The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I asked.

  ‘If the Churchfields were loitering here when they were supposed to be abroad – which seems to me a certainty – then there must have been some good reason for it. The likeliest explanation is that they were waiting here for something and the fact that they have now gone suggests that that something arrived yesterday. If so, who could have brought it but the unfortunate Mr Wilkinson? What I suspect is that at close of business at the bank – which is early, of course, on a Saturday – he brought sufficient funds here to keep the Churchfield family in comfort for the rest of their lives. That, of course, is why Mr Ashby was told to go directly to the football ground when he returned from London. Churchfield did not want to risk Ashby running across his family or Wilkinson.’

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ queried Lestrade. ‘Do you think that Wilkinson came here with a satchel full of banknotes?’

  ‘I doubt it, especially considering the family’s probable destination. More likely it was internationally negotiable bonds, which the family could sell anywhere on the Continent, whenever they wished. If so, it is theft on a very grand scale: the money is not theirs, but belongs to their customers.’

  ‘I can scarcely credit what you are saying!’ said Inspector Welch in a tone of amazement. ‘Such upright and correct people! Such esteemed figures in the district! What about Wilkinson, though? He must have been in it with them, so why is he dead?’

  Sherlock Holmes shook his head. ‘That we cannot say. Perhaps he had scruples about the whole business, or had only just realised what they were up to and threatened to make the matter public, or perhaps he had no scruples but demanded money from them to buy his silence. In any event, I imagine a quarrel blew up, blows were exchanged and one blow cost Wilkinson his life. Alternatively, they may have intended to murder him all along when he had served his purpose. They certainly intended to burn the house down. I can think of no other good reason why the members of the XYZ Club should have been invited here on this particular weekend, except to act as scapegoats and take the blame for the fire. Presumably there were things in the house – documents and so on – that the Churchfields wished to destroy. Wait a moment!’ said Holmes, abruptly breaking off.

  He slipped past the policemen, bent down and pulled something out from the dusty jumble of litter beneath the work-bench by the back wall. As he stood up, I saw that it was a black silk hat, bent and crushed out of shape. ‘The name on the inside is “T. Wilkinson”,’ said Holmes. ‘He was right-handed and spent much of his time using a pen,’ he added, indicating a small inky stain on the front right edge of the rim. ‘There is also a trace of blood inside the hat, at the back. It was here in this boathouse that Wilkinson was probably murdered.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me!’ said Lestrade. ‘Let’s get back to the police station and see if we can’t find where that boat has gone!’

  ‘I can send a wire to Teddington Lock, to see if they’ve seen anything of it,’ said Welch as we left the grounds of Challington House and hurried down the road.

  When we reached the police station, the sergeant on duty informed Lestrade that a reply had already been received to his earlier enquiry concerning Wilkinson. The police station at Norwood stated that a Mr Thomas Wilkinson had been reported missing the previous evening. He was, they said, deputy chief cashier at Churchfield’s Bank in the City, but had failed to return from work that afternoon as usual. A few moments later, Inspector Welch received a reply from Teddington Lock, stating that such a houseboat as he described had passed through the lock earlier in the morning.

  ‘Notify Scotland Yard, Deptford and all points east,’ said Lestrade. ‘Tell them that this boat must be stopped at all costs! I’m going back to town at once, Welch. You’d better come with me, Mr Ashby. You can help identify the boat and the Churchfield boy. Will you come, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘We’ll come with you as far as Paddington, at any rate,’ returned Holmes. ‘Then, I think, we’ll leave the matter in your capable hands, Lestrade!’

  Everything that my friend had predicted came to pass exactly as he had foretold, as I learnt from the newspapers the following evening. According to the Echo, the Churchfields’ houseboat had eventually been stopped just off Greenwich Point, the whole family being taken into custody for questioning. They were subsequently charged with fraud, theft, arson and murder, although the last charge was later reduced to culpable homicide as it could not be proved that they had intended to murder Wilkinson when they struck him. Meanwhile, it was reported in the Pall Mall Gazette that Churchfield’s Bank had been in chaos, and had not opened its doors to the public all day, eventually announcing at three o’clock in the afternoon that it could no longer continue trading. The Globe, taking a different perspective on the affair, heaped praise on Inspector Lestrade, ‘without whose smart work and initiative’, it remarked, ‘a great crime might have gone undetected’.

  ‘They do not mention you at all,’ I said to my friend, as I finished reading these accounts of the case. ‘They seem to believe that Lestrade solved the whole business by himself!’

  ‘Thank goodness for that!’ returned Holmes with a chuckle. ‘I can assure you I had no desire to see my name linked with such a simple affair. Let Lestrade enjoy his moment of glory, Watson. One day we may need a favour from him. Meanwhile, let us hope that something a little more challenging turns up soon to exercise our intellects!’

