The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “Here is what I propose you look into: That one of the Champion family visited Gilkey on some pretense. While there, he drugged her tea. It would be relatively easy to do for someone her age. When she fell asleep by the fire, he went to look for the will.”

  Trench was now standing stock still and paying close attention to me.

  “But while Champion was in another room, he heard a noise elsewhere. Then, Gilkey’s voice, likely querulous but subdued because of the tea. The brooch burglar had been discovered. He attacked Gilkey with a jemmy or some similar device he had brought. He fiercely attacks her and then, realizing what he’s done, flees out the kitchen window as I posited.”

  Trench remained noncommittal, but I could see by the expression on his face that he was seriously considering my words.

  “Champion remains where he is, silent. Then he comes out after being certain that the burglar is gone. He finds Gilkey in terrible condition, but still alive. This is a golden opportunity. He grabs the chair and smashes it into her head and chest, explaining the two different types of wounds.”

  I continued on, caught in a fever of excitement. “Believing her well and truly dead, he returns to his task, breaking open the box and finding the offending will. But Ellen Whitcomb comes in while he is there. He can’t remain for long. Surely she will call for help. Possibly even opening the front door and screaming out, leaving him trapped inside.”

  Trench was hanging on my every word. “Go on, Holmes.”

  “He had to take a chance. Especially since he had the will in his pocket. When he judged her to be in the kitchen, he brazenly walked towards the door, keeping his face as hidden as possible.”

  “But what if Whitcomb could identify him? Or chased him, or something like that?”

  I smiled. “He couldn’t know but that she was involved in the burglary, but he couldn’t stay there. And she couldn’t know whether or not he had seen the other man. Once she found Gilkey in the dining room, she was in a terrible position. Assuming she could tell the police who she saw, doing so might result in her confederate being tabbed.”

  “Who is this burglar, Holmes? He could be made of straw for all I know.”

  “I wondered when you would ask. I learned that Whitcomb has been stepping out with a rather disreputable young man named Thomas Carr.”

  “Carr?”

  I clapped my hands together. “Yes, indeed. He is the black sheep of the family.”

  “But if...” he didn’t finish the sentence and looked at me for elaboration.

  “It explains everything, Trench. The multiple weapons, only the brooch being ‘stolen’, the open kitchen window, the broken box, and scattered papers, Whitcomb letting a total stranger simply walk out of the flat. It’s a pity the contents of the tea cup weren’t analyzed.”

  His cheeks flushed. “Now look here, Holmes. There was no reason-”

  I stopped his outburst by raising my palms. “I am not accusing the Yard of incompetence, Trench. Just ruing a missed opportunity.

  His feelings mollified, he muttered a few incomplete sentences and waited for me to continue.

  “Unless you can tell me there is some actual evidence implicating this Braunstein fellow, I believe it would be more productive to focus your efforts on Carr and Champion. Perhaps you’ll even find the missing brooch, which would go a long way towards solving the case.”

  He inhaled deeply, his cheeks looking like those of a chipmunk, then blew all the air out. “I can try, Holmes. Though Inspector Jones will not be happy about it.” Then, he said in his native Scottish brogue, “Wee can’t be lettin’ amee-tures doin’ our werk fer us now, cen we sarrrgent?”

  He took off his hat and ran his right hand and through his mop of hair, looking at me ruefully. “But I have to do what’s right, and what you’ve said seems more likely than this Braunstein fellow doing the job. Once that ticket turned out to be a false clue, I didn’t see any reason to keep after him.”

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man, Trench. I shall keep a low profile for the next several days and stay out of Jones’ orbit. I don’t believe an encounter would go well for you or me.”

  He laughed. “No, it wouldn’t at that.” Whistling, he took his leave of me and I went back to my rooms.

  I took a sip of my tea, now completely cold, so absorbed had I been in my friend’s recounting of his case. “What happened, Holmes?”

  He fiddled with his pipe. “It was as I had deduced. Ellen Whitcomb was, surprisingly, unshakeable. But Thomas Carr admitted he had agreed to rob the flat to cover up for Whitcomb having taken the brooch. Gilkey heard him and he panicked, trying to kill her to protect his identity.”

  “What of Champion?”

  “Trench doggedly pursued him, and events had transpired in the manner I asserted. Both were found guilty of murder, and Ellen Whitcomb was sent to prison for a time.”

  I stared at the window, pondering all of this.

  “So, Watson. Though you badger me to tell you of cases from the time before we met, many are mundane affairs not worthy of the retelling, let alone of your penning them for The Strand.”

  “Of course, Holmes. I don’t expect every case from your earlier days to contain the intriguing or fantastical elements that attract you. But I’m sure many are of interest.”

  “That’s as well may be,” he said, staring at his pipe. “But I learned from those days. Not just the tools of my trade. But also of the obstinance, intransigence, and sometimes sheer denseness of the Yard. I acknowledge Lestrade and Gregson as the best of a bad lot. And others, such as Hopkins, are certainly capable of good work. But many refuse to look further than in front of their own faces. And they are prone to fasten on to a single theory, often incorrect, like a hungry dog with a bone.”

