Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #3

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Jane said the Professor was a wonderful man, but Lassiter knew better. He went along, but knew he’d been bushwhacked. I now think Moriarty even contrived for Drebber to come across the Laurences in the first place. For him, a fugitive in possession of a fabulous gold mine is someone who needs their exile and outlaw life turned upside-down.

  Rache was afraid of the man. She wasn’t stupid, just different. She would have to learn a new name, Pixie, and to address her parents as Uncle and Aunt, but they’d adopted her in the first place.

  Along with the evidence of full lives lived from birth up to this minute, the Lembos found that they had been staying—in a suite at Claridge’s!—in London for several days. Their traveling trunks, including entire wardrobes, were ensconced there. I had no doubt the staff would recognise them, and they’d be offered their “usual” at breakfast the next day. The family were on a long, leisurely world tour and had tickets and reservations for Paris, Venice, Constantinople, and points East. Eventually they would fetch up in Perth, Australia.

  In the coach on the way back to Conduit Street, I asked about Drebber and Stangerson.

  “If anyone deserves to be murdered,” I said, “it’s those splitters.”

  The Professor smiled. “And who will pay us for these murders?”

  “Those two I’d slaughter for free.”

  “Bad business, giving away what we charge for. You won’t find Mrs Halifax’s girls bestowing favours “on the house”. No, if we were to take steps against the Danites, we would only expose ourselves to risk. Besides, as you know, giving out an address is often a far more deadly instrument than a gun or a knife.”

  I didn’t understand and said so.

  “You may recall that Elder Drebber mentioned another enemy of the Danites, one Mr Jefferson Hope. Not a fugitive, in this case, but a pursuer. A man with a deadly grudge against our clients that dates back to a business in America which is too utterly tiresome to go into at this late hour.”

  “Drebber was half-expecting to run across Hope,” I said.

  “More like he was expecting Hope to run across him. This is even more likely now. I’ve sent an unsigned telegram to Mr Hope, who is toiling as a cab-driver in this city. It mentions a boarding house in Torquay Terrace, Camberwell, where he might find his old friends Drebber and Stangerson. I gather they will try to get a train for Liverpool soon, and a passage home, so I impressed on Hope that he should be swiftly about his business.”

  Moriarty chuckled.

  If you read in the papers about the Lauriston Gardens murder, the Halliday’s Private Hotel poisoning and death “in police custody” of the suspect cabman, you’ll understand. When the Professor sets about tidying-up, the slates are wiped clean, broken up, and buried under a foundation stone.

  So, at the end of it all, I was in residence in Conduit Street, part of the family. I was the Number Two in the organisation, the Man in charge of Murder, but I had a sense of how far beneath the Number One that position ranked. I had been near-hanged and shot at, but—most of all—I was kept out of the grown-ups” business. Like Rache, who had been good enough to spring the big surprise but otherwise fondly indulged or tolerated, I wasn’t party to the serious haggling, just the bloke with the gun and the steady nerve.

  Still, I knew how I would even things. I have begun to keep a journal. All the facts are set down, and eventually the public shall know them.

  Then we’ll see whose face is red. No, vermillion.

  THE DEATH OF FALSTAFF, by Darrell Schweitzer

  The King was in Southampton that night.

  Everyone had left me but the day before: Nym who was once to be my husband, though I had little liking for him, and Bardolph, whose nose glowed like a lantern, and the boy, and even my own Pistol, who was my husband. Off they were, to France, in their country’s service, for God and gold and glory, but mostly for the gold, if you take my meaning. Now the tavern was empty and silent, as all those who had made merry in it had gone away, with even my own husband saying, “Sweet Nell is such a clever one. She will take care of everything.”

  So they left me, even my husband, to clean up after them in more ways than one.

  And with poor Sir John still lying in the bed upstairs. It was I who was to attend to that, who would send for the undertaker and clean up the remains of Sir John’s life as if I were wiping a tabletop.

  Trust Hostess Nell. She can look after things.

  A lot more happened on that night than just myself sitting around in the dark mourning for Jack Falstaff, though I shed many a tear, and I sat by him in the dark, I did, looking at his dim shape in the dark, his nose all sharp and his fine, round face shrunken like a winter’s apple. I wasn’t afraid, being with a dead corpse, because it was only Sir John and I didn’t fear his ghost.

  “Oh, Sir John,” says I, “I hope you’re in your green fields now—”

  And then there was a thunderous knocking at the door. I let out a cry and dropped my little candle. I groped around and found it, but couldn’t relight it, so I felt my way to the door.

  Still the thundering, as if to knock the whole house down.

  “Anon!” I cried. “Anon!” And to Sir John I says, “If that be the Devil come for your soul, I’ll just tell him the tavern is closed and send him away.”

  But it wasn’t the Devil at the door, instead a tall, fierce-looking fellow, richly clad, and beside him a man in arms, who might have been a soldier. I couldn’t quite tell in the dark, but the one had on a black coat, like velvet, and the other wore a steel cap on his head and a sword at his side.

  “Hostess Quickly?”

  “Aye.”

  “I am called Doctor Peake.”

  “Well whatever you’re called, what is your business?”

