by Anna Elliott
THE BODY IN THE BOOKSELLER’S
A SHERLOCK HOLMES AND LUCY JAMES MYSTERY
THE SHERLOCK HOLMES AND LUCY JAMES MYSTERIES
The Last Moriarty
The Wilhelm Conspiracy
Remember, Remember
The Crown Jewel Mystery
The Jubilee Problem
Death at the Diogenes Club
The Return of the Ripper
Die Again, Mr. Holmes
Watson on the Orient Express
THE SHERLOCK AND LUCY SHORT STORIES
Flynn’s Christmas
The Clown on the High Wire
The Cobra in the Monkey Cage
A Fancy-Dress Death
The Sons of Helios
The Vanishing Medium
Christmas at Baskerville Hall
Kidnapped at the Tower
Five Pink Ladies
The Solitary Witness
The Body in the Bookseller’s
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THE BODY IN THE BOOKSELLER’S
A SHERLOCK HOLMES AND LUCY JAMES MYSTERY
BY ANNA ELLIOTT AND CHARLES VELEY
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Charles Veley and Anna Elliott. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Sherlock and Lucy series website: http://sherlockandlucy.com
eBook formatting by FormattingExperts.com
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1: WATSON
CHAPTER 2: WATSON
CHAPTER 3: LUCY
CHAPTER 4: LUCY
CHAPTER 5: LUCY
CHAPTER 6: LUCY
CHAPTER 7: LUCY
CHAPTER 8: WATSON
CHAPTER 9: LUCY
CHAPTER 10: WATSON
CHAPTER 11: WATSON
CHAPTER 12: LUCY
CHAPTER 13: WATSON
CHAPTER 14: LUCY
CHAPTER 15: LUCY
CHAPTER 16: LUCY
CHAPTER 17: WATSON
CHAPTER 18: LUCY
CHAPTER 19: LUCY
HISTORICAL NOTES
A NOTE TO READERS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
CHAPTER 1: WATSON
London was unusually cold on the October morning that began this adventure, and a heavy downpour seemed to have affixed itself over Baker Street, continually lashing our bow window with sheets of icy rain. Inside our rooms, I sat, warm and comfortable, at our breakfast table, looking at the blurred police photo that Holmes had proffered to me after I had finished my coffee. Holmes had taken the photo from his files, but had kept the accompanying case notes, and had asked for my thoughts.
I considered the image in the photograph. A man with a wedge-shaped face and a low, heavy-browed forehead. A short and scraggly grey beard accentuated his pointed chin. I tried to remember where I had seen it.
“The twisted smile and the sullen stare are familiar,” I said. “The grey hair as well, so thick and tightly curled, though uncombed, and the ill-trimmed Van Dyke beard, clearly neglected for at least a day or two. So I would expect he had been on the run for some time, and that this photograph was taken when he was captured and booked.”
“You do not recall the name?”
With one of those fortuitous tricks of the mind that happen for me all too rarely, the name did come. “It is Parker,” I said.
“Bravo, Watson!”
“He had shadowed you in London when you returned from Reichenbach Falls, and was arrested soon after we entrapped his associate, Colonel Moran.”
“Bravo, again!”
Flushed with pride, I continued, “And from your interest in his photograph today, I infer that he has been released from prison and is once again at large. But I believe you said he was a relatively harmless fellow. As I recall, you even pointed out his musical skill with the jew’s-harp.”
“I did say that.”
“So then why are you interested in Parker?”
“Because he is no longer relatively harmless. When he entered prison, he had been a garroter by trade, dangerous only to those whom he would rob, after incapacitating them with a silken scarf. But upon his release, he has found a new and more lucrative application of his old skill, along with a new device to replace his scarf. A wood-handled wire. He is now an assassin by trade, Watson, and a very deadly one.”
I gave an involuntary shudder, for I knew how quickly the flexible-wire garrotte could be looped around the neck of the victim and then pulled taut by a killer who held the peg-like handles on either end. The result was strangulation of the victim, or crushing of the windpipe, or severing the carotid artery, or sometimes all three injuries, all of them fatal.
I handed Holmes the photograph. “And what has brought Parker to your attention?”
“According to Scotland Yard informants, Parker has a new and powerful client. Lestrade has asked me to ascertain what I can.”
I nodded. “I only hope that you are not his target.”
“I may well be,” Holmes said, “and that is my purpose in making you aware of what may be a danger to both of us.”
“For which I thank you.”
“Although I must point out that it is far too soon to make a conclusion regarding the target sought by Mr. Parker until we have ascertained the identity of his client.”
From Holmes’s look, I readied myself for another lecture on the importance of reasoning from a full set of the facts rather than speculating from only a few. But then Holmes continued, “That is the task to which I have set myself for the day.”
