The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘Carefully, he pulled back the last fold of material. There, lying upon the old curtain, was a strange, shining black statue, about nine or ten inches in height. It was clearly from the Orient and quite grotesque, having four arms, and with a ferocious and horrible expression upon its face.

  ‘“What is the meaning of this?” said the first man sharply, looking up at me.

  ‘“I do not know,” I returned. “I had no idea what was inside the bag.”

  ‘“You liar!” he cried, and sprang at me like a wild beast. I turned away, but he grabbed me by the shoulder and my head struck the wall, with the result which you see. Then he flung me to the ground, which was rough and dirty, and, seizing me by the neck, held the long blade of the knife up to my face.

  ‘“Unless you act cooperative,” said he in an evil tone, “I’m going to slit your throat from ear to ear.”

  ‘“I don’t know anything,” I cried, although I could hardly get the words out, so tight was his grip upon my windpipe.

  ‘“Leave him, Strong,” said one of the others. For a moment, my assailant was perfectly still and I thought my end had come; but then he relaxed his grip and took the knife away, although he deliberately cut my cheek as he did so.’

  Mr Herbert put his hand up to his face and gingerly touched his wound, before continuing: ‘The three men spoke quietly together for a minute, then turned to me.

  ‘“Tell your master,” said the one called Strong, “that he has had his chance to settle matters his way; now we will settle matters our way.” With that they turned and disappeared into the darkness once more. For several minutes, I lay on the ground, not daring to move, until the sound of their footsteps had passed beyond my hearing, then I quickly stood up, gathered together the bag and its contents, and hurried back down the alley to Fleet Street. From there I took the first cab I could find to Dr Watson’s house.’

  ‘What a terrible experience!’ I cried.

  ‘You have been wading in deeper waters than you realised, Mr Herbert!’ observed Holmes after a moment’s reflection. ‘May I see the bag, and its contents?’

  He took the oriental figure from the bag and held it up for a moment, examining it closely. It was jet black and highly polished, and gleamed in the light of the lamp. About its neck was depicted a necklace of human skulls and upon its features was an expression of the most intense evil.

  ‘It is Kali,’ said Holmes; ‘the fearsome, destructive aspect of an otherwise thoroughly good-natured Hindu deity. What devilry has been done in her name over the centuries! You may regard yourself as fortunate, Mr Herbert, that your assailants did not take their inspiration from this particular goddess, or you might not have emerged from Carstone Court alive! However,’ he continued, ‘they were evidently uninterested in her history and regarded the figure as of little value.’ He turned the heavy statue over and over, and examined it from every angle. ‘From a purely practical point of view, their judgement was correct. By its weight, it is solid brass; a heavy piece, but of no great worth, except to a collector of such exotic curios. It was made in Calcutta, where they manufacture these things by the thousand.’ He put it down on the floor beside his chair and took up the bag which had contained it, from which he pulled out a piece of striped cloth. ‘There is something else here,’ said he, reaching into the bag again and withdrawing a small, crumpled slip of paper, which he flattened out and studied for a moment, a frown upon his face. ‘What a very singular epistle!’ he remarked at length in a thoughtful tone, as he passed the paper to Mr Herbert.

  ‘Good Lord!’ cried the latter, looking up from reading the note. ‘What on earth can it mean? What shocking business is afoot!’

  Herbert passed the note to me and I read the following enigmatic message:

  DO NOT FORGET: Windsor – The Monarch – Dynamite

  ‘I rather fancy,’ said Holmes, ‘that Dr Watson may be able to enlighten us!’

  ‘Why, whatever do you mean?’ I cried in amazement.

  ‘Was there not a race meeting at Windsor a week or two ago?’

  ‘Oh, of course!’ I cried, clapping my hand upon my knee, as I realised the meaning of the note’s terse phrases. ‘The Monarch and Dynamite are both horses that ran there. Dynamite is from Lord Thuxton’s stables. He was heavily backed for the big race of the day, but came second, by a length, to Trayles. The Monarch finished last in his race, as far as I remember.’

