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

by Thomson, June

  And so, as Holmes had wished, the secret of Professor Addleton’s shame, if such it was, went with him to the grave.

  There was no opportunity to speak to Miss Addleton after the inquest. She was accompanied by a solicitor and, as soon as the court rose, they left immediately by cab for the station.

  I believe Holmes wrote to her later, expressing his regret for not having prevented her father’s death. It was not in his nature to confide in me such personal details. I only know that for several days afterwards he was in low spirits and spent his time either confined to his room, playing his violin, or lying on the sofa in our sitting-room, staring moodily up at the ceiling. It was not until Inspector Lestrade arrived one evening, requesting his assistance in the singular affair of the forged Holbeins, that he recovered his former good humour.

  It was over breakfast about a month later that he at last referred directly to the Addleton case.

  Passing the copy of The Times to me, he remarked, ‘There is an item at the bottom of page three, Watson, which you may find interesting.’

  It was a short report which, after giving a brief summary of the circumstances surrounding Haydon Cowper’s death, went on to state:

  ‘Among his effects were discovered the contents of an ancient British barrow which he had evidently excavated shortly before his demise. They included some rare examples of prehistoric pottery and a beautifully worked stone axe which, according to the experts who have examined them, are among the finest objects of that period to be discovered in recent years.

  ‘In the absence of any heirs, the entire collection has been handed over to the museum in Truro where it will be put on public display.’

  ‘A final irony, is it not, Watson?’ Holmes added as I laid down the newspaper.

  ‘In what way, Holmes?’ I asked, not quite sure what he meant.

  ‘Why, such a discovery would not only have been the crowning glory to Professor Addleton’s career as an archaeologist but would have gone far in restoring Haydon Cowper’s reputation as well. Too late, though, my dear fellow! Too late!’ Picking up the newspaper and shaking out its pages, he continued, ‘By the way, Watson, I should be grateful if you refrained from publishing an account of the affair. As a great admirer of Professor Addleton’s work, I should not wish his reputation to be besmirched in any way. Nor mine, come to that.’

  ‘Yours, Holmes!’ I exclaimed.

  For a moment, he looked at me directly, his expression sombre.

  Then he said abruptly, ‘Failure can be as keen a shame as any other human frailty. In this particular instance, I should prefer mine not to be made public.’

  I gave him my word and, apart from a passing reference to the case,11 I shall withhold this account from my readers, placing it among my private papers.

  As for Holmes, he never again spoke of the Addleton tragedy nor of that moment of indecision when, with Haydon Cowper in his sights at the top of the granite ridge, his resolution wavered and he hesitated to pull the trigger.

  1 This adventure must have occurred shortly before the case involving the death of Willoughby Smith at Yoxley Old Place, Kent, which took place towards the end of November 1894. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez’. Dr John F. Watson.

  2 The Bentley Hotel was situated near the Strand. It was at this hotel that the Cambridge University rugby team stayed before playing their match against Oxford University and from where Godfrey Staunton disappeared. Vide: ‘The Case of the Missing Three-Quarter’. Dr John F. Watson.

  3 A cist grave is a prehistoric coffin or burial chamber formed from slabs of stone. Dr John F. Watson.

  4 A similar discovery was made on Bodmin Moor fifty-seven years earlier in 1837 when the famous Rillaton Cup of ribbed gold, dated to about 1500 BC, was recovered from a cist grave in the Rillaton Barrow, not far from the village of Minions. The cup, only 3½ inches high, is on display at the British Museum. Dr John F. Watson.

  5 The classification of the prehistoric period into the Stone, the Bronze and the Iron Age, known as the Three Age System, was first devised by the Danish archaeologist, Christian Jurgensen Thomsen, in the early nineteenth century. It was adopted by the British Museum in 1866. Dr John F. Watson.

  6 In 1894, Dr John H. Watson was a widower, his wife having died between 1891 and the spring of 1894. The exact date and cause of death are unknown. Dr John F. Watson.

