The Spanish Butler
A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale
Steven Ehrman
Copyright © 2014 Steven Ehrman
All rights reserved.
ISBN:1500990159
ISBN-13:978-1500990152
DEDICATION
To Jean.
DEDICATION
Works by the Same Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
special note
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tales
The Eccentric Painter
The Iron Dog
The Mad Judge
The Spider Web
The Lambs Lane Affair
The Rising Minister
Robin Hood’s Revenge
The Spanish Butler
The Viking General
Coming Soon:
The League of Mendacious Men
The Frank Randall Mysteries
The Referral Game
The Visible Suspect
The Zombie Civilization Saga
Zombie Civilization: Genesis
Zombie Civilization: Exodus
Coming soon:
Zombie Civilization: Numbers
CHAPTER ONE
I walked up the stairs of 221B Baker Street in good spirits. I had taken a stroll that morning through Regents Park and the beauty of the place always left me in a state of exhilaration. As I approached the door to the rooms I shared with Sherlock Holmes, I became aware of the sound of raised voices. One voice was certainly our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, but the other voice was unfamiliar to me.
As I reached the landing, I saw that the door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and entered. I saw Mrs. Hudson standing in the middle of our sitting room wagging a finger at an elderly man in country tweeds.
“You will not remain in these rooms whilst the gentleman is out,” said Mrs. Hudson stoutly.
“But I tell you that he will wish to see me,” returned the man with a deep Scottish accent. “We have an appointment. Are you daft, woman?”
It was at this point that Mrs. Hudson noticed my entrance. She stayed her no doubt withering response to the man and addressed me instead.
“Dr. Watson, thank God you have returned,” she said with a grateful sigh.
“What is the trouble, Mrs. Hudson?” I asked in an amiable manner.
“This creature,” she hooked a thumb at our visitor, “insists that he had an appointment with Mr. Holmes. I had thought that he was in so I brought him up myself, but Mr. Holmes is not to be found. You know I do not like to leave unattended gentlemen in your rooms, but he will not listen.”
I attempted to cover up a smile at the lady’s obvious discomfiture.
“Well, as I have returned I will see to this matter,” said I.
“If you are not Mr. Holmes we have no business,” said our visitor. “I’ll deal with the man himself and no other.”
With a look of undisguised disgust, Mrs. Hudson left the room and I heard her familiar step going down the stairs. I motioned the man to a seat, which he reluctantly took. I sat myself and studied him.
He was tall, somewhat over six feet in height, and very thin. He had a great red beard that was graying at the edges. Thick glasses made his eyes appear quite wide. One hand held a thick, heavy cane and in the other was a letter.
“I am afraid Mr. Holmes is not available at this moment,” I said. “If you had an appointment with Holmes, it is quite unlike him to be absent.”
“But absent he is,” returned the man huffily. “Although we did not have a set appointment, as you say.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“There is a question that I needed answered and this Sherlock Holmes is said to be the very man to go to when all other avenues fail. We have corresponded and he invited me to see him when I was next in London.”
“I see,” said I. “Then Holmes did not realize that you would be coming today.”
The man shrugged his shoulders and sank into his chair in a defeated manner. Suddenly he sat back up and gave me an appraising stare.
“Half a moment. Did the lady say you were Dr. Watson?”
“I am,” I replied, “but I am afraid you have the advantage of me.”
“Aye, that I do,” he said with his thick Scottish burr. He stood and made a ceremonial bow. “I am Seoc Macnab, Doctor.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,”
“But you did not think it was going to be a pleasure when you walked in, now did you,” Macnab said with a twinkle. “Don’t deny it, Doctor. I am reckoned a hard man, but a life tilling the hard and rocky soil of my home would harden most men.”
“Then you are a farmer, sir?”
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “In my former life I was, but now I am a humble scholar writing the history of my people.”
“A history of Scotland would be a massive undertaking.”
“That it would, but my ambitions are not nearly so lofty. No, Doctor, I am writing my family history and therein lies the problem. But then you are a writer yourself.”
I acknowledged that I had put some of Holmes’s adventures on paper.
“You make this Sherlock Holmes to be almost godlike in his abilities. I suppose you must exaggerate a bit for the sake of sales,” he said with a sly grin.
“Not at all,” I said in protest. “My friend simply has a marvelous talent for detection.”
“But your writings make his solutions seem to be quite fantastical. Surely not all of it is true. You can rely upon me to keep your secret. Come now, Doctor, admit that your prose has a tendency towards the purple.”
“Now see here,” I said with my indignation rising. “Every word I write is the literal truth.”
“Bah!” said the man with a snort. “I am no callow youth, Doctor. Such tales are for the gullible. Now I believe that Holmes is a fine detective, that is why I am here after all, but you will never convince me that he is the infallible creature you describe.”
