The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  “The ‘X’,” I exclaimed. “It must mark the treasure!”

  “Indeed. And where is that ‘X’ located upon the chart?” asked Holmes.

  I considered this for a minute. “The figures about the semicircle! They must give the bearings! The treasure is to be found one-hundred-eighty-six feet from the ‘4’ upon the semicircle!”

  Holmes shook his head. “Not quite, Watson, for such a locale would surely be in the middle of the town itself. I highly doubt that Mr. Hatley’s grandfather and his shipmates could have hidden such a large object where you hypothetically place it.”

  “Then where?” said I, crossly.

  Holmes chuckled. “You are on the right track, my dear Watson. You are merely off on your units of measurement. What if the ‘186’ refers to a furlong rather than a foot?”

  I attempted to do the calculations in my head. “At 660 feet, per the imperial definition, that would make it some one-hundred-twenty-thousand feet.”

  “One-hundred-twenty-two-thousand, seven-hundred-sixty, to be precise. Or a hair over twenty-three miles. Now what do we see upon the map that is twenty-three miles from where the number ‘4’ would be found?”

  I followed his finger as he traced the distance using the scale printed upon the map. “That little island!” I exclaimed.

  “Robben Island,” Holmes mused. “And unless I am greatly mistaken, I would estimate that it is about two miles in the north to south dimension and one mile from east to west, don’t you think, Watson?”

  “Indeed it is!”

  “Now what do we know about Robben Island?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Then let us see if Mr. Oliver can provide one final modicum of information.”

  The man proved to be happy to oblige. Reading from the very latest gazetteer that he had ready at his fingertips, Oliver informed us that the island’s name was Dutch for ‘seal’. He went on to relate that the island is surrounded by treacherous reefs upon which the open Atlantic Ocean thunders continuously. Many a ship has vanished under those restless waves. Due to this inhospitable locale, the Dutch settlers originally used the island as a prison for both natives and whites. After Great Britain annexed the Cape Colony in 1806, we first continued to use it for prisoners of the Cape Frontier Wars. However since 1845, it has been utilized as a leper colony.

  Holmes thanked the librarian for his assistance, and led me out the back entrance towards the leafy Russell Square. We had hardly made our way across Montague Street before I could contain my excitement no longer. “Holmes, now we know why Nathanial Hatley was forced to abandon the Peacock Throne upon Robben Island! His ship must have wrecked upon its reefs, and since the isle was occupied by Dutch forces, there was no easy way to transport it off. Instead, Hatley and his companions would have hidden it in a sea cave, or dug some hole. After England assumed control over the Cape, return still would not have been easy. Not with the British Army stationed on the island, nor a leper colony! So, Hatley drew his chart, and bided his time, but meanwhile, he gained sufficient wealth from his trading that a return to Robben Island was no longer fiscally necessary.”

  Holmes nodded. “Your hypothesis fits the known facts, Watson. But you are forgetting several features of note. Who precisely is Mr. Martin? How did he know of the existence of Mr. Hatley’s chart? And how did he decipher it in advance of us? There were no signs that the East India Company semaphore records had been recently consulted.”

  “He must be the descendent of one of Nathanial Hatley’s crewmates,” I ventured.

  “It is a solid theory, Watson. We must be certain to ask him ourselves when we catch him.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “Tell me, Watson, if you had just discovered the locale of a remarkable treasure, what would be your next course of action?”

  “I would take passage to Cape Town,” I decided. “Holmes, we should check the shipping lines! I believe the African Steamship Company has offices at the end of Pall Mall...”

  Holmes held up a hand to forestall me. “Before we canvas the commercial ships, Watson, I ask you to contemplate what you would do upon disembarking in Cape Town?”

  “Well, I could not recover the throne myself. I would have to recruit a crew.”

  “Ah, but there is the rub, Watson. How can you, who have never set foot in Africa, be certain of their trustworthiness? Once the Delhi crown regalia are found, what prevents your hired crew from simply slitting your throat and keeping the riches of the Peacock Throne for themselves?”