  “Does the body of Sir John Falstaff lie within this house?”

  I could not deny that it did, but before I could have any whys or wherefores, this Peake and his bully-boy brushed me aside and came in. They showed me a paper, which they said was from a Higher Authority, but of course I couldn’t read it.

  There was something strange. I knew they came not from the watch, or from the sheriff; and the thought hits me like a thunderbolt, My God! They are from the King! But why? The King did not love Sir John in the end. He broke his heart, and of that broken heart Sir John died. So what would the King care now?

  I did as they bade me. I lit my candle from the embers and led them upstairs, then fetched a lamp when it was called for, and the one in the black coat, he that called himself a doctor, he examined Sir John most closely, peering into his eyes and ears with a kind of glass, poking and touching as if a dead man were not a dead man plain to see.

  “He is beyond all physick now,” says I, but the doctor just growls and says, “Silence, woman,” and goes on with his prodding and poking. The armed man looked at me, then at his master, but his master said nothing more, so I was allowed to stay.

  I stood there, in the dark by the door, wringing my hands in silence.

  At last he was done, and Doctor Peake said to his man, “It is as I had feared.”

  I didn’t ask him what he feared, other than that Sir John Falstaff was dead, and I didn’t understand why he would be afraid of that.

  The other fellow nodded and hurried downstairs and out of the house. I heard him galloping off.

  “And now, Hostess,” said the doctor, “if you will fetch some refreshment while we wait, here’s a gold noble for you.”

  My eyes lit up at that, you can be sure. I snatched the coin before he changed his mind and told him for that price he could have King Solomon’s Feast; but he only wanted some wine and some cold mutton and cabbage, downstairs in the common room, of course, for to eat upstairs was to invite Sir John to rise up and ask for some, as he always did enjoy his victuals.

  But also, fo
r that amount of money, Doctor Peake wanted other things of me, first my swearing my silence, and then he wanted to know divers things about Sir John, his comings and goings and who he met, especially in the last days of his life.

  I told what I knew, how the King had broke Sir John’s heart, and how Sir John had called for sack and drank so much you’d think he’d drown in it, and how he ate enough for five huge, fat men. Yet still there was no comfort for him in it. He tried to be merry with his old friends, but he could not.

  The doctor waved his hand impatiently.

  “Enough of that. Did he meet with other than his usual associates? Did he take any stranger aside and speak in a whisper? Did they mention the names Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey?”

  “Why Sir, if they was whispering, how would I know what names was mentioned?”

  I saw rage in his face then, a flicker, like lightning far away on a summer night; but he was a hard man, and in control of himself.

  “Then there were such persons? Agents? Conspirators? Speak plainly, woman! There are those who’d have your tongue out for this!”

  I was all a-flustered then, and didn’t know what to say, for those were names of great men, the Earl of Cambridge, Lord Scroop of Masham, and…I didn’t know who Grey was, but he must have been great, too, to keep such company. But when do such quality as those come to an Eastcheap tavern to talk with John Falstaff?

  “You said there were conspirators—”

  “Oh no, Sir, if I may be so bold, Sir. You said it. I but asked if they was whispering, how I could hear what was said.”

  Then the doctor was angry again, for just an instant, and he let out a long sigh, like the wind escaping from a bag, and he says, “I have been told, by one who knows you passing well, that you have a better wit and a more observant eye than one might expect from…your kind. Here‘s a silver groat if you will but tell me with whom Sir John Falstaff did converse this past week or so.”

  I snatched the coin quick, but all I could tell him, to be truthful was, “He did go out alone, just before he took sick, and he did say it was to meet an old friend over a matter of some money. ‘So you are going to pay what you owe me?’ says I. Quoth he, ‘What? I owe you? After such custom as I have given you? I have brought such honour to your house. You’ve had a prince under your roof because of me. Meaning Prince Hal, he did, and God save him who is now our lord the King. But Prince Hal then. I think there was a tear in Sir John’s eye then, because his heart was broke, but he had his little joke on me and I got never a shilling. Out he went, and he came back, his face all flushed and red, like Bardolph’s nose, and his speech was slurry, so Pistol my husband and the boy that was Sir John’s page helped him upstairs. Soon after Sir John was sick, and sooner after dead. That is all I know, Sir, in God’s honest truth.”

  “Then you know enough to have perhaps come to the same conclusion as have I, that Sir John Falstaff’s death was not natural, but that he was murdered.”

  “Jesu Christ have mercy!” I put my hand to my mouth.

  “There are definite signs of poison on his body. Now the matter darkens, Mistress Quickly, and your tact is required, for this is the King’s business.”

  I let out another little cry, and for an instant you could have knocked me over with a feather, all a-swoon was I, sorrowful and afraid, for he had said this was the King’s business, which is very close to the King’s doing, and Oh, what a terrible thing it had to be, how it must be the very work of the Devil, that Prince Hal, who loved Falstaff, became King Henry the Fifth, who did not, and that King, to save himself the shame of his former life, found it politic to have Sir John murdered.

  If that were true, I did not want to live.

  But no, I could not believe it. I prayed to God and promised to repent my sins, and Sir John’s, too, if it were not so.

