The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

by Denis O. Smith

  ‘I reached London shortly before twelve, stood talking for a while to a friend I met in the street outside the station and got to Lambeth Palace just after one o’clock. I concluded my business there quite quickly, but then spent a long time in the library, talking to the chief librarian. I borrowed another book and left about quarter past two. I then got a fast train from Charing Cross and was back here by five.’

  ‘When you were hanging your coat back up downstairs,’ said Holmes, ‘did you notice whose coat it was?’

  Nugent shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said; ‘but I’m not going to apologise for it: if someone hadn’t already taken mine I shouldn’t have had to take someone else’s. That’s the only thing I know for certain about it, that it wasn’t my own.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Because one of the buttons on my coat is very loose – hanging by a thread, in fact – and the buttons on the coat I’d been wearing were all firmly attached.’

  ‘Well, that is very interesting,’ said Holmes.

  Nugent looked surprised. ‘I shouldn’t have thought the state of the buttons would be of any great interest,’ said he.

  Holmes smiled. ‘Something can be interesting,’ he returned, ‘not because of its own intrinsic qualities, but because of its relation to something else.’

  There had come the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs as they had been speaking. Now we all turned, as an older, dignified figure appeared at the head of the staircase. The young men fell silent and still, waiting for the newcomer to speak.

  ‘What is all this noise up here?’ he asked at length, in a deep, grave voice. ‘And who are these gentlemen?’

  ‘Dr Glimper,’ said Zennor, taking half a step forward and addressing the older man: ‘this is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. They are looking into the mystery of Sir Anthony’s cheque on my behalf.’

  ‘What!’ cried Dr Glimper, in a voice like thunder. ‘Do you mean to say that you have gone behind our backs and hired some sort of detective? You add the insult of contempt for the Dean and myself to the shame and disgrace of what has already happened? You two,’ he continued, addressing Nugent and Earley, ‘be about your business at once! I am surprised at you, permitting yourselves to be embroiled in such behaviour! As for you, Zennor: be in my office in three minutes’ time! These men have no business here. Visitors are strictly forbidden without express permission, as you are fully aware, and they must leave the premises at once! At once, do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Glimper,’ said Zennor in a subdued tone, as the older man turned and descended the stair. Nugent and Earley quickly followed him, and, for a moment, Zennor, Holmes and I were left alone. ‘You had better go at once,’ said Zennor. ‘I seem to have only made everything worse. All this talk of buttons and raincoats has got us nowhere at all. I am still the one in whose pocket the stolen cheque was found. I am still the one condemned, though I am perfectly innocent.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes in a reassuring tone, ‘I now believe I know what happened yesterday, although I cannot yet prove it. Do not permit yourself to become down-hearted or disconsolate, Mr Zennor, for it will achieve nothing. Believe me when I tell you that all will be well! Now, I have three quick points to make to you. First, how can I speak to Hubert Bebington? It is important that I see him. It will complete my investigation here.’

  ‘He will be in the library. It is part of his duties. You had better not go along there yourself, but I can ask him to meet you outside the main gate, before I go in to see Dr Glimper.’

  ‘Very good. Second, do not, under any circumstances, mention to anyone at all that little scrap of paper that you found in your pocket and which is now in my own pocket-book. Not a word, you understand, not a syllable!’

  ‘I will do as you wish. What is your third point?’

  ‘That you come to our chambers tomorrow, by lunch-time at the very latest.’

  ‘That may prove difficult.’

  ‘But you must, Mr Zennor! The whole future course of your life may depend upon it!’

  ‘Very well. I will do all I can to be there. Now you must leave and I must face Dr Glimper.’

  For several minutes we waited in the street outside the main gateway and were almost on the point of giving it up, thinking that either Zennor had not been able to communicate with Bebington, or Bebington had declined to see us, when, abruptly, a freckled face surmounted by a mop of sandy hair appeared round the corner of the archway and a young clergyman stepped into view.