  I considered this for a moment. “He would need a crew made up of his own acquaintances. And that crew might already have its own ship!”

  Holmes nodded. “That is how I read it, as well, Watson. Mr. Martin would have had a plan in place before seeking employment with Mr. Hatley. As we speak, he might be on his way to that ship.”

  “Then we must go at once if we are to thwart him!”

  “But where, Watson?” said Holmes, calmly. “Surely you recall that the wharfs of London and Greenwich are a vast labyrinth of landing places. Where would you begin?”

  “I don’t know,” said I, shaking my head. “Do you have a plan?”

  “I have had one for some time. Why else do you think I enlisted the services of my unofficial force? The wharfingers shut up like oysters when talking to strangers, but street Arabs are beneath their notice. One of their number is stationed at the Westminster wharf. Let us go see what he has to report.”

  The sun was low in the sky when we climbed aboard a hansom, Holmes promising the driver an extra sovereign if he could get us to the wharf in less than ten minutes. By the precipitous course the man took through St. Martin’s Lane and Whitehall, I could see he took this as a personal challenge. When we successfully reached the north bank of the Thames, we found one of Holmes’s irregulars bursting with news. It seemed that Holmes, suspecting that Captain Hatley’s nautical career played a role in the mystery, had set them upon the task of learning the identities of all ships hired under furtive circumstances and sailing that night. Holmes listened patiently as the lad recited from memory the names of several such ships. Eventually, the little scarecrow mentioned that one of his brethren had located a steam launch called the Hope, stationed at the Pool, which had been employed to take a man out to a ship called the Mayumba. When Holmes heard that this ship was waiting in the Downs to sail out to the Cape Colony, his gray eyes gleamed brightly.

  Holmes tossed the lad his reward and waved his hand to signal that I should follow him. We raced down the steps to where we found a launch of our own awaiting us. I drew up in surprise when I discovered that it was the black and red-streaked Aurora of puissant memory, Mr. Mordecai Smith at the rudder, and his eldest son, Jim, tending the engines. If possible, the man Smith looked even more sullen than when I had last laid eyes upon him, nine years prior, though his son had grown to become a fine strapping lad.

  Holmes leapt aboard, with myself close behind, and ordered Smith to set off downstream with the engines fully stoked. As we got underway, Holmes leaned forward so I could hear his explanation. “I put in a good word for the two Smiths with Inspector Jones, and they got off with but a small fine for their role in the Pondicherry affair. Since then, Smith has owed me a turn, and his debt is being paid this evening. The telegram I sent instructed him to meet us here.” He turned away from me. “Is the Aurora still the fastest clipper on the river, Mr. Smith?” called out Holmes over the noise of the engines and the waves.

  “She will fly like the devil, sir, when you need her to,” the man answered gruffly.

  Holmes nodded and then smiled at me. “We should be able to catch them. It sounds as if Martin was only an hour or two ahead of us at the Library, and the Mayumba will require some last-minute provisioning before it can weigh anchor for such a long voyage.”

 
We sped swiftly towards the Pool, with both Waterloo and Blackfriars Bridges quickly vanishing in the distance. As we approached the high spans of the Tower Bridge, Holmes pointed towards where a green launch was emerging from the St. Katherine Docks. It was similar in shape to the Aurora but with a yellow line and black funnels.

  “There, Watson!” he exclaimed. “Do you spot the name Hope on its bow? That’s our quarry!”

  Two men were at work aboard the launch, one at the tiller and the other shoveling coals, both with black hair and beards. Neither matched the description of Martin, but they looked up at our rapid approach and the launch suddenly took flight. For a moment, I envisioned a repeat of our thrilling chase of Jonathan Small, but we had a superior head of steam, while the Hope was just getting underway. There was no chance of them outpacing us. Smith expertly maneuvered the Aurora until it swung around and cut off the Hope’s path. Their skipper was forced to put the helm hard down in order to avoid a collision, and the boat settled into the water. Holmes jumped onto the Aurora’s gunwale and called out, “The game is up, Martin! Surrender now and you will get a fair trial.”

