Sherlock Holmes Great War Parodies and Pastiches I

by Bill Peschel

  He put the shades over the lamps, leaned back in his corner, and in less than two minutes his regular breathing told me he was fast asleep. Not being blessed with the same gift myself, I lay back in my corner for some time, nodding to the rhythmical throb of the express as it hurled itself forward through the darkness. Now and again as we shot through some brilliantly illuminated station or past a line of flaming furnaces, I caught for an instant a glimpse of Holmes’s figure coiled up snugly in the far corner with his head sunk upon his breast.

  It was not until after we had passed Nottingham that I really fell asleep and, when a more than usually violent lurch of the train over some points woke me again, it was broad daylight, and Holmes was sitting up, busy with a Bradshaw and boat timetable. As I moved, he glanced across at me.

  “If I’m not mistaken, Watson, that was the Dore and Totley tunnel through which we have just come, and if so we shall be in Sheffield in a few minutes. As you see, I’ve not been wasting my time altogether, but studying my Bradshaw, which, by the way, Watson, is the most useful book published, without exception, to anyone of my calling.”

  “How can it possibly help you now?” I asked in some surprise.

  “Well, it may or it may not,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “But in any case it’s well to have at one’s finger tips all knowledge which may be of use. It’s quite probable that this Jabez Booth may have decided to leave the country and, if this supposition is correct, he would undoubtedly time his little escapade in conformity with information contained in this useful volume. Now, I learn from this Sheffield Telegraph, which I obtained at Leicester, by the way, when you were fast asleep, that Mr. Booth cashed the last of his forged cheques at the North British Bank in Saville Street at precisely two-fifteen p.m. on Wednesday last. He made the round of the various banks he visited in a hansom, and it would take him about three minutes only to get from this bank to the G. C. station. From what I gather of the order in which the different banks were visited, he made a circuit, finishing at the nearest point to the G.C. station, at which he could arrive at about two-eighteen. Now, I find that at two-twenty-two a boat express would leave Sheffield G.C., due in Liverpool at four-twenty, and in connection with it the White Star liner Empress Queen should have sailed from Liverpool docks at six-thirty for New York. Or, again, at two-forty-five a boat train would leave Sheffield for Hull, at which town it was due at four-thirty, in time to make a connection with the Holland steam packet, Comet, sailing at six-thirty for Amsterdam.

  “Here we are provided with two not unlikely means of escape, the former being the most probable; but both worth bearing in mind.”

  Holmes had scarcely finished speaking when the train drew up.

  “Nearly five past four,” I remarked.

  “Yes,” said Holmes, “we are exactly one and a half minutes behind time. And now I propose a good breakfast and a cup of strong coffee, for we have at least a couple of hours to spare.”

  After breakfast we visited first the police station where we learned that no further developments had taken place in the matter we had come to investigate. Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard had arrived the previous evening and had taken the case in hand officially.

  We obtained the address of Mr. Jervis, the manager of the bank at which Booth had been an employee, and also that of his landlady at Broomhill.

  A hansom landed us at Mr. Jervis’s house at Fulwood at seven-thirty. Holmes insisted upon my accompanying him, and we were both shown into a spacious drawing room and asked to wait until the banker could see us.

  Mr. Jervis, a stout, florid gentleman of about fifty, came puffing into the room in a very short time. An atmosphere of prosperity seemed to envelop, if not actually to emanate from him.

  “Pardon me for keeping you waiting, gentlemen,” he said, “but the hour is an early one.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Jervis,” said Holmes, “no apology is needed unless it be on our part. It is, however, necessary that I should ask you a few questions concerning this affair of Mr. Booth, before I can proceed in the matter, and that must be our excuse for paying you such an untimely visit.”

  “I shall be most happy to answer your questions as far as it lies in my power to do so,” said the banker, his fat fingers playing with a bunch of seals at the end of his massive gold watch chain.

  “When did Mr. Booth first enter your bank?” said Holmes.

  “In January 1881.”

  “Do you know where he lived when he first came to Sheffield?”

  “He took lodgings at Ashgate Road, and has, I believe, lived there ever since.”

  “Do you know anything of his history or life before he came to you?”

  “Very little, I fear; beyond that his parents were both dead, and that he came to us with the best testimonials from one of the Leeds branches of our bank, I know nothing.”

  “Did you find him quick and reliable?”

  “He was one of the best and smartest men I have ever had in my employ.”

  “Do you know whether he was conversant with any other language besides English?”

  “I feel pretty sure he wasn’t. We have one clerk who attends to any foreign correspondence we may have, and I know that Booth has repeatedly passed letters and papers on to him.”

  “With your experience of banking matters, Mr. Jervis, how long a time do you think he might reasonably have calculated would elapse between the presentation of the forged cheques and their detection?”

  “Well, that would depend very largely upon circumstances,” said Mr. Jervis. “In the case of a single cheque it might be a week or two, unless the amounts were so large as to call for special inquiry, in which case it would probably never be cashed at all until such inquiry had been made. In the present case, when there were a dozen forged cheques, it was most unlikely that some one of them should not be detected within twenty-four hours and so lead to the discovery of the fraud. No sane person would dare to presume upon the crime remaining undetected for a longer period than that.”

