The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “Hands!” shouted Lestrade at the rail worker, who merely looked down at the tabletop as if weighing a decision. It was soon made for him when his companion spoke fateful words.

  “I want consideration!” he cried. “I can tell you who’s behind all this.” He waved his arms about the room, taking in the hostages and the boxed drugs.

  “Don’t do it, mate!” the man at the table shouted. “We’re good as dead if we talk.”

  “I won’t go to prison for him!” the other shouted back. “He blackmailed me into this and if I can put him away instead, all the better!” Looking at Lestrade he said, “The man you really want is-”

  Suddenly two shots rang out in near synchronicity. The man at the table had pulled a pocket pistol with his left hand from under the table and fired at his partner, while at the same instant Holmes had shot at him in an attempt to thwart his assault.

  Whereas Holmes shot had thrown the aim of the rail worker off, it wasn’t enough, and from my position I saw his aim jerking from the chest of his companion, firing and striking home above the man’s right eye instead. His once neat tweeds now fell with him into the dirt and sawdust of the shed’s floor, his eyes staring off into nothingness as his soul clearly departed.

  His treacherous partner, on the other hand, dropped his weapon, clutching at his right shoulder while spurts of blood exited from the wound my friend had inflicted. The inspector quickly scooped up the pistol and knelt to check on the man that we had followed.

  “Dead,” he muttered, stating the obvious. “Well, we’ve got this one to talk anyhow,” indicating Holmes’s prisoner.

  “I’ll not say a word!” cried the shooter. “You may as well put a bullet in my brain as well, for that’s surely what my employer will do to me if I talk.”

  Suddenly he fell to the floor. I pocketed my own revolver and went to his side. Now that he was in dead faint and no longer holding his wound, the blood freely flowed. I pulled a kerchief from my pocket and pressed it to the wound.

  “His subclavian artery has been severed,” I shouted. “He’ll bleed to death if we don’t stop it immediately and get him to hospital!”

  Lestrade ran out and shouted for the officer in the Black Maria. We bundled our suspect into it and I accompanied him to Royal Brompton Hospital, all the while attempting to staunch the flow of blood.

  Holmes left Lestrade and his other officers to the disposal of the dead conspirator, and the inspector used a telephone at the rail station to summon his own transportation so that Holmes could use the hansom to take Mrs. Burbage and her son to Baker Street.

  Finding my wife and Mrs. Hudson anxiously awaiting our return, he turned the frightened woman and her son over to the ladies’ care while he hurried back to Markham Square.

  The constable on duty there had followed Holmes’s instructions exactly. He continued to walk his rounds, all the while keeping a clandestine eye on the kidnapper who now watched the Apothecary Shop.

  Holmes had re-donned his wig and moustache, reprising his earlier role. He walked unsteadily from his cab to the entrance of the restaurant, catching the eye of the policeman and shouting, “Top of the mornin’ to ye, officer!”

  The young constable just shook his head, muttered “It’s the middle of the afternoon, you drunken fool,” and with a heavy sigh, followed the inebriant into the restaurant to do his duty.

  Once inside, Holmes and the officer retreated to a back room where they could speak in private.

  “He’s stayed on that bench the whole time, Mr. Holmes,” reported the officer, whose name was Murphy.

  “Has anyone approached him?” asked the detective.

  “No, he’s just been reading and keeping an eye on customers going in and out of Burbage’s shop.”

  “Has anyone suspicious patronized the shop today?”

  “No one who seemed out of the ordinary. The delivery boy took off rather rapidly on his bicycle earlier, with a package in hand, but I’ve seen him do that quite often. He was back within half-an-hour.”

  “We’ve taken his accomplices and rescued Burbage’s family, but one man is dead and the other refuses to identify their employer, and is gravely wounded. We must take that man out there quietly and carefully.”