I am known as a man who is slow to anger, but the infuriating words of the old man caused my blood to boil. I stood and strode to the fireplace and leaned upon the mantel, with my back towards Macnab.
“Our discourse has come to an end, sir,” I said with dignity. “I will absorb your barbs no longer. I ask you now to leave. You may return when Sherlock Holmes is in residence, but I assure you that I will make certain that I am absent. Good day, sir.”
“Good day it is then,” said the man with a snarl. “I have had enough of the niceties of gentlemen.”
As I turned I saw him rise and walk swiftly to the door. He had a slight limp in his left leg, but it did not seem to bother him greatly. He opened the door and turned to speak.
“I am a man not to run afoul of, Doctor,” he said grimly. “Our next meeting may not be so pleasant.”
“This one has been so pleasing I can hardly wait for the next one,” said I stoutly.
The words were rash ones and I regretted uttering them almost immediately, in spite of the rudeness of my guest. Macnab did not speak further. He was quickly through the door and down the steps. I sat down, my pulse still racing from my angry outburst. I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves.
After some few minutes had passed I decided to peruse
The Times. Holmes subscribed to many of the dailies of London, but I found nothing satisfied like The Times. I was soon absorbed in a story about a new American steamship that its owners claimed could cross the Atlantic in only six days. The world seemed to be shrinking indeed.
While I was still working my way through the news, I heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Sherlock Holmes strode into the room. He gave me a nod as he entered and sat in his familiar chair. He began to light a pipe and soon noxious clouds were filling the room. Though a smoker myself, I had often chided my friend over his particularly pungent brand of tobacco.
“You have missed a caller, Holmes,” said I.
“Is that so?” asked Holmes absentmindedly. “Nothing of importance, I hope.”
“You would have to be the judge of that. Your caller gave his name as Seoc Macnab. He said that he had corresponded with you previously.”
“Ah, yes,” said Holmes. “Some matter of a long-buried family secret, as I recall. I trust that you stood in ably for me in my absence.”
“Well…I err…I did my best, Holmes,” I stammered. “The man was most difficult.”
“Even so, I am sure that you employed your well-known charm. Is he to return yet this day?”
“I am not certain. No definite date of return was made.”
Holmes merely nodded and continued to smoke in a distracted manner. I debated whether to give him all of the details of my encounter with Macnab. I finally decided to make a clean breast of it.
Holmes listened closely as I related all that had occurred. When I finished, he smiled a bit and sat his pipe down next to him.
“He does sound as if he is a most disagreeable personage, Doctor.”
“He is that, Holmes,” I replied. “Still I feel that I handled the situation badly.”
Holmes waved away my concerns, but I still felt as if I had allowed my temper to get the better of me. I might have discussed the matter further with my friend, but our page-boy entered at that moment with a note for Holmes. The boy withdrew and Holmes scanned the note several times. He finally laid the paper on his side-table and spoke.
“Watson, it appears that Inspector Hopkins is out of his depths on a murder and asks that we attend. He adds nothing beyond that, still it sounds as if it has interest.”
The gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. Holmes loathed inaction and the beginning of a new case always gave his impressive mind new fertile fields to plough.
“We must go at once,” said he before stopping abruptly. “That is unless other business prevents you from accompanying me.”
“Nothing that would prevent me from coming with you, Holmes. Do we have a long trip ahead of us?”
“Indeed not, Doctor. The murder scene is a home on Park Lane. We are only minutes away by cab.”
It took Holmes and myself only a short time before we found ourselves in a four-wheeler in the direction of Park Lane.
“What do you imagine awaits us, Holmes?” I asked as our cab rattled down the streets of London.
“That is impossible to say until we arrive, Doctor. But I will say that Hopkins can normally be relied upon to present me with a case that is outside the mainstream. Only once in the last eleven cases for which he has asked my aid has he disappointed me. We shall find out soon enough if he maintains his record for reliability.”
Our cab soon turned onto Park Lane and stopped at the address given. As we stepped to the ground, I saw that the home was a stately and grand one. It had a lovely view of Hyde Park. I perceived several policemen in attendance in front of the house.
“I see that the crime is a very recent one,” said Holmes.
“How can you be certain? Hopkins gave no information to you other than it was a murder case.”
“The lack of gawkers and idlers in front of the home informs us that the news of the murder has not yet spread,” said Holmes.
“That certainly is a logical conclusion, but perhaps Hopkins has simply been able to suppress the news.”
Holmes gave me a withering look of pity.
“Really, Doctor,” he said. “A house of this size most certainly has a staff. There are also certainly deliveries being made throughout the day. No, my friend, this crime has taken place within the last hour, two at the most. In any event, all doubts will soon be erased. Let us proceed. I am certain the Inspector awaits our arrival with impatience.”
