Sherlock Holmes--The Legacy of Deeds

by Nick Kyme

“Quite so, Watson,” answered Holmes, delighting in Gregson’s confusion as he took his leave. “I shall be at the Running Horse when you have concluded your business here.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  RENDEZVOUS AT THE RUNNING HORSE

  I met Holmes in the Running Horse public house later that afternoon, having spent a good few hours in the Scotland Yard morgue. As predicted, each of the victims presented with almost identical symptoms, suggesting that they had been poisoned.

  Holmes was not alone when I found him sitting in a leather-backed chair, warming himself by an open fire. He had a scruffy-looking urchin with him, a grimy little blighter if ever I did see one, who could not have been much over eight years of age.

  Ever since I have known him, Holmes has always possessed a willingness to indulge the common folk. He has a seeming affinity for their condition that I have always believed extends beyond their mere usefulness to his work or even a desire to understand the vagaries of the criminal mind—for many such individuals as Holmes has in his loose employ could be considered such—but rather has a more altruistic motivation at its heart. Whatever the case, or his intent, I have never pressed Holmes on it, but have had cause to meet several of his informants during the years of our friendship. I have trusted not one of them.

  “Watson!” said Holmes, his sudden excitement at my appearance causing several of the patrons to turn and look upon the newcomer in their midst. I doffed my bowler uneasily and that seemed to satisfy the curious amongst them who soon returned to their ale and muttered conversation.

  “May I introduce Hobbers,” said Holmes with a flourish.

  As I sat down in the facing chair, the urchin grinned broadly to reveal several missing teeth and those teeth he did still possess were ill kept. He doffed his ragged cap at some mimicked attempt at gentlemanly behaviour, revealing a scraggy red mop of hair underneath as greasy as a pan of kippers.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said to me, extending a hand that looked like it hadn’t seen soap or water for a good long while, much like the rest of him. I declined to shake his hand, favouring the young scrapper with a friendly nod instead, which he seemed satisfied with.

  “Hobbers here is a most observant young man,” Holmes went on.

  “Most obsivant,” Hobbers parroted, badly.

  Having been bitten already, I kept my hand upon my wallet but did so surreptitiously so as not to offend the lad.

  “Tell Dr Watson what you saw, Hobbers,” invited Holmes. The urchin began to regale us with a tale of how he occasionally went “dipping” around the streets of Mayfair, and that he kept his “lamps” open for any “swells” that came here or there. He most vehemently protested he was no “lurk” or “shivering jemmy”, and that he had no desire to get “nibbed”, but had keen eyes and knew that “Mister Ohmes” rewarded useful titbits with some “chink” should the information prove useful.

  “And what, or rather whom, did you see, Hobbers?” asked Holmes, prompting the boy.

  “A right swell,” Hobbers said, “a fella what lives in Mayfair, the one who Mister Ohmes ’ere is looking for. I ’eard about ’im from Ned, who got a tip from Sharp, who spoke to Whipper, who once polished this fella’s shoes, and ’eard ’im say where he lived.”

  Holmes laid out a handkerchief that the urchin had daubed on, though I suspect it was from memory rather than an actual ability to read or write, much the pity. I also noted, belatedly, that the handkerchief was in fact my own.

  “Holmes, is that—” I began.

  “Yes, yes, Watson, but look here…”

  Scribed in the urchin’s crude hand were the letters “D.G.”, rudimentarily marked but discernible none the less.

  “It was on his gate, Mr Ohmes,” said Hobbers.

  “Our D.G. of Mayfair resides in Berkeley Square,” said Holmes. “The hour is a little late to go calling, but first thing tomorrow we should pay him a visit, Watson, don’t you think?”

  “The chap really is quite the ‘swell’ isn’t he?”

  “We shall find out,” said Holmes, rising smartly from his chair. “Hobbers,” he said to the urchin, “you have provided good service and shall be rewarded.”

  I saw Holmes toss the boy a few farthings, which he snatched out of the air and secreted away in short order.

  “Shall I keep my eyes open for ’im, Mr Ohmes?”

  “Please do.”