  Holmes laid out a plan and then bolted from the restaurant, Murphy gave him a bit of a head start and then followed, demanding Holmes’s character to stop. The route that Holmes followed, rather haphazardly, took him toward the man on the bench, who sat there with newspaper on his lap and flat cap pulled low on his brow. As he got close, he actually fell at the man’s feet. He then grabbed the bench to pull himself up as Murphy approached. Then he suddenly stopped and shouted to the officer.

  “To the shop, quickly!”

  As Murphy followed on Holmes’s heels he asked, “What is the matter?”

  “The lookout is dead!” cried Holmes. “Burbage is in danger!”

  Holmes burst through the door first and found the apothecary at his counter, about to open a box of medical supplies.

  “Stop!” he shouted at the startled druggist, who appeared annoyed and defiant until he saw the policeman emerge behind this red-headed creature.

  “What’s wrong officer?” asked Burbage, addressing the constable.

  “This is Sherlock Holmes,” answered Murphy. “Are you all right Mr. Burbage?”

  The man sunk onto high stool behind the counter in shock. “What of my wife and son, Mr. Holmes? Are they safe?”

  “They are,” the detective answered. “But you may not be. From where did this package come?”

  “My regular supplier,” answered Burbage, “although I wasn’t expecting it until next week. A messenger just dropped it off five minutes ago.”

  “Come with us, now! Run!” shouted Holmes.

  The apothecary, the constable, and Holmes ran out into the street. At Holmes’s direction, Constable Murphy and he held up all traffic in front of the shop, and Murphy blew his police whistle for assistance. Two other officers quickly arrived, and just as Holmes was explaining the situation an explosion rocked the street, blowing out the glass windows of the Apothecary Shop, and sending deadly shards into the now vacated street.

  The force of the blast had knocked Holmes, Burbage, and the officers to the ground. Upon regaining their feet, Holmes shouted to Murphy as he pointed to the street bench, “Look, our dead bird as flown!”

  A questioning of passersby and restaurant personnel revealed that a carriage had stopped in front of the bench just before the explosion. When it pulled away, the man was gone - thus all assumed he had boarded it.

  “There is a devil afoot here, gentlemen,” said Holmes. “Burbage, you must come with me to reunite with your family. Constable Murphy, I trust you will take charge here. Please report all your findings to Inspector Lestrade.”‘

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes,” answered the young officer, who immediately had his men secure the scene.

  Chapter Seven

  I arrived at 221b just as Holmes and Burbage were disembarking from their cab. Holmes addressed me immediately, “How is your patient, Doctor?”

  I shook my head, “Dead. He never regained consciousness. There was just too much blood loss.”‘

  “Who?” said Burbage, anxiously.

  I had recognized Holmes’s companion, of course, and answered calmly, “One of the kidnappers, Mr. Burbage. Your family is quite safe.”

  We proceeded up the stairs into Holmes’s flat and Mrs. Burbage flew into her husband’s embrace, while their son wrapped his own arms around his father’s legs.

  Once disentangled, everyone settled down while we discussed the events of the day. Mary and I sat at the dining table while the Burbages took the sofa. Holmes decided to stand by the fireplace and took up his black clay pipe.

  Holmes bid Hector Burbage to tell us
his tale from the beginning, and the apothecary did so with great detail, with which I shall not distress the reader further. Suffice to say that, with no way to contact police safely, the idea struck him that if Sherlock Holmes were indeed as clever as he had heard, he might be the one person who could help him. He devised the method of getting a message out to my friend through a delivery to me, carefully worded, and hoped for the best.

  Holmes applauded his ingenuity, but his thoughts were troubled. The deaths of the three kidnappers, especially the one in the Square with the accompanying explosion, revealed a diabolical mind behind this scheme.

  “How I regret my failure to anticipate the railroad worker’s action with his left hand,” he lamented. “He was most certainly a right-handed man, and my shot would have thrown his aim off and possibly avoided both deaths in that shed.”