  ‘So,’ said Holmes, ‘the owner of this bag moves in the world of the Turf and gambling, the most rapid mode of financial transfer from one man to another that mankind has yet devised. You still cannot recall what his name might be, Mr Herbert? For it is certain, of course, that he is one of your old school-fellows.’

  Herbert shook his head. ‘Hard as I have tried to remember them all, I cannot place this man’s face. If, as he says, he was in Mr Newsome’s form when I was in that of Dr Jessop, he must be a year younger than me, but more than that I cannot say.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Holmes. ‘We may be able to reach our destination by another route. You say you have his present address?’

  ‘Yes, Quebec Street, not far from here.’

  ‘Then I suggest that, if you feel up to it, you confront your old school-mate at once,’ said Homes, rising to his feet. ‘We shall, of course, accompany you.’

  ‘Then I am more than ready.’

  A short walk down Baker Street and around Portman Square brought us to Quebec Street. It was a fine starlit night and the air was mild. Mr Herbert directed us to a narrow-fronted house near the corner with Seymour Street, but before we reached it, we could see that something was amiss. The front door stood wide open to the street, casting a yellow oblong of light across the pavement outside.

  Holmes’s ring at the bell was answered after a few moments by a stout, red-faced and irascible-looking gentleman in a frock-coat.

  ‘Yes?’ said he irritably.

  ‘We are looking for Mr Stephen Hollingworth,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Hollingworth? Never heard of him! Good night!’

  ‘One moment,’ said Holmes, as the stout man turned away. ‘Might I enquire the name of the occupant of this house?’

  ‘You can enquire all you want,’ returned the other in a rude tone. ‘The house hasn’t got an occupant. The occupant has taken himself off, bag and baggage, owing me a quarter’s rent.’

  ‘And that gentleman was?’

  ‘George Robinson. What is it to you?’

  ‘A slimly built man, with dark brown hair and moustache?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. What of it?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Holmes, turning to us. ‘You are not familiar with the name “George Robinson”, Mr Herbert? No? Nevertheless. It must be he.’ He turned back to the man in the doorway, who stood with his hands on his hips. ‘You are the landlord, sir?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes I am. He told me to come round this evening and everything would be squared up, but when I got here there wasn’t a sign of him and most of the rooms look as if someone has thrown a grenade into them.’

  ‘The house was let furnished?’

  ‘Yes; for six months: one quarter in advance and not a farthing seen since.’

  ‘As it happens, my colleague here is also owed a considerable sum of money by this man who calls himself Robinson,’ said Holmes, ‘and he, too, was sent a message concerning this evening.’

  ‘To come here?’

  ‘No, somewhere else; but Robinson wasn’t there either. May we come in?’

  With a sigh, the stout man, who introduced himself as Elijah Hassocks, led us through into a room at the back of the house, which appeared to have been used as a study. There were signs everywhere of a hurried departure: cupboard doors standing wide open, and drawers pulled out and hanging at odd, drunken angles. Scattered about, on every available surface, were newspapers and magazines, among which I observed many copies of the Sporting Times, Sporting Life and other racing papers.

  ‘You see?’ said Hassocks angrily. ‘He pr
esented himself as a first-rate tenant, but it seems he was a first-rate mountebank! Look!’ he continued, pointing his finger at the window, where one of the striped curtains had been cut off halfway down: ‘not content with defrauding me out of my rent, the blackguard has been amusing himself by destroying the furnishings! If you can shed any light on his whereabouts I’ll be very obliged to you.’

  ‘I fear that something has happened to him,’ said Mr Herbert.

  ‘Something will happen to him if I catch hold of him,’ retorted Hassocks.

  ‘I mean, he may have been abducted,’ persisted Herbert.

  ‘Well if so, his abductors have very considerately taken all his clothes and personal belongings, too.’