He stood up, prepared, I thought, to go off to some vile haunts of some unsavoury characters who would, for a price, tell what they knew of Mr. Parker.
But then Mrs. Hudson brought in a telegraph message from Mycroft Holmes.
“Come at once to Diogenes Club Library,” the message read. “Bring Dr. Watson.”
News of the assassin Parker had set my nerves on edge. Beneath my umbrella outside on Baker Street, I glanced warily from side to side in the rain as we waited for a vacant cab. Every man who passed us on the pavement seemed a potential threat. Was that hunched-over figure the assassin Parker, concealing his face but targeting us all the same? When an available cab did pull over before us, I scrutinised the face of the driver. Not Parker, but was he in the employ of Sonnebourne, our powerful enemy from past cases? After we boarded and shut the doors, I watched out the window throughout our journey. Were we taking the proper route to Whitehall, or were we being kidnapped?
My vigilance went for naught, however, for in less than a half-hour Holmes and I had reached our destination and were marching up the wide granite steps, through the wind and rain, to the familiar oak entry doors of the Diogenes Club.
I felt relief as the attendant took our coats. I followed Holmes up the carpeted stairs to the library, scene of so many dramatic events in the adventures that I have recounted among these pages. I wondered what new adventure awaited us.
Inside the library we found Mycroft, Holmes’s older and far more corpulent brother, seated with a second man at the far end of the conference table, drumming his fingers with impatience on the polished oak surface. “Hello, Sherlock. Good morning, Dr. Watson,” said Mycroft. He gave a nod towards the empty chairs to his right.
The second man hunched in the chair across from us as we took our seats. His clothes were rumpled. His rimless spectacles and wispy grey hair gave him a fragile, scholarly look, but his round, puffy face appeared bleary-eyed, as though he had not slept.
“We are here at your summons,” Holmes said.
Mycroft nodded towards the other man.
“This gentleman is Mr. Rupert Hobbes, of The Queen’s Messenger Corps,” said Mycroft. “Our most senior and most capable courier. We have a pretty problem for you, Sherlock. Mr. Hobbes will explain, and then I shall add what little I can.”
Hobbes spoke in a clear, forthright manner. “I will be brief. I have twelve years’ experience as a courier, and not a single loss. I was in the Queen’s Cavalry for ten years before that. Mr. Mycroft Holmes here has referred to me as capable, and I do fancy myself a competent fellow. At least I did so, up to today, when I failed in my mission. I had no notion. But I am getting ahead of myself.”
“Perhaps it would be better if you started at the beginning,” Holmes said. I could tell that his keen interest had been aroused, for he barely concealed his impatience. “Allow me to ask the questions and we shall get on more efficiently. So, given your role as Queen’s Courier, I take it that some valuable documents are missing.”
“Yes.”
“Those which you were transporting.”
“Yes.”
“From where to where?”
“From Paris to Whitehall. The War Office. But I never got that far.”
“You reached Dover uneventfully?”
“Yes.”
“Victoria Station?”
“Yes. It was there that the problem occurred.”
“I wish to hear about Paris first. Where did you acquire the documents?”
“At the British embassy. The secure mail room. Where we normally go to pick up our parcels.”
“You picked up this one in the ordinary way?”
“I had no special instructions, if that is what you mean. I knew to keep it within my sight at all times, and so I did.”
“Chained to your wrist?”
“I don’t go in for that. It only calls attention to me. And that’s not what I want when I am on a job. They train us to pass unnoticed through the way-stations of the world.”
“What happened then?”
“I took a cab to Gare du Nord and then the Wagons-Lits express to Calais. Then the Dover Ferry.”
“Did you observe your fellow passengers?”
“Yes. But no more than usual. I had no sense of being followed or being observed.”
“None at all? No one looked at you?”
“My normal travels are best when they’re lonely. When I get a pretty young woman anxious to be telling me of her sick brother or maiden aunt, well, that’s when I get the wind up. My wife would be the first to object and she’d object pretty strenuously, too.”
“Pray, describe your journey from Dover.”
“I had a first-class compartment to myself.”
“Were you interfered with?”
“Not once. Not on the train, at any rate.”
“Describe the parcel. The packet of documents.”
“The usual diplomatic bag. A cloth canvas affair. Locked on the outside with a rope drawstring and a small metal padlock. Largely ceremonial, for the rope or the canvas could easily be cut. The lock is merely a seal to demonstrate that the bag has not been opened. The port inspector knows not to break the seal when I show them my Queen’s Messenger identification.”
“Which you did in Calais, and again in Dover.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was round you at those moments?”
“Ordinary passengers. Men of all shapes and sizes. No one unusual.”
“And again, no one interfered.”
“No one.”
“You arrived at Victoria Station. You left your compartment.”
“That’s when the trouble began.”
“We will come to that. For now, please describe the packet.”
