The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “I think that we have,” the inspector replied cryptically. “Ah, allow me to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson.”

  “How do you do, gentlemen?” she asked. “Is there anything that I may do to be of assistance?”

  “Not at the moment,” Holmes said, “but I would be grateful if you would remain open to cooperate with both the inspector and me.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I will do anything to find out what has happened to my husband.”

  A thin smile crossed Holmes’s face. “Thank you, madam,” he said. “Dr. Watson and I must take our leave.”

  Mathews met us at the door and handed us our hats and coats. I saw Holmes study the butler for a moment critically and then, with a smile, he tipped his hat at the man and started outside. Lestrade and I followed as he was hailing a cab, the rain having let up since we had left Scotland Yard.

  “This case requires some brainwork on my part Lestrade,” Holmes said. “I shall be readily available at Baker Street if I’m needed.” Turning to me, Holmes continued. “I fear that I shall be bad company tonight, Watson. This case is a three pipe problem and I know how you detest me poisoning the atmosphere of our rooms. However, if you would be so good as to call around at ten o’clock tomorrow, I suspect that I shall have one or two developments to relate.”

  “Of course.”

  The three of us parted ways, and I returned home and busied myself for the remainder of the day with some reading. I confess that I was unable to make head or tail of the whole case, but Holmes seemed to be putting some of the pieces of the puzzle together. He was, as ever, cryptic about the whole thing, and would not reveal more to me than the slightest bits of information. His infernal habit of keeping me in the dark could be positively infuriating.

  Desperate for answers, I made sure that I called around at Baker Street just as Holmes told me to do the following day. I arrived early and found the room unoccupied. Setting about pouring myself a drink and lighting a cigarette, I heard a commotion in the hall below, and a moment later, a ragged-looking stranger burst into the room. He was a scraggily-bearded man with a red face and, as he panted, I could see that he had very few teeth remaining in his mouth.

  “Good lord,” I cried, “what the devil is the meaning of all this?”

  “Calm yourself, Watson,” the man said in the familiar voice of Sherlock Holmes himself. “Please forgive me for my dramatic intrusion. I confess that disguise was hardly my finest –”

  “Nonsense! It fooled me rightly enough!”

  Holmes chuckled. “Excellent.”

  He moved to his room, where I watched him peel off his beard and bits of the congealed red make-up which he had applied to his cheeks to give himself a realistic, ruddy complexion. He also ran a brush over his teeth and I watched the black substance which he had smeared over them disappear entirely.

  “I assume that your disguise aided you in your sojourn to the East End?”

  “Precisely,” Holmes replied as he sank into his chair and reached for his cigarette case. “I located the den to which I referred yesterday, and I made a discovery of unparalleled proportions.”

  “My goodness, Holmes,” I said, “out with it! What’d you discover?”

  Sherlock Holmes drew in a deep breath. “I found Colonel Walter Cunningham,” he said. “He was quite dead. Stabbed through the heart, and I should wager anything that he’s been dead for two days.”

  My blood ran cold as Holmes spoke.

  “You contacted Lestrade immediately, I trust?”

  “Of course,” my friend replied. He let a thin ring of smoke curl about his head. “The Colonel’s body was hauled away to the morgue less than thirty minutes ago. I am sure that the discovery of the corpse in the den was not good business for the proprietor, but that is, I think, rather beside the point.”

  “I must say, Holmes, this does complicate matters. If Colonel Cunningham was a drug addict and he went off to the East End to indulge in his habit on the night of his disappearance, then how could he possibly be in Taviton Street and be seen by Mrs. McGinty? Are you quite certain that the two cases are connected?”

  “I am, Watson,” Holmes said. “At present I do have a logical chain of events in my mind, but it would be remiss of me to elaborate, for it is, at present, a very sketchy sequence.”

  “But can you justify any of this case, Holmes? I must admit, I am lost.”