  The Adventure of the Velvet Mask

  I

  The cold winter of 1886 was made memorable for me by the remarkable series of cases handled by my friend, Sherlock Holmes, in which it was my privilege to observe his methods of work and make a record of the details. Especially notable among these cases were the mysterious death of the eminent archaeologist, Sir Montague Knelling, the scandal concerning the Liverpool and Malabar Shipping Company, and the outrageous theft of one of the most precious possessions of the Empire. Yet, sensational though these cases were, none was perhaps so interesting as that which concerned the old Albion Theatre and the peculiar persecution to which those employed there were subject. Indeed, of all the cases in which I was able to assist Sherlock Holmes, during the time we lodged together in Baker Street, there are few which are impressed more vividly upon my memory.

  I had returned to our chambers early in the afternoon of a chilly January day, to find that Sherlock Holmes was entertaining a visitor. Beside the blazing fire sat a graceful, handsome woman, elegantly attired in a maroon costume with salmon-pink trimmings and overskirt. Upon her head was a small turban-like bonnet, adorned with feathers of the same colours.

  I had pushed open the door of our sitting-room with my thoughts elsewhere, hardly aware of my surroundings. But now, as I mumbled an apology for intruding, and made to withdraw, I hesitated. Something in the visitor’s features plucked a cord in my memory, as she turned her head in my direction and raised an inquiring eyebrow. We had met before, I was convinced. If so, I ought, from politeness, to acknowledge the fact. But I could not think where this meeting might have taken place and, thus, for a long moment, stood in what no doubt appeared perfectly idiotic silence. Sherlock Holmes evidently perceived my difficulty, for, in an instant, he had sprung from his chair and come to my rescue.

  ‘My esteemed friend and colleague, Dr Watson,’ cried he with a chuckle, as he took my arm and drew me into the room; ‘Miss Isabel Ballantyne, with whose celebrity you are doubtless already familiar.’

  I took the hand which the lady extended, thinking what an idiot I was not to have recognised at once one of the most celebrated actresses of the day. Scarcely three months previously I had sat in the stalls and applauded at Isabel Ballantyne’s performance in a musical comedy entitled The Pirate Queen, in which her distinguished presence had served to elevate what was really only mediocre fare into a most enjoyable evening. I had also seen her be both captivating and amusing as Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, a portrayal which most critics thought unlikely to be bettered.
r />   I recalled, also, in that instant of recognition, other things I had read of Miss Ballantyne over the years, of how her glittering success upon the London stage had not been accompanied by equal felicity in her private life. Those in the society papers who claimed to know about such things had spoken frequently of her many friends and admirers, but had hinted, also, at a private loneliness or melancholy at the centre of this giddy whirl of public life. Until, that is, the arrival upon the scene of Captain William Trent, the dashing former cavalry officer and big-game hunter, who had, against general expectation, wooed and won Miss Ballantyne’s heart. Hitherto little known in London society, he had at once assumed the heroic status of a modern-day Lochinvar, riding in from afar to rescue Miss Ballantyne from her melancholy. Anyone who could achieve what so many had aspired to in vain was clearly worthy of the very highest respect. The attitude of other men towards Captain Trent was, in consequence, therefore, largely one of genuine admiration, but tinged just a little, perhaps, with envy. Since Miss Ballantyne’s marriage to Captain Trent, eighteen months previously, her name had appeared less frequently in the society press, and it was supposed that she had at last found that private peace with which to balance her public glamour.

  I stole another swift glance at our visitor’s face as I took her hand. Although no longer in the first flush of youth, she was, if anything, more attractive than ever. Those soft, dark, expressive eyes, that gentle, warm smile upon her lips – in an experience of female beauty which extended over many nations and races, I had never, I felt, descried a more winning or charming face.

  ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said I, sounding somewhat more formal than I had intended.

  ‘Delighted,’ returned she.

  ‘Miss Ballantyne was about to describe to me a curious series of incidents which have occurred lately at Hardy’s Theatre,’ said Holmes. ‘Richard Hudson Hardy’s company is in rehearsal there for a new production which is to open in three days’ time. I wonder, madam, if I could trouble you to repeat the gist of what you have already told me, so that my friend may understand the situation?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Miss Ballantyne, in that light, musical voice which had so captivated and bewitched London theatre-goers in recent years. ‘You should first understand, then, Dr Watson, that I was invited by Mr Hardy to join his company last autumn. He wished me to take the principal female role in a new production he was mounting, of a play entitled The Lavender Girl.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve heard of it,’ I remarked.

  ‘It is newly written, by Mr Hardy himself. His intention is to offer the theatre-going public something a little different. At this time of year, as you will know, theatres present pantomimes in such abundance that even the most avid enthusiast must at last become sated, and long for something different. It is Mr Hardy’s belief that The Lavender Girl might be just the thing to tempt the public’s jaded palate. It is something of a tragicomedy, and has a great number of songs, both old and new. From the first moment I saw the script I was convinced it would be a success, and at once agreed to take part. The other principal actors are Ludovic Xavier, who is always popular, and is returning to the London stage for the first time in over a year; Jimmy Webster, who can generally be relied upon to amuse an audience; and a young girl, Lydia Summers. She is a newcomer. She is a little unpolished at the moment and I’m not certain that she has much talent, but she seems keen to learn, anyway.

