The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “Indeed he was,” Ardmont said. “I met Sir Clive in the service at Aldershot some years ago, and we served together in Afghanistan. Of course, that was when we were both much younger men. But when I cashiered out and returned from India, I heard the news that Sir Clive had been killed; I saw it as my duty to come and offer what support I could.”

  “Decent of you,” I said.

  “I understand you were a military man, Dr. Watson,” Ardmont said. He had a tan skin and pure blue, marksman’s eyes that were zeroed in on me. That look gave me a cold feeling, as if I were quarry.

  “Yes,” I said. “Saw some rough and tumble. Did my bit as a surgeon.”

  “Well,” Ardmont said, turning away, “we all do what we can.”

  “You and Doctor Watson must move from the inn and stay here until this awful thing is settled!” Millicent said to Holmes.

  “Please do!” her sister Phoebe chimed in. Their voices were similar, high and melodious.

  “I’d feel better if you were here,” Robby Smythe said. “You’d afford the girls some protection. I’d stay here myself, but it would hardly be proper.”

  “You live at the inn, do you not?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t know what it is those fools heard. I was in my shop working on my autocar when the shooting occurred.”

  Holmes stared at Major Ardmont, who looked back at him with those unrattled blue eyes. “Major, you hardly seem old enough to have just retired from service.”

  “It isn’t age, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been undone by an old wound, I’m afraid, and can no longer sit a horse.”

  “Pity,” I said.

  “I understand,” Holmes said, looking at Millicent, “that Eames overheard your father and Landen Edgewick arguing the evening of the murder.”

  “That’s what Eames said, Mr. Holmes, and I’m sure he’s telling the truth. At the same time, I know that no matter what their differences, Landen wouldn’t kill my father—nor anyone else!” Her eyes danced with anger as she spoke. A spirited girl.

  “You haven’t answered us, Mr. Holmes,” Phoebe Oldsbolt said. “Will you and Dr. Watson accept our hospitality?”

  “Kind of you to offer,” Holmes said, “but I assure you it won’t be necessary.” He smiled thinly and seemed lost for a moment in thought. Then he nodded, as if he’d made up his mind about something. “I’d like to talk with Eames the butler, and then spend a few hours in town.”

  Millicent appeared puzzled. “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. But you and Dr. Watson shall at least dine here tonight, I insist.”

  Holmes nodded with a slight bow. “It’s a meal I anticipate with pleasure, Miss Oldsbolt.”

  “As do I,” I added, and followed Holmes toward the door.

  Outside, while waiting for the buggy to be brought around, Holmes drew me aside.

  “I suggest you stay here, Watson. And see that no one leaves.”

  “But no one seems to have any intention of leaving, Holmes.”

  He gazed skyward for a moment. “Have you noticed any wild geese since we’ve been here, Watson?”

  “Uh, of course not, Holmes. There are no wild geese in this part of England in October. I know; I’ve hunted in this region.”

  “Precisely, Watson.”

  “Holmes—”

  But the coachman had brought round the buggy, and Holmes had cracked the whip and was gone. I watched the black, receding image of the buggy and the thin, erect figure on the seat. As they faded into the haze on the flat landscape I thought I saw Holmes lean forward, urging the mare to go faster.

  When Holmes returned later that evening, and we were upstairs dressing for dinner, I asked him why he’d gone into town.

  “To talk to Annie,” he told me, craning his lean neck and fastening his collar button.

  “Annie?”

  “The maid at the King’s Knave Inn, Watson.”

  “But what on earth for, Holmes?”

  “It concerned her duties, Watson.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Eames summoned us for dinner. I knew any further explanation would have to wait for the moment when Holmes chose to divulge the facts of the case.

  Everyone who had been in the drawing room when we’d first arrived was at the table in the long dining hall. The room was high-ceilinged and somewhat gloomy, with wide windows that looked out on a well-tended garden. Paintings of various past Oldsbolts hung on one wall. None of them looked particularly happy, perhaps because of the grim commerce the family had long engaged in.

  The roast mutton and boiled vegetables were superb, though the polite dinner conversation was commonplace and understandably strained.

