The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI

by David Marcum

  “Pepper continued barking and was scratching at the door, trying to give chase,” she recalled. “I called her off and she limped over to me and lay at my feet. I felt around her, looking for wounds and discovered a spot on her ribs that was sensitive. The brute must have kicked or kneed her hard enough to make her lose her grip so he could get away.”

  “Did you get a look at his face?” enquired the detective.

  “No, sir. He was dressed all in black and was wearing one of those head masks. You know, like fishermen wear in the winter.”

  “A balaclava?” suggested Gibson.

  “Yes, one of those.”

  “Could you judge his height or weight? Did he say anything that would let you describe his voice?” continued the detective.

  “It was hard to tell his size in the dark, with him curled up on the floor fighting Pepper like that. Only a small wall lamp near the top of the stairs was still lit for the night. He wasn’t tall and thin like you, Mr. Holmes. Just an average-size fellow. He didn’t say anything other than his cries of pain. I would say they were more tenor than bass, if a musical reference would help.”

  “Does the dog usually stay in the house?” asked Holmes.

  “This time of year she stays in her doghouse in the back yard at night. Unless my husband is out of town. Then she stays in here with us.”

  “A fact unlikely to be known by anyone outside the family,” commented the detective.

  “I should think so, Mr. Holmes. Who advertises the sleeping patterns of their pets?”

  “What do ye think happened to yer husband’s gun?” asked Gibson.

  The beleaguered woman played with the handkerchief in her hands, trying unsuccessfully to stop them from shaking. Finally she replied, “I don’t know. It’s his old service revolver. He hasn’t shot it in years. Not since he showed me how to use it shortly after we got married, in case of emergencies.”

  “Was he feeling threatened lately? Perhaps by a former client?” asked Holmes.

  “He never said anything. He seemed perfectly normal up until the time he disappeared. Oh, Mr. Holmes, where could he be?”

  Holmes tilted his head, then took the woman’s shaking hands into his own.

  “I’ve only theories at this point, madam. But I am hoping to have an answer soon. Did you make arrangements to stay with your cousin in London?”

  “Yes. We go down on the morning train.”

  Gibson, chimed in, “The guards will remain posted outside until you leave and escort ye to the station. Have no fear, Mrs. Forrester.”

  “Thank you, Constable. But what if it was a burglar? If he finds us gone, he’ll be back, won’t he?”

  “With your permission, I’ll have Mr. Duncan spend his nights here while you’re away. Does he get along with Pepper?” Holmes asked, as an afterthought.

  “Oh, yes, yes, that’s a fine idea. Pepper is quite used to Donald. He’s been here often.”

  “Then the two of them, with police patrolling outside, should be quite sufficient to keep the house safe. I will send word as soon as I can to you at your cousin’s.”

  The next stop for the detective and the constable was the office of Cecil Forrester, where Holmes explained his plan to Duncan. The young fellow was quite eager to be of service and readily agreed to the arrangement.

  Then Holmes and the apprentice went over the information, about which the detective had telegraphed the day before. Reviewing the papers and receipts, Holmes suddenly stood and cried, “I have you!”

  Donning his hat and coat, he swore Duncan to secrecy and bustled Gibson off to the nearest telegrapher and sent another wire to London.

  “We’ve one more stop, old friend,” declared Holmes. “Have you the address of Barclay Forrester?”

  Arriving at the home of the solicitor’s brother, the door was answered by the housekeeper, a dour old woman with her grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. It gave her a face a sour countenance, which was complemented by a raspy voice.

  “The master’s not home.” she declared upon Gibson’s inquiry. “Gone off to Glasgow on business.”

  She started to close the door, but Holmes’s hand grabbed the handle and he stepped inside, his foot now braced against the bottom edge. “Excuse me, madam, but we are quite concerned for Mr. Forrester’s safety. It is our belief he was the victim of an altercation last night and suffered injuries. We have the culprit in custody and should like him to make an identification for us.”

  The housekeeper’s features softened slightly and she opened the door to allow the men to enter. “Now that you mention it, he didn’t seem quite himself this morning. Had to use his left hand to carry his luggage and was walking with a bit of a limp.”

  “That sounds like the type of injuries our witness described,” piped up Gibson, playing along with the detective’s game.

  Holmes eyes wandered about the room, taking in all the information he could glean about the man, and then asked, “Where does he stay when in Glasgow?”

  “He’s at the Mackintosh Station Hotel,” replied the spinster.

  “May we see his room? We’d like to see if his clothes of last evening have any evidence we can use against his attacker.”

  “Well, I suppose that’ll be all right, if it’ll help you convict the brute. Follow me.”

  She led the investigators upstairs to Forrester’s bedroom where they found bloody bandages and a gentleman’s shirt, torn at the forearm, stuffed into the heat stove, where it had not yet been fully consumed.

  Holmes made one more request of the old woman, “Where is the lumber room, madam? I should like to find a bag of some sort to transport this evidence.”