  I saw a grin creep across his face. “Perhaps yesterday you saw me scribble down a copy of a note which I found in the Colonel’s desk. My brief examination of that note told me that it had arrived in the post that day. The Colonel had obviously tried to hide it away in his desk. The contents of that letter, however, are quite extraordinary.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Very little. The entire note consisted only of a single address: 12 Taviton Street.”

  “Good heavens!” I cried. “So Cunningham did go to there! Then, he could have been the body that Mrs. McGinty saw.”

  “Yes, Watson. On my way to the drug den this morning, I made a brief pass through that neighborhood. It is a residential neighborhood of the highest order. However it should be noted that No. 12 is an empty house.”

  “Surely the writer of that note knew that fact,” I said. “Holmes, whoever wrote that was then luring the Colonel to his death.”

  A pregnant pause fell over the room.

  “You know, Watson,” Holmes said at length, “there is something curious about Taviton Street. I observed it this morning: The street is almost entirely devoid of streetlamps.”

  “That is curious,” I said. “But, do you think it’s significant?”

  “I rather think that it may be one of the most important pieces of information regarding this case. Ah, I do believe that I hear the familiar tread of Inspector Lestrade upon the stair.”

  Sure enough, a moment later the inspector breathlessly bustled into our rooms.

  “Lestrade,” Holmes said. “News of the investigation?”

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector replied. “The murderer’s flown the nest.”

  “What?” I cried. “You know who has done this thing?”

  “We do, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade replied. I cast a glance towards Holmes, who seemed just as confused as I was. “It’s Mathews,” the inspector continued. “He was seen carrying a large valise out of the Colonel’s home this morning. One of our men whom I had stationed across the way followed at a distance and saw that Mathews was heading to Charing Cross Station. He’s obviously guessed that the Colonel’s body has been found and is trying to get away.”

  “Then,” Holmes said standing, “we haven’t a moment to lose. If I remember correctly, the next train to depart from Charing Cross is the 11:07, which is precisely nineteen minutes. Gentlemen, we must make haste.”

  A few moments later, I found myself nestled in a four-wheeler trundling across town, Lestrade having promised the cabbie extra fare if he didn’t spare the horse. Holmes’s determined face did not betray any of his innermost feelings. Could he, I wondered, have been bested by Lestrade? Could Mathews, the military batman, be the killer?

  Our carriage eased to a stop outside of the station and, pressing a coin into the cabbie’s hand, Lestrade followed Holmes and me into the busy train terminal.

  “It wouldn’t do him any good to stay out here.” Lestrade said, “He’s a wanted man. Perhaps we ought to check the waiting rooms.”

  “Good idea, Inspector,” Holmes retorted coldly. “The 11:07 departs for Ipswich, so let us head off in that direction.”

  We started off towards one of the waiting rooms and, as we neared, I could already see the familiar figure of Mathews standing amidst a small throng of people. He clutched his bag to his chest as though he were a mother clutching a new-born baby. He l
ooked nervous, his eyes darting around him. He suddenly locked eyes with Inspector Lestrade, who had dug a pair of handcuffs from his inner coat pocket and was rushing forward towards our man. I watched as Mathews dropped his valise to the ground and sprinted off, pushing people aside. By now, Holmes had joined the chase and had rushed to head-off Mathews on the other side of the small crowd. Positioning myself to catch our quarry should he double-back, I lifted my stick, ready to strike should I need it.

  From across the room, I could see Mathews push aside a couple, the inspector all but launching himself off the ground to snap the cuffs about the man’s wrists. Coming face to face with Holmes, I saw my friend pounce like a tiger, but the youthful batman sidestepped Holmes and my friend missed him completely. Recovering beautifully however, Holmes managed to land on his feet, reached out an arm and grabbed Mathews around the one wrist. Suddenly, Mathews turned on Holmes and his fist collided with my friend’s jaw. It was a powerful punch and it managed to fell Sherlock Holmes as if he were a tree.

