, or worse, if necessary.

  “I’m coming,” I shouted.

  “You don’t recognise me, Watson?”

  Before me stood a tall figure, upright and straight as a flagpole, gaunt, emaciated, his countenance as white as chalk, as cragged as a rock face.

  “Surely you must remember me.”

  The visitor’s voice was thin as wind, yet bold enough to command the silencing of a storm.