  A man appeared at the stern of the boat from the small cabin, his hair disheveled by the chase. “Like my great-grandfather did?” he screamed, his eyes gleaming maniacally. “And how will Hatley pay for the crimes of his grandfather?”

  Holmes shook his head. “We know of no crimes other than your theft of the chart from Hatley’s home.”

  “Of course not! For it was policemen like you that covered it up, for the right price.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Martin, that I am not a member of the official police force, but rather a private agent hired by Mr. Hatley to recover his stolen property.”

  “But it’s not his, is it? It belonged equally to all three of them. At least it did until Nathanial Hatley had Thomas Leamington and Alan Martin killed so that he could keep it all for himself.”

  “That’s a matter for the courts, Mr. Martin. I cannot arbitrate the supposed crimes of decades past.”

  “No!” Martin cried. “I will never bring the Government into this. They will take it all, and my great-grandfather will have died for nothing.”

  “There is no other way,” said Holmes sternly. “Your skipper knows that proceeding any further signifies that he will be prosecuted for abetting a criminal. You will never reach the Mayumba.”

  Martin stared daggers at Holmes. “There is always another way! If I cannot have it, no one shall!” The man ducked into the cabin of the launch, and vanished from our sight.

  “What the devil is he doing, Holmes?” I asked.

  I could sense my friend becoming anxious as he considered what Martin had planned. Suddenly, Holmes suddenly began to wave to the men working the Hope. “Abandon ship!” he cried. “Get away from the boat, if you value your lives!”

  The men stared at him for a moment, and then obeyed with alacrity by leaping into the Thames. Mordecai Smith required no additional alarm, for he was already reversing the propeller and backing the Aurora away from the Hope. And it was not a moment too soon, for less than a minute after Martin entered the cabin, an enormous eruption tore the boat in half. Even at our distance, the force was so great that if Holmes hadn’t caught the lapel of my jacket, I would have been thrown overboard. Once I had regained my balance and cleared my head, I joined Holmes at the side of the boat, where he was gazing out over the rapidly-sinking wreckage.

  “What happened, Holmes?” I exclaimed.

  Holmes shook his head. “One can hypothesize, Watson, that the launch must have been carrying a barrel of powder, intended to be utilized in blasting open any rocks on Robben Island that concealed the Throne. Martin plainly set it off, destroying both himself and what he believed to be the solitary copy of the treasure map, in the process.”

  “He must have been mad!”

  “Fortunes have clouded the minds of greater men, Watson.”

  By the time the Aurora had come about and pulled the two Hope crewmen from the water, their boat had completely vanished under the waves of the Thames. A few questions made it clear that the Larey brothers were completely ignorant of the crimes of their passenger. I have it on good authority that Holmes spoke to his brother and saw that the men were recompensed for the loss of their means of livelihood.

  When Holmes and I had poured glasses of brandy and settled back into our armchairs at Baker Street, I told him that there were some features of the case that I did not fully understand. Holmes raised his eyebrows and gestured with his free hand, inviting me to continue.

  “So it seems that Mr. Martin was descended from one of the men who concealed the Peacock Throne. But how did he decipher the map?”

  “Martin’s great-grandfather must have kept his old semaphore signal-book. Once Martin saw the three-armed marks on the chart, he would have immediately recognized what they represented. Although he had a lead of several hours upon us, Martin naturally was not as quick as you and I at deciphering the remainder of the code.”

  “Do you think Martin was telling the truth about his ancestor being murdered by Hatley’s grandfather?”

  He shrugged. “That will likely take some time to determine, Watson, if we are able to do so at all. Careful records are few and far between from the days before Peel established the C.I.D. Perhaps a thorough search of Bow Street or Wapping High Street might eventually reveal something, but it would be purely of academic interest. At the moment, the only person outside of this room who knows of the existence of the map is Mr. Fletcher Hatley, and I can assure you that he will be easily persuaded to take this secret to his grave. He has no need of the fortune, and no reason to dredge up the possible misdeeds of his grandfather.”

