The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  MRS. WIGGS:He smelled of oil. He was spattered with it.

  HOLMES:I see. And did you notice anything else?

  MRS. WIGGS:Well... he had some little metal bars stickin’ out of his pocket.

  HOLMES:Metal bars... could they have been files?

  MRS. WIGGS:Files?

  HOLMES:A file is a tool with teeth cut into it for use in shaping material.

  MRS. WIGGS:Well. You learn somfin every day.

  HOLMES:Thank you, Mrs. Wiggs. We’ll trouble you no more.

  MRS. WIGGS:When are they going to let Albert go?

  HOLMES:If he is innocent, we’ll work to get him free immediately. But if he killed Mr. Alderbright--

  MRS. WIGGS:He didn’t do it! He couldn’t have!

  HOLMES:And why is that?

  MRS. WIGGS:He was sick in bed, that’s why! He never budged from this house all day and all night on Monday!

  HOLMES:Now you know that isn’t true, Mrs. Wiggs. On Monday, he came to my rooms in Baker Street to ask for my assistance.

  MRS. WIGGS:Oh, well, I wouldn’t know; I was at work scrubbin’ floors. I work my fingers raw cleanin’ other people’s houses and shops, trying to put something by for my old age. But then along comes Albert. He’s come to be like one of the family to me. He’s very special to me.

  HOLMES:The son you never had, perhaps?

  SOUND EFFECT:FADE IN LIGHT OFFICE (BACKGROUND)

  HOLMES:You seem to be ready to prefer charges, Inspector.

  GREGSON:Any reason why I shouldn’t?

  HOLMES:I believe there are three others who could throw more light on the case and provide enough information to make an arrest. Perhaps if they could all be brought here to confront each other--

  GREGSON:There’ll be no need for that, Mr. Holmes. I have the right man under lock and key. Albert Wixom had the motive, he had the opportunity, and he had his choice of weapons right there in the pawnshop, so I won’t need to convene any meetings! All that remains is to get his confession, and I won’t need any help to do that.

  HOLMES:It seems to me there are at least three more people we need to question more thoroughly before you extract any confessions, Inspector: The locksmith Fox, Mr. Pennell, and Mrs. Wiggs. How soon can you assemble these individuals?

  GREGSON:A waste of time, Mr. Holmes.

  HOLMES:Then why not prove me wrong, Inspector? Get them all together and have them hear each other’s alibis. I’m confident that, with your training and experience, you will once again fit the evidence to the crime!

  MUSIC:STING

  SOUND EFFECT:STEPS TO DOOR. DOOR OPENS. STEPS IN. CLOSES

  (AD LIB CONVERSATION CEASES AS DOOR OPENS)

  GREGSON:(TO THE GROUP) All right. This inquiry is under my official direction, but I’ll expect each of you to cooperate with Mr. Holmes in this interrogation. Who do you want first, Mr. Holmes?

  HOLMES:Mr. Pennell, after your partner discovered the thirty pounds was missing, did you participate in the search for it?

  PENNELL:Alderbright didn’t need my help; he was very thorough. Now, gentlemen, I had to close the shop to come here, and I’m losing money every minute I’m gone, so may I be excused now?

  HOLMES:Not quite yet. I may have some further questions for you.

  PENNELL:(SIGH) Very well.

  HOