Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare

by J. R. Rain

  I followed as quickly as I could, being forced to make an ungraceful plunge to be able to catch the same cab as he did.

  “My dear fellow,” Holmes was telling the driver, “I’ll double your rate if you can get me to Penstone Heath with the utmost haste and minimal delay.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” the driver said in a heavy Cockney accent.

  The carriage leapt forward as the driver put the reins into his horses. The ringing of iron-shod hooves against the cobblestones echoed so loudly that I was barely audible over the sound.

  “Holmes!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. “You’d better have a good reason for trying to get me killed tonight! My wife will never forgive you if you do!”

  “Watson, my good man, we are going to Penstone to prevent another murder,” Holmes said me.

  “How in the world did you come to that conclusion? What did the telegram say?” I yelled back.

  “Think, Watson!” Holmes shouted back at me. “Roger Galham’s original will must have contained all the damning evidence in existence which would ruin any claim Reginald has on the family seat. Roger did this because somehow he’d managed to unravel the fact that he was the illegitimate son of the Earl Galham and Miss Harcourt’s mother, the Countess Avon, and that Reginald is the son of Lady Edith, the dowager countess and the Reverend Jones! That was Roger’s reasoning behind cutting Reginald out of the line of succession to the Galham title. Roger may have been a bastard as well but at least, he was his father’s son; Reginald could make no such claim. That’s why, considering the new light being shed on the whole affair, if the document is proven a forgery, then all of it will be going to the Harcourts because, as we already know, they are Roger’s true family line by virtue of his mother. We have to get to Penstone before Reginald does something far worse than he already has.”

  I sat dumbfounded in my seat, across from what had to be the smartest sleuth in the Empire. The man’s mind certainly worked in mysterious ways, and I could only wonder how he was able to unravel such tangled webs of deceit with what seemed to be remarkable ease.

  The carriage screeched to an abrupt halt outside Harcourt Hall. The horse’s hooves struck sparks as the driver sawed hard at the reins. The carriage rocked violently. Before it had time to settle, Holmes was out the door, shoving coins into the driver’s hand. I jumped out of the carriage after him. I heard him shout, over his shoulder, to the driver, “Keep the change and thank you for the ride!”

  ***

  The gate was closed for the night but after gaining access through a pedestrian entrance along the wall, Holmes and I ran straight up to the house. He stopped for a moment to look at the door, then pointed as he said to me in a soft voice, “Watson, what do you think of this?”

  The door had been left slightly ajar. Very peculiar and very mysterious. “Holmes, you are ten steps ahead of me tonight. I can’t even begin to fathom what you make of it, so lead the way.”

  “What I make of this,” he continued, “is that it would seem that there is someone in there that should not be. If that person had been invited in, they would have closed the door. So clearly, they didn’t want to be heard as they entered. That means either that person is waiting for their moment, or they already took it. However, if the crime had already happened, they would have closed the door behind them as they left, to hide anything amiss. So, we’re here in time,” Holmes said. “Perhaps exactly on time.”

  “Well then Holmes, we should probably go ruin their night,” I replied in a soft voice.

  “Indeed. That is precisely what we shall do,” Holmes said, and there was a wild sparkle in his eye.

  I moved to open the door but Holmes grabbed my wrist to stop me from pushing on it. Holmes gestured to the hinges, and then examined them closely for a moment, then lightly ran his fingers over them. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he seemed satisfied. He released my hand and gave me a curt nod. I pushed the door open wide enough for the two of us to pass through, and we found ourselves in the foyer. We quickly looked around but realized that there was nothing to be found on this floor. Holmes gestured to the grand stairwell.

  He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “Stay to the left edge of the stairs. These older houses have a tendency to creak. I’ll stay to the right. We won’t be on the runner, though, so make sure to step as lightly as you can.”