  I could not disagree with his assessment, based upon my experiences as his companion.

  “The Yard would have happily sent Braunstein to the gallows if I had not guided them in the right direction. And do you know what happened to Trench?”

  I shook my head, remaining silent.

  “He dared to assert that his superiors were wrong and that I was on the right track. And though he was absolutely proven correct in his faith in me, he was booted from the force.”

  “Why, that’s outrageous,” I protested. “They couldn’t.”

  Holmes gave me a rueful smile. “Oh, they could and they did. He was accused of sharing official information with an outsider. Myself, of course. And even though he was right in his belief that Braunstein was innocent, he was also accused of severe insubordination.”

  He gazed out the window, remembering the man. “He joined the military, where I’m sure his abilities were stifled completely. The Yard lost a promising young man who would certainly have attained the rank of inspector sooner than his contemporaries.”

  “I never intended on joining the Yard, but I was even more resolved to make my way on my own. I could never have operated within the confines of Scotland Yard’s rules, regulations, inadequacies, and inefficiencies.”

  “And a good thing for London that you did not choose the force, Holmes.”

  He smiled. “Good for both of us, Watson. Now you know of the killing of Marion Gilkey and the missing diamond brooch.” So saying, he closed his eyes and a comfortable silence settled over our rooms. Even the wind outside seemed to quiet.

  Postscript

  You will notice, dear reader, that the bulk of this narrative is written from Holmes’s perspective. This was his method of taking notes for several of his cases during those Montague Street days. I can only speculate that with his practice providing so much leisure time, this was one way he kept himself busy when he tired of the reading rooms at the British Museum.

  I took the notes and added a few touches of my own from his retelling of the case to me. For example, he did n
ot mention the Grosvenor Square furniture van and provided almost no description of Trench. As a writer, I simply could not resist enhancing the account to a minor degree.

  Of course, he would say that his version lacks the “embellishments and romanticisms” that I inevitably add to my written accounts of his adventures, making it a valuable learning tool. I showed him how much would be left out if I wrote the type of dry, dusty recounting he wishes me to. I fear he’ll never see my point of view.

  If Holmes were ever to give me permission to publish this affair, which seems unlikely, there is much I would add. For example, how Holmes himself wove the web that snared Champion, who had glibly put off police interest. And how Holmes helped determine how Carr and Champion gained access to the flat. Or of his feelings about how Trench was done for so poorly by Scotland Yard. Or what Adams, the downstairs neighbor, had to say, that caused Holmes to look even closer into Ellen Whitcomb.

  Though this case was lacking in those elements of the outré that are a hallmark of my accounts, I’m certain that a detailed accounting would show that Holmes’s approach to solving crimes was superior to that of the Yard, and that justice was, even then, of paramount importance to him.

  I will only add that Inspector Athelney Jones never forgot Holmes’s role in this affair. So much so that he refused to even acknowledge it had occurred when we encountered one another years later at Pondicherry Lodge. It also explains why Holmes enjoyed prodding Jones during that strange case.

  The Irregular

  by Julie McKuras

  When I took up my pen to record the adventure which I titled A Study in Scarlet, I wrote of my introduction to Sherlock Holmes, and my own surprise when a dirty group of street Arabs made their way into our rooms. Unknown to me, they were quite familiar to my companion, who greeted them as fellow detectives, calling them “the Baker Street division of the detective police force.” This was the first - but not the last - account of the Irregulars that I came to chronicle, but no mention has ever been given of how Holmes first met young Wiggins, the leader of the group.

  That revelation came one beautiful summer morning sometime after the conclusion of that case. Content after Mrs. Hudson’s breakfast, I perused the activity on Baker Street from our window. My attention was drawn to the young ladies enjoying their stroll, parasols open to shade them from the sunshine. A warm breeze blew through the sitting room, and the light streaming through the fluttering lace curtains cast an ever-changing pattern on Holmes, who seemed content to lounge on the sofa. As I was about to suggest that perhaps we too should take a turn about the neighborhood, I noticed a familiar figure crossing Baker Street. Soon, there was the sound of footsteps outside our door; Mrs. Hudson had arrived, with Wiggins in tow.

  “Ah, Wiggins. What brings you to our door this fine day?” Holmes looked slightly amused and somewhat pleased to see the boy, but his expression changed quickly as Wiggins began to bite his lip and twisted his cap in a nervous manner. Holmes sat up and gestured to Mrs. Hudson that she should leave us, hoping Wiggins would feel free to relate what was causing his distress. Wiggins looked even more upset as she left, but he finally spoke. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry to bother you with our problems, but I can’t think of anyone who can help us. I don’t want to tell mum about this. She’d just be worried sick, and I don’t think there’s anything she can do.”

  Holmes motioned for Wiggins to take a seat. “And what problem is this, and who else is involved? I notice you used the word ‘us’.”

  “Mr. Holmes, Doctor, it’s not just me. It’s my sister, Elizabeth. She’s in real trouble and I’m scared for her, and for myself to be honest. I think something fearful might happen.” There was no question that he was truly frightened. “I was wondering if I could bring her to see you tonight after she’s done with work. It would be better if she told you how this all started.”

