The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “I have received information from Scotland Yard,” Holmes announced. “It was to the effect that a murderer is at large whom they have been unable to identify. It is only a matter of time, however, for they have discovered a connection with the séance which we all attended last night. It is suspected that everyone who was in attendance is in mortal danger, and so they are being temporarily taken into police custody for their own protection. I recommend that both you gentlemen accompany Inspector Lestrade, who will arrive here very soon before seeking out the remaining potential victims.”

  “This is outrageous!” Mr. Franklin retorted, his face reddening. “I am no criminal!”

  Mr. Woodchester gave us all a long slow look, his ice-blue eyes revealing nothing. “Yes,” he said in his wavering voice, “we must be protected while there is danger. One cannot know how long such a man has, to finish his task. He may feel compelled to strike again before he can be apprehended. Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for the timely warning.” He turned to Franklin. “Come, sir, we will meet the police agent in the street. The killer would not dare to reveal himself with so many passers-by to witness his act.” At the top of the stairs, he said over his shoulder: “Goodbye to you gentlemen. I doubt that we will meet again.”

  Holmes, with his head held to one side, listened as they descended. He seemed to be taking account of the sounds until they ceased at the foot of the stairs, when he cried suddenly: “Quickly, Watson. That man entrusted his life to me. I cannot fail him!”

  We reached the corridor in time to see Mr. Woodchester take a step away from his companion, at the same time drawing a short sword from the casing of his stick. Raising it above his head he prepared to plunge it into the back of Mr. Franklin, who had only just become aware of the sudden change in his companion’s pace. It seemed that nothing could prevent the murderer claiming another victim, when a door on either side of the passage was flung open and two burly constables appeared.

  Mr. Franklin was guided safely out of range, but Mr. Woodchester, seeing that he was caught in a trap, pierced the arm of one of the constables and, with strength that I would never have suspected, threw off the other. His weapon fell to the floor as he ran headlong for the door and out into the street. To my surprise, Holmes restrained me from pursuit.

  “No, Watson, this way. Back up the stairs, as fast as you can.”

  We climbed quickly, Holmes drawing me to the half-open window as we reached the room. Among the crowd, I saw that uniformed officers were converging on the building from both directions.

  “Observe the fate of one of the most callous killers that I have known,” he said as we looked down.

  A cab departed from the entrance, the horse racing.

  “Holmes!” I cried. “He is getting away!”

  “I hardly think so, old fellow,” he replied calmly. “The coachman is Inspector Lestrade.”

  We watched as a police wagon entered the street and followed the cab. Then another appeared to block its progress. Caught between the two the cab came to a rapid halt and Lestrade, with his prisoner now safely away from the passers-by, jumped down and opened the door. I thought that moment would mark the capture of this man who had slain so many for reasons that I did not yet know, but this was not to be. The door on the opposite side of the cab was hurled back and a thin figure leapt blindly into the path of a four-wheeler speeding from the other direction. A terrible cry that turned the head of every person in the street ripped through the air, as the body became somehow entangled and was dragged along the road surface. By the time the driver had brought the four-wheeler to rest, all that remained was a long dark smudge of blood and a lump of mangled flesh and clothing. Several ladies fell in a dead faint and had to be supported by their escorts, and other men became suddenly, unexpectedly, ill.

  I turned away with my mind reeling from the horror, back into the room where Holmes had retreated, unmoved.

  “Justice will not be denied,” he observed without emotion, “but I fear that she has robbed the hangman of his work this day.”

  Midnight had long passed, by the time we found ourselves once more in Baker Street. We sank into our armchairs and Holmes poured us each a glass of brandy. We knew that what remained of this night held little sleep for either of us.

  I sipped my drink before placing my glass on a side table. “I confess to being all at sea with this affair,” I told him. “When you called Mr. Franklin to that room in Long Acre, I fully expected an arrest.”

  A faint smile crossed my friend’s face as he lit his cherry-wood pipe. “In fact, I was quite in the dark myself from the outset, until my index confirmed something that I had been trying to remember. After the additional information that Lestrade was kind enough to furnish from the official files, I became quite certain of the true nature of the case.”

  “You mentioned that vengeance was involved, I recall. I have seen a glimmer of light shining through all that has happened since last night, or rather the night before, but the complete picture eludes me.”

  “Very well, Watson.” Holmes blew out a long stream of smoke and rested his head against the back of his chair, closing his eyes. “Take up your notebook and I will endeavour to tell the story, as it revealed itself to me, from the beginning. However, much as I am sorry to disappoint you, there are certain hidden implications here that compel me to forbid publication of these events for ten years at least. Doubtlessly the public will be no less eager to read your efforts, when they are finally set before them.”

  At once I shrugged off the weariness that had been creeping over me, and turned my notebook to a fresh page. “I am ready.”

  “Please limit your interruptions to a minimum.”

  I held my pencil ready and, when he had taken a moment to arrange his thoughts, he told me all he had discovered.

  “This case really begins at the Old Bailey, ten years ago. It was then that Nathaniel Jervis, the real name of our Mr. Woodchester, received a heavy sentence for his part in a plot to rob the Bank of England. You see, Watson, his claim to be an architect was quite genuine, and he used his knowledge to instruct the thieves on how to enter the premises secretly, using the plans which had been made available to the firm with which he held a position of trust. Jervis accepted his fate philosophically at first, but showing neither remorse nor fear. His prison life was uneventful, until two things changed everything. First, he contracted a nervous disease which worsened progressively, and then his wife, whom he apparently loved dearly, died of consumption from the occupation she had been forced to take up. Jervis became a bitter man, furiously seeking revenge upon the world. The judge who sentenced him had died since his incarceration, as had all but two of the jurors. You will recall their names: Jonathan Dermott and Mrs. Rebecca Laversham.”

  “The two latest victims,” I ventured.

  “Precisely. Apparently it took Jervis longer to find them, than the others.”

  “But Holmes,” I risked another intrusion, “if everyone concerned with the trial is deceased, what connection have the other victims? I think you mentioned five others.”

  “That was the question I could not answer, at first. I was slow, which proves that I have much to learn, even now. When Mr. Kester related the incident of the visitor who caused the séance to be arranged, he stated that a phrase was used regarding his family: The unknown man threatened Kester’s ‘loved and dearest’. That struck me as an unusual or peculiar phrase you or I would most probably say, ‘nearest and dearest’, or something similar, since that is a common expression. Yet I knew that I had heard those words before. When I consulted my index, I came across a newspaper cutting about Jervis’s trial, and read that he had used the same phrase in the hearing of a reporter covering the proceedings. Later, when I remembered that I had heard it yet again from the mouth of Mr. Woodchester, the identity of our murderer became a certainty, although I had no proof such as a court would ac
cept.”

  He fell silent as he puffed at his pipe and I heard a cab rattle down Baker Street, no doubt transporting an all-night reveller home. The gas jet spurted loudly, causing Holmes to open his eyes momentarily before resuming his previous posture.

  “That is the background to this case and my method of identifying the perpetrator. Jervis was released about two months ago, and set about finding his victims at once. This is where that expression of his takes on a new meaning. His intention became, since ten of the jurors were beyond his vengeance, to inflict their intended fate upon the nearest living relative of each of them. His reason had deserted him, to be replaced, I would say, by the bitterness that had engulfed his heart.”

  “Such an attitude of mind is easily tipped into madness. God knows, I have seen this before.”

  Holmes nodded. “It was thus explained why none of the intended victims at the séance had any previous knowledge of each other. He traced the first five relatives and despatched them in various ways: Some were poisoned or strangled, one run down in the street by as unmarked coach. During his extensive enquiries in seeking out his victims, Jervis came to learn much about them. He was devising methods to encounter and dispose of each when it struck him that here was a common denominator. The eight that were left had each suffered bereavement, within the last few years. That was how the visit to Kester, who was a trickster he had probably heard about while in prison, came about. With his body padded and heavily disguised, Jervis threatened the midget and paid him to arrange the gathering, appealing to the heartfelt sensibilities of those attending. As you know, they were made up of widows and some who had lost their marriage-mates or children, all of which Jervis gambled would seize the prospect of a reunion, however unlikely or temporary. The exceptions, of course, were the two original jurors who were older and wiser. They refused to have anything to do with what they saw as an un-Biblical ceremony, and were in consequence dealt with soon after.”

  “But I still cannot see what Jervis sought to achieve from the séance.”

  Holmes knocked out his pipe on the hearth. “Here I must, with regret, introduce some conjecture. Jervis must have had some method of destroying the entire assembly. I have theorized that it could have been using explosives. None were found, so perhaps it was planned for a subsequent gathering, if such an arrangement proved to be a possibility. However, I am convinced that he abandoned that plan because you and I were in attendance, and as he recognised us, the prospect of being caught before his revenge was complete was intolerable to him.”

  “So he killed the first five relatives of the jurors and then, after the séance, the two original jurors from the trial, and his intention was to murder the six at the séance, also?”

  “That would have completed his vengeance.”

  “But that is thirteen, Holmes. A jury is composed of twelve.”

  “Which is how I came to realise, when the true situation lay before me, that the murderer had been among us at the séance.”

  I considered, as Holmes looked increasingly weary, all that I had heard.

  “There is only one thing more that I have not understood.”

  “And what is that, pray?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

  “Why did you argue with Mr. Frankln, just before Woodchester, or Jervis, arrived earlier?”

  “At that time, I still had no actual proof of Jervis’s guilt. I requested Mr. Franklin’s help in a matter of life and death, but he agreed only when I explained that it could be his life in jeopardy.”

  “To be fair to the man, Holmes, he was almost killed by Jervis.”

  “He was in little danger, providing that the constables followed my instructions and acted quickly enough. In any case, old fellow, if Franklin had refused and Jervis had gone free, it would have placed five other lives in jeopardy.”

  “I suppose, in his unbalanced state, he could have also claimed more, unrelated, victims.”

  “It was my intention to prevent any such occurrences.”

  “I think we can confidently be assured that you succeeded.”

  “Quite so.” Holmes got to his feet. “Well, Doctor, now that I have related this pretty tale for your archives, I propose to retire without further delay. I suggest you place your notes in a safe place and resolve to retrieve them at some future time. When you have done that, I recommend that you follow my example.”

  The Adventure of the Sunken Indiaman

  by Craig Janacek

  When I review my notes for the year 1897, I find that it was that summer when my friend dealt with one of the most fantastic cases of his career. Mr. Sherlock Holmes had a well-known aversion to being separated from London for any significant length of time. Certainly, he travelled into the English countryside from time to time, such as when he camped beneath the tors of Dartmoor, or during our recent hikes amongst the prehistoric earthworks of the Cornish peninsula. He was also known, upon occasion, to cross the Channel in order to help the French government, such as when he foiled the schemes of Baron Maupertuis, or when he arrested the assassin Huret. And, of course, it cannot be denied that he once travelled to the New World in his days before setting up practice in Montague Street.

  However, any longer voyages were strictly out of the question, save only his hiatus from active consultation from 1891 to 1894. Therefore, despite the many places which have claimed to have merited a visit from my friend, I am afraid that any such accounts in which Mr. Sherlock Holmes appears in various exotic locales, such as a California mining camp, or the islands of the Caribbean, are strictly products of a tale-teller’s overactive imagination.[1] The case in question is perhaps the most vivid example of both Holmes’s distaste for leaving London, and the peculiar nature and limitations of his inherent curiosity.

  On the day in question, I was sitting in my armchair in front of the cold grate at Baker Street, for the air outside was already warm and steamy. Holmes was engaged in vociferously pasting newspaper extracts into his commonplace books, and I was half-heartedly perusing the morning edition of The Times. A sudden irritable exhalation from Holmes triggered me to glance in his direction.

  After a moment’s study, I elected to have a bit of merriment with my friend. “You are correct, Holmes, that this heat seems to be sapping the vigor of the commonplace London criminal.”

  Holmes’s head suddenly snapped up and his piercing gray eyes locked onto me. “By what means...” he exclaimed, before mastering his surprise and clenching his thin lips together. He glared at me for a moment, and then began to laugh heartedly. “Touché, Watson. I must be on my guard against further displays of this pawky humor of yours. I assume you have perceived that I would prefer to be engaged upon a case, rather than this admittedly necessary, but unquestionably tedious, docketing and arranging of papers?”

  “You are not the only one who can harness his powers of observation, Holmes. Though, to be fair, I will admit that the task is far more straightforward when your subject is one whose habits you are already most familiar.”

  “And when the broadsheet in your hand is so lacking in lurid tales that the social outings of our illustrious heir royal are the lead story, one’s case is complete. Well, you are absolutely correct, Watson. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes have passed, for the unfamiliar tread upon our steps indicates a new client, or I am very much mistaken.”

  Holmes was correct, of course, and after a sharp tap at the door, he opened it to reveal a man of some seventy-odd years. Our visitor was rather thin and pale, and when he removed his top hat, unruly wisps of white hair stuck up from his balding pate. His face was heavily lined, but his piercing blue eyes were still full of life.

  “Mr. Holmes?” the man inquired. “My name is Fletcher Hatley and I...”

  The man was unable to complete his sentence, however, for Holmes held up his hand and waved Hatley into
the basket-chair. After introducing the two of us, Holmes indicated that the man should proceed. “I presume you come upon a case, Mr. Hatley, and if you will be so good as to explain what precisely you have lost?”

  “That’s just the thing, Mr. Holmes,” began the man, before he paused in surprise, his eyes widening. “But how could you know that I have lost something?”

  Holmes smiled. “When a man enters my rooms wearing a well-cut suit of the finest materials, with a golden chain connecting to his pocket watch, and yet displays a shocking amount of dust upon his shirt cuffs and trouser knees, I deduce that he has spent his morning engaged in looking through rarely-visited parts of his home, prior rushing over to Baker Street before his valet was able to correct the damage.”

  The man looked down in order to inspect the areas indicated by my friend and then smiled ruefully. “They said you were a man of careful observations, Mr. Holmes, and I see they weren’t wrong. You are just the man I need. No one else could solve this mystery.”

  “Pray proceed,” said Holmes, pressing his fingers together and his eyelids drooping with interest.

  “I don’t know what your professional charges are, Mr. Holmes, but I am prepared to engage your services for whatever time is needed until you can tell me what is missing from my library.”

  Holmes’s grey eyes opened and his brow furrowed as he fixed Hatley with a frown. “Do you mean to say that you do not know for what I am supposed to be searching?”

  Our guest nodded his head. “That’s the peculiar thing about this matter, Mr. Holmes. I know that I have been burgled. I even know the name of the thief. But I don’t know what he took. I spent the morning searching the room myself before I thought of your name. I have read that you excel in these sorts of things. And so I hurried over here in a brougham before another moment passed.”

  “But why have you not gone to the police?” I interjected.

  He shook his head. “I have been burgled once before, Dr. Watson, some dozen years ago. I recall having to fill out a report, upon which I was required to list all of the missing items. I assumed that Scotland Yard would not be much interested this time until I could tell them what precisely had been taken.”