  ‘Ah, there you are!’ said he. ‘You are Mr Holmes, I take it. Zennor says you wish to ask me about yesterday. There’s not much to tell,’ he continued, as Holmes nodded. ‘I was in the library most of the day. It was very quiet. Everyone else had gone off somewhere for the day, so I was all by myself.’

  ‘But I understand you went out to the stationer’s shop,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Yes, that is so. I went there first thing in the morning, but was out less than fifteen minutes, and after that I never left the cathedral all day.’

  ‘What time was it that you went to the stationer’s?’

  ‘A few minutes after half past eight, which is when the shop opens. I was back again by ten to nine.’

  ‘Do you know whose coat you were wearing when you went out?’

  Bebington frowned. ‘What a strange question!’ said he. ‘As a matter of fact, I assumed it was my own when I put it on, but later realised it wasn’t.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’

  ‘It had an ink-mark on the sleeve, which mine certainly does not. When I came down into the corridor where the outdoor coats are hung up, there were two or three of them hanging there and I just took the one I thought was mine. I didn’t think it really mattered whose coat it was, anyway, as I knew I was only going to be out for a few minutes.’

  ‘And when you returned?’

  ‘The clothes-pegs were all empty. I remember noticing that. So I just hung up my own hat and coat, and took my stationery supplies off to the library.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Holmes. ‘You have been most helpful.’

  ‘Have I?’ returned the other, a look of curiosity on his features. ‘I’m sure I don’t know how!’

  On the train back to London, Holmes was in a state of barely suppressed excitement, and it was clear that he considered that he had made some definite progress in the case. He opened his note-book at the page on which he had drawn numerous lines, arrows and little stick-men, laid it on the seat beside him and pored over it in silence for some time.

  ‘I don’t know how you can make sense of all those squiggles,’ I said, leaning across and studying it with him. ‘It looks too complex for the human brain to take in!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said he; ‘it is, essentially, very simple.’

  ‘I suppose those little stick-men represent the minor canons.’

  My friend shook his head. ‘No,’ said he. ‘The little circles with the initials in them are the minor canons. The stick-men, as you call them, represent their raincoats, which generally followed a different course during the day from that taken by their owners. It would perhaps be clearer if I had had a coloured pencil with which to draw the lines relating to the raincoats. You would then be able to see more clearly the contrast between where the men went and where their coats went. I must remember to carry a red pencil with me in future, to allow for such eventualities!’

  After a while, Holmes put away his note-book and replaced it on the seat with the little scrap of paper that Zennor had found in his pocket. For some time he stared at this with a frown of concentration, then with a sigh, he took his watch out.

  ‘It would be helpful if this train would go a little faster,’ said he in a tone of impatience. ‘I can do nothing more until we return to Baker Street. There, the last but one piece of the puzzle should fall rapidly into place!’

  My friend’s progress was destined to be somewhat less rapid than he had hoped, however. By the
time we reached London, the rain had stopped, the clouds had begun to break up and the sun was peeping through, but it was evident from his manner that Holmes was perfectly oblivious to this improvement in the weather. Not a word did he speak until we were back in our lodgings, where he placed the scrap of paper on the table, got out a pile of maps and volumes of reference, and for several minutes turned the pages in silence. Then at length, with a groan, he looked up, a crestfallen expression on his face.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Check number one,’ said he. ‘There is a church at Ham, Watson. Unfortunately, it is not St Mark’s, but St Andrew’s.’

  ‘Perhaps there are two churches there,’ I suggested, but my friend shook his head.

  ‘The information in this volume is very detailed, but there is no mention of a St Mark’s. Of course, the word ‘‘Ham’’ on this note is followed by a full stop, so it may be an abbreviation of a longer name.’

  ‘Hampton,’ I suggested, ‘or Hampton Wick.’

