The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  Holmes had clearly done his research, for the doors of the hall opened, as predicted, at a quarter-past the hour. Two burly roughs stood either side of the door, scrutinising those who began to flood into the hall, and every so often stepping forward to prevent the admission of one or two of the more inebriated or troublesome characters who presented themselves. A short while later, we found ourselves admitted to the spacious interior of the meeting house, and when the hall was judged to be full, the large entrance doors were closed behind us.

  I followed Holmes as he sidled down the central aisle of the hall, aiming to get as close to the front as he could. I caught occasional glimpses of Athelney Jones’s men, who looked to be doing the same. We seated ourselves in the plain wooden stalls to the left of the central pulpit, removing our raincoats and placing them and the umbrellas at our feet. Stood along the wall to our side, I could see three orderly queues of men, women, and children who were eagerly awaiting the handout of the penny bundles.

  It was some time before all of the spectators were finally seated, and the atmosphere within the high-ceilinged hall was uncomfortably humid, given the large number of damp and clammy bodies that had been admitted. On carefully positioned chairs along the front of the hall sat the shrouded members of the Radicant Munificent Society, each with his head bowed. Occupying a central position within the group was the president in his distinctive dark blue cloak, the cuffs, belt, and edging of which was adorned with expensive gold braiding.

  From somewhere to the rear of the building came the sound of a loud bell, the striking of which prompted all of the Society to finally remove their hoods and the hall to descend into silence. We were now looking into the faces of this most secretive association of men. A few looked distinctly uncomfortable, although most seemed unperturbed by the attention. Morley Merrill-Adams was a stout, barrel-chested man of some sixty years. His hair was completely grey, as was the thick moustache that sat beneath his thin, beak-like, nose. And there was more than a touch of arrogance about the man as he stuck out his chin and looked left and right towards his compatriots with a distinctly paternalistic air.

  To his right sat an extremely tall man with short dark hair and a pugnacious look. The long scar on his left cheek confirmed that this was Inspector Ridgeley. I wondered if he had already spotted one or two of his fellow metropolitan officers who were all now seated within the first three rows of the meeting house. His general demeanour suggested that he was not concerned about anything going on around him.

  The bell sounded a second time, at which Merrill-Adams rose to address his audience. He had a deep Lancastrian accent, and the timbre of his voice carried well across the hall. He introduced himself and said a little about the history of the society, focusing naturally on the more benevolent aspects of its heritage. He then invited the charitable beneficiaries to come forward, one at a time, to receive their penny bundles before being shepherded towards the back of the hall. The whole event was neatly orchestrated, and when the final bundle had been passed into the grasping hand of the last recipient, Merrill-Adams made his way up into the central pulpit for his keynote address. I felt Holmes shuffle beside me, reaching down calmly to reclaim his Macintosh from the floor.

  The president was a gifted speaker who knew how to work his audience. And it was clear that he had arranged for some of his henchmen to position themselves around the hall, and following some pre-arranged cues to clap and cheer at intervals to encourage the wider support of the crowd. He began with some observations on the poverty of the East End and the descent into crime and drunkenness which afflicted so many. He talked about the struggles of the established church to address the moral degradation of the local population and the way that compulsory education was failing to instil within the young the habits of industry. And he blamed politicians for doing little to sort out the source of the problems.

  All of this was widely applauded. But then he came to specify what he believed to be the root cause of all the concerns he had alluded to. His discourse took on a darker character and began to prompt some disquiet within the hall. His brazen and explicit attack on the Jewish community led some of those present to stand up and leave the hall in disgust. As they did so, others jeered and heckled them.

  I cannot find it within myself to set down even a flavour of the words and vitriol to which we were subjected in those moments, as more and more of the crowd were whipped up and began to cheer widely at Merrill-Adams’ finger-pointing. He was about to suggest some of the ways in which the audience could ‘tackle the Jewish threat’ when Holmes took it upon himself to bring an end to the tirade.

  With a swift movement of his right arm I saw him toss one of the small metal cannisters he had brought with him to the left of the hall, and then stooped to roll the other along the floor to my right. There were two small explosions as both cannisters were suddenly ignited and began to produce prodigious volumes of thick grey smoke. A state of pandemonium broke out across the hall, instantly drowning out Merrill-Adams’ words, with people jumping up from their seats and jostling to move to the rear of the building.

  Holmes watched with evident glee and glanced across to Athelney Jones, who returned a nervous smile, before rising and nodding to three or four of his senior officers. Some moved towards the front of the hall in order to prevent members of the Radicant Munificent Society from escaping, while others began to tackle the agitated and bewildered henchmen.

  The smoke lingering across the front section of the hall was now so dense that it was difficult to see anything at all to a height of about five feet. Holmes grabbed my arm and pointed in the direction of the central pulpit, which was just visible above the smog. Merrill-Adams was nowhere to be seen.

  Spluttering in the acrid fumes, we edged forward. To our right, two broad-shouldered constables were placing handcuffs on a stunned-looking Inspector Ridgely. Athelney-Jones looked to be rounding up other cloaked members of the society.

  As we reached the central pulpit, Holmes shouted and gesticulated once again, this time in the direction of a small door on the far wall beyond the podium. We wasted no time in making for the exit to find that it opened on to a series of small ancillary rooms. The first was a long cloakroom with a small water closet to the right. Holmes pressed on while I paused briefly to check that it was empty. When I re-emerged, I saw him pass into a further room beyond. As I attempted to do the same, I was brought to an abrupt halt. Holmes stood motionless, a little to the right of the doorway. To his side was Morley Merrill-Adams, who now held a small handgun to my colleague’s temple. I froze, instantly castigating myself for not having my own firearm to hand.

  Merrill-Adams had a haunted look. The colour had drained from his face and his eyes were wild with fear. Gone was the assured composure we had witnessed only moments before. He cast a quick glance in my direction before refocusing on Holmes. It was the latter who spoke first. “And what do you plan to do now, Mr. Merrill-Adams? There is no exit from the building at this end of the hall, or you would have departed before we arrived.”

  The banker gritted his teeth. “It appears that you have the advantage, gentlemen. You seem to know who I am, but I have no idea who you are.”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. The colleague to my rear is Doctor John Watson.”

  “I see. Then I am indeed in esteemed company. And were the other men with you? They seem to have done a very good job of disrupting the legitimate meeting of a charitable organisation.”

  Despite the obvious threat facing him, Holmes snorted with derision. “There is nothing charitable about your robberies and intimidation. The other men are officers from Scotland Yard. They have just arrested Inspector Ridgeley, the corrupt officer you thought would protect you from official scrutiny. They know all about your legitimate role as the head of Pendleton-Lyons, but are just a little more interested in your felonious activities.”

  We could still hear the considerabl
e clamour coming from the main hall. Merrill-Adams continued to hold the gun to Holmes’s head for some seconds and then allowed his arm to drop slowly, before casting the weapon on to the floor. With a final attempt at defiance he merely added: “Then I wait to see the proof you have to support these very serious assertions.”

  It was shortly before nine o’clock the following morning that Holmes and I finally had a chance to catch up on the previous day’s events. Following the arrest of Merrill-Adams, we had spent some time giving our statements to Inspector Jones at Scotland Yard. Holmes had then offered to stay on and provide him with further information about the nefarious activities of the Radicant Munificent Society. I had left at that point to return home to my wife, promising to call in at Baker Street early the next day.

  Holmes was in the very best of moods when I arrived, updating his private files with some of the information he had gleaned on the case. In contrast to the day before, the capital was bathed in warm summer sunlight and temperatures were predicted to climb steadily throughout the coming hours. I refused the offer of a coffee and cigar and sat down to quiz him on a few outstanding aspects of the case.

  “What were those cannisters you used yesterday? I’ve never seen smoke bombs quite like those!”

  He grinned mischievously. “No, Watson. Something I have developed following our little success in the case you entitled ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’. You may remember the small plumber’s smoke rocket we used to good effect. I thought it might be useful to produce a more potent device of my own. My smoke bombs used potassium chlorate as an oxidising agent and refined sugar as a fuel. To these I added some sodium bicarbonate to dampen the heat and a powdered organic dye, which first evaporates and then condenses into tiny particles, to produce the impressive smoke effect. The use of the metallic casing enabled me to include a robust ignition system to create the initial spark.”

  “Quite remarkable, I’d say although Athelney Jones didn’t seem too impressed.”

  “No,” he chuckled, “I think he suspects I may have terrorist leanings!”

  “And his thoughts on the evidence against Merrill-Adams?”

  “Jones is almost certain that the robberies and campaign of intimidation are the work of Merrill-Adams and Ridgeley only. The others seem to know nothing about what has gone on, and a number have suggested that this may signal an inglorious end to the clandestine organisation. Jones also has little doubt that charges can be brought against both men to secure their conviction and ensure long prison sentences.”

  “Then a successful conclusion all round.”

  “I would say so, Watson. Let us hope that Mr. Mendoza concurs.”

  The familiar ring of the doorbell announced the arrival of the man himself. Mendoza fairly sprinted up the stairs to join us in the consulting room. He seemed flushed with excitement as he shook our hands with some vigour.

  “So, the dog is safe then, Mr. Mendoza?” said Holmes.

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Holmes. But there has been some considerable talk down at the synagogue that members of the Radicant Munificent Society were arrested yesterday following an attempt to burn down the Presbyterian meeting house. Can that be true?”

  I struggled to suppress a laugh at the thought that Holmes had now been cast in the role of an arsonist. My colleague maintained his composure with admirable aplomb. Over the course of the next fifteen to twenty minutes, he took Mendoza through the full details of what had actually occurred and confirmed that Merrill-Adams and Ridgeley were likely to face lengthy prison sentences if convicted. He then indicated that Inspector Jones was keen to speak to Mendoza as part of the investigation, and might require him to give evidence at the eventual trial. Mendoza was delighted to hear the news.

