The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘“Very well, Hollingworth. What do you wish me to do with it?”

  ‘He glanced cautiously about him, but there was no one there save the hall-porter behind his desk. “I shall send you a message in a few days’ time,” said he at length, “giving you specific directions. Do you understand?”

  ‘“Perfectly.” said I. “You can trust me. What is the other favour you wished to ask of me?”

  ‘His voice sank to a whisper. “Can you lend me a little money, Herbert, just for a few days? They are keeping a watch on my bank. This afternoon, as I arrived there, I recognised one of their men in the street outside, so I told the cabbie not to stop but to drive on. I don’t think I was seen, but it meant, of course, that I was unable to withdraw any money.”

  ‘“I should be pleased to help you, Hollingworth,” I responded. “How much do you require?”

  ‘“Good man!” he cried, squeezing my arm. “I knew I could rely on you! I think that fifty pounds should suffice for the moment.”

  ‘I was a little taken aback at this. I had not expected him to ask for so large a sum.

  ‘“I do not carry such an amount on me,” I said, “and my bank will be closed now. I could get it for you tomorrow. Come to that, if you write me out a cheque, I could get money from your own bank for you tomorrow.”

  ‘His face clouded over and he gripped his chin with his hand. “I must have it tonight,” said he in a tone of desperation. “Tomorrow may be too late. I don’t know what I shall do.” He stood up and began to pace to and fro across the hallway, his chin sunk on his breast.

  ‘“I have it!” said I. “I can probably obtain that amount from the club secretary. I am well known here, and there should be no difficulty.”

  ‘“Are you sure?” said he, ceasing his pacing. “I should not want to cause you any inconvenience, Herbert. Lord knows! You’re doing enough for me as it is!”

  ‘“It will be no trouble,” I assured him. “If you will wait here a moment, I will see the secretary now.”

  ‘In a few minutes I was back with the money, in a mixture of gold and notes. He took it from me and clutched my hand as he did so. “You are a true friend,” said he with great feeling. “I will write you out an IOU at once.” I told him that that would not be necessary, that his word was a good enough bond for me, but he insisted on the correct form, as he put it. “Is there a back door to this building?” he enquired as he finished writing the note; “I may have been seen as I entered.”

  ‘I took him down to the basement and along the passage by the kitchens, to a door which gives on to a small courtyard at the rear of the building.

  ‘“I have been a member here for many years,” I remarked, “and know the place like the back of my hand.”

  ‘“A lucky thing for me that you do!” returned my friend with a smile. “I don’t know what I ever should have done without you, Herbert!”

  ‘We shook hands warmly in the yard, then he slipped out through the back gate and was gone, his footsteps hurrying away on the cobbles. That night I took his valise home with me when I left the club and hid it in a box beneath my bed. That was exactly a week ago. For the first few days I could scarcely sleep, such was my state of excitement. Every hour I have expected to hear something fresh on the matter. Each time I have left the house I have looked carefully this way and that, to see if any stranger were loitering about and I have taken particular care to see that I was not followed. So far, however, nothing untoward has happened.’

  ‘It is a curious tale,’ I remarked as my companion paused. ‘You asked for my opinion, Mr Herbert, but I am afraid I have no sensible observation to offer on the matter! I can certainly understand why you described it as an oddity!’

  ‘Ah! But the oddest part is still to be told!’

  ‘I understood you to say that nothing further had occurred since this day last week.’

  ‘That is true. Nothing has occurred, exactly; but, still, something has changed.’

  ‘I do not follow you.’