  Seeing Holmes crumble to the ground, I rushed forward, even as Lestrade managed to seize our man and snap the handcuffs on him. By the time I reached Holmes, he was stirring, but his mouth was bloodied from the massive blow he’d received. I withdrew my handkerchief and handed it to Holmes, who pressed it to his face. Leaning on me, my friend stood and, taking the handkerchief away from his wound, I saw for the first time how badly he was injured. The sucker-punch which Mathews had inflicted on my friend had knocked from his mouth his left canine altogether. Holmes, who regarded his personal health and safety with a flippancy which did nothing for me as his doctor, waved it away and informed me that he would seek medical attention at once.

  “You shall, of course, place Mathews in police custody, Inspector?” he asked Lestrade.

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector replied. “I shall be very glad to put Colonel Cunningham’s murderer behind bars.”

  “I rather think then that you shall have to continue looking,” Holmes said. “Mathews here is not the murderer, of that I am certain. All-the-same, he does play an important part on our drama. Take him to Scotland Yard and Dr. Watson and I shall be around presently. In the meanwhile, I must seek out the aid of a dentist.”

  I had a friend or two in the dental profession and, showing up on their doorsteps unannounced, I pleaded with them to help my friend. I spent much of the rest of the afternoon at Holmes’s side while a specialized doctor looked after his wound and went about making a false tooth for my friend. At the conclusion of the operation, Holmes shook the doctor’s hand warmly before stepping out of the office and calling for a cab. Holmes truly could be an automaton, and I wordlessly followed him like a loyal dog into the back of a hansom bound for Scotland Yard.

  Within the hour, we were seated in a cold, damp room devoid of any color or furniture, save for a table which sat in the direct center. Lestrade stood with his arms folded as he leaned against the barred door; Holmes sat in a chair, toying with his cigarette case, and Mathews sat, handcuffs still snapped about his wrists, across from the detective.

  “You can do nothing but help us, Mathews,” Holmes said. “I know that you did not kill Colonel Cunningham, though the evidence against you is overwhelming.”

  “What motive could I possibly have for killing him?” the manservant cried.

  “I rather think that you were more than just the Colonel’s military batman and trusted servant,” Holmes said. “You were, in fact, his son.”

  A silence fell over the room, and I exchanged surprised looks with Lestrade.

  “It was really obvious to anyone with eyes and a brain,” Holmes said without any modesty. “The portrait of the Colonel which hung in his home showed a clear resemblance between him and his manservant. My suspicions were aroused as soon as I saw it.”

  “It’s true,” Mathews said. “I am the Colonel’s son.”

  “One of the Colonel’s two children?” I asked. “I thought that they were out of the city.”

  “They are,” Holmes replied. “You see, it took a little bit of digging - and not an inconsiderable amount of deductive reasoning - to discover that the Colonel had a child out of wedlock around the same time as the birth of his first child.”

  “It’s true, Mr. Holmes,” Mathews murmured. “According to my mother - a working class woman who has since died - the Colonel swept her off her feet. She fell madly in love with the blackguard and they had a child - me. Shortly after my birth, Colonel Cunningham announced to my mother that he was expecting another son... this time to the woman he had rightfully married. My mother was heartbroken and... she threw herself into the river late one evening. I was only a baby, but it instilled in me a hatred of that man, Mr. Holmes.

  “The Colonel did his utmost to keep my existence a secret, but I would have none of it. When I came of age, I insisted that I serve under him in the Boer War, lest I tell not only his family but the British public at large. What would the staunch, society-climbing Britons think of their great military hero then? The Colonel cared only for his reputation and, seeing that it was his only course of action, took me on as his batman. I served with him throughout the war, and when the conflict came to an end, I continued the blackmail. I hadn’t much formal schooling, so I knew that I needed some form of work. With the threat of public degradation hanging over him like a perpetual black cloud, I forced the Colonel to take me on as his manservant.”

  “Every time he opens his mouth, he sounds as if he’s incriminating himself,” Lestrade said. “Mr. Holmes, how can you be so certain that Mathews isn’t the murderer?”