  Hobbers then bowed and was on his way.

  “Perhaps he can find my pocket watch as well,” I muttered, my wallet clenched firmly in my hand until Hobbers had taken his leave.

  “I hope so, Watson,” Holmes replied. “And at least you have your handkerchief,” he added, offering the soiled garment to me at the end of his cane.

  “I think not, Holmes.”

  Holmes frowned. “Really, Watson. At times, you are quite contradictory. Up in arms about an old pocket watch but content to leave a fine handkerchief to any fellow who happens along.”

  * * *

  The next morning, we arrived at the Mayfair address. It was a most impressive townhouse, finely appointed and opulent in every way. Whoever this “D.G.” was he was clearly well off, so much so that his initials were inscribed on the wrought-iron gate to his property just as Holmes’s urchin had described.

  A short flight of stone steps led up from the street to a broad black door with a gilded knocker the size of a man’s clenched fist. The house had at least three floors, as far as I could tell based on the number of windows, and was a good deal wider than our own humble lodgings at 221B.

  “Somewhat affluent,” I said to Holmes. “It would appear this D.G. has done rather well for himself in… well, whatever business he is in.”

  “Let us find out then, shall we?” he replied. “I wonder if anyone is home…”

  Upon reaching the top step, I gave the gilded doorknocker a good hard rap, fully expecting a housemaid or butler to open the door within moments. When the door remained closed, I began to wonder if we had in fact missed our quarry and even began to entertain the idea that he had somehow gotten wind of our interest and made himself scarce, taking his servants with him. Either that, or the street urchin Holmes had put his faith in had let us down.

  “Confound it, Holmes. Have we missed him?”

  Holmes suddenly leapt back down the steps and back onto the street where he stood staring at one of the upper-floor windows until he returned triumphant.

  “I believe we are in luck, Watson,” he told me and proceeded to turn the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked.

  “Do you hear that, Watson?” asked Holmes, pressing his ear to the brass keyhole.

  Hearing nothing, I shrugged. Holmes then beckoned for me to take his place, which I did and heard what sounded like a struggle coming from within.

  “A commotion, Holmes?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said Holmes, producing a set of lock-picking tools from his jacket pocket. “Stand aside please, Watson, this won’t take a moment.”

  True to his word, Holmes picked the lock in short order and we entered.

  Upon crossing the threshold, we found ourselves in a long and opulent hallway. Against one wall was a large oak bookcase with a finely upholstered chair on either side and a small pedestal table on only the left side. A silver-plated samovar sat upon the pedestal, empty and apparently decorative. A velvet carpet, deep crimson in colour, ran underfoot and led to a broad stairway and half landing.

  Holmes exchanged a brief glance with me. “A shadow, Watson. Seen cast against an interior wall, the angle of which would have been impossible to make out whilst standing directly under the eaves. Someone is at home.”

  We had made our way up the stairs and advanced a few steps beyond the first landing when I again caught the sound of the commotion I had heard at the door, coming from farther up the stairs. I heard a deep grunt, then several loud and heavy exhalations of breath. Then a heavy thud, as of booted feet moving quickly on the floor above.

  “A burglar, Holm
es!” I hissed, confirming my suspicions, and proceeded to run full pelt up the stairs.

  Arriving at the main second-floor landing, it was immediately apparent that the sounds of a scuffle were emanating from a door to my immediate left. Without delay, I threw open the door and burst into a long gallery but instead of a thief intent on stealing valuables I found a man in his shirtsleeves, staring at me with a mix of anger and confusion.

  “D.G. we presume,” said Holmes, calmly walking in after me, having not exerted himself one jot.

  “You knew, didn’t you, Holmes?” I said.

  “I suspected,” said my companion, looking at the other man. “The rapid movement, the breathing, it had a pattern that suggested hard exercise rather than larceny.”

  Bowing and doffing my hat, I apologised to the man. “We… I thought you were being burglarised, sir.”

  The man smiled. “And here I thought the two of you were the trespassers. I do hope you didn’t break my door down. It was expensive.”

  Holmes brandished the lock picks before returning them to his pocket.