  ‘Two nights ago, I woke suddenly from a deep sleep. What I had been dreaming of, I do not know, but it may have been my early school-days, for that is what I found myself thinking of, as I lay there in the darkness. I let the train of thought lead me where it would, and scenes from my days at Whalley Abbey School sprang vividly to my mind. I seemed to see them re-enacted before me, as it were. There were the companions of my youth, acting and speaking as they had acted and spoken a quarter of a century ago, boys whose names and faces had scarcely crossed my mind in all the intervening years. There was that fat boy from Manchester, Albert Ormadone; there was that thin, feeble lad, Wellington Worsley, the class sneak, as I recall; then a dark-haired Scottish boy was speaking, with an accent as thick as your arm, and I recognised Hector Greig. He came from a village by the name of Tillytoghills, I recall, and was teased unmercifully in consequence, although it was scarcely his fault that it sounded such a silly name to our schoolboy ears. And then, into the classroom came Stephen Hollingworth. I recognised at once his wavy, light-brown hair. In a trice I was fully awake, as if a bolt of electricity had shot right through me. For it was at once obvious to me that the schoolboy I remembered and the man I had met at Little Wickling station were not one and the same person. The latter’s hair is of a darker brown and not so wavy.’

  ‘Perhaps he uses hair-oil, which might give his hair a darker appearance,’ I suggested, but Mr Herbert shook his head emphatically.

  ‘No, no; he is quite different, in all those thousand little ways which one can see easily enough, but cannot quite put one’s finger on. Whoever my recent acquaintance is, he is certainly not Stephen Hollingworth.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ I cried in amazement.

  ‘As certain as I am that I am sitting here with you in the Star and Garter.’

  ‘Then who is he and why on earth should he pretend to be someone else?’

  ‘That is what I should like to know. It is something of a puzzle, isn’t it!’

  ‘All that rigmarole about his family’s honour, and all the rest of it, must be just so much humbug, then,’ I remarked after a moment, ‘if it is not even really his family at all!’

  ‘So it would appear. Of course, as he recognised me, and recalled the boys I was at school with, he himself must have been at Whalley Abbey School; but who he is, I have no idea. I await with interest his message, for I have heard nothing from him since I saw him at the Lancashire and Yorkshire last week, and I cannot imagine what it all means. Yesterday I walked past his house, but I decided against ringing his bell. I thought I would not force the matter, but would give him a few more days’ grace, before I insist on knowing what is afoot. I am somewhat uneasy about my fifty pounds.’

  ‘That is very understandable. So should I be, in your position. I wonder what is in the leather bag?’

  Herbert shook his head. ‘I have not the faintest notion,’ said he. ‘It is securely locked.’

  Still discussing the matter, we left the Star and Garter then, and began to make our way back towards Paddington. The sun was lower now and cast long shadows across the street, but the air was still warm. In and out of the trees in front of the houses flew little sparrows and finches, chirruping their lively songs, while high above us swallows and martins swooped and soared. It was indeed a lovely evening to be abroad and strolling in the street. But the very commonplace and pleasant appearance of our surroundings made Mr Herbert’s puzzling experiences seem all the more incredible. In truth, I should probably have been inclined to dismiss the whole story as fantasy, had he not impressed me as completely honest and trustworthy.

  ‘I could, of course, force the lock on his bag,’ said he as we walked along. ‘But I have given my word of honour that I shall guard it securely; and this I shall do until it is proved to me beyond doubt that my trust has been misplaced.’

  ‘Your story has certainly intrigued me,’ I remarked as we parted. ‘Do let me know if there are any fresh developments in the matter. It is
a fascinating little mystery, Mr Herbert, and I look forward to hearing the outcome!’

  _______

  Over dinner that evening I retailed Mr Herbert’s story to my wife, and she was as fascinated by it as I was.

  ‘It is very curious,’ she observed, ‘that the man Mr Herbert met at Little Wickling should have taken the name – if it is, indeed, not his own – of Stephen Hollingworth, for the Hollingworths do, of course, live near there, according to that newspaper report, at Wickling Place.’

  ‘That is true. I suppose the likeliest explanation is that he had just come from visiting the Hollingworths when Herbert first met him. I wonder what his connection with them might be, if he is not a member of the family?’

  Thus we chatted for some time, turning the matter over and over, and looking at it from this way and that, without arriving at any notion of what might lie behind it.

  ‘It almost sounds like one of the cases of your friend, Mr Holmes!’ said Mary at length, laughing.

  ‘Indeed,’ I concurred. ‘I am sure he would enjoy it. He is a connoisseur of such outré passages of life!’