  “My theory does, at present, stand upon conjecture, Inspector,” Holmes said. “However, I am quite sure that Mathews is innocent of the murder and - with any luck - I shall be able to substantiate my case very soon.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why Mathews ran when we got on his scent,” Lestrade said.

  “With the overwhelming case against him, it’s obvious that you’d suspect him of the murder. Not wishing to end up where he presently sits, Mathews fled.”

  From his waistcoat pocket, Holmes extracted his watch. “Ah, it’s nearly two, gentlemen, and, with luck, I have an appointment at Baker Street which shall shed some much-needed light on this case. Come, Watson!”

  Holmes slipped out of the room and I followed wordlessly. We were soon ensconced in the belly of a hansom headed back for Baker Street. As was usual, Holmes remained silent about his plans. As our cab drew up outside of our lodgings, I saw my friend cast a gaze towards the windows above. His face a mask of uncertainty, Holmes entered the building and was greeted in the foyer by Mrs. Hudson.

  “Ah, Mr. Holmes,” she said to us both, “one of those street urchins came in here about fifteen minutes ago, pulling at the sleeve of another gentleman.”

  “One of the Irregulars! Excellent!”

  Holmes bounded up the stairs and, following, I was stepping into our sitting room as Holmes wrung our visitor by the hand. He was a scruffy-looking man clutching a battered bowler hat in his hands. His scraggly auburn hair culminated in a pair of thick mutton chops on either side of his ruddy face.

  “I got him, Mr. Holmes,” beamed Wiggins, the head of Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars.

  “Excellent work as usual, Wiggins,” Holmes said. Turning to the man, Holmes gestured for him to take a seat. “I find it much easier to work with someone once I know his name.”

  “My name’s Ryder,” the man said, “Paul Ryder. Now see, here... this boy told me that there’d be a sovereign in this for me and-”

  “You needn’t fear, Mr. Ryder. You shall be compensated for your time here. Now then, answer for me a few questions. You’re a cabbie, are you not?”

  “I am, sir. Been employed in the city for five years.”

  “And on Friday last, were you instructed to wait outside a vacant house at No. 12 Taviton S
treet?”

  “I couldn’t say whether it was a vacant house or not, sir.”

  “Of course not. But you surely can tell me whether you aided someone in removing a corpse from that house, stowed it inside your hansom, and then drove clear across the city and deposited the body inside an opium den.”

  “Now see here - ”

  The man rose and Holmes all but shoved him back into his seat. “I simply require a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer to my question. I can swear to it, Mr. Ryder, that you shall be implicated in complicity to murder.”

  Ryder sank back onto the sofa and stared at a spot between Holmes’s shoes. “I did do as you say I did,” he said at length. “I was told to keep quiet about the whole thing, and if I did I’d be handsomely compensated for my work.”

  “Of course you would be,” Holmes retorted.

  He extracted a sovereign from his inner pocket and pressed it into the cabbie’s hand. “Now that you have cleared your conscience, Ryder, you can go even further and answer me one thing more: The person who instructed you to do this - can you describe him?”

  “He was a nondescript fella,” Ruder said. “He had a pale face, full lips and - though he kept his hat on all the time I saw him - he had dark hair. He was also a pretty petite man. Thin he was. Almost like a lady.”

  Holmes eased the cabbie out of his seat. “Thank you, Mr. Ryder, you have been invaluable and - rest assured - I shall not speak one word of your involvement in this matter to anyone.”

  Once Holmes had sent Ryder and Wiggins away (the boy richer with a few coins as well), he eased into his chair and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “I’ve solved it Watson.”

  “Good God, Holmes,” I said. “Please, keep me in suspense no longer and tell me what’s going on. I confess that I’m very much in the dark.”

  “The pieces of the puzzle are simple ones to put together,” he replied. “Alas, I cannot at the moment divulge the story in its entirety. However, first thing tomorrow morning I shall send off a cable and we will meet Lestrade at Colonel Cunningham’s house. There, I shall endeavor to assemble those pieces of the puzzle as best as I can for you and the inspector.”