  Doctor Peake said nothing to comfort me, but only said we should wait.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “For another, who has been sent for.”

  So we waited.

  That was all there was to do. I didn’t feel like idle talk, so I busied myself, tidying this and sweeping that, and I put some wood on the fire to give us light. The doctor just sat waiting too, drumming his fingers on my tabletop like the patter of rain.

  Then past ten of the clock there came hoofbeats in the street outside, and thunderous knocking again.

  I went to the door but the doctor got there first, and he opened the door to let in his armed man, who he’d sent away before, and another, whose face I could not see because of his hooded cloak. I think there were more men in the street outside. I heard metal clank and clink, and heavy footsteps.

  The doctor closed the door swiftly.

  I could see that the newcomer was a young man, tall and strong. He had a mailed sleeve, and I saw the ring he wore, even in such poor light.

  Once more I crossed myself, and repented my sins, lest I die that night.

  “Is it true, then?” This stranger asks the doctor.

  “Sir John is murdered, My Lord,” says the doctor. “There is no doubt of it.”

  And the other one’s voice trembled a little, and he said, “But why would someone kill a harmless old clown who couldn’t conspire his way out of a cup of sack?” He was speaking from his heart, and that surprised me, and I watched him careful, like.

  “Begging your pardon, Lord,” says I, and I curtseys. “But if you want to go up and see him—”

  It was reckless of me to say anything at all, but I was crazy with fear and grief and my thoughts all a jumble; and all the other things I wanted to ask him I couldn’t find the words for, not then.

  The hooded man nodded to me politely, as if I were a real lady, and said, “Your pardon, Hostess Quickly.”

  He held out his hand, and if he had not stopped me I would have knelt down and kissed his ring, though at that instant if I knew why I dared not admit the reason, even to myself.

  “Oh no,” says he. “If anyone is to ask, say only that you were visited by a gentleman this night, whose name was Henry Le Roi, while the King was in Southampton, preparing for his French war.”

  The doctor said, “I have purchased her silence, Lord.”

  “Nell always knew a good bargain, though it is not in her nature to be entirely silent, as I well know,” said Sir Le Roi. I didn’t ask how he knew. To me he said, “Hostess, if you will lead the way.”

  So I lit my candle and led them upstairs, the three of them, Sir Le Roi, who still hid his face beneath his hood, and Doctor Peake, and the soldier.

  We stood before the bed where Sir John lay. I bethought me that I ought to cover him up, but they’d want to see him, so I did not.

  “Poisoned, My Lord,” said the doctor.

  “Poor old, fat, drunk, rascally fool,” said Sir Le Roi. “He once said that sack would be his poison.”

  “But not here, Sir,” I said. “He got no poison here, though he drank overmuch, and did not always pay for it.”

  “That was in his nature,” said Sir Le Roi.

  “It would seem he was poisoned elsewhere,” said the doctor, “and returned here to die.”

  “We must discover the murderer then,” said Sir Le Roi, “and within but a few hours, too, for I have pressing business, as you well know. Damn! But for more time!”

  “We can hardly search the whole city in a few hours, Lord. Even if we knew what the criminal looked like.”

  “We must make him come to us. But how to get word to him? He could be anywhere.”

  “Likely in his bed at this hour,” said the doctor.

  “I think not,” said Le Roi. “I think not. But let me think further. Let us plan our stratagem…” He began pacing back and forth, clinking and clattering beneath his cloak. “If this rogue wants Sir John dead, and thinks he is dead
, then he’ll feel a sense of relief that the task is completed and the tongue he wanted silenced is silenced, and this murderer, being a low fellow, will celebrate his exploit in a low manner. I think he will be in a tavern, with his comrades, saluting the completion of their enterprise. He’ll be drinking a toast, which I swear will slake his thirst all the way to the gallows.”

  “That still does not find him, Lord.”

  Le Roi stopped suddenly. He struck his hand with his other fist. His ring flashed in the candlelight. “I have it! Imagine the fright the fellow would have if he were to learn that Sir John Falstaff is not dead!”

  “But Sir,” I broke in, amazed, “why there he is, cold and dead as you see. You cannot bring him back!”

  Sir Le Roi said softly, “In Arthur’s bosom, so I hear—”

  “Sir!” I said, much alarmed, wondering if this Le Roi might be the very Devil, who could read my thoughts.

  He turned to the doctor, to the soldier, then back to me, as if to include all of us in his council. “Hark you then. Pray to God this works.”

  To the soldier he said, “Station the men all about the street, out of sight, so our quarry may enter the house but not leave it.”

  “It shall be done, Lord,” said the soldier, and off he went.

  To the doctor, he said, “We must conceal ourselves. Where?” He looked about the room. There was a trunk, but barely big enough to hide a boy in it.

  He turned to me.

  “Mistress Quickly, is there a curtain?”

  “What, Sir?”

  “A drapery. A hanging of some sort.”

  Befuddled, I could only say, “There’s just the sheets.”

  “It will have to do. Take you a sheet then, and hang it up on the wall like a curtain, as if to cover a window, for all theres no window there. In the dark, he’ll never notice.”