  _______

  The dinner-table had long been cleared, and I was sitting smoking my pipe and reading, when there came a ring at the bell. Moments later, the maid informed me that she had shown a bleeding patient into the consulting-room. I dropped my book at once and hurried downstairs.

  The door of the consulting-room stood open and I had my foot upon the threshold, when I stopped in amazement. For there, his face cut and bruised, was my companion from earlier in the evening. Upon his forehead, just above the eyebrow, was a raised, discoloured lump, and upon his cheek was a gash from which blood had flowed down his face and neck. In his hand he held a black leather bag.

  ‘My dear fellow!’ I cried. ‘What on earth has happened to you!’

  ‘You asked me to keep you informed of developments, Doctor,’ said he, attempting a grim smile, which clearly caused him great pain, ‘so here I am!’

  He put down the bag and held out the palms of his hands to me, and I saw that they were grazed and filthy.

  ‘Sit yourself down,’ said I, ‘and I will set you to rights, while you tell me what has happened.’

  ‘I have been viciously assaulted,’ said he.

  ‘Assaulted! Where?’

  ‘Fleet Street.’

  ‘Fleet Street! What on earth were you doing down there?’

  ‘My story has advanced a little,’ said he, wincing as I dabbed the cut on his cheek.

  ‘And have the latest developments shed any light on the mystery?’

  ‘On the contrary. It seems yet darker than it did before.’

  I glanced at the clock.

  ‘I recommend,’ said I, ‘that when I have patched you up, you accompany me at once to the chambers of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. He has a vast understanding of these sorts of matters, and it may be that what is dark to us will not be so to him.’

  _______

  So it was, that, ten minutes later, my companion clutching his black bag tightly, we were in a cab and rattling through the darkness to my friend’s rooms. We found Holmes sitting cross-legged upon the floor, sorting through mounds of documents, but he sprang up as we entered.

  ‘Watson!’ cried he in a gay tone. ‘What a very pleasant surprise! But who is your friend? He appears a little the worse for wear!’

  ‘This is Mr Alfred Herbert, a patient of mine. He has had need of my services this evening, and I fancy he may have need of yours, too.’

  The two of them shook hands, and as they did so Herbert broke into a paroxysm of coughing.

  ‘That sounds suspiciously like bronchitis,’ remarked Holmes.

  ‘Indeed. That is what first led me to consult Dr Watson.’

  ‘Your work is partly to blame, of course.’

  ‘My work?’ echoed Herbert in surprise. ‘My work is largely clerical, Mr Holmes. It is neither heavy nor dusty and can have no bearing on the matter.’

  ‘Not the nature of your work, Mr Herbert, but the fact that it obliges you to travel twice a day on the subterranean section of the Metropolitan Railway. You have a season ticket, no doubt, from Paddington or Bayswater to the City. Some people, you know, with more delicate constitutions than their fellows, find that the smoke and fumes on the underground railways are more than their lungs can tolerate, and it may be that you are one of them.’

  ‘How can you speak so confidently of my daily habits when we have only just met?’ cried Herbert in surprise.

  ‘It is perfectly obvious. You might as well ask me how I know that you are a stockbroker, that you are right-handed, come from near Preston in Lancashire, but have lived in London for somewhat over a dozen years, and that you take snuff.’

  Mr Herbert took a step backwards, and his features assumed a look of the utmost astonishment.

  ‘How on earth—?’ he began, but Holmes interrupted him, a trace of impatience on his face.

  ‘You evidently live in Paddington or Bayswater,’ said he briskly; ‘otherwise you would not have elected to seek the services of my friend here.’

  ‘Twenty-three, Leinster Gardens.’

  ‘Quite so. I observed as we shook hands that there are a large number of figures upon the left cuff of your shirt. You are therefore right-handed, and undoubtedly a dealer in stocks and shares, for the figures can only be stock-prices. You must therefore travel each day from the Paddington area to the City in order to undertake your duties and it seems overwhelmingly likely that you would do so on the Metropolitan Railway, which connects the two areas directly. A man of your common sense would hardly undertake this journey every day of the week without taking advantage of the savings to be had from the purchase of a season ticket.

