Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 1)

by Ralph Vaughan

  “He wouldn’t be you,” the girl replied. She looked back at her idling motorcar, then back to the wounded actor. “I’m ever so glad that you’re not seriously injured, Mr Sinclair, but I must go now; I am in a terrible rush.”

  “Wait a moment, you can’t just leave me here.”

  “I can give you fare for a taxi.”

  “Do you see any taxis about?”

  “I could take you round to hospital, but…” She paused. “I wonder if I could impose upon you, Mr Sinclair?”

  “I don’t see why not, you’ve already made quite an impression on me,” he quipped. “And do call me Reginald, Miss…”

  “Cynthia,” she replied, helping him to his feet and steadying him when he started to wooze a bit. “Lady Cynthia Smythe-Lambert.”

  “Good evening, Lady Cynthia,” he greeted, tipping his hat. “It’s a pleasure to have run into you.”

  “I have to meet a man, that was why I was in such a rush.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s nothing like that, Reginald,” she explained. “He is blackmailing me, and I must pay him off to have certain letters returned to me.”

  Reginald leered.

  “Will you please try to sober up,” Lady Cynthia snapped.

  “Unfortunately, I am much more sober than I care to be,” Reginald replied, “but, pray, continue.”

  “The letters are not mine but my father’s, the Earl of Danforth,” she said. “Should they be released to the newspapers, as has been threatened, it would mean ruin and disgrace, resignation from his cabinet post, the loss of…”

  Reginald lifted a silencing hand and gave her the smile he usually reserved for auditions. “I am at your service, Lady Cynthia; how may I help you?”

  “I know it is a great imposition, but would you accompany me to see this…this creature?” she stammered. “He said to come alone, but if he gets his £5,000 I do not see that he has any room to complain about my actions.”

  “I should be delighted,” he said quickly, and as brightly as he could manage.

  “Please come along then,” she urged. “I was already very late when we…met.”

  “After you, my dear,” he said, smiling though his pain. “The game is afoot.”

  Reginald climbed gingerly into the Austin Princess 135 and settled himself into the passenger seat. He was a little chagrined to see that the wing of the motorcar had made more of an impression on him than he had on it, so he was perversely pleased to note the absence of the wing mirror. When the large automobile again shot into the fog-bound night, once more at a decidedly unsafe velocity, Reginald was pressed solidly back into the seat, and he suppressed the mild groan that almost came to his lips.

  Before long, they found themselves in Soho, crawling down a residential street as Lady Cynthia peered intently through the dewed windscreen. During the drive she had remained silent, the only indication of her tenseness being the whitening of her knuckles as she gripped the steering wheel; and the closer they came to their destination the whiter those knuckles got. Finally, she stopped the vehicle, engaged the parking brake, and switched off the engine.

  “Is this the place?” Reginald asked after a moment of silence.

  “Yes,” she replied with a start. “Yes. Sorry. I’m afraid I’m rather more nervous about this than I realised. Now, I find myself wishing I were anywhere but here.”

  “Well, let’s get this over with – pay the cad his flash and get your father’s letters from him,” Reginald said, patting her hand comfortingly. “After all, as the saying goes, there are only two ways to take care of a blackmailer, pay him off or kill him. And, my dear, you are much too lovely to find yourself standing in the dock. Let us face this squarely, knowing we are on the side of right.”

  She looked to him and flashed a dazzling smile. “Please forgive me, I’m just being silly. You’re right, of course.”

  Lady Cynthia climbed out and walked around. Moving a bit slower than he wanted to show, Reginald was out of the motorcar and closed the door by the time she joined him on the walkway. As they passed through a gateway toward a large detached house set back in the mist, she took his arm, an action that pleased him greatly and seemed to cause his pain to recede slightly from his consciousness.

  The house was not brightly lit, but they could see lamps burning through the ground glass set into the door. There was no bell. As Reginald used the knocker, the door swung open on silent hinges. The house was very quiet.