  “What if Martin or Leamington had other descendants?”

  “Are you suggesting that they should share in the illicit wealth gleaned from the throne? Need I remind you, Watson, that it legally belongs to the Crown? But if you wish, I shall make some inquiries, and if need be, request that Mr. Hatley settles a small pension upon them.”

  I nodded my head in agreement. “And the Throne? Are we not going to go out and locate it ourselves?” I asked.

  “No, Watson. As you know, I have an aversion to leaving London for any significant length of time.”

  I was stunned at his apparent lack of interest in the treasure now that the crime had been solved and the criminal dealt with. “Aren’t you planning at least to tell Mycroft? Surely he has men that he could send?”

  Holmes considered this for a moment. “But who gains from such a thing, Watson? Does the Throne truly belong to the one who finds it? Certainly it cannot be displayed in the British Museum for risk of inciting a storm of passions in India. And I assure you that Mycroft has no intentions of returning it there either. So, it would sit, forlorn, in some secret bunker.” He shook his head. “No, Watson, perhaps some treasures are better left undiscovered. That way there are some mysteries left in the world.”

  “But if you can break the code, Holmes, then surely Mycroft can do the same! Did you not say that he was the equal to your intellect?”

  “My superior, I should say,” he replied with no hint of false modesty. “You are right, Watson. There is only one remedy for this. We shall simply have to tell poor Mycroft that the sole copy of the map was lost in the struggle to capture Mr. Martin. My brother will not be happy, but will have no recourse but to accept my explanation. Obviously, it goes without saying that this is one case which would be most unwise for you to write up for public consumption.”

  Holmes was correct, of course. The time had not yet come when the world was ready for the reappearance of the Peacock Throne. At his brother’s urging, Mycroft had it quietly put about that the Throne had been broken up during the chaos after the death of Nader Shah. Nonetheless, the map that leads to its final resting place was not lost. It remains safely tucked away in o
ne of my tin dispatch boxes, which I have secured in one of London’s finest banks.[6] And while Holmes might not be interested in seeing this treasure for his own eyes, I cannot profess to such aloofness. If I were a less busy man, I should be seriously inclined to go personally and look into the matter myself, without Holmes if need be. Who knows, perhaps someday I shall?[7]

  1 The American author Mark Twain wrote A Double-Barrelled Detective Story in 1902, in which Holmes finds himself embroiled in a murder in a the fictional “Hope Canyon” mining camp of California. It is unclear to what account Watson is referring with the mention of the Caribbean.

  2 Major-General Robert Clive (1725-1774), 1st Baron Clive, was a British solider and one of the most influential figures in the creation of British India.

  3 John Churchill (1650-1722), 1st Duke of Marlborough, was the British Commander-in-Chief during the War of the Spanish Succession, where he routinely defeated the armies of Louis XIV. The Duke of Wellington once said that he “could conceive of nothing greater than Marlborough at the head of an English army.” He was also the ancestor of Winston Churchill.

  4 More properly, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (published in six volumes from 1776 to 1778) by Edward Gibbon (1737-1794), considered to be the first modern history due to its substantial use of primary sources and extensive footnotes.

  5 The Great Mutiny of 1857 is described vividly in both The Sign of Four and “The Adventure of the Crooked Man”.

  6 In “The Problem of Thor Bridge”, Watson writes of his travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box being secured “somewhere in the vaults of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross.” However, here he implicitly states having more than one such reserve of stories.

  7 The same thought occurred to Watson’s first literary editor, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who wrote of this treasure map in Memories and Adventures: “Sidelights on Sherlock Holmes” (1923). The fact that Conan Doyle was allowed to publish the map suggests that, in the interval years, Holmes reversed his decision and told Mycroft of his interpretation of the map, allowing the Peacock Throne to be safely recovered. If that is the case, it must remain hidden wherever the British government hoards such items. Conversely, it has also reported that the map in question was a clever fiction invented to entice treasure-hunters to invest in a salvage-company syndicate that purported to hunt for the ship. We may perhaps never know the full truth of the matter.