  “Well that’s something, I suppose,” said the man. “Most enterprising.”

  His attire was that of a pugilist, a fact further supported by the punching bag he had come to blows with and the gloves tied to either fist, which he now proceeded to remove. Trapping the gloves under one arm, he walked over to us with his right hand extended in greeting.

  “Damian Graves,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. I think. It’s not every day two gentlemen break into your house, claiming it’s for your own benefit. I have yet to form the proper reaction.”

  He smiled again, warmly, with just a glint of good humour in his blue eyes.

  “D.G.” said I, and shook his hand.

  “I believe that’s me, sir,” he replied.

  “No, I meant—”

  Mercifully, Holmes stepped in before I made an even greater fool of myself. “This is Dr Watson, and I—”

  “Sherlock Holmes,” said Graves, his smile broadening. Holmes replied with a short nod.

  “I thought I recognised you,” said Graves, and threw aside his gloves. “Who in London would not?”

  He was muscular but lithe, not unlike a dancer, of average height, and the gallery was entirely given over to paraphernalia and equipment devoted to physical improvement and fitness. I noted a large sparring mat as well as the punching bag, several sizes of barbells and dumbbells, fencing attire and a rack containing a number of foils and sabres. Most curious, however, were the contraptions and apparatus designed for both traction and extension, consisting of various weights, pulleys and cords. Damian Graves clearly placed a good deal of stock in staying in his prime.

  “Do you mind,” he said, stooping to retrieve a skipping rope. “I am in the middle of my fitness regime and would hate to break it. I assume you are here on some business?” He began to vigorously whirl and jump the rope.

  I confess, I found his manner a little disconcerting. We had entered his residence without permission or invitation but here the man was casually skipping and making conversation as if it were all perfectly normal.

  “Of the gravest kind, sir,” I said, donning my hat when it became obvious that civility was not amongst this man’s better qualities.

  “Grave…” He laughed. “How appropriate. Speak then, sirs. I know you both by reputation if not history, so I assume this matter is of a criminal nature?”

  “How well do you know the Grayson Gallery of Wellington Street?” asked Holmes.

  “Extremely well,” Graves answered between breaths, the rope whipping past in a blur. “I have an exhibition there.”

  “Are you a patron of the arts then, sir?” I asked, taking note of the paintings hanging on the wall. Most of the pieces were portraits of Graves himself, I realised with further disdain for the man. There were also several small pedestals and glass cabinets within which I saw various items of obscure and ancient provenance. I noticed an old sextant made from brass, an ornate spyglass, several vintage coins and a few vases and sculptures.

  “I have many interests, Dr Watson,” said Graves. “Art is one of them. History another.”

  “I see,” I replied, still not knowing what to make of the man.

  Graves stopped skipping and set down his rope. Reaching for a towel to mop his brow, he asked, “Where are my manners? I should show you my collection. It is quite extensive; I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  Confident fellow, I thought to myself.

  “Are you not concerned,” I said, as Graves ventured over to the nearest cabinet, “having these valuables so close to hand in such an environment? A stray flick of the rope, a trip… one mistake, it could be rather costly, couldn’t it?”

  “It teaches me to be careful, Doctor. Besides,” he said, somewhat haughtily, “I do not make mistakes. Here,” he said, and gestured to a silver coin that appeared to be extremely ancient. “A denarius coin,” said Graves proudly. “That’s the likeness of Julius Caesar on the face. It dates back to 49BC.” He paused, doubtless waiting for our admiration, which, to my utmost surprise, Holmes provided.

  “My word, that is indeed impressive,” he said. “Antiques of this variety have always piqued my interest.”

  Incredulity at my companion’s bizarre demeanour rendered me quite speechless. Graves, on the other hand, had no trouble whatsoever.

  “Then you will find this piece most intriguing, I think,” he said, skilfully manoeuvring Holmes to a second cabinet. “A pair of Chinese guardian lions made of marble and white granite, from the eighth century. These are but trinkets, however…” He made his way over to a blank section of wall, and pushed upon it. To my surprise it gave, revealing that it was actually the door to a modestly sized hidden room.

