The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (A&B Crime)

by Thomson, June

  The Secret Journals

  of Sherlock Holmes

  JUNE THOMSON

  TO

  H.R.F. KEATING

  FOR AGAIN GIVING SO GENEROUSLY

  OF HIS TIME AND EXPERT ADVICE

  My thanks also to Bill and Daphne Mellors and to Mr, Mrs and Miss Barber of St Albans Music Centre for their help in setting up the experiment with the metronome. I am also grateful to Mr James Pratt for his expert knowledge of diamonds, both real and synthetic.

  I should again like to express my thanks to June Thomson for her help in preparing this third collection of short stories for publication.

  Aubrey B. Watson, LDS, FDS, D. Orth.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Foreword

  The Case of the Millionaire’s Persecution

  The Case of the Colonel’s Madness

  The Case of the Addleton Tragedy

  The Case of the Shopkeeper’s Terror

  The Case of the Friesland Outrage

  The Case of the Smith-Mortimer Succession

  The Case of the Maupertuis Scandal

  Appendix

  About the Author

  By June Thomson

  Copyright

  FOREWORD

  by

  Aubrey B. Watson LDS, FDS, D. Orth.

  Readers of the two earlier collections of hitherto unpublished accounts of adventures, supposedly undertaken by Sherlock Holmes and Dr John H. Watson, will be familiar with the circumstances under which they came into my possession.

  However, for the benefit of new readers, I shall give a brief account of the facts.

  They were bequeathed to me by my late uncle, also a Dr John Watson, although his middle initial was ‘F’ not ‘H’ and he was a Doctor of Philosophy, not medicine. Struck by the similarity of his own name to that of Sherlock Holmes’ illustrious chronicler, he had studied widely in the Holmes canon and had become an acknowledged expert.

  It was for this reason that, in July 1939, he was approached by a Miss Adeline McWhirter, who claimed to be a relative of Dr John H. Watson on his mother’s side of the family. Finding herself in straitened circumstances, Miss McWhirter offered to sell to my late uncle a battered tin despatch box with the words ‘John H. Watson, MD, Late Indian Army’ painted on the lid which she said she had inherited. It was, she alleged, the same box which Dr John H. Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ companion, had deposited in his bank, Cox & Co. of Charing Cross,1 and contained records in his own handwriting of those adventures which the great consulting detective had undertaken and which for various reasons had never appeared in print.

  Having examined both the box and its contents, my late uncle was convinced they were genuine and was planning to publish the latter when he was prevented from doing so by the outbreak of the Second World War.

  Anxious about their safety, he made copies of the Watson papers before depositing the originals in their despatch box at his own bank in Lombard Street, London EC3. Unfortunately, the bank suffered a direct hit during the bombing of 1942, which reduced the papers to charred fragments and so blistered the paint on the box that the inscription was indecipherable.

  Left with only his own copies of the original manuscripts and unable to trace Miss McWhirter, my late uncle decided very reluctantly not to publish in case his reputation as a scholar might be called into question. On his death, he left the papers, together with his own footnotes on them, to me.

  As I pointed out in the Forewords to the two earlier volumes, I am an orthodontist by profession and, having no academic reputation to protect and no one to whom I can bequeath the papers in my turn, I have decided to offer them for publication although I cannot guarantee their authenticity.

  Among them were several monographs which my late uncle had written on various matters pertaining to the published canon. Readers will find one of these, that on the subject of Dr John H. Watson’s second marriage, included in this volume as an appendix.

  1 Dr John H. Watson refers to this despatch box in the opening paragraph of ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’. Dr John F. Watson.

  THE CASE OF THE MILLIONAIRE’S PERSECUTION

  I see from my notes that it was on Thursday, 21st April 1895, only a few days before the arrival of Miss Violet Smith with an account of her singular adventures in Surrey,1 that a telegram was delivered at our Baker Street lodgings.2

  While it was not unusual for my old friend Sherlock Holmes to receive such communications, requesting his assistance in some urgent case or other, few had summoned him in quite so peremptory a manner.