  As quiet as the grave, Reginald thought, then wished he hadn’t.

  Reginald stepped through, but Lady Cynthia held back. He looked to her.

  “We must see this through” he said. “Your father’s letters.”

  Squeezing her eyes to mere slits and holding her breath, she joined Reginald within. He closed the door. She relaxed somewhat, letting her held breath escape, but it came out more shivery and ragged than she intended.

  “Whom are we here to see?”

  “His name is Kasavian,” she replied. “Gregor Kasavian.”

  He shook his head. “I would not trust him, just from the sound of his name. Foreigners!”

  She looked about. “But where is he? I know I am very late, but he…the door…I…” She grabbed his arm. “Oh, Reginald, I am afraid.”

  “Let’s look around,” he suggested. “If this Kasavian is not here, we’ll find those letters of yours and be on our way.”

  But Gregor Kasavian was there, as they discovered when they entered a parlor off the entry hallway, sprawled on the floor before a low-burning fire in the hearth. The pale carpet was discoloured darkly by a wide pool surrounding his caved-in head. Nearby was a fireplace poker, the end of which glistened wetly in the fire light.

  Lady Cynthia uttered a sharp cry, then turned and clung to Reginald.

  He disengaged himself from her tight, frantic embrace and guided her to a large wing-chair far from the fire. From a crystal decanter on a silver tray he poured a large brandy, downed it in a gulp, then poured one for the girl and pressed it into her cold, trembling hands. He returned to the body.

  Kneeling carefully, he checked that Kasavian was indeed as dead as he appeared. He was quite dead, but had not been so for long. The flesh was still quite warm. He stood and glanced about the room, noting every aspect of it. He returned to Lady Cynthia.

  “Is he...”

  “Yes, dead.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We must summon the police, it is our duty to do so.” Then he added: “But you are leaving now; you must not be found here.”

  “But…”

  “I’ll stay and look for the letters,” he assured her. “And I shall wait for the police to arrive, answer their questions without involving you in any way.”

  “But the murderer…”

  That was another reason why he wanted her out of this drear house of death. Kasavian had not just been dead for a short time, he had been dead for mere moments. They had not seen anyone on their way in, and they had not observed anyone either on the street or leaving the house. As if to punctuate his fears, a sudden and furtive sound came down to them from the first floor, the noise of someone moving about, as if searching.

  Quickly, Reginald took Lady Cynthia’s arm, upraised her, and guided her toward the entrance. As they neared the doorway, the stillness was shattered by a series of sharp knocks on the door. Reginald and Lady Cynthia stopped suddenly, looked to each other in alarm, then returned their gazes to the door. Before they could either answer the summons or retreat into the darkness of the structure, the door was opened from without.

  Two men stood in the doorway regarding Reginald and Lady Cynthia with narrowed gazes. One was short and gave a rather rumpled appearance, looking something like a soft-shelled turtle wearing a battered hat and wire-rimmed spectacles; the other was much taller, very lean, and wore a bespoke suit that would have made any tailor in Savile Row weep that he had not crafted it. So startled by their sudden intrusion was Reginald that only af
ter they identified themselves – though he did not catch their names – did he realise they were detectives from some specialist unit within New Scotland Yard.

  “Where is Mr Kasavian?” the taller detective demanded.

  “He’s in the parlor,” Reginald replied. “We’ve touched nothing in there but the brandy decanter and one glass.”

  “Wait here.” The taller one looked to his partner. “Make sure they do not leave.”

  “What shall I do?” the shorter man asked. “Trip ‘em?”

  “It’s quite all right,” Reginald assured them. “We’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What about you, miss?” the spectacled detective asked when the other had entered the parlor. “Are you mute?”

  “No…no, of course not,” Lady Cynthia stammered. “I was just…I was surprised to find Mr Kasavian…”

  “Dead,” the taller detective announced upon his return. “Very much dead, his head caved in with a poker.”