  ‘A large number of documents have been burnt earlier today,’ remarked Holmes, indicating a mound of blackened ashes in the fireplace, as he bent down and began to sift through papers which were strewn in disordered heaps upon the floor. Presently, he held up a large, battered old album, which had the initials ‘G.R.’ embossed upon the cover. ‘Other than this,’ said he, ‘which is perfectly empty, there is nothing remaining which bears a name or any indication of ownership. He appears to have gone to considerable lengths to hide his trail. Let us have a look in here,’ he continued, squatting down and examining the contents of a waste-paper basket, which had been hidden from view beneath a little side-table. ‘The humble waste-paper basket can occasionally be a singularly helpful source of information! Ah! This may be something!’

  He had extracted a crumpled slip of paper from the basket, which he smoothed out upon his knee and studied for a moment. I leaned over his shoulder and read the following: ‘O. L. Friday morning,’ which had been underlined three times, and, below that, ‘£42–10s– 6d’.

  ‘What a very precise amount,’ I remarked.

  ‘Have you the IOU he gave you, Mr Herbert?’ said Holmes, looking up.

  Herbert produced his pocket-book and pulled from it a small piece of paper which he handed to Holmes.

  ‘It is in the same hand,’ said the latter, in a thoughtful tone.

  ‘He has made a note of some debt and the day it was to be paid,’ I suggested.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Holmes, ‘although I fancy it has some other meaning. I think we have seen all we need to see here. Our next port of call must be Scotland Yard.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I spoke to Inspector Lanner two nights ago and he informed me that he is on evening duty all this week, which is fortunate, for he is the very man we need to see. My card, Sir,’ he continued, turning to Mr Hassocks. ‘If I can be of any service to you, pray let me know!’

  We walked briskly down to Oxford Street where we hailed a four-wheeler and were at Scotland Yard within five minutes. Herbert and I waited downstairs while Holmes went up to see Lanner. The officer at the desk, no doubt moved to sympathy by my companion’s sorry appearance, brought us a cup of tea, and Mr Herbert’s spirits, which had begun to flag, picked up again.

  ‘Do you have any idea what is afoot, Doctor?’ he asked me.

  ‘None whatever. If I were to guess, I should say that your old school-fellow, so far from being subject to any menace himself, has perhaps subjected everyone else to what one might term financial menace.’

  Herbert nodded his head.

  ‘That is how it strikes me, too,’ he concurred. ‘He owes money to his landlord, he owes money to me, he probably owes money to the men who assaulted me in Carstone Court.’

  ‘Gambling debts, no doubt.’

  ‘No doubt. And I cannot think that there is much hope of ever finding him. If he has left his house of his own accord, as appears likely, he might be anywhere. He might have taken a train to Land’s End or John O’Groats, for all we know!’

  ‘My thoughts precisely.’

  Our discussion was interrupted by the reappearance of Holmes, accompanied by a smart-looking police inspector, with a neatly trimmed beard and sharp, intelligent eyes, whom I recognised as Inspector Lanner. They appeared to be in a hurry. Lanner nodded to us, then disappeared through a doorway.

  ‘The man you met at Little Wickling station,’ said Holmes, addressing Mr Herbert: ‘Might his name by any chance have been Gabriel Tooth?’

  Herbert shook his head, but appeared in a state of surprise and confusion. ‘I did once know someone of that name,’ said he at length, ‘a boy in the form below mine at Whalley Abbey School. I had forgotten all about him until you mentioned his name. It could not have been he I met at Little Wickling, however, for I recall now that Tooth had ginger hair and a wide, freckled face. How did you hear of him, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Inspector Lanner informs me that Tooth is the name your mysterious friend called himself when he visited the Hollingworths at Wickling Place; but I doubted that it would be his true name. I rather fancy,’ he continued after a moment, ‘that the man we are after is one Gilbert Rowsley.’

  There was a tension in my friend’s voice as he spoke those words, and he regarded Herbert keenly. It was evident that he hoped to see a spark of recognition upon his client’s features at the mention of this name. If so, he was not disappointed. Herbert’s mouth fell open, he gasped audibly and his eyebrows shot up; then he clapped his hand to his head and remained immobile for several minutes.

  ‘Of course!’ he cried at length, rising to his feet in his excitement. ‘Gilbert Rowsley! Of course! It is he!’