  Having read it and raised a quizzical eyebrow at its contents, Holmes passed the missive to me with the comment, ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of that?’

  It was a lengthy message which read: HAVE RECEIVED A SERIES OF ANONYMOUS LETTERS THREATENING MY LIFE STOP AS LOCAL CONSTABULARY QUITE INEFFECTUAL AM PLACING THE CASE IN YOUR HANDS STOP SHALL SEND MY CARRIAGE TO MEET YOU AT MAIDSTONE STATION OFF THE 2 23 TRAIN FROM CHARING CROSS STOP YOU MAY NAME YOUR OWN FEE STOP JOHN VINCENT HARDERN

  ‘He is clearly a man for whom money is no object and who is used to having his own way,’ I remarked.

  ‘A wealthy American, would you say?’ Holmes suggested. ‘A millionaire, perhaps, who has made his fortune from tobacco?’

  Although I was used to my old friend’s remarkable powers, I was nevertheless startled by his comments, for I had read nothing in the telegram to warrant such precise conclusions.

  ‘How could you possibly have deduced all that, Holmes?’ I enquired, at which he burst out laughing.

  ‘There is no mystery,’ said he. ‘The plain fact of the matter is that John Vincent Hardern was the subject of a short article in The Times three weeks ago when he arrived in this country in which his wealth and background were remarked on. It is his first visit to England and he is here, it seems, for a year, principally to introduce his only daughter, Edith, to English society. For that purpose, he has taken the lease of a country residence as well as a house in Belgravia. As the Dowager Lady Wroxham is to chaperone the young lady for the London season and as her ladyship has an eligible son, I think we may safely assume that the next notice to appear in The Times of the two families will be the announcement of an engagement between Miss Hardern and Lord Wroxham. So marriages are made, Watson; not in heaven but by society hostesses in the drawing-rooms of Park Lane and Grosvenor Square.

  ‘That being said, I think I shall accept Hardern’s summons, little as I care for its high-handed tone.’

  ‘He says you may name your own fee,’ I pointed out.

  Holmes waved a negligent hand.

  ‘Oh, the money is of no consequence! I have refused wealthy clients before when the cases they presented were of no particular interest. But threats to Hardern’s life! Now that is no trivial matter. We shall catch the 2.23 train, as Hardern specifies, and trust that in the course of our enquiries in Kent we shall find the solution to one aspect of the case which strikes me as particularly curious.’

  ‘The identity of the villain who has threatened Hardern’s life?’

  ‘That, too, my dear fellow. What interests me far more is the sequence of events.’

  ‘I do not follow you, Holmes.’

  ‘Then consider the facts such as we know them. According to The Times, Hardern arrived for the first time in England a mere three weeks ago and yet he has already received what he describes as a series of threatening letters. It seems too short a space of time for Hardern to make so mortal an enemy in this country, unless I gravely underestimate his talent for arousing hatred.’


  ‘So you do not think his correspondent is English?’

  ‘I said nothing of the sort. I merely expressed doubts about one aspect of the case.’

  ‘But if he is not English,’ I persisted, ‘must he not be American, someone who bears Hardern a grudge and who has followed him to England?’

  ‘That is possible but once again there is the matter of dates. Why wait for Hardern to come to England? Why not strike him down at home? It would seem the logical course, would it not?’

  ‘Perhaps the conditions over there made it impractical.’

  ‘That, too, is another possibility. However, until we are in possession of all the facts, any discussion of the matter is pure speculation. I have remarked before on the danger of basing a theory on insufficient data.’3

  He refused to say another word on the matter, not even on the train to Maidstone where we were met at the station by Hardern’s brougham. After a journey of some three miles past the blossoming orchards of Kent, we arrived at our client’s residence, Marsham Hall, a noble Queen Anne mansion set among extensive grounds.