  7 It was customary to summon a cab by giving one whistle for a four-wheeler, two for a hansom. Dr John F. Watson.

  8The map-maker’s and retailer’s, Stanford’s Geographical Establishment, had the sole agency for the sale of Ordnance Survey maps. In The Hound of the Baskervilles, the firm is erroneously referred to as ‘Stamford’s’. Dr John F. Watson.

  9 Colonel Moran, born in London in 1840, was the son of Sir Augustus Moran, CB, a former British Minister to Persia. Educated at Eton and Oxford, he later served in India with the 1st Bangalore Pioneers. After some unspecified scandal, he retired from the Indian Army and came to London, where he was recruited by Professor Moriarty to carry out certain high-class criminal activities on his behalf. Mr Sherlock Holmes suspected him of being involved in the death of Mrs Stewart of Lauder in 1887. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Empty House’. Dr John F. Watson.

  10 Colonel Moran used an expanding bullet fired from a powerful airgun, made by von Herder, the blind German mechanic, to kill the Hon. Ronald Adair. On Mr Sherlock Holmes’ return to England in 1894, he was able to arrange for the arrest of Colonel Moran, the best heavy game shot in India, for Adair’s murder by Inspector Lestrade. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Empty House’. Dr John F. Watson.

  11 Dr John H. Watson merely refers briefly to ‘the Addleton tragedy and the singular contents of the ancient British barrow’ in a list of other cases which occurred in 1894. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez’. Dr John F. Watson.

  THE CASE OF THE SHOPKEEPER’S TERROR

  ‘Helloa! Now there’s a strange state of affairs!’ my old friend Sherlock Holmes exclaimed, coming to a sudden halt on the pavement and pointing with his stick.

  It had rained heavily all day but, the weather having cleared by five o’clock, Holmes had suggested a walk to stretch our legs. Our ramble had taken us east into the tangle of side-streets which lay behind Tottenham Court Road and had led us eventually into Coleville Court.

  It was a narrow turning of mean little houses, the monotony of their brick façades broken here and there by shabby premises, mostly those of pawnbrokers and dealers in second-hand articles.

  As far as I could see, the shop he was indicating was no more remarkable than its neighbours. A board above its shuttered window bore the name ‘I. Abrahams’ and the words ‘Curios Bought and Sold’, while the blind was pulled down over the glass panel in the door.

  ‘It is closed, Holmes,’ said I, wondering what had drawn his attention to it.

  ‘Exactly, Watson! Now, why should old Abrahams wish to shut his shop at this time of the day? He is generally open for business until late in the evening. I propose making enquiries.’

  ‘You know him?’ I asked, as we crossed the road.

  ‘I have bought the occasional item from him in the past1 and, if I happen to be in the neighbourhood, I make a point of calling on him,’ Holmes replied. ‘He is an honest fellow with a reputation for fair dealing.’

  He had reached the door and, after rapping several times on it and receiving no reply, he put his eye to the crack between the shutters.

  ‘Perhaps he is not at home,’ I suggested.

  ‘No, he is in. There is a light at the back.’

  ‘Then could he be ill?’

  ‘We shall soon find out,’ Holmes said. Bending down, he called through the letterbox, ‘Mr Abrahams! Are you there? This is Sherlock Holmes.’

  There were several moments of silence before the blind over the glass was lifted cautiously aside a little as some unseen person inspected us round the gap. Then, with a rattle as a chain was lifted and bolts were drawn,
the door was opened just wide enough for us to enter.

  ‘Quick, come in, Mr Holmes!’ a voice whispered urgently.

  Hardly had we done so than the door was slammed shut behind us, the bolts and chain refastened, and the bent figure of an old man, all that I could see of him in the gloom, shuffled ahead of us into a room at the rear of the shop.

  It was an extraordinary chamber, hot and bright in the gas light, and so stuffed full of objects that at first I felt quite overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Whole platoons of ornaments, knick-knacks and vases, all in need of cleaning, crowded every horizontal surface. Piles of books rose in tottering pillars from the floor or lay scattered about the threadbare carpet while the walls were so covered with pictures, rusty sabres and tarnished looking-glasses that it was almost impossible to discern the pattern of the paper behind them.