  The housekeeper led them down the hall and pointed a room at the end. Holmes entered and soon returned with a suitable canvas bag for their purpose. He assured the woman that the evidence collected would “surely convict the culprit,” and the men left her, advising her that they would contact Forrester themselves in Glasgow.

  Returning finally to the Edinburgh police building, the two investigators settled into chairs at Gibson’s desk, where the constable questioned his old friend.

  “What made you suspect Barclay when Mrs. Forrester said the culprit had a tenor voice? Barclay’s more of a bass.”

  Holmes responded in the lecturing voice that I’d grown accustomed to over the years, “The panic of the moment generally causes the human voice to rise by an octave or two. A true tenor would have sounded more like an alto or even a soprano under those conditions. Thus, it was more likely to be the brother, rather than, say, Duncan.”

  Gibson nodded, wrote out a warrant for the arrest of Barclay Forrester, and had it dispatched to his counterparts at the Glasgow police headquarters.

  Chapter V

  “Well, Holmes, we’ve solved the attempted burglary of last night, but what of our larger case?” asked Constable Gibson as he leaned forward, his large hands folded on the desk before him.

  In response, Holmes took his briarwood pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. Once he had it going strong, with a sweet aroma permeating the area about Gibson’s desk, he then pulled another item from the canvas bag and tossed it in his friend’s direction as he sat back in his chair, his long legs stretched to their fullest and languidly voiced his thoughts.

  Gibson snatched the object out of the air and examined it briefly. “A knot from a thick board, probably oak. So what?”

  “Look closely, man. There are yellow flecks of paint that match those found on the planks in Eyemouth. In addition, I found speckles of that paint on the floor of Barclay Forrester’s lumber room. The brother must be in on the scheme. As to motive, I am as yet uncertain,” he said. “But the facts suggest that Cecil Forrester wished to start a new life under a new name and cut all ties to his practice and his family. When we searched his roo
ms, it appeared that his most valuable possessions were missing. His closet was bereft of more clothes that would be needed for a weekend trip, as was his jewelry box of several pairs of cufflinks and tie pins. Not to mention his taking of his pistol.

  “The paperwork missing from his office, along with mentions of persons and accounts without corresponding documents to attach them to any particular case, also gave rise to the specter of a secret client, or more likely, a secret identity. In particular, there are references to Rotterdam for no apparent case-related reason.

  “Then there is the questionable Alick Lusk. As Lt. Commander Niven informed us, he is a shady character whom someone could buy off to take a detour or make an unscheduled stop. After dumping the so-called evidence of wreckage near Eyemouth, he could easily have changed course for the Netherlands, as Rotterdam is the largest port along Europe’s western coast. An easy place to blend in and hide.

  “Finally, during my enquiries among the boatyard shops, I found that a gentleman of Cecil Forrester’s description had ordered a new life preserver. He told the maker it was for a boat he was buying. I believe it was to substitute for the one he would fling overboard where he had calculated the tide would take it into Eyemouth harbor.”

  Gibson whistled softly, “That’s quite a tale, Holmes. If ye’re right, how will we track down Cecil Forrester? Will he even stay in Rotterdam, or use it as a jumping off point to somewhere else on the Continent? And how does his brother fit in?”

  Holmes sat up straighter, then crossed his right ankle over his left knee as he leaned on Gibson’s desk with a sharp elbow, “I believe Cecil enlisted his brother’s help with the promise that he would inherit what was left behind, including the income from Mrs. Forrester’s own inheritance, which was divided between her and her cousin as separate sources of income from the McNab family estate. Somehow, Barclay Forrester realized he hadn’t received all the papers necessary from his brother in order to cash in and pay off some immediate debts. Unwilling to wait until an official death notice released the inheritance, he broke into his brother’s home in hopes that they would be there, since young Duncan was putting up quite a resistance at the office.

  “I doubt the man had ever been to his brother’s house when his brother wasn’t at home. Thus, he assumed the doghouse in the backyard was the sleeping quarters of the retriever, not knowing that she slept indoors when her master was out of town.”

  “Well,” pronounced the big Scot, “with the evidence we’ve got, Barclay will go to prison for sure. Perhaps he can be persuaded to give us the facts of his brother’s scheme in return for some consideration.”

  Holmes tapped out his pipe and grumbled, “Barclay Forrester is a rogue without conscience. I’ve no doubt he would have turned his sister-in-law and her children out without a second thought. I should prefer to exhaust all our other avenues before making any sort of deal with the man.”

  “Can we prove a crime on Cecil Forrester’s part?” countered Gibson.

  “Not yet,” murmured the detective. “But let us see what the morrow brings.”

  The next day saw the arrest and transfer of Barclay Forrester back to Edinburgh Gaol to await trial. Mrs. Forrester and her children were off to her cousin’s home in London and Sherlock Holmes waited impatiently for answers to his previous telegrams. His hotel room was layered in a blue-tinged haze from the many pipes he had smoked, as his mind considered and discarded several scenarios which might explain Cecil Forrester’s behavior.