CHAPTER TWO
A police sergeant stood guard at the door, but we were expected and we were admitted without difficulty. As we entered, I saw Inspector Hopkins descending the stairs from the second floor.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” he said as he reached the landing, “I am so glad you were able to answer my call.”
“Not at all,” replied Holmes. “The good Doctor and I are happy to assist when possible. The Yard knows that, Inspector.”
“In any event, I am grateful that you are both here. There has been a horrid crime committed in this house, Mr. Holmes.”
“Pray let us have the details then with no delay,” said Holmes.
“A double murder was committed here late last night or early this morning.”
“The victims?” asked Holmes
The Inspector pulled a battered notebook from his pocket.
“The victims were a husband and wife,” he began. “They have been identified by the staff as Mr. Arthur Bloomfield and Mrs. Berta Bloomfield. The couple only arrived two days ago from America.”
“Who discovered the bodies?” asked Holmes sharply.
“The maid. Her name is Jane Burton. She brought up breakfast this morning and found the couple obviously murdered. Her screams brought the cook. I have spoken with them both and their testimony is very straightforward.”
“Are there any indications of motive as of yet?”
“There seems little doubt that it was robbery, or more correctly, burglary. The lady was known to wear a large and very valuable diamond ring. The ring is missing.”
“Very well, Hopkins,” said Holmes. “Shall we examine the murder scene?”
“Of course, sir. If you will follow me.”
The Inspector led us up the staircase and down a long hall. We came to a stop at the last door on the left. A sergeant stood guard and stepped aside as we approached. The Inspector led the way inside.
The room was a large bedroom with two spacious beds against the north wall, side-by-side with a small nightstand between them. A lady dressed in a nightgown lay atop the blankets of her bed. She had obviously been strangled. A ligature was tied around her throat and her face had turned a ghastly purple that made her appear unworldly.
Beside her, lying on the floor, was a large man with a great black beard. He was on his back with one of his arms splayed out wide. He was also in nightclothes. The man had been stabbed viciously in the chest several times and a great amount of blood had pooled next to the body.
Looking about, I saw that two dressers, three steamer trunks, and a wardrobe in the room had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn hither and thither. The drawers to the dressers were pulled out and the trunks were overturned. The culprit of the crime had obviously been looking desperately for something. Whether or not he had found it was the question. I looked to Holmes and saw him on his knees by the body of the man.
As he was studying the man, I turned my attention back to the female. This was obviously Berta Bloomfield and the man at her side on the floor was her husband Arthur Bloomfield. The lady had a mass of flaming red hair cascading about her shoulders. Even with the purpled face it was easy to see that she was freckled as well, as redheads often are. Despite her present state, I wondered if she had been thought a pretty woman in life.
“She might have been a very handsome woman in life, Watson, although it is hard to tell now,” he said, very nearly reading my mind. “Obviously a lady as well.”
I agreed and saw her finely manicured and painted nails that went perfectly with her lovely hair. Holmes picked up a pair of white lady’s gloves o
n the nightstand next to a pair of thick men’s glasses. He replaced them and resumed a careful examination of both bodies. With his glass he took note of the torsos and the extremities of both husband and wife. I noted the man was a physically imposing fellow, large of frame and vital looking. Holmes finally finished his examination and turned to Hopkins.
“Well, Inspector, has anything else been discovered missing, besides the diamond ring you mentioned?”
“Nothing as yet, sir, but it is still early in the investigation.”
“Watson, as a doctor, how much time would you estimate has passed since the crime was committed?”
I lifted the hand of the lady and attempted to bend a finger.
“Rigor has definitely set in, Holmes. It has been at least six hours and perhaps as many as twelve.”
“Any doubt in your mind on cause of death for each victim?”
“None at all,” I replied in some astonishment. “Do you doubt that the gentlemen was stabbed to death and that the lady was strangled?”
“No, but it is always wise to assume nothing. Hopkins,” he said turning to the Inspector, “have your men finished with the room?”
“Yes, sir. We have found nothing to aid us in the discovery of the culprit. That is one of the reasons that I sent for you, Mr. Holmes.”
“And quite rightly so,” said Holmes. “You say the maid discovered the bodies? Let us interview her.”
We departed and settled ourselves in the study of the home. Hopkins sent for the maid.
“How many are on staff here, Hopkins?” asked Holmes before the maid arrived.
“There are two serving girls, the maid, a cook, and a butler. The butler left to inform Mr. Bloomfield’s secretary of the murder shortly after the bodies were discovered, before we arrived. He has not returned, but I expect him and the secretary soon.”
Holmes seemed deeply unsatisfied with that answer, but said nothing. He merely paced back and forth across the room as Hopkins and I sat. Within minutes a young woman in her early twenties arrived. She looked apprehensively towards the Inspector. She seemed nervous and yet excited at the same time.
The Spanish Butler (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 8) Page 1