  In the middle of this dusty confusion stood a little, old, bent man in his seventies, so thin as to be emaciated. He was wearing a pair of dress trousers and a red velvet smoking jacket, both very shabby and evidently intended for someone much stouter than he, for they hung upon his wasted frame like a scarecrow’s garments. A pair of steel-framed spectacles, one lens of which was cracked, and a tasselled cap of black satin perched upon his sparse white hair completed his eccentric outfit.

  My chief impression of him, however, was one of terror. Old Abrahams was clearly very frightened. It was evident in his trembling hands and in his voice as, clutching my old friend by the arm, he asked in quavering tones, ‘You were not followed here, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Not that I was aware of,’ Holmes replied in surprise. ‘Who would wish to follow me?’

  ‘A bearded man with a limp and such a scowl on his face! Never in all my born days have I seen a more fierce-looking scoundrel. He has been watching this place ever since that young man, the one who has since been murdered, came into my shop. It’s the box, Mr Holmes! You mark my words. That is what the villain is after. I fear he means to murder me, too, in order to get his hands on it.’

  Letting go of Holmes’ sleeve, the old man hobbled across the room as fast as his frail legs would carry him and, unlocking an old-fashioned safe, took out a small ebony casket which he thrust into my companion’s hands.

  ‘There it is! Take it, Mr Holmes! I want nothing more to do with it.’

  Holmes set the box down upon the table and turned it round several times, examining it on every side with the keenest attention while I looked over his shoulder.

  It was six inches square, its surface deeply carved in an Oriental style with a curious and intricate pattern of dragons, their scaly tails intertwined and their eyeballs bulging from their sockets like round, black beads. In places, though, the wood was so badly chipped that I doubted if it was worth more than a few pence.

  It was locked, as Holmes discovered when he tried to raise the lid. However, a small key protruded from the brass escutcheon and the box contained something for, when he shook it, we could hear objects rattling about inside.

  At the same time that Holmes made this examination, he asked questions of old Abrahams in a soothing manner in an attempt to calm him and to gain a more coherent account of how the box had come into his possession.

  ‘You say a young man brought it into your shop. When was this?’

  ‘Early yesterday morning, soon after I had opened for business.’

  ‘Had you seen him before?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was fair-haired and clean-shaven, wearing a cap and muffler, and with a tattoo of a butterfly on the back of his right hand. He came rushing in here as if the devil himself were at his heels, pushed that box at me and asked me to look after it. He said he would come back later to fix a price, if I wanted to buy it. That was the last I saw of him. Then this morning, my next-door neighbour, Mr Stein, called to see me, much excited. Had I heard about the terrible murder? A young fellow, with a butterfly tattooed on his hand, had been found stabbed to death in the yard behind the Crown public house in Charlotte Street. Oh, Mr Holmes, it must be the same man who called at my shop yesterday! What am I to do? I am sure the scoundrel with the black beard and the limp killed him. If ever I saw murder written on a man’s face, it was on his!’

  ‘Pray compose yourself, my dear sir,’ said Holmes, ‘and try to give me exact particulars of this bearded man. When did you first see him?’

  ‘Yesterday, at the very same time the young man brought the box to me. He was lurking about outside on the pavement. When the man left, the ruffian came up to my window, peered in and then set off after him.’

  ‘Have you see him since?’

  ‘Several times, Mr Holmes, prowling up and down in front of my shop as if keeping a watch on it. And late last night, as I was locking up and drawing down the blind, there was his face pressed up against the glass! I know he means to break in, kill me in my bed and then make off with that box. Since I heard about the murder, I have not dared to open the door or step outside into the street.’

  ‘So you have not yet informed the police of what you know?’