  Here the butler, a dignified, middle-aged servant with a face as long and as pale as a church candle, conducted us into a large drawing-room where Hardern was waiting to welcome us.

  He was a tall, heavily built man in his fifties, of an overbearing and autocratic manner, who gave a powerful impression of suppressed energy waiting to erupt, like a kettle about to come to the boil. His broad, ruddy features and shock of reddish hair spoke of a choleric nature.

  No sooner were the introductions over, than he plunged straight into his account.

  ‘Now, see here, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I am a man of few words and I don’t propose wasting your time or mine. I shall lay before you the facts of the case as briefly as possible. I received the first threatening letter within a few days of my taking up residence in the house.’

  ‘So soon?’ Holmes murmured, giving me a sideways glance. ‘I find that quite remarkable.’

  ‘So do I, sir! So do I! Why, I had barely set foot in this country when some blackguard had the audacity to tell me to clear out or take the consequences.’

  ‘You have no idea of his identity?’

  ‘No, I have not, sir! If I had, I should not have asked for your assistance. I would have sought the ruffian out myself and given him a good thrashing.’

  ‘I think such action would be unwise,’ Holmes remarked coolly. ‘May I see the letters? I assume you have kept them?’

  ‘Not the first one. I took it to be so much trash and I burnt it immediately.’

  ‘In your telegram, you mentioned a series of letters. How many were there?’

  ‘Four altogether. The other three are here.’

  Striding across the room, Hardern jerked open the drawer of a bureau and took out a small bundle of papers which he handed to Holmes.

  ‘All posted in Maidstone, I see,’ my old friend remarked, examining the envelopes. ‘And all addressed in capital letters by the same hand. Now what of the contents?’

  Taking out the letters, he read them through in silence before passing them to me with the comment, ‘Note the quality of the paper, Watson, as well as the spelling. You will not need me to draw your attention to the imprint of a finger at the bottom of each page.’

  Indeed, these marks were impossible to overlook. At the end of each message, where normally a signature would be found, was the impression of a single finger made in black ink, amounting in all to the three middle fingers of someone’s hand, presumably the mysterious correspondent’s.

  They stood out, stark and sinister, against the white paper which was of a cheap quality, the type which could be bought at any stationer’s. I could make nothing, however, of Holmes’ comment about the spelling which was unremarkable, except perhaps in its correctness.

  As for the messages themselves, they were printed, like the envelopes, in neat capital letters in the same black ink which had been used to produce the finger-marks.

  The message of the one signed by the ring finger read: ‘You have been warned once, Hardern. Clear out of the country while you can.’

  The second, which carried the impression of the middle finger, expanded on this theme: ‘Your life is in danger while you remain. This is no idle warning.’

  It was the last, the one bearing the print of the forefinger, which was the most threatening.

  ‘You are a fool, Hardern,’ it read, ‘but you do yourself no favour by being stubborn. I shall not wait much longer. Pack up and leave at once or, on my oath, you are a dead man.’

  Hardern, who had waited with considerable impatience while we read, could contain himself no longer.

  ‘Well, Mr Holmes,’ he burst out. ‘What conclusions have you come to? Who is this villain? And why is he persecuting me in this manner?’

  ‘My dear sir, I am not clairvoyant,’ Holmes answered, a gleam of amusement in his deep-set eyes. ‘I cannot put a name to your unknown correspondent. That will need much further enquiry. However, I can furnish you with a few details I have deduced. He is undoubtedly male, about thirty years of age, right-handed and a clerk by training if not by profession. He is, moreover, a British citizen.’

  ‘Not an American, Holmes?’ I interjected, a little dashed that my earlier theory regarding his nationality had been dismissed.