“The size of a business folder. Perhaps a foot square. Perhaps an inch thick.”
“What did it feel like? Its weight, the texture of the contents?”
“The weight was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but papers, I would have said.”
“Was the packet visible at all?”
“No. I carried it in my leather valise. A very ordinary Gladstone bag.”
“Nothing else inside the bag?”
“Only my shirt and shaving kit. And my underwear. My wallet and cigarette case are in my coat pocket.”
“So you were carrying your bag, with the papers inside, when you left Victoria Station. When was this?”
“I had the last train of the day. Around midnight.”
“What happened then?”
“I got into the cab.”
“The first one in the rank?”
“Yes. Just ordinary procedure, as I always do.”
“What sort of cab?”
“A four-wheeler. Ordinary growler.”
“So before you got in, you gave the cabman your destination.”
“Why yes, I suppose I must have.”
“Your exact words, if you please.”
“Whitehall, cabby. Foreign office.”
“What happened then?”
“I stepped up and was seating myself. There was a door on the other side. It opened and there was another gentleman. I thought he just wanted the cab. But then another chap came in behind me. We had a bit of a dust-up.” Hobbes looked ruefully at his knuckles, which were bruised and scraped. “But in the end the second fellow held my arms while the first fellow clapped a chloroform pad over my face.”
Holmes turned to me. “Doctor, could you please take a look at Mr. Hobbes’s face and hands.”
I did so. It was like Holmes to seek physical confirmation, but the marks on Mr. Hobbes’s hands bore out his story. “Bruising. Abrasions,” I said.
“What happened then?”
“I woke up on a bench in St. James Park.”
“Your wallet, your money—those were still on your person?”
“My suitcase as well.”
“Only the parcel was missing.”
“Yes.”
Mycroft said, “The police are interviewing people around the park. But since there was no daylight, little was seen.”
“Nevertheless, an interesting point, Mycroft,” Holmes said. “No attempt to disguise the robbery as an ordinary one. So now, Mr. Hobbes, let us return to the parcel itself. You did not open it?”
“Break the seal? Not likely. Worth my job. My pension too.”
“You said the bag was canvas. Only canvas?”
“It has a lining. India rubber with linen. Like a mackintosh fabric. To protect the papers.”
Mycroft said, “The weather can turn inclement. Someone could spill a drink, soup, coffee. Not good for documents.”
“Indeed. And, Mr. Hobbes, was there anything about this particular parcel to distinguish it from any of the hundreds of others you have carried?”
“No, nothing different.”
“Except that someone thought it important enough to waylay you and steal it.”
“And I still don’t see why, sir.”
“More questions, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft.
Holmes gave a slight shake of his head.
“Dr. Watson?”
“I should like to know if you discussed your mission with anyone on the way to the embassy in Paris or otherwise. Or with your wife.”
“Lord, no, sir. I tell my wife I am working for the army, acting as a courier of personnel records. Which sounds perfectly dull and unintere
sting, even though it is near to the truth. I bring her back souvenirs from some of the cities. Something in a reasonable price range, you understand.”
“So, to summarise, you took the evening train to Dover, and then the evening ferry to Calais, where you stayed the night?”
“Yes, in a small hotel, without incident.”
I wanted to be sure that I understood the sequence of events. “The morning train brought you to Paris, where you picked up your parcel. On your return journey, you took the afternoon train from Paris to Calais, the evening ferry to Dover, and then the last train to Victoria. So, it was dark when you arrived.”
“More difficult for me to see. But easier to blend in. I am just another forgettable figure. An ordinary traveller. No one notices me. That is one of my chief qualifications for my position. And I must repeat, it has stood me in good stead for two decades and hundreds of successful missions.”
He paused and looked at the three of us, as if seeking approval, or forgiveness.
Holmes roused himself. “And you had no inkling in any way that there was anything unusual about this parcel.”
“None.”
“What do you think it contained?”
“I never guess about such things.”
“Very wise, too. But what if you were to guess, now that someone has taken it?”
“Don’t like to say.”
“Say anyway. Your opinion will go no further than this room.”
Hobbes shook his head.
“I give you my word it will have no consequence to your personal situation,” Holmes said.
“Well. I would imagine it contains pictures. Or letters. Or perhaps both. Something quite scandalous. Since they called you gentlemen in straight away.”
“The nature of the scandal?”
“Well, Paris, sir. Some high-born people get into scandalous situations in Paris.”
I immediately thought of Prince Albert, the heir apparent, and the many stories about his activities amid Parisian night spots. I wondered if Holmes would pursue this line of inquiry.
But Holmes, who appeared to be watching Mycroft, gave one of his quick little smiles. “Well Mycroft, I think that concludes our questions.”
“If we need to find you, Mr. Hobbes?” asked Mycroft.