  “Then you have brought this case to the most satisfactory of conclusions for a great many people, gentlemen. You have my most profound thanks. Now, I trust you will forgive the presumption on my part, for I do not think we discussed fees at any stage, Mr. Holmes, but I have taken the liberty of choosing these small gifts for you both, which I hope will serve as some recompense for the considerable dangers you faced on this endeavour.”

  He pulled from an outside pocket and handed to us two small, black, wooden boxes, exquisitely decorated with inlaid gold leaf and bearing our full names in block capitals. At his beckoning, we opened the boxes to find inside a set of gold and diamond-encrusted cufflinks, complete with matching tiepins. The craftsmanship was exceptional, and I could but wonder at the value of such a set. He then handed Holmes a long white envelope, containing a cheque, indicating that it should “... more than cover your anticipated fees and any incidental expenses you have incurred in the course of your investigations.”

  Holmes took the envelope with a polite thank you and proceeded to open it. Notwithstanding his intrinsic ability to present a deadpan expression in any moment of heightened tension or acute emotion, my colleague could not in this case disguise his astonishment. His jaw dropped, and he merely passed the cheque across to me as if seeking confirmation that the amount written on it was indeed real. It was written out for the sum of five thousand pounds.

  Our client left us not long after. Holmes sat quietly for a few moments after his departure and then sprang up with unexpected gusto. “Come, Watson, time and tide wait for no man! I neglected to tell you, but I have a new case involving a steam engine, a human sacrifice, and a disputed family legacy. It may prove to be one of the most remarkable adventures we have ever embarked upon!”

  It was a measure of his highly-ordered mind and general self-composure that every thought, feeling, and action had to be rationalised within his universal psyche. He cared not for surprises, and Mendoza’s unexpected generosity had triggered within him a disquieting sensation beyond his comprehension. I knew instantly that his call to action was merely an attempt to dislodge such a debilitating emotion.

  It was less than a week later, while I was attending to an elderly patient, that I received an unexpected letter amongst the surgery’s post. There was no mistaking the hand, and it was with some curiosity that I opened the envelope, eager to know why Holmes was writing to me when he had had ample opportunity to communicate with me face to face in the days before. To my astonishment, the envelope contained a banker’s draft, made out for two thousand, five hundred pounds. A small handwritten note accompanied the cheque. On it were just three words: “Spend it wisely!”

  NOTE

  Daniel Abraham Aaron Mendoza (1764-1836) was a genuine prize-fighter and pugilist who became the sixteenth heavyweight boxing champion of England. While he had a great many children and grandchildren, the character of Samuel Mendoza is a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Adventure of the Apologetic Assassin

  by David Friend

  Of the many sketches I have placed before the public concerning my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, several have involved happenings which many casual observers would doubtless consider impossible. From the matter of Mr. Grimesby Roylott and his curious menagerie, to the Thor Bridge incident, these have been solved by the only man, in my belief, who was equal to the challenge. Holmes, with his formidable faculties for deduction and logical synthesis, and penchant for the original and outré, had made such occurrences his speciality.

  A mystery of a similarly peculiar import - and one I have meant to relate for some time - was the Erasmus Brew case. Even now, as I write this, I am chilled by the seemingly preternatural phenomenon which confronted Holmes and me on that day in 1889. A man found alone and stabbed in his study, the door locked and barricaded by chairs and a table, while several men vigilantly guarded the room from outside. With both murder and suicide ruled out, it could only be an act of a disturbing and otherworldly provenance.

  The case presented itself in the middle of August. I had not seen Holmes since the Leander Fo
rge case some weeks earlier, and had been dividing my time exclusively between my professional duties and my wife. After a particularly arduous morning of paperwork, I was relieved to find my afternoon to be free of any further engagements. I bid farewell to my colleague Dr. Jackson and returned swiftly to Baker Street. It felt strange, walking such familiar steps, yet knowing they would no longer lead me home.

  From the moment that dear Mrs. Hudson admitted me within, I heard the sorrowful strains of Holmes at play on his Stradivarius. I found him in his rooms upstairs, standing by the fireplace, his back to me. He was apparently oblivious to my presence, his tall thin figure clad in a silk dressing gown. I listened quietly as I knew how severely he looked upon interruptions but, to my surprise, the whining ceased as abruptly as any disturbance I could myself have made.

  Without so much as a glance over the shoulder, he said, “It has been some time, my dear Watson. I trust only good reasons have kept you away.”

  I recoiled in surprise. “Holmes!” I said, aghast. “How did you know I was here? You could not have heard my footsteps above the music!”

  “Unquestionably not,” he said, turning to face me at last. “Do you have a hypothesis?”

  I was at a loss to explain it.

  His mouth twitched into a smile of amusement - one of those fleeting jerks which only happened when he was properly pleased. “My good-natured Boswell, I was stood by the window a few moments ago and saw you outside.”