  Just then, Lestrade entered and informed us of all the steps he had taken to remove the body and secure the shed and its contents. He was dismayed at later finding the destruction at the Apothecary Shop, and had immediately made his way here to obtain our statements. He assured us that Murphy was a good man and had things well in hand at the scene. Scotland Yard experts were combing through the debris to determine the type of bomb used.

  Holmes’s next steps raced with excitement. Never do I recall seeing my friend so agitated as he outlined what must be done to ensure the safety of the Burbages. He also secured Lestrade’s grudging cooperation in the events that must occur at Markham Square.

  The next morning, London newspapers carried the following story: “An accidental explosion, likely due to improper mixture of chemicals, destroyed Burbage’s Apothecary Shop in Markham Square yesterday. The proprietor, Hector Burbage, was killed when the interior of the shop was decimated by the blast. Burbage is survived by his wife, Elizabeth, and son, George, who have returned in mourning to her family in Scotland.”

  That same afternoon, saw a family listed as Henry and Alma Thompson and son Gary board the steamship Carolina, bound for Charleston, South Carolina in the United States. It also featured a bedraggled Inspector Lestrade return the body of an unidentified transient, borrowed the night before, to the coroner’s office.

  After seeing the “Thompsons” off, Holmes dropped by our Paddington home. Over brandy, Holmes informed Mary and me of the day’s occurrences and thanked us both for our roles in seeing the problem through.

  “But what of the leader behind the crime, Holmes?” I enquired. “Surely that must be the next step for you and Lestrade.”

  Holmes lit a cigarette, and replied thoughtfully. “You recall the gentleman whom I insisted represented a great danger to Mr. John Douglas in that case you insist on referring to as ‘The Valley of Fear’, Watson?

  I thought back. I had not yet published that story, but I remembered it well. “Yes, you insisted that Professor Moriarty was involved, and Inspector MacDonald assured us that it was unlikely.”

  “Which is why the Professor succeeds in his criminal enterprise, Watson. He remains above suspicion. But I assure you, this case has his influence written all over it. Even now, the Burbage’s may not be safe.”

  He threw his cigarette into the fire. “I fear that I may have drawn the two of you into his range of retribution. I only hope that Mrs. Watson’s incognito forays into the Apothecary Shop will keep you safe. I must ask your forgiveness and urge you to take the utmost precautions over the next several days.”

  Mary spoke up at that, “We did what had to be done, Mr. Holmes. Mrs. Burbage and her son are rescued, and I shall not be one bit sorry for it.”

  “Well said, Darling,” I added. “Whatever we can do to help bring this fiend to justice, Holmes, you’ve only to ask.”

  Holmes stood and shook my hand. He took Mary’s hand in both of his and merely nodded to her. Bidding us goodbye, he returned to Baker Street and we resumed our happily married life, buoyed in the knowledge that our part in this action had served a great cause.

  Epilogue

  Two days later, a telegram arrived at Baker Street with the following message:

  My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

  Your interference in my business really must be discontinued, sir. Surely you realize that I have anticipated your every move. I well know the cadaver removed from the Apothecary Shop is not that of Burbage, and that he and his family are bound for America. As I have no further need of him without his inventory, he shall not be further molested. The destruction of the shop and your thoughtfulness in providing a dead body will serve me well as an example to my other employees. It is a high price to pay for the temporary discontinuation of this sideline of mine, but acceptable in the long term. Your meddling, however, is not. Beware, sir. This persecution of my activities will not end well for you. Should it continue, I can assure you that within a year, your own demise is assured.

  With typical aplomb, this message found itself secured to the fireplace mantel with Holmes’s jackknife. It was still there when I returned alone from the Reichenbach Falls in May 1891 to console Mrs. Hudson on the loss of the best and wisest man I have ever known.

  1 LSA: Licentiate of the Society of Apothecaries

  The Case of the Bereaved Author

  by S. Subramanian

  “Here also I find an account of the Addleton tragedy...”

  - Dr. John H. Watson, “The Golden Pince-Nez”

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in a mood to complain.