  I nodded my acquiescence before proceeding to the staircase. I paused and Holmes looked at me expectantly; waiting for me to take the first step. Holmes watched me and matched my step exactly. I realized he was going to step with me. That way even if we made noise, as unlikely as that was, we would only sound like one person. We took the stairs slowly and it took us almost no time at all to make our way to the top of the staircase; sometimes you have to go slow to go fast.

  Holmes and I crouched, almost instinctively, for no real reason. Holmes grinned roguishly at me. We could hear voices drifting down the hall. One was deeper, and one was higher in pitch. We both came to the same conclusion, a man and a woman, before proceeding, again, in lockstep down the hall.

  We got closer, and could begin to make out words; snippets of conversation. It was not a conversation that Holmes would be comfortable hearing. It was clearly a declaration of love. It made me nostalgic for my wife. It sounded very similar to the night I declared my love for her and asked for her hand in marriage. I looked over and saw the bachelor’s grimace on Holmes’s narrow face.

  As we got closer to the room, I was suddenly forced to stop as quickly as I could. Holmes took immediate note and he stopped as well, one foot hovering inches above the ground. He looked at me inquisitively and I mimed laying down, and pointed ahead of us. Several feet ahead, against the darkened hallway, there was a human shape lying down with their arms extended out ahead of them. Based on their position, and from my time in the military, I had an instinctive notion that this someone was preparing to take a shot at the occupants of the bedroom through an opening in the cracked door.

  It only took Holmes a moment to come to the same conclusion. He was in motion faster than I would have thought possible. Normally, Holmes avoids fights unless they are essential to his plan, the way sensible men avoid the plague. But in this case, neither of us had much time to lose. Stealth was no longer an option as Holmes charged toward the gunman. Hearing us, he turned and saw Holmes. In the backlighting, I could clearly see it was Reginald. The raw, unadulterated anger in his eyes told me he wasn’t going down without a fight. I wanted to shout out a warning to Holmes but I didn’t risk it in fear of breaking my friend’s concentration.

  Reginald rolled to his right to avoid the toe of Holmes’s boot, and, in the process, let loose with an ear-splitting gunshot. The bullet shattered the trim right behind where Holmes had just been. Reginald, to his athletic credit, rolled straight away to his feet, only to be met by the back of Holmes’s right hand. Remarkably, Reginald pivoted and struck Holmes on the side of the head with a hard elbow blow. My friend’s knees buckled, giving me the clearance to lash out with my cane. I cracked it down on Reginald’s arm as he leveled the gun at Holmes’s chest. He cried out in unexpected pain and I swung again, this time for his knee. Reginald slipped around the cane, thus throwing me dangerously off balance. He delivered a savage kick to my previously crippled leg, and I collapsed with a grunt of real pain.

  Recovering himself, Holmes delivered what should have been a crippling blow to the man’s jaw. Apparently, Reginald had received training in boxing, because he turned his head and allowed Holmes’s punch to merely slide across his chin. Holmes, who was no amateur himself, expected Reginald to try following up with an uppercut. He wasn’t disappointed. Holmes moved his head back and caught Reginald’s arm as it came up past his head. Holmes wrenched the arm around and pulled it behind Reginald’s back. The man tried to pivot with Holmes but my friend’s footwork was impeccable. Anticipating the move, Holmes shoved him up against the wall, pinning him there nicely.

  “Watson? A hand,”
he said cavalierly.

  “What, exactly, would you like me to do?” I asked. “You seem to have the situation quite under control.”

  “Your wit, as ever, Watson, is very droll. Would you be so kind as to take Reginald’s other hand—” which at the time was flailing around, trying to strike Holmes “—in order to help me restrain him?”

  I responded promptly, grabbing his wrist. At this point, we realized that the couple inside the room had become aware that something was amiss, ruining their moment. Forcing Reginald into the room, Holmes was able to reveal to them the cause of the fracas and what the perpetrator’s intent had been for them.

  “What, precisely, is going on here?” Gerald Fitzwilliam asked Reginald. The Marquis of Tach Saggart’s face was flushed bright red in outrage as he waited for Reginald to explain himself.