  ‘Gilbert Rowsley is another of your old school-fellows, then?’ asked Holmes, barely able to contain the excitement in his own voice.

  ‘Indeed he is!’ cried Herbert. ‘He was in the year below mine. But I believe he was only at Whalley Abbey for two or three terms. Though I occasionally saw him about the place, I scarcely knew him at all, which is why I did not remember him before.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now that you have recalled him to my mind,’ said Herbert slowly, his eyes closed in concentration, ‘I remember that he was one of those boys who seemed always to be loitering round corners – a dark, sly-looking youth, as I remember, with calculating eyes. Wait a moment! I remember now that there had been a spate of petty pilfering one autumn term, and the next term, when nothing of the sort occurred, someone – Greig, I think – remarked in jest that Rowsley must have been responsible, as he had left at the end of the previous term. I remember laughing, without really thinking it to be true; but now that I consider it afresh, from twenty-odd years’ distance, I wonder if it wasn’t in fact the very truth of the matter! But how on earth have you managed to discover Rowsley’s name, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘We shall have to postpone the explanations for a little while,’ returned Holmes in a brisk tone. He glanced at his watch. ‘We must be off now. It is ten-forty, and there is no time to lose.’

  ‘To where?’ I enquired in surprise.

  ‘The Albert Dock.’

  ‘Am I to accompany you?’ asked Herbert.

  ‘Most certainly, Mr Herbert. You are one of the very few men in London who can identify this scoundrel. We should, I think, be able to catch the eleven twenty-five from Fenchurch Street.’

  ‘We can do better than that, Mr Holmes,’ said Lanner, who had re-emerged as Holmes had been speaking, followed closely by two uniformed officers, hastily fastening up their tunics. ‘I have made inquiries. There is a launch available at Hungerford Pier. I’ve sent a message to tell them to get steam up for an immediate departure.’

  ‘Capital!’ cried Holmes, clapping the policeman on the shoulder. ‘Nothing could be better! And these men will accompany us?’ he queried, indicating the uniformed officers.

  Lanner nodded. ‘Constables Jefferson and Cook. I think between us we should be able to manage the matter.’

  In a minute we were in the street and hurrying to the pier, in five we were in the police-launch, Ariel, and on our way down the great heaving river.

  It was a perfect night, a night to delight astronomers, cloudless and crystal clear. Above us the great arc of the Heavens was bright with stars, among which the moon floated in milky wh
ite splendour, casting its silvery light across the sleeping city.

  Our vessel was a swift one, and soon we were flashing past lines of moored boats and lighters, setting them bobbing in our wake. Beneath the bridges we flew, past lines of dark warehouses on our right hand and the spires of the City on our left, above all of which rose the great dome of St Paul’s, eerily magnificent in the moonlight.

  ‘This is the adventure of my life,’ whispered Herbert to me as we sat side by side in the stern of the boat. For myself, I could not but recall the previous occasion I had made such an expedition in a police-launch, when we had pursued the Aurora down the Thames, at the conclusion of the case I have chronicled elsewhere as ‘The Sign of Four’.

  ‘The last time you were here, Watson,’ remarked Holmes with a smile, sitting himself down beside us and apparently reading my thoughts as he did so, ‘we were after the great Agra Treasure. Mr Herbert’s fifty pounds may not appear to have quite the same recherché quality, but it is a good cause nonetheless, and there is an added piquancy to the enterprise in that we cannot be certain until we arrive at our destination whether the scoundrel who took it is there or not.’

  We had passed the Tower as he had been speaking, gaunt and forbidding in the moonlight, and had come to the vast region of the docks. The cranes and hoists and pulleys, so busy and noisy in the day-time, now stood still and silent, as our little vessel shot swiftly past, the smooth, rhythmic beat of its engine almost the only sound to be heard on the river.

  At Wapping, we slowed and drew up alongside the jetty. Lanner sprang ashore and raced up the stairs to the police station which overhung the bank above us, but was back again in a matter of minutes.