  “How unfortunate,” the smaller detective remarked.

  “Very unfortunate.”

  “And inconvenient.”

  “Certainly for us,” his partner admitted, “but more so for Mr Kasavian, wouldn’t you agree, old fruit?”

  “The girl’s not a mute, apparently.”

  “Who are you two?”

  Lady Cynthia looked to Reginald.

  “This is Lady Cynthia Smythe-Lambert,” he said, “and I –“

  “I thought I recognized you,” the tall detective interrupted. He looked to his partner. “It’s Reginald Sinclair, the johnnie who plays Sherlock Holmes on the telly, in Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street.”

  “Wouldn’t know,” the other man sniffed. “Don’t own a goggle-box.”

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “Miss Smythe-Lambert had an appointment with Mr Kasavian, but because of the weather, and other factors, was very late,” Reginald explained. “She happened to run into me down near Fleet Street, and because of the lateness of the hour I suggested that perhaps I should accompany her to the appointment. In fact, we only just arrived when –“

  “I thought my partner said you were not a mute, miss.”

  “I’m…I’m not, Detective,” Lady Cynthia said. “As Mr Sinclair explained, I had an appointment with Mr Kasavian much earlier, but because of one thing or another I was quite late; when I…uh…ran into Reginald he suggested –“

  “Yes, I believe we’ve already heard that story,” the natty detective snapped.

  “What was your business with Kasavian?”

  After a moment, Lady Cynthia replied: “A transaction.”

  “What sort of transaction?”

  “A private transaction.”

  “Well, that was the nature of Kasavian’s business, wasn’t it,” the rumpled man said. “It’s a wonderment that some poor soul didn’t cosh his skull in long before this.”

  “Why are you looking at us like that?” Lady Cynthia demanded. “We only arrived a few moments before you did.”

  “So you –“

  “No, it’s quite true,” Reginald insisted. “When I examined the body, it was quite apparent he had been dead only a few minutes at most. If you would start treating us as witnesses rather than suspects for a moment, you might consider that the murder is still in still on the –“

  “What’s going on here?” demanded a uniformed constable now filling the doorway; he then saw the two detectives. “I beg your pardon, I did not see you standing there; may I be of assistance?”

  “Yes, Constable Barnes, there has been a murder,” the tall detective explained.

  “Crikey! Mr Kasavian?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, it had to happen sooner or later.” The constable mused. “These two do it?”

  “They claim not,” said the rumpled detective.

  “Did you say the murderer might still be here?” the other asked.

  “Yes, that’s what we’re trying to tell you,” Lady Cynthia answered, her impatience showing through her alarm. “We heard a sound upstairs, just before you came to the door.”

  “Why didn’t you say so sooner?” the short man demanded.

  “Barnes, you go to the back and make sure no one leaves that way,” the taller detective directed. After the constable clumbered through the house to the rear entry, he locked the door and turned to his partner. “You stay here with Lady Cynthia and make sure no one escapes this way.”

  “I should go with you.”

  “And leave these two alone to get into mischief? I think not!” He looked to the actor. “You come with me, Sinclair. And don’t go wandering off.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Reaching into his coat pocket, the detective pulled out a vintage torch and led the way up the dimly lit stairs. When they reached the first floor landing, Reginald suggested they split up and search, but that idea was met by a steely glare.

  The hallway in the upper storey was not long and had six doors leading off it, all closed. At the first, the door was opened and the light flashed about from the entry, Reginald peering in as best he could and noting all objects within. It was a bedroom, spare and unoccupied. The other four rooms which they searched were differently intentioned but all lacking denizens. At the sixth door, they paused a moment, and from within they heard a slight shuffling sound. A pale light which they could see under the door at their approach was suddenly extinguished.