  “Ha! You should know. You of all people, you upstart bastard,” Reginald spat back. Fitzwilliam grew even more red, if that was even possible.

  “Don’t you use that word in reference to me. Don’t you dare use that type of language in front of your betters and especially in the presence of a lady! You insolent, rotten, piece of...” Fitzwilliam glanced at Lady Jessica Flora of Harcourt and Avon, and then thought better of finishing his barrage of name calling.

  “Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, “perhaps we should call the constable.”

  “I wholeheartedly share that sentiment, old boy,” said I.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Elementary!

  When the police had finally left, Holmes and I refreshed ourselves at Lady Harcourt’s request and sat by the fire in the parlor, sipping brandy while we waited for the Harcourt carriage to arrive to take us back to London.

  “Holmes,” I protested, “I’m still not quite sure how you figured it all out even without the crucial information I had about the murders.”

  “I must say that once I had managed to make a solid connection between Reginald Galham and Gerald Fitzwilliam, it was rather easy business, Watson.”

  “How so?” I pressed. I had to admit that the tiny piece of evidence changed nothing in my perception of the case. I was intrigued with whatever difference that information had made in Holmes’s mind.

  “Well, it was clear from early on that Fitzwilliam wasn’t our man and Lady Harcourt would have had nothing to gain from the manuscript’s disappearance unless she had intended to sell it for profit.”

  “Highly unlikely, considering her vast wealth and impeccable pedigree.”

  “Precisely!” Holmes exclaimed. He paused dramatically in front of the fire, lifted a long wispy firebrand and used it to catch a flame from the fire to light his pipe. He puffed twice and swished the stick to put out the flames, returning it neatly to its place beside the fire poker. “In the tiny web of characters that made up our mystery, there was only one left at which I could point my suspicions.”

  “Really, Holmes,” I said, exasperated. “I do sometimes think that you make these deductions of yours up after the fact. Could the manuscript not have been stolen at random?”

  “Not at all, Watson. You yourself surmised that the robbery didn’t seem random and we agreed that the perpetrators must have been watching the goings on at Baker Street for quite a while to ascertain an easy access point.”

  “True, indeed. So how did you confirm that it was Reginald who had been behind the entire thing?”

  “Well, it’s as you always said, Watson. ‘The proper study of mankind is man.’ How many times have I heard you make this observation?” He paused again, but that was to attend to his pipe; he did not in the least way expect me to answer the question. “It was that very statement that led me into the next phase of the investigation. You see, faced with the truth about his legitimacy, Reginald was rather inclined to secure his claim to the seat of Galham. Indeed, Roger and his children were now dead, leaving him as the sole heir but if at any time the legitimacy of his claim could be challenged... then he would be stripped of title and land and perhaps even incarcerated.”

  “Definitely incarcerated, if it were ever determined that he’d had a hand in the murder of the entire Galham family!” I exclaimed.

  “Indeed, Watson, indeed. So, Reginald had to secure his claim and he did so by getting rid of the only other two people he could think of who would be able to prove he was not the son of the old earl.”

  I thought about that. “His own true parents; the Dowager Countess and Reverend Jones!” I gasped. They were the only two people still alive who knew the truth and though they stood to benefit from Reginald ruling over Galham and its vast income, if put under the gun by the authorities, they would give him up as quick as a shot.

  “They were murdered last night. Kendricks sent me the telegram. It was delayed on the afternoon train and was delivered after you arrived at Baker Street tonight.”

  “But how did you know Reginald would be here?”

  “Now that was sheer luck, my friend, but I did assume that if he’d murdered his true parents to keep his secret, the likelihood that he would be in quite a rush to execute the last move in his plan was rather elementary thinking and, as it turned out, I was right. After all, by taking out Gerald Fitzwilliam and Lady Jessica, all proof against him would have been eradicated.”

  “Amazing!” I proclaimed. “You truly are, but I’m sure you already know that.”