  “Thanks,” said Holmes, rising. “Those were the chief points I wished to speak to you about. I will communicate to you any news of importance I may have.”

  “I am deeply obliged to you, Mr. Holmes. The case is naturally causing us great anxiety. We leave it entirely to your discretion to take whatever steps you may consider best. Oh, by the way, I sent instructions to Booth’s landlady to disturb nothing in his rooms until you had had an opportunity of examining them.”

  “That was a very wise thing to do,” said Holmes, “and may be the means of helping us materially.”

  “I am also instructed by my company,” said the banker, as he bowed us politely out, “to ask you to make a note of any expenses incurred, which they will of course immediately defray.”

  A few moments later we were ringing the bell of the house in Ashgate Road, Broomhill, at which Mr. Booth had been a lodger for over seven years. It was answered by a maid who informed us that Mrs. Purnell was engaged with a gentleman upstairs. When we explained our errand she showed us at once up to Mr. Booth’s rooms, on the first floor, where we found Mrs. Purnell, a plump, voluble, little lady of about forty, in conversation with Mr. Lestrade, who appeared to be just concluding his examination of the rooms.

  “Good morning, Holmes,” said the detective, with a very self-satisfied air. “You arrive on the scene a little too late; I fancy I have already got all the information needed to catch our man!”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” said Holmes dryly, “and must indeed congratulate you, if this is actually the case. Perhaps after I’ve made a little tour of inspection we can compare notes.”

  “Just as you please,” said Lestrade, with the air of one who can afford to be gracious. “Candidly, I think you will be wasting time, and so would you if you knew what I’ve discovered.”

  “Still, I must ask you to humour my little whim,” said Holmes, leaning against the mantelpiece and whistling softly as he looked round the room.

  After a moment he t
urned to Mrs. Purnell. “The furniture of this room belongs, of course, to you?”

  Mrs. Purnell assented.

  “The picture that was taken down from over the mantelpiece last Wednesday morning,” continued Holmes, “that belonged to Mr. Booth, I presume?”

  I followed Holmes’s glance across to where an unfaded patch on the wallpaper clearly indicated that a picture had recently been hanging. Well as I knew my friend’s methods of reasoning, however, I did not realize for a moment that the little bits of spider web which had been behind the picture, and were still clinging to the wall, had told him that the picture could only have been taken down immediately before Mrs. Purnell had received orders to disturb nothing in the room; otherwise her brush, evidently busy enough elsewhere, would not have spared them.

  The good lady stared at Sherlock Holmes in openmouthed astonishment. “Mr. Booth took it down himself on Wednesday morning,” she said. “It was a picture he had painted himself, and he thought no end of it. He wrapped it up and took it out with him, remarking that he was going to give it to a friend. I was very much surprised at the time, for I knew he valued it very much; in fact he once told me that he wouldn’t part with it for anything. Of course, it’s easy to see now why he got rid of it.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “It wasn’t a large picture, I see. Was it a water colour?”

  “Yes, a painting of a stretch of moorland, with three or four large rocks arranged like a big table on a bare hilltop. Druidicals, Mr. Booth called them, or something like that.”

  “Did Mr. Booth do much painting, then?” enquired Holmes.

  “None, whilst he’s been here, sir. He has told me he used to do a good deal as a lad, but he had given it up.”

  Holmes’s eyes were glancing round the room again, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him as they encountered a photo standing on the piano.

  “Surely that’s a photograph of Mr. Booth,” he said. “It exactly resembles the description I have of him?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Purnell, “and a very good one it is too.”

  “How long has it been taken?” said Holmes, picking it up.

  “Oh, only a few weeks, sir. I was here when the boy from the photographer’s brought them up. Mr. Booth opened the packet whilst I was in the room. There were only two photos, that one and another which he gave to me.”

  “You interest me exceedingly,” said Holmes. “This striped lounge suit he is wearing. Is it the same that he had on when he left Wednesday morning?”

  “Yes, he was dressed just like that, as far as I can remember.”

  “Do you recollect anything of importance that Mr. Booth said to you last Wednesday before he went out?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid, sir. When I took his cup of chocolate up to his bedroom, he said—”

  “One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “Did Mr. Booth usually have a cup of chocolate in the morning?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, summer and winter alike. He was very particular about it and would ring for it as soon as ever he waked. I believe he’d rather have gone without his breakfast almost than have missed his cup of chocolate. Well, as I was saying, sir, I took it up to him myself on Wednesday morning, and he made some remark about the weather and then, just as I was leaving the room, he said, ‘Oh, by the way, Mrs. Purnell, I shall be going away tonight for a couple of weeks. I’ve packed my bag and will call for it this afternoon.’”

  “No doubt you were very much surprised at this sudden announcement?” queried Holmes.

  “Not very much, sir. Ever since he’s had this auditing work to do for the branch banks, there’s been no knowing when he would be away. Of course, he’d never been off for two weeks at a stretch, except at holiday times, but he had so often been away for a few days at a time that I had got used to his popping off with hardly a moment’s notice.”