  At just after three in the afternoon, an answer from London arrived at last.

  Agents report subject at Bilderberg Hotel, Rotterdam, under name Henry Boswachter. Boat anchored and set to stay in port for one week. Need evidence of crime to detain and extradite.

  Taking up this verification, Holmes immediately left for Forrester’s office to consult with Duncan. The young man expressed even more shock than he would have had his employer’s body been found washed up on some deserted shore.

  “This is incredible, Mr. Holmes!” he cried upon hearing the news. “Granted, business is only marginal at the moment, but how could he leave his family behind? Mrs. Forrester is a charming woman, and the children are well-behaved and healthy. What could he be thinking?”

  “His motives are not my concern at the moment,” answered the detective. “I need to know if there is some law which can be invoked to force his return.”

  Duncan, running his fingers through his hair, began thinking out loud in a desultory tone.

  “Hmm, he’s not been gone long enough to be charged with family abandonment, and there’s no proof he wasn’t planning to come back... Perhaps I can go through our current cases and see if he has progressed according to the contracted timetables. If not, we may be able to charge him with breach of contract, but that’s only civil. You probably need a criminal charge to force an extradition.”

  Holmes nodded and placed his hand on the apprentice’s shoulder. “See what you can find. I’ll be at police headquarters.”

  Joining Gibson, Holmes and the constable continued discussing options for bringing Forrester home.

  “I’ve dispatched a telegram to the Rotterdam police, informing them of the situation and giving them both Forrester’s name and alias, as well as the hotel,” recounted the big Scotsman.

  “But unless he commits a crime there that makes him persona non grata, I’m not sure there’s much we can do without getting his brother to implicate him.”

  Holmes mulled over their predicament as he and Gibson drank coffee at the constable’s desk. Finally he put down his cup and said to his old school mate, “It’s time to confront Barclay Forrester. But I believe our best tactic is to threaten rather than to bargain.”

  The two men stood to walk back to the cells when a messenger arrived with a telegram, which he handed to the constable. Breaking the seal on the form, Gibson read aloud for Holmes’s benefit:

  “It’s from the Koninklijke Marechaussee, the Rotterdam police.” He read:

  Henry Boswachter found dead in hotel room. No foul play suspected but Lusk held for questioning. No other identification found. Autopsy to follow.

  Captain Jan Jensen, KMar

  “Well, that’s an unexpected turn of events,” continued the constable. “Any suggestions as to what we do now, Holmes?”

  The detective pondered this new development for several moments before replying, “I believe we still need to confront the brother. Only now, I’ve a new tactic to use. Please follow my lead and do not mention that Cecil is dead.”

  The two men walked back to the cells with purposeful strides and had the guard let them in to Barclay Forrester’s cell, where he lay on his bed.

  Upon their entrance, he sat up and demanded, “This is false imprisonment! You have no cause to hold me here!”

  Holmes leaned back against the bars, his long arms folded across his chest, and cocked his head at little man.

  “We have proof you attempted to burgle your brother’s house,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “Impossible!” cried Forrester, “I wasn’t there!”

  “The dog, Pepper, would quite disagree,” answered the detective. “She tore enough of your clothing off to match up with the garments you attempted to burn.”

  “Bah! One piece of cloth looks just like another.”

  “Not when you compare the dog’s teeth marks. Besides, we have an eyewitness.”

  “That’s ridiculous! If the dog attacked a prowler, it would have been in the front hall. My sister-in-law sleeps upstairs. She would have gone to the children at the sound of any intrusion.”

  Holmes smiled, “You are assuming that all were upstairs at the time. Being a bachelor, you are likely not aware of the irritating habits of young children who leave their rooms in the middle of the night in search of a drink of water or a need to use the loo.”

&
nbsp; “You’d take the word of a child over me?”

  Gibson spoke up. “A child who would certainly know his uncle by sight.”

  “In the dark?” asked their prisoner, skeptically.

  Holmes added, “You are also likely unaware that the light at the top of the stairs is perfectly position to reflect off the mirror downstairs. You believe your masked face protected you, but both your nephew and your sister-in-law recognized the distinctive ruby ring as the light reflected red on your left hand.”

  Barclay Forrester looked down at his empty hand, from which all jewelry had been confiscated. He said nothing, but the sag to his countenance revealed the sting of defeat he felt.

  Holmes pounced upon this chink in the man’s armour. “There is also the matter of your attempted fraud at trying to collect your brother’s inheritance.”

  This new attack caught the culprit off guard. “Wha... what are you talking about? My brother’s dead. The inheritance is mine.”

  The London detective shook his head and announced, “Your brother is currently in the Netherlands, being held by the Rotterdam police. He will soon be extradited back here, and I am sure he will spin whatever tale is most favorable to him, no matter where that leaves you.”

  The little man stood up in defiance at that scenario. “No! It was all Cecil’s idea. He’s been acting strange lately, though he puts up a good front for his wife. He kept saying ‘they’ were after him, and it wasn’t safe for him to stay in Edinburgh.”