  “Perhaps, but there is still one small piece of the puzzle that I have yet to figure out.”

  “What is that, dear friend?”

  “Oh, my dear Watson, it is not the question of ‘what’ but rather, now it is a question of ‘how.’”

  “Will you be able to come to a conclusion on it?”

  “Considering your findings in the pathological reports of our murder victims, I am inclined to think now I will be.”

  Chapter Twelve:

  The Truth Will Set You Free

  Reginald could not believe what he had just heard.

  Now, he was raging inside. He felt betrayed and lost at the thought that everything he had ever known was a lie. Upon further reflection, he realized that that was exactly what his life had been. One long string of sad lies.

  “The question, ‘brother,’” he said tersely, anger making his voice sound like barrels of rocks rolling down the side of a hill, “is what you’re going to do about this.”

  “Neither of us would ever be able to hold our heads up in polite society again if any of this change gets out,” Roger stated, hating that he was being faced with the types of decisions he was having to make. “It seems that the practical thing to do is to proceed as normal. No one’s been hurt thus far but, as steward of this estate, I’m sure you know that it is my moral duty to protect its longevity and to ensure that it remains in the rightful hands.” Roger looked meaningfully at Reginald.

  While Roger had the hot blinding anger of a Celtic warrior; Reginald had the cold, determined, calculating anger of deep winter. For him, it was a process. Steps that could be taken in order to achieve an end. Currently, all of that cold calculation was turned toward self-preservation. Reginald enjoyed a certain life, and he would be loath to give it up. The truth of their parentage would also prove to be an immovable barrier for the marriage he yearned for with Lady Harcourt.

  “Roger, what the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re willing to continue to support me but until when? What are my stakes in this estate now? You’re no more legitimate than I am, as you well know,” Reginald spluttered, his anger debilitating even his basic ability to speak.

  “Brother, that’s where you’re wrong,” Roger suddenly said forcefully. He needed Reginald to understand his position clearly and not feel any need to stir the pot further. “I can claim the paternal line of Galham, that the earl was my father. However, he was not yours.”

  The conversation had gone on for a while longer with each man arguing back and forth, but Roger was stalwart in his decision. The estate would continue to support Reginald in the same fashion it always had and for the res
t of his life, but under no circumstances would Reginald remain in the line of succession to the title of Galham.

  Going in, Roger had foreseen an argument with Reginald, but what Roger hadn’t predicted was his vengeance.

  ***

  “Listen to me, Reg,” Paul said quietly, the frost in his tone managed to quench enough of the fire raging in Reginald’s eyes. “We can fix this... in a way. If the will never gets changed, if the truth never gets out, then it’s not really true, and we get to maintain what we have here, right?”

  “I... I suppose,” Reginald said. Paul Kijumbe could see that he had his work cut out for him. At the beginning, he hadn’t been too sure about taking a position of valet to a second son. The prestige was certainly not comparable to that of an earl’s valet. But his years in service to Lord Sutton, a merchant aristocrat, was below his station. Any member of the peerage, even a second son, was a huge leap upward in Paul’s estimation and he’d taken the job. From the first day, he’d had to clean up after Reginald. Showing women out of the house through the servant’s exits and even paying off a maid he’d accidentally gotten pregnant. All those things had ensured that Reginald became more and more indebted to Paul... and Paul enjoyed being in that enviable position most of all. Even now, Reginald had come to him for a solution to the latest debacle; as it turned out, he was a servant in a house overrun by bastards.

  “So, if we don’t want the truth to get out, or your situation to be altered at all, all we have to do is take care of Roger, right?” Kijumbe asked.

  The truth of it was no action was necessary. Roger had agreed to keep things exactly as they were; Reginald would continue to receive a salary from the estate’s earnings for his lifetime, but he wouldn’t inherit. That hadn’t stopped Reginald’s pride from being hurt, after all; the whole point was having a shot at being Earl Galham.