  “Let me see, how long has he had this extra work at the bank—several months, hasn’t he?”

  “More. It was about last Christmas, I believe, when they gave it to him.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Holmes carelessly, “and this work naturally took him from home a good deal?”

  “Yes, indeed, and it seemed to quite tire him, so much evening and night work too, you see, sir. It was enough to knock him out, for he was always such a very quiet, retiring gentleman and hardly ever used to go out in the evenings before.”

  “Has Mr. Booth left many of his possessions behind him?” asked Holmes.

  “Very few, indeed, and what he has are mostly old useless things. But he’s a most honest thief, sir,” said Mrs. Purnell paradoxically, “and paid me his rent, before he went out on Wednesday morning, right up to next Saturday, because he wouldn’t be back by then.”

  “That was good of him,” said Holmes, smiling thoughtfully. “By the way, do you happen to know if he gave away any other treasures before he left?”

  “Well, not just before, but during the last few months he’s taken away most of his books and sold them, I think, a few at a time. He had rather a fancy for old books and has told me that some editions he had were worth quite a lot.”

  During this conversation, Lestrade had been sitting drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. Now he got up. “Really, I fear I shall have to leave you to this gossip,” he said. “I must go and wire instructions for the arrest of Mr. Booth. If only you would have looked before at this old blotter, which I found in the wastebasket, you would have saved yourself a good deal of unnecessary trouble, Mr. Holmes,” and he triumphantly slapped down a sheet of well-used blotting paper on the table.

  Holmes picked it up and held it in front of a mirror over the sideboard. Looking over his shoulder I could plainly read the reflected impression of a note written in Mr. Booth’s handwriting, of which Holmes had procured samples.

  It was to a booking agency in Liverpool, giving instructions to them to book a first-class private cabin and passage on board the Empress Queen from Liverpool to New York. Parts of the note were slightly obliterated by other impressions, but it went on to say that a cheque was enclosed to pay for tickets, etc., and it was signed by J. Booth.

  Holmes stood silently scrutinizing the paper for several minutes.

  It was a well-used sheet, but fortunately the impression of the note was well in the centre, and hardly obliterated at all by the other marks and blots, which were all round the outer circumference of the paper. In one corner the address of the Liverpool booking agency was plainly decipherable, the paper evidently having been used to blot the envelope with also.

  “My dear Lestrade, you have indeed been more fortunate than I had imagined,” said Holmes at length, handing the paper back to him. “May I ask what steps you propose to take next?”

  “I shall cable at once to the New York police to arrest the fellow as soon as he arrives,” said Lestrade, “but first I must make quite certain the boat doesn’t touch at Queenstown or anywhere and give him a chance of slipping through our fingers.”

  “It doesn’t,” said Holmes quietly. “I had already looked to see as I thought it not unlikely, at first, that Mr. Booth might have intended to sail by the Empress Queen.”

  Lestrade gave me a wink for which I would dearly have liked to have knocked him down, for I could see that he disbelieved my friend. I felt a keen pang of disappointment that Holmes’s foresight should have been eclipsed in this way by what, after all, was mere good luck on Lestrade’s part.

  Holmes had turned to Mrs. Purnell and was thanking her.

  “Don’t mention it, sir,” she said. “Mr. Booth deserves to be caught, though I must say he’s always been a gentleman to me. I only wish I could have given you some more useful information.”

  “On the contrary,” said Holmes, “I can assure you that what you have told us has been of the utmost importance and will very materially help us. It’s just occurred to me, by the way, to wonder if you could possibly put up my friend Dr. Watson and myself for a few days, until we have had time to look into this little
matter?”

  “Certainly, sir, I shall be most happy.”

  “Good,” said Holmes. “Then you may expect us back to dinner about seven.”

  * * * * *

  When we got outside, Lestrade at once announced his intention of going to the police office and arranging for the necessary orders for Booth’s detention and arrest to be cabled to the head of the New York police; Holmes retained an enigmatical silence as to what he proposed to do but expressed his determination to remain at Broomhill and make a few further inquiries. He insisted, however, upon going alone.

  “Remember, Watson, you are here for a rest and holiday, and I can assure you that if you did remain with me you would only find my program a dull one. Therefore, I insist upon your finding some more entertaining way of spending the remainder of the day.”

  Past experience told me that it was quite useless to remonstrate or argue with Holmes when once his mind was made up, so I consented with the best grace I could, and leaving Holmes, drove off in the hansom, which he assured me he would not require further.

  I passed a few hours in the art gallery and museum and then, after lunch, had a brisk walk out on the Manchester Road and enjoyed the fresh air and moorland scenery, returning to Ashgate Road at seven with better appetite than I had been blessed with for months.

  Holmes had not returned, and it was nearly half past seven before he came in. I could see at once that he was in one of his most reticent moods, and all my inquiries failed to elicit any particulars of how he had passed his time or what he thought about the case.

  The whole evening he remained coiled up in an easy chair, puffing at his pipe, and hardly a word could I get from him.