  Holmes was noticeably disturbed at the prospect that Wiggins was so terrified. I went to our young Irregular. “Of course you can count on the two of us to help you. Do you want to stay here, or should we accompany you?”

  “No, Dr. Watson, but thank you. I need to be at the store when my sister gets off work later and walk her here. We’ll be all right as long as we’re together.” He rose, looking slightly more confident than when he arrived. Holmes accompanied him downstairs and, joining me at the window, we watched as Wiggins looked cautiously up and down Baker Street before he left and was soon lost in the crowd.

  Holmes returned to our sitting room and, going to the mantel, took his pipe. “I’m not sure we should have let him leave alone. I’ve never seen Wiggins at such a loss.”

  We both knew it would be a long day until our Irregular and his sister told us the details of their problem. Holmes sat and lit his pipe, and the breeze coming through the open window soon carried the aroma of his tobacco through the room. “Watson, I don’t believe I ever told you how I met Wiggins.”

  I sat facing him, a bit surprised, but prepared for an interesting story which I hoped would help pass the time as we awaited our evening encounter. “No, Holmes, I don’t believe you have.”

  A small smile appeared as he turned toward me and said “I met him while I was still residing in Montague Street, before Stamford brought you to St. Bart’s. Finding myself at loose ends one day, I took myself around the corner to the British Museum to consult with an old gentleman there who was always willing to answer my questions about those subjects which I believed would aid me in my consulting career. As I opened the door to enter the Museum, I was almost bowled over by a young man who was exiting in haste. ‘What’s the hurry, lad?’ I asked, and held his arm to keep him from falling.

  “‘What’s it to you?’ he said, giving me a look I have never forgotten; not defiant, but curious. Before I could ask anything further, one of the Museum guards flew out of that same door and grabbed him by his jacket.

  “Now Watson, believe me when I say his jacket was already in poor condition and wouldn’t withstand any further rough handling. I asked what the problem was, and the guard responded that this boy had stolen his lunch. One look told me he was correct, so I told him, ‘Give the man back his lunch and I’ll get you something to eat.’ He did, much to his embarrassment, although I wasn’t sure if he was ashamed of being a thief or of being caught.

  “The guard let him go after issuing a strong warning to stay away from the Museum. I felt I should add an additional warning to refrain from stealing in general, but on closer inspection, I realized that, although he was moderately tall, his face was that of a child. He was thin, pale, and had a pinched look about him. It didn’t take any special skill to realize he was hungry. There was a cart nearby selling pies and, as it was a pleasant day, we were soon sitting on a bench not far from the Museum, pies in hand. He was a poorly dressed young fellow, but not without manners. He thanked me for his meal and ate quickly before sitting back and finding himself in the unusual situation of being full.”

  Holmes was a story teller of some merit, and I realized I had momentarily forgotten Wiggins’s present situation. He stood and poured himself a glass of water from the carafe on the table, perhaps feeling a bit of the heat himself. After taking a few sips, and sensing my interest, he paused somewhat dramatically while looking toward the front windows. “Or would you prefer I finish my story later so that you can continue your study of the female form on parade?”

  “Get on with it, Holmes. What did you learn about him?”

  “I told him my name and that I lived nearby while studying toward my career. He said his name was Theodore Albert Wiggins. A rather grand name for such a ragamuffin, given by parents who must have envisioned a bright future for him, but isn’t that often the case. His clothes were worn but mended, and he was as clean as anyone could be who tried to survive in and around the streets. He told me he was eleven years old, had a younger brother named James, and an older sister named Elizabeth. His
father had died in an accident, and his mother worked long hours at a hotel, cleaning and helping out as she could to keep them together. His sister worked as a shop girl. It wasn’t an unusual story, Watson, and in fact quite a common one, but there was something about this boy. As he talked, he didn’t look at me, but looked at the people who were coming and going from the Museum, those on the sidewalks and streets. At first I thought he was sizing them up as potential contributors to his upkeep, but as we talked, it became evident that he was actually studying them, watching them walk and how they held themselves, how they conversed. He seemed to find everything about him interesting. I realized that had my situation been different, I might have been very much like him.”

  Holmes was not a man given to frequent declarations of sentimentality, but I could tell by this pensive comment that the lad had intrigued him. I asked him how he determined that the boy was such a study.

  “We sat there and chatted for some time, neither one of us having any engagements. There were cabs and carts on the streets, the noise of the horses, and a multitude of people making their way around the area. It was as if he heard all that was going on around him, yet could focus on any one individual while continuing our conversation at the same time. Much to my amusement, I found that young Theodore was quite the mimic and observer. He began to imitate what he heard, not so much the words but the manner of speaking. He did a spot-on impression of a rather pompous looking man walking on the sidewalk, blathering on to his companion. I asked him why he seemed so interested in our fellow citizens. Wiggins smiled, and replied ‘It’s a game we play. My sister often says that no one really notices her at the store where she works. I run errands to earn a bit, so I see a lot of people, too. They just look through the likes of us, but we can look at them. We have a lot of fun imitating them for my mum and brother. It’s like that guessing game we play on Christmas Day.’