  “This,” said Graves, his smile both self-satisfied and irksome, “is my true collection.”

  Within the room were exhibited around forty or fifty antique swords. I am no expert in such things but I recognised a Scottish claymore, a sword from the English Civil War and a huge medieval blade, which looked like it could have dated back to the Crusades. Despite my dislike of the man, I could not help but stand agog at such a display of wealth and history.

  “Remarkable…” I said.

  “Each has a story, which I would be happy to relate,” offered Graves, warming to his role as host.

  “All of them fascinating, I am sure,” said Holmes. He was examining one of the paintings that hung on the walls in the “armoury”. “But we shall have to refuse, I am afraid. Perhaps another time,” he added, turning his attention back to our host. “Are these works by Ivor Lazarus? He had several pieces in the exhibition.”

  “Ah, yes, the exhibition,” said Graves, as if reluctant to change the subject. “They are indeed, as are a great many throughout the house. I keep these ones here on account of the grim subject matter not being to everyone’s tastes.”

  “Quite,” said Holmes. The paintings were similar in nature to that of the Undying Man, which we had seen in the Grayson Gallery, bleak meditations on death and mortality.

  “So, as a patron, you know Ivor Lazarus then?” I asked.

  “I am familiar, yes.” Graves frowned. “What is this regarding, gentlemen?”

  “Murder, I’m afraid, Mr Graves,” said Holmes, his voice level. “Might I ask, Mr Graves, why you were not in attendance at the exhibition?”

  “I never attend an exhibition where my own work is on display,” replied Graves. “The Ivor Lazarus you mentioned. I am he. It’s a pseudonym I use to assure my anonymity. My art, it can sometimes attract… detractors. My business is more commercial in nature, and I prefer the two not to mix. As I’m sure you can appreciate by now, I deal in antiques of the rarest and most valuable kind. I have had some fortune in this line of work, hence this house. The art is more of a hobby. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “In part,” said Holmes.

  “Tell me, then,” said Graves. “What happened? Who was murdered?�
��

  Holmes grew sombre. “Everyone who attended the exhibition, sir. Poisoned.”

  “All of them?” Graves appeared shocked, his geniality gone. He looked away from my companion for a moment, as if to calculate the loss.

  “I am surprised word has not reached you,” I said.

  “I have heard nothing. I confess, I am not the easiest man to reach, even when in residence.”

  “Did you know any of the invited guests?” I asked, to which Graves shook his head.

  “No, I had no part in the guest list. I always left that to the gallery to arrange.” He looked back again. “This is a terrible tragedy.”

  “Indeed it is, sir,” said Holmes.

  “Well, thank you for coming here in person to tell me,” said Graves, ushering us from the hidden room. “I will contact the gallery at once and see if there is anything I can do. I assume the police are involved?”

  “An Inspector Gregson is leading the case.”

  “Does he have any suspects?”

  “He believes the crime was politically motivated.”

  “How so?”

  “A reaction to the decadent rich,” I said, at which Graves was finally offended.

  “Unless there is anything further…”

  “Nothing further,” said Holmes, smiling again. “I am so sorry to have disturbed you, Mr Graves. I assure you, the lock on your front door has not been damaged but you might consider getting a better one.”

  “Then perhaps you have done me a service, Mr Holmes.”

  “Perhaps… Before I go,” he gestured to the rack of foils and more conventional sabres, “I have never seen such a fine array of weaponry, aside from your antique swords, of course. Might I try one out?”

  Graves frowned, but acquiesced with a sigh. “Please, do so.”

  Holmes removed his gloves as he advanced on the rack. Then, carefully selecting a foil, he proceeded to flail about with it. I have seen Holmes fight, most ably, both armed and unarmed. His fencing skills are exemplary, so the ineptitude I witnessed was most uncharacteristic.

  “Chert,” I heard Holmes mutter. I had no clue as to the word’s meaning, but felt now was not the time to ask. He tried again, but conspired to trip over his own feet, which sent the foil arcing through the air. Thankfully Mr Graves stepped to catch it expertly before it could do any harm.