  It was afterward, in the oak-paneled drawing room where we were enjoying our port, that Millicent Oldsbolt said, “Did you make any progress in your trip to town, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Ah, yes,” Major Aldmont said, “did you discover any clues as to the killer’s identity? That’s what you were looking for, was it not?”

  “Not exactly,” Holmes said. “I’ve known for a while who really killed Sir Clive; my trip into town was in the nature of a search for confirmation.”

  “Good Lord!” Ardmont said. “You’ve actually known?”

  “And did you find such confirmation?” Robby Smythe asked, tilting forward in his chair.

  “Indeed,” Holmes said. “One might say I reconstructed the crime. The murderer lay in wait for Sir Clive in a nearby copse of trees, saw the carriage approach, and moved into sight so Sir Clive would stop. With very little warning, he shot Sir Clive, emptying his gun to be sure his prey was dead.”

  “Gatling gun, you mean,” Major Ardmont said.

  “Not at all. A German Army sidearm, actually, of the type that holds seven rounds in its cylinder.”

  “But the rapid-fire shots heard at the inn!” Robby Smythe exclaimed.

  “I’ll soon get to that,” Holmes said. “The murderer then made his escape, but found he couldn’t get far. He had to return almost a mile on foot, take one of Sir Clive’s horses from the carriage hitch, and use it to pull him away from the scene of the crime.”

  Robby Smythe tilted his head curiously. “But why would Landen—”

  “Not Landen,” Holmes cut him off. “Someone else. The man Eames only assumed it was Landen when he heard a man arguing with Sir Clive earlier that evening. Landen was where he claimed to be during the time of the murder, asleep in his room at the inn. He did not later return unseen through his window as the chief constable so obstinately states.”

  “The constable’s theory fits the facts,” Major Ardmont said.

  “But I’m telling you the facts,” Holmes replied archly.

  “Then what shooting did the folks at the inn hear?” Millicent asked.

  “They heard no shooting,” Holmes said. “They heard the rapid-fire explosions of an internal combustion engine whose muffling device had blown off. The driver of the horseless carriage had to stop it immediately lest he awaken everyone in the area. He then returned to the scene of the murder and got the horse to pull the vehicle to where it could be hidden. Then he turned the animal loose, knowing it would go back to the carriage on the road, or all the way here to the house.”

  “But who—”

  Phoebe Oldsbolt didn’t get to finish her query. Robby Smythe was out of his chair like a tiger. He flung his half-filled glass of port at Holmes, who nimbly stepped aside. Smythe burst through the French doors and ran toward where he’d left his horseless carriage alongside the west wing of the house.

  “Quick, Holmes!” I shouted, drawing my revolver. “He’ll get away!”

  “No need for haste, Watson. It seems that Mr. Smythe’s tires are of the advanced pneumatic kind. I took the precaution of letting the air out of them before dinner.”

  “Pneumatic?” Major Ardmont said.

  “Filled with atmosphere under pressure so they support the vehicle on a cushion of air,” Holmes said, “as you well know, Major.”

  I hefted the revolver
and ran for the French windows. I could hear footsteps behind me, but not in front. I prayed that Smythe hadn’t made his escape.

  But he was frantically wrestling with a crank on the front of a strange-looking vehicle. Its motor was coughing and wheezing but wouldn’t supply power. When he saw me, he gave up on the horseless carriage and ran. I gave chase, realized I’d never be able to overtake a younger man in good condition, and fired a shot into the air. “Halt, Smythe!”

  He turned and glared at me.

  “I’ll show you the mercy you gave Sir Clive!” I shouted.

  He hesitated, shrugged, and trudged back toward the house.

  —

  “Luckily, the contraption wouldn’t start,” I said, as we waited in the drawing room for Wilson Edgewick to return with the Chief Constable.

  “I was given to understand the horseless carriage can be driven slowly on deflated tires,” Holmes said, “but not at all with this missing.” He held up what looked like a length of stiff black cord. “It’s called a spark wire, I believe. I call removing it an added precaution.”