  ‘Let us see,’ said Holmes, turning the pages rapidly. ‘Hum! No good, I’m afraid. The church at Hampton is St Mary’s. That at Hampton Wick is St John’s. There is also somewhere called New Hampton, but the church there is St James’s. The large “X” on this note puzzles me,’ he continued, looking again at the scrap of paper. ‘Of course, people often write “X” as an abbreviation for “Cross” in place-names such as Charing Cross, but I can’t recall anywhere called “Ham Cross” or anything similar.’

  ‘What about Hammersmith?’ I suggested. ‘I have never heard anyone speak of “Hammersmith Cross”, but there is certainly a cross-roads there.’

  Again Holmes turned the pages over rapidly.

  ‘No good,’ said he at length. ‘The church at Hammersmith is St Paul’s. Let us see what Hampstead has to offer! No, that is St John’s.’

  ‘West Ham or East Ham, in the East End,’ I suggested.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Watson,’ said my friend after a moment. ‘The church at East Ham is another St Mary’s, and that at West Ham – in the district of Upton, it says here – is St Peter’s.’ He sighed. ‘This is proving more difficult than I had expected!’

  ‘Do you not have an alphabetical list of London churches anywhere?’ I asked, but he shook his head.

  ‘It’s probably too late now to get hold of such a list,’ said he with a glance at the clock. ‘I can make inquiries first thing in the morning, but, as you know, I dislike leaving things to the last minute and had hoped to get the matter settled this evening. Of course, I know of a couple of churches dedicated to St Mark: there is one scarcely a stone’s throw from here, in the Marylebone Road, for instance, and another south of the river – in Kennington, if I recall correctly – but none is in a district which might be known as “Ham”. And then there is this capital “X”. What is the significance of that?’

  ‘Perhaps it is simply a symbol for a church,’ I suggested, ‘as you sometimes see on maps.’

  ‘Yes,’ returned my friend, ‘but if so its presence in the note seems completely superfluous; and, in any case, if it were simply an abbreviation for “church”, one would expect to see it after the word “Mark’s” and before the word “Ham”. Let us see if we can find anything on any of these maps,’ he continued, handing one to me, and opening another one out for himself.

  ‘What am I looking for?’ I asked, as I spread the map out on the hearth-rug.

  ‘I cannot precisely say,’ returned Holmes: ‘some likely-looking church, some reference to St Mark’s among the street-names, somewhere that might be known as “Ham”.’

  ‘There are a few streets in Fulham which bear that name,’ I remarked, after several minutes had passed in silence, ‘but I cannot see if there is a church there and, in any case, I can’t imagine that anyone would abbreviate “Fulham” as “Ham”.’

  ‘There is also a small hospital known as St Mark’s,’ responded my companion, ‘but it is in the City, near Aldersgate station, so I don’t think that that is of any use to us.’

  Holmes fell silent again then and when I glanced up I saw that he was studying the little note once more, with the aid of his magnifying lens. Abruptly, he let out a little cry, as of surprise or enlightenment.

  ‘Watson!’ said he in an urgent tone. ‘I have something of great importance to tell you!’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, rising to my feet.

  ‘That you have, all this time, been sharing rooms with a complete idiot! I deserve to be kicked from here to London Bridge for not seeing the truth earlier! Come and take a look! Do you see?’ he continued, as I bent over the little note. ‘What appeared to be a capital “X” is not that at all! It is in fact a lower-case “t”! It has been written in a great hurry and the vertical stroke is falling over backwards, while the horizontal stroke is rising from left to right. Of course that explains why there is a full stop after it!’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means I must take a short walk on this beautiful evening,’ said he in a cheery tone, looking out of the window at the cloudless blue sky. ‘Would you care to accompany me?’

  ‘With pleasure!’ I said, laughing aloud at the sudden improvement in his mood.

  ‘Good man! Your hat and coat, then, old fellow, and let us be off before the daylight fades! I will explain where we are going as we walk!’

  A few moments later, we set off up Baker Street, crossed the Marylebone Road and headed north towards St John’s Wood. At St John’s Wood Church we turned westwards and along past the cricket ground. Now that the rain had passed away and the sky had cleared, it was a warm and pleasant evening.