  “In a world of peace and goodwill, what would be left of the sustaining forces of life available to such as myself, who must depend, for the very survival of their mental faculties, upon the continued flourishing of the criminal mind and the tortuous secrets it calls upon the trained reasoner to unravel? Fellow-feeling and harmony upon earth are all very well, Watson, but the mind craves the stimulus of crime and the cerebration which a quest for its solution provokes. Failing that stimulus, the only antidote available to combat the dread of mental atrophy is the good old seven-percent solution - ”

  “Patience, my dear fellow!” I cried. “Anything but that. A case is surely bound to turn up.”

  “On a morning such as this, Watson?” said my friend in a querulous tone. “It is bitterly cold without, the sky is leaden, and the rain and the sleet pound against the walls of the building. Who would think to be abroad on a day like - but hark! Do you hear the step upon the stair? Against all odds, and if I mistake not, Watson, we do have a client! If you will be so good as to answer the door - ”

  Peering and blinking in the doorway was a large, athletically-built, middle-aged, disheveled, myopic individual in a brown overcoat. His face betrayed a barely-controlled agitation and the stress that is induced by worry and apprehension. Looking uncertainly from one to the other of us, he sought to know which of us was Sherlock Holmes. “I am Holmes,” said my friend in a reassuring voice, “and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is of invaluable assistance to me in my cases, and before whom you may speak with perfect frankness. Pray take a seat, and let us know what urgent purpose fetches you to our humble quarters upon this bleak day.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said our client. “My name is Sylvester Prescott, a name which, I daresay, has achieved some small reputation amongst philosophers of the mind and consciousness, principally through my monographs The Brain-Spirit Dichotomy and Cognition: Towards an Understanding of Understanding. The sales from such books are barely adequate to keep the home fires burning, and if I am nevertheless enabled to pursue my scholastic career of thinking, research, and writing, it is on account of a modest personal income that accrues to me from investment in stocks, bequeathed to me some years ago by a considerate, not to say indulgent, uncle.

  “I am here upon the express direction of a friend, Miss Mabel Addleton. She is the younger sister of Miss Violet Addleton, with whom she lives in a detached villa called The Elms, in Hampstead Heath. I was the
distraught recipient, a half-hour ago, of a hand-written message from the younger Miss Addleton, delivered by hand to me by her servant, who had been dispatched in a horse-carriage for this explicit purpose. The message is a harbinger of grievous news.

  “I am informed that Miss Violet Addleton, who occupies a part of the upper storey of The Elms, had failed to open her room at the customary hour of eight of the morning when her maid habitually brings in her breakfast, and that, indeed, by ten o’clock when her sister dispatched her servant with that message to my home, she had failed to respond to repeated calls and knocks at her door.

  “I fear the worst, Mr. Holmes. You must know that I am the unhappy fiancé of Violet Addleton, than whom the world has harboured no sweeter, gentler, more considerate, and more patiently enduring woman. I can only hope, though the hope dwindles by the minute, that my fiancée is still alive. Mabel, who writes in her message that she knows of your reputation (apparently through a Mrs. Sybil Frensham, whom you once helped out in a delicate affair,) was insistent that I should solicit your assistance in the matter, and, in particular, that I should persuade you to come with me to The Elms, whither I am now bound. I have a cab waiting below.

  “I am sensible of the fact that I have furnished you with a very sketchy account of my case, such as it is. I depend on you to understand the reasons for the sketchiness, which are a compound of ignorance, urgency, and foreboding. It is scarcely fair, but may I request you to accompany me to Hampstead at such short notice, on such a miserably inclement day as it is turning out to be? The police have already been sent for, I understand, and are on their way to The Elms. If you should consent, as I greatly hope you will, I shall endeavour to give you a more coherent account of the matter in the course of our journey to Hampstead. Could you possibly see your way to obliging me, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Well, well,” said Holmes, “I have been complaining to Watson of ennui and inactivity, so I might as well take my chances with Hampstead, faute de mieux. What say you, Watson?”