  Reginald stood to one side where he was directed. The detective quietly tuned the knob, then pushed the door open, playing the light of his torch about slowly. This room was more well appointed than had been the others, apparently a study. Furniture of teak and mahogany dominated the room, two walls were lined with bookcases, and the windows were shielded with maroon curtains of thick velvet. Behind the huge desk was a large oil painting of a bucolic landscape that had been taken down and leaned against the wall, leaving a discoloured rectangle; in the midst of that area was a safe, its steel door hanging open.

  “Come out of there and don’t cause any trouble – I’m with the police.”

  At the order, a vague figure stood from a crouch behind the desk and a paperweight flew from out the darkness.. The object struck the detective’s wrist, knocking the torch away and plunging the den into a darkness little relieved by the dim light spilling from the corridor. The detective rushed in, Reginald behind him, and they both collided with the fleeing fugitive.

  Reginald heard a solid thud and then a painful groan from the detective. Ignoring the still-throbbing aches in his own body, Reginald flung himself at a shadow, wrapped his powerful arms about it, and went tumbling into the corridor like a starfish in a death-grip with a clam.

  “Let me go!” a man screamed. “He deserved to die! That bastard ruined my life! Killing him was no crime!”

  Despite the thrashing and pounding, Reginald hung on, even though his own body was screaming for him to let go. Footfalls pounded up the stairs, the beefy constable and the rumpled turtle, followed by the staccato clipping of Lady Cynthia’s heels.

  When the two detectives and the constable grabbed the murderer, Reginald let them have him and rolled away. Toward the den.

  “Settle down boyo!” the constable cautioned. “You’ve been nabbed, and that’s that.”

  The short detective fastened an ancient pair of handcuffs to the still-struggling man’s wrists. As they clicked closed, however, the man not only ceased his writhing, but slumped, as if all his bones has dissolved, and were it not for Constable Barnes he would have slumped to the floor like a dropped jellyfish.

  “I’m arresting you for the murder of Gregor Kasavian.”

  “Killing him was an act of justice!”

  “That may be, but I must warn you that you do not have to say anything unless you want to, though if you fail to mention any fact upon which you will rely on in court then…” And the detective droned on.

  “Where the deuce is Sinclair?” the tall detective
demanded.

  “Over here, sir,” Reginald said, staggering from out the den.

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “I fell in when you pulled that chap free,” Reginald explained. “Here’s your torch, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” said the detective, giving Reginald the glimmer eye.

  “Like a limpet on a hull, you was,” Constable Barnes remarked. “Where did you learn a move like that?”

  “Oh, that,” Reginald murmured self-consciously. “Just a Japanese wrestling move I picked up somewhere.”

  The two detectives glared.

  “Gentlemen, you have your culprit, so are we free to go?” Reginald asked. “We shall of course make ourselves available at your convenience for a statement.”

  “But, Reginald, I –“

  “I am sure you are sure to put this behind you,” Reginald interrupted. “We have no further business here.”

  “Yes…yes,” she stammered. “It has been such an ordeal.”

  Reluctantly, and after obtaining assurances of availability, the detectives allowed Reginald and Lady Cynthia to leave the death house. He grasped her wrist and pulled her along; she longed to flee, and yet she knew she had to stay. In the end, however, she let herself be pulled out again into the foggy night and to the waiting Princess.

  “But, Reginald –“

  “Just drive,” he urged, “before they change their minds. Those two are just cracking, so it’s only a matter of time before they figure things out.”

  “A matter of time? I don’t understand.”

  “Drive, Lady Cynthia, drive.”

  She drove, putting distance between them and the house in Soho. Her anxiety about a job left undone was tempered by Reginald’s constant glances through the rear window. There were questions she needed to ask, but she was afraid of the answers.

  “Pull over here,” he instructed, and she did.

  They were in the midst of Waterloo Bridge.

  She was surprised when he clambered out of the motor, and even more so when he reached into the rear seat and retrieved the wing mirror she had tossed in after the accident. Flustered and nervous, she shut off the motor and joined him at the railing.