  Everyone seemed in better spirits except for Robby Smythe and Phoebe. Smythe appealed with his eyes to the daughter of the man he’d killed and received not so much as a glance of charity.

  “How could you possibly have known?” Millicent asked. She was staring in wonder at Holmes, her fine features aglow, now that her world had been put back partly right.

  Holmes crossed his long arms and rocked back on his heels while I held my revolver on Smythe.

  “This afternoon, when Watson and I examined the scene of the murder, I found a feather on the ground near where the body was discovered. I also found a black sticky substance on the road.”

  “Oil!” I said.

  “And thicker than that used to lubricate the Gatling gun, as I later ascertained. I was reasonably sure then that a horseless carriage had been used for the murder, as the oil was quite fresh and little had been absorbed into the ground. The machine had to have been there recently. When Smythe here tried to make his escape after shooting Sir Clive, the muffling device that quiets the machine’s motor came off or was blown from the pressure, and the hammering exhaust of the internal combustion made a noise much like the rapid-fire clatter of the Gatling gun. Which led inn patrons to suppose the gun was what they’d heard near the time of the murder. Smythe couldn’t drive his machine back to its stall in such a state, and couldn’t silence it, so he had one of Sir Clive’s horses pull him back. If only the earth hadn’t been so hard, this would all have been quite obvious, perhaps even to Chief Constable Roberts.”

  “Not at all likely,” Millicent said.

  “It was Smythe whom Eames overheard arguing with Sir Clive,” Holmes continued. “And Major Ardmont, who is a member of the German military, knows why.”

  Ardmont nodded curtly. “When did you realize I wasn’t one of your Cavalry?” he asked.

  “I knew you were telling the truth about being in the cavalry, and serving in a sunny clime,” Holmes said, “but the faint line of your helmet and chinstrap on your sunburned forehead and face doesn’t conform to that of the Queen’s Cavalry helmet. They do suggest shading of the helmet worn by the German horse soldier. I take it you received your sun-darkening not in India but in Africa, in the service of your country.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Holmes!” Ardmont said, with genuine admiration. “Mr. Smythe,” he said, “had been trying to convince Sir Clive to get the British military interested in his horseless machine as a means to transport troops or artillery. A hopeless task, as it turned out, with an old horseman like Sir Clive. Smythe contacted us, and introduced me to Sir Clive. He told Sir Clive that if the British didn’t show interest in his machines, he’d negotiate with us. And we were quite willing to negotiate, Mr. Holmes. We Germans do feel there’s a future for the internal combustion engine in warfare.”

  I snorted. Much like a horse. I didn’t care. The image of a thousand sabre-waving troops advancing on hordes of sputtering little machines seemed absurd.

  “Sir Clive,” Ardmont went on, “showed his temper, I’m afraid. He not only gave his final refusal to look into the idea of Smythe’s machine, he absolutely refused to have as his son-in-law anyone who would negotiate terms with us. Possibly that’s what the butler overheard in part, thinking Sir Clive was referring to Landen Edgewick and Millicent rather than to Mr. Smythe and Phoebe.”

  “Then you were with Sir Clive and Smythe when they clashed,” I said, “yet you continued to let the police believe it was Landen Edgewick who’d had the argument.”

  “Exactly,” Major Ardmont said. “To see Mr. Smythe off to the hangman wouldn’t have given Germany first crack at a war machine, would it?”

  “Contemptible!” I spat.

  “But wouldn’t you do the same for your country?” Ardmont asked, grinning a death’s head grin.

  I chose not to answer. “The feather?” I said. “Of what significance was the feather, Holmes?”

  “It was a goose feather,” Holmes said, “of the sort used to stuff pillows. I suspected when I found it that a pillow had been used to muffle the sound of the shots when Sir Clive was killed. Which explains why the actual shots weren’t heard at the inn.”

  “Ah! And you went into town to talk to Annie, then.”

  “To find out if she’d missed a pillow from the inn lately. And indeed one had turned up missing—from Robby Smythe’s room.”

  “An impressive bit of work, Mr. Holmes,” Ardmont said. “I’ll be leaving now.” He tossed down the rest of his port and moved toward the door.