  ‘I am too frightened. Suppose I inform against him and the villain comes looking for me out of revenge? It is more than my life is worth! Besides, what is in the box? As it is not mine, I have not liked to open it. It could contain stolen property. If the police find it, they will charge me with receiving. I am an old man, Mr Holmes, and have always tried to deal honestly. If I go to prison, my business will be ruined!’

  At this thought, poor Mr Abrahams sank down on a worn armchair by the fire and, putting his hands over his ears, rocked to and fro in an agony of despair.

  Over the top of his bent head, Holmes gave me a glance of mingled amusement and compassion.

  ‘Come, Mr Abrahams,’ said he. ‘You must not always look on the dark side. Shall I open the box for you and at least set your mind at rest on the question of its contents?’

  The old man looked up fearfully. ‘But I told you, it is not mine. Do you want me to be accused of tampering with someone else’s property?’

  ‘As its apparent owner is dead, I think there is small chance of that,’ Holmes remarked drily.

  It was meant kindly but did little to cheer old Abrahams. Reminded of the murder, he covered his ears once more and resumed his rocking motion, groaning aloud to its rhythm.

  ‘You are too scrupulous,’ Holmes told him. ‘For my part, I confess curiosity far outweighs such finer considerations. You have my word I shall accept full responsibility.’

  As he spoke, he turned the key and lifted up the lid before, giving a low exclamation of surprise, he tipped the contents out upon the table.

  A most extraordinary collection of objects came tumbling out, consisting of an ivory buttonhook, a little cut-glass scent bottle, and a string of coral beads such as a child might wear.

  ‘None of it seems worth the trouble of stealing,’ I remarked.

  ‘Quite so,’ Holmes murmured in an abstracted tone.

  He stood in silence for a moment, gazing down at the receptacle and its scattered contents, and then, briskly scooping up the latter, he replaced them in the box which in turn he stowed away in the pocket of his ulster.

  ‘Put your coat on, Mr Abrahams,’ said he. ‘You are coming with us.’

  ‘Where to?’ the old man quavered.

  ‘To your daughter’s. I believe she lives nearby, does she not? Then we shall take you there. My colleague, Dr Watson, will call a cab while I help you pack a bag and arrange for your neighbour, Mr Stein, to take charge of the premises in your absence.’

  ‘But what of the bearded man? And the murder?’

  ‘You may leave all of that in my hands, Mr Abrahams,’ Holmes assured him. ‘You have presented me with a most curious little mystery which it will give me the greatest pleasure to enquire into.’

  Poor Mr Abrahams seemed little comforted by Holmes’ promise to look into the matter. He still feared the bearded man might follow him to his new
address or ransack the shop in his absence. However, after much persuasion, he finally agreed to accompany us to his daughter’s house, where we left him in her care.

  I had assumed that Holmes had agreed to take on the enquiry simply to put the old man’s mind at rest. But I was proved wrong, for no sooner had we returned to our Baker Street lodgings than he took the casket from his pocket and, handing it to me with a flourish, said, ‘Now, Watson, use your powers of observation and tell me what you make of it.’

  ‘I have already done so, Holmes. I cannot see why anyone should wish to acquire either the box or its contents. A buttonhook and a coral necklace! They are worth next to nothing.’

  ‘And yet, according to old Abrahams, the young man who left the casket with him was murdered because of it.’

  ‘I find that quite absurd.’

  ‘So do I, my dear fellow, which is why the case is so interesting.’

  ‘Then you intend following it up?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would it not be better to leave it to the police who no doubt are already investigating the young man’s murder?’

  ‘I shall certainly consult them. However, before handing the box over to them, I wish to examine it more closely myself, which is why I brought it with me. Does nothing about it strike you as curious?’

  ‘Not really, Holmes.’

  ‘Look at its dimensions, my dear fellow!’

  ‘I can see nothing strange about them,’ said I, turning the casket over in my hands.

  Without a word, Holmes stalked over to his desk, returning with a ruler with which he measured the exterior of the base of the box.

  ‘As you see, it is exactly five inches high; six if one includes the lid,’ he announced. ‘And now for the interior.’