  ‘As to your birthplace, my dear sir: your accent, although much modified, yet retains traces of central Lancashire. I cannot pretend to an intimate knowledge of every accent in England, but I have a tolerable acquaintance with some four or five dozen and have given special attention to the accents of Lancashire, which perhaps exhibit more variety and extreme development than those of any other area of comparable size. The profession you follow is not one into which a stranger can slip at a moment’s notice, in the middle of his life, and nor can one gain much experience of it outside of London. It seems likely, therefore, that you have been in the stock-exchange line for most of your adult life, and as you appear to be about five-and-thirty, that indicates that your employment – and hence your period of residence in London – has been for over a dozen years. The snuff-taking is a trivial matter: a small snuff-box is distending your waistcoat pocket at this moment.’

  ‘Amazing!’ cried Herbert.

  ‘Elementary,’ said Holmes. ‘Let us leave your bronchitis behind and come to the more essential matter. Your appearance suggests that it may be urgent, unless Dr Watson has simply been using you for bandaging practice. Pray, take a seat.’

  Mr Herbert thereupon told his story, exactly as he had told it to me. He described his first meeting with his old school-fellow and the subsequent meeting at the Lancashire and Yorkshire Club, and also the sudden realisation that his new acquaintance could not possibly be the man he claimed to be.

  ‘When I returned home this evening after telling my tale to Dr Watson,’ he continued, ‘I found a letter awaiting me. It may have been there all day, for all I know, for I had not returned to Leinster Gardens since leaving Persquith and Moran’s this afternoon. It was from my recent acquaintance – of course, he still signed himself “Stephen Hollingworth” – asking me to bring the bag which he had entrusted to me down to Carstone Court, near Fleet Street. He said it was vital that I was there by eight o’clock and was confident I would not let him down. I paid the cabbie extra to whip his horse up a bit and was in Fleet Street by three minutes past the hour.

  ‘It took me a few minutes to discover Carstone Court and I had to ask directions in a pub, but eventually I found it, on the north side of Fleet Street. It lies at the end of a long, i
ll-lit passage, a by-way off a by-way, so to speak, and it was not without some apprehension that I entered it. The courtyard was narrow and dark, with tall, unlit buildings on either hand, and was as silent as the grave. It was certainly an odd place to choose to meet anyone, but I supposed that “Hollingworth” had selected it in order to keep the business private. I stood there a moment, but there seemed to be no one about. Once or twice, the sound of distant footsteps came to my ears up the long, narrow alley from Fleet Street, but they were remote and muffled, and, when they had passed, the courtyard returned to utter silence once more.

  ‘“Hallo?” I said tentatively, after a moment. “Is there anyone here?”

  ‘The response made my hair stand on end, for there was a movement in the blackness to the side of me, and a dark figure stepped forward from a shadowed doorway. He opened the shutter of a lantern and held it up to my face.

  ‘“You are A. Herbert, I take it?” said he in a rough, coarse voice. It was certainly not my old school-fellow, but, as he knew my name, I assumed it must be some agent of his.

  ‘“I am,” said I.

  ‘Two more figures materialised out of the blackness behind the first and approached. There was menace in the way they loomed up about me, and I began to fear for my safety. I took a step backward, but found myself with my back to a brick wall.

  ‘“Have you the bag?” said the first man.

  ‘“It is here,” I replied, holding it out to him.

  ‘He took it from me and cursed when he found that it was locked. He asked me if I had the key, I told him I had not and he cursed again. The thought passed through my mind that the honour of the Hollingworth family would have stood on shaky ground indeed had it depended in any way on such a man as this.

  ‘“Give us your knife, Harrison,” said he sharply to one of the other men, who passed him a long-bladed, evil-looking knife, and took the lantern. Then, with more oaths and curses, he bent down and began forcing the clasp of the bag. Presently he grunted with satisfaction, pulled the bag open and lifted from it a large, heavy-looking bundle, wrapped in what appeared to be a length of striped curtain material. The other men held the lantern closer as he unfolded the bundle on the ground, and I must confess that, for the moment, my feelings of fear were forgotten, so consumed was I with curiosity as to what might be contained within the cloth.