  ‘We began rehearsals at Hardy’s Theatre a few weeks before Christmas. I don’t know if you are aware, Dr Watson, but Hardy’s Theatre is the old Albion. It had been closed down for some years when Mr Hardy bought it, about three years ago, and he thought that by renaming it he might give it a fresh start. He also considered that by attaching his name to it, the reputation he had acquired for providing entertaining fare would help to stimulate interest. Do you know the Albion Theatre, Dr Watson?’

  ‘Is that not the theatre down the Waterloo Road, where the comedian Solomon Tanner used to reign supreme, a decade and more ago?’

  ‘That is correct. If you recall Solomon Tanner, you may recall, too, that his popularity was such that he also took the theatre next door to the Albion, the Southwark Palace, and at the height of his fame used to perform in both theatres in the course of a single evening, in two different plays. This tour de force of the Thespian arts – or financial greed, as some termed it – was not destined to last very long, however. As you may remember, he lost his life in the terrible fire that consumed the Southwark Palace late one night, following a performance there. Since then, the Palace has remained boarded up and unused, a blackened shell beside the Albion. I mention this matter because there have been persistent stories since that time that the Albion is haunted by the ghost of Solomon Tanner, who returns to appraise what is being offered to the public there. It is said that if he does not care for what he sees, he causes disruption to the production.’

  My features must have betrayed my surprise at this digression into the supernatural, for Miss Ballantyne paused.

  ‘You are wondering, no doubt,’ said she after a moment, ‘why I should be speaking to you of such things. After all, there are many theatres which are popularly supposed to be haunted in some way and, of course, the very idea sounds absurd when one speaks of it in broad daylight. But when one finds oneself alone late at night, backstage in a dark, silent theatre, then it is not so easy to rid oneself of these thoughts. I would offer ten guineas to anyone who undertook to remain all night alone in the Empire Theatre in Birmingham, for instance, or the old Playhouse in Bristol, confident that I should not be a penny poorer when the next day dawned. But, still, as it is unlikely that you are acquainted with these theatres, and I certainly have no intention of renewing my own acquaintance with them, this is not to the point. I mention the matter only so that you will understand that such traditions are not uncommon in old theatres. Any odd or unexplained occurrences are likely to provoke such beliefs, especially in the younger or more timid members of the company. That is precisely what has occurred at the Albion, where several members of the chorus have become very nervous at what has been happening there. Already, one young lady has left the company altogether, as a result of an incident.’

  ‘But,’ interrupted Sherlock Holmes, who had all this time been leaning back in his chair, with his eyes closed, as he listened to his visitor’s account, ‘as I have no reputation for laying troublesome ghosts by the heels, but only their earthbound counterparts, you consider, I take it, that the mysterious occurrences at the Albion have a more mundane cause.’

  ‘That is correct,’ returned Miss Ballantyne. ‘I am convinced that some malicious person is deliberately creating mischief and I should very much like to know who that person is. It may be that it began as a series of practical jokes, by someone with an unpleasant sense of humour; but it has now gone beyond that. The more recent incidents have been very dangerous and I am concerned that if it continues one of the company will be seriously hurt.’

  ‘The details, if you please!’

  ‘Some of the things that have happened are so trivial that I am almost embarrassed to mention them,’ began Miss Ballantyne.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ returned Holmes, ‘omit no incident, however trivial, and permit me to judge as to the importance or otherwise of each of them.’

  ‘Very well. In the very first week of rehearsals, Jimmy Webster arrived at the theatre one day to find that someone had emptied a tin of paint on to the floor of his dressing-room.’

  ‘Was the paint of a type which was being used in the theatre?’

  ‘Yes. It had been taken from the decorators’ store. That same day, a small set of steps upon which I was standing collapsed and I twisted my ankle badly. Of course, it may have been an accident. One cannot know for certain. Under other circumstances I should probably have thought so and forgotten it by now; but in this case I am not so sure. At the beginning of the second week, we were rehearsing a scene in which Ludovic – M
r Xavier – is required to yank open a door fiercely. He accordingly seized the door-knob, as he had done on previous occasions, and gave it a sharp pull. This time, however, he at once let out a cry of pain. Even as he did so, the flat – that is, the piece of scenery – in which the door was set tumbled forwards and fell upon him. He was not seriously hurt, for the scenery was not heavy, but he was, as you will imagine, extremely upset. When the flat was lifted off him, there was blood on his clothes and it was feared at first that he was badly injured. But the blood had all come from a cut on his hand and it was discovered that protruding from the door-handle was a sharp nail. Ludovic was shouting and crying out that someone was trying to murder him, and it took some time to soothe his agitated nerves.