  ‘No, Watson, decidedly not. When I advised you to note the spelling, I had in mind the word “favour” which is written in the English manner. An American would have omitted the u. As for the rest of my conclusions,’ Holmes continued, turning to Hardern, ‘I have made a study of the various styles of handwriting and I can assure you that my deductions are correct. I see from your expression, sir, that my description means nothing to you.’

  ‘No, it does not, Mr Holmes!’ our client exclaimed. ‘Since my arrival, I have met no one who at all resembles it. In fact, the only acquaintances I have so far made in this country are the Dowager Lady Wroxham and her son, neither of whom would have any reason to threaten me. Why, it was on Lord Wroxham’s invitation that my daughter Edith and myself decided to make the trip to England in the first place.’

  ‘Under what circumstances was that?’ Holmes enquired.

  ‘I first met Gerald – Lord Wroxham – about eighteen months ago when he was in the States visiting some of his American kinsfolk. An aunt of his had married one of the Brightleys, friends of mine and of old Virginian stock who can trace their ancestry back to Tudor times. My daughter and I were invited to a reception given by the Brightleys in honour of their English relation and it was there that Edith and I were introduced to Gerald Wroxham.

  ‘To cut a long story short, Mr Holmes, the young couple took a shine to one other immediately. The possibility of marriage was hinted at but I objected on the grounds that they had not known each other long enough. It was then that Gerald Wroxham suggested I brought my daughter to England to meet his mother and to be introduced into English society. If they felt the same about one other on longer acquaintance, their formal engagement would be announced at the end of the season.

  ‘The Dowager Lady Wroxham approved of the arrangements and undertook to find suitable residences in London and in the country where Edith and I could stay during our visit. By great good fortune, this house came unexpectedly on the market. It had belonged to an elderly gentleman, Sir Cedric Forster-Dyke, whose relatives decided to admit him to a nursing-home. He was extremely deaf and had become increasingly bedridden. His family were delighted to find a tenant willing to take the house for the whole year and to retain the domestic staff.

  ‘From my point of view, it was particularly fortunate for two reasons. Firstly, Lady Wroxham’s residence, Whitehaven Manor, is a mere three miles away which meant the young people could meet easily and Edith could get to know Gerald’s family and friends. Secondly, the lease on a house in Sussex which Lady Wroxham had arranged for us had to be suddenly cancelled when fire broke out in the servants’ wing, causing considerable damage.

 
‘All of this happened when Edith and I were on board the ship bringing us to England and it was only when we arrived in London and were met off the train by Gerald Wroxham that we learnt of the fire in the Sussex house and the unexpected vacancy of Marsham Hall.’

  At this point in our client’s narrative, Holmes broke in to exclaim, ‘Well, Mr Hardern, your account has effectively put paid to one possible explanation.’

  ‘And what was that, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘That one of your enemies in the States had engaged an English accomplice to send the threatening letters on his account. But as you yourself learnt only on your arrival in London that your country residence was to be in Kent, not Sussex, then he could hardly have arranged for your persecution in advance. But I interrupted you, Mr Hardern. Pray forgive me and continue your account.’

  ‘There is very little else to relate, sir. On Gerald Wroxham’s advice, we stayed a few days in a hotel in London while Marsham Hall was made ready for our arrival. He then accompanied us here and saw that we were comfortably installed. The first threatening letter arrived shortly afterwards; four days later to be precise.’

  ‘Bearing, I assume, the mark of a little finger printed in black ink?’

  ‘Indeed so, Mr Holmes!’

  ‘You notified the police?’

  ‘Only on the receipt of the second message. An Inspector Whiffen of the Kent Constabulary called at the house and examined that letter as well as the subsequent correspondence but could offer no explanation. He seemed to consider the whole affair was an elaborate hoax.’

  ‘Oh, it is a great deal more serious than that,’ Holmes said. ‘I believe your anonymous adversary is in deadly earnest. I also believe that you will receive a further letter, bearing this time a thumb-mark, thus completing the five prints of a whole hand. A black hand, Mr Hardern. Does that have any significance for you?’