  “He shouldn’t be allowed to leave, Holmes!”

  “The good major has committed no crime, Watson. English law doesn’t compel him to reveal such facts unless questioned directly, and what he knew about the argument had no exact bearing on the crime, I’m afraid.”

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes,” Ardmont said. “You should have been a barrister.”

  “Lucky for you I’m not,” Holmes said, “or be sure I’d find some way to see you swing alongside Mr. Smythe. Good evening, Major.”

  —

  Two days later, Wilson and Landen Edgewick appeared at our lodgings on Baker Street and expressed appreciation with a sizable check, a wedding invitation, and bone-breaking handshakes all around. They were off to Reading, they said, to demonstrate the Gatling gun to the staff of British Army Ordnance Procurement. We wished them luck, I with a chill of foreboding, and sent them on their way.

  “I hope, somehow, that no one buys the rights to their weapon,” I said.

  “You hope in vain,” Holmes told me, slouching deep in the wing chair and thoughtfully tamping his pipe. “I’m afraid, Watson, that we’re poised on the edge of an era of science and mechanization that will profoundly change wartime as well as peacetime. It mightn’t be long before we’re experimenting with the very basis of matter itself and turning it to our own selfish means. We mustn’t sit back and let it happen in the rest of the world, Watson. England must remain in the forefront of weaponry, to discourage attack and retain peace through strength. Enough weapons like the Gatling gun, and perhaps war will become untenable and a subject of history only. Believe me, old friend, this can be a force for tranquillity among nations.”

  Perhaps Holmes is right, as he almost invariably is. Yet as I lay in bed that night about to sleep, never had the soft glow of gaslight, and the clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones below in Baker Street, been so comforting.

  The Specter of Tullyfane Abbey

  PETER TREMAYNE

  FINDING PLEASURE IN combining his favorite writing subjects—mystery, horror, and history—Peter Berresford Ellis (1943– ) has enjoyed enormous worldwide success following this formula. Ellis was born in Coventry, Warwickshire, and his family can be traced back in the area to 1288. Ellis, most of whose fiction has been published under the Peter Tremayne pseudonym, followed his father’s footsteps to become a journalist. His first book was Wales—A Nation Again: The Nati
onalist Struggle for Freedom (1968), a history of the Welsh fight for independence, followed by popular titles in Celtic studies; as a leading authority on Celtic history, he has thirty-four nonfiction titles to his credit. He has served as International Chairman of the Celtic League (1988–1990) and is the honorary Life President of the Scottish 1820 Society and honorary Life Member of the Irish Literary Society.

  He has produced nearly one hundred books, a similar number of short stories, and numerous scholarly pamphlets. As Tremayne, he has written twenty-three internationally bestselling novels about the seventh-century Irish nun-detective Sister Fidelma, with more than three million copies in print. As Peter MacAlan, he produced eight thrillers (1983–1993). In the horror field, he has written more than two dozen novels, mostly inspired by Celtic myths and legends, including Dracula Unborn (1977), The Revenge of Dracula (1978), and Dracula, My Love (1980).

  “The Specter of Tullyfane Abbey” was first published in Villains Victorious, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and John Helfers (New York, DAW, 2001).

  THE SPECTER OF TULLYFANE ABBEY

  Peter Tremayne

  Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross, there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch box with my name, John H. Watson MD, Late Indian Army, painted on the lid. It is filled with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases to illustrate the curious problems which Mr. Sherlock Holmes had at various times to examine.

  —“The Problem of Thor Bridge”

  THIS IS ONE of those papers. I must confess that there are few occasions on which I have seen my estimable friend, Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, in a state of some agitation. He is usually so detached that the word calm seems unfit to describe his general demeanor. Yet I had called upon him one evening to learn his opinion of a manuscript draft account I had made of one of his cases which I had titled “The Problem of Thor Bridge.”

  To my surprise, I found him seated in an attitude of tension in his armchair, his pipe unlit, his long pale fingers clutching my handwritten pages, and his brows drawn together in disapproval. “Confound it, Watson,” he greeted me sharply as I came through the door. “Must you show me up to public ridicule in this fashion?”