  ‘You see,’ said Holmes, ‘as soon as I realised that the letter in the note was not an “X” – which had made no sense to me at all – but a “t”, it at once struck me that it might well be an abbreviation for “terrace”, which supposition was strengthened by the fact that the “t” had a full stop after it. And as soon as that had occurred to me, I at once thought of Hamilton Terrace, which, as you have probably surmised, is our present destination. There are dozens of other street-names in London which begin with the syllable “Ham”, but very few suitable candidates for “Ham-something Terrace”. Now, I know for certain that there is a fairly large church on Hamilton Terrace – a handsome edifice, as I recall. It is not very old, but has a certain solidity and quiet dignity. I have passed it several times in a cab, but have not had reason to stop there and cannot recall what name it bears. If it is St Mark’s, Watson, then I am sure we have solved the riddle of that little note!’

  We had turned northwards again as he had been speaking, into Hamilton Terrace itself, and now proceeded in the soft evening sunlight up this very broad road, lined on either side by handsome villas. After a few moments, we could see a church in the distance, on the right, and as we approached it I could sense an increasing tension in my companion’s manner. In a few minutes, we had reached a cross-roads, where Hamilton Terrace is crossed by Abercorn Place, and on the north-east corner of this cross-roads stood the church. Behind the low wall round the churchyard, a large sign proclaimed that this was St Mark’s.

  All my friend’s tension seemed in an instant to evaporate and he clapped his hands together in delight. ‘Q.E.D.!’ cried he in triumph. ‘Now, my dear fellow, I suggest we continue our walk down that hill over there to the Edgware Road, where we can probably pick up a cab to take us to a decent restaurant. I think that our efforts today have merited a good supper!’

  Our involvement with the case was not yet finished for the day, however, for when we returned to Baker Street, we found a letter from Zennor awaiting us, which had been delivered earlier in the evening by special messenger. With an expression of surprise, Holmes tore open the envelope. The letter within ran as follows:

  MY DEAR MR HOLMES,

  I had thought that it might prove difficult for me to keep our appointment tomorrow. However, a fresh development has rendered that somewhat easier, although the development itself is an
unwelcome one. In short, I have now been suspended from all my duties at the cathedral and placed on indefinite leave, until the Dean and Chapter have had an opportunity to consider the whole matter in detail. I am therefore writing this note to you from my mother’s house at Brixton and will call at your chambers tomorrow lunchtime, as you requested. Do not take it amiss if I say that I have little confidence that I shall ever be cleared of the false charges against me. The matter seems so dark and inexplicable, and I have almost given up all hope.

  YOURS VERY SINCERELY, MARTIN ZENNOR

  ‘Poor fellow!’ I said, as I finished reading. ‘He must feel that his whole world has collapsed about him.’

  ‘Let us hope, then,’ said Holmes, ‘that we shall be able to lift his spirits a little tomorrow!’

  _______

  In the morning, a fresh band of rain had blown in across London and I awoke to the patter of raindrops against my bedroom window. It was clear that it had rained heavily in the night, for the plane tree behind our house had a drenched and bedraggled appearance. By the time we had taken breakfast, however, the rain had stopped, although the sky remained grey and overcast. After breakfast, Holmes’s attempt to return to his bedroom for further rest was this time successful and I did not see him again for two hours. I passed my own morning in writing up the case as I saw it so far, although, in truth, I could make little sense of it. It was clear from what I had seen of the hieroglyphics in Holmes’s own note-book that he regarded the muddle over the minor canons’ overcoats as an important part of the case, but I could not really see how that helped us. The envelope with the cheque in it had undoubtedly been found in Martin Zennor’s own coat, and he had undoubtedly been wearing it at the time, so the fact that some of the other young men had taken the wrong coats did not seem to make any difference. Zennor stated that he had not put the envelope in his pocket, and I saw no reason to doubt that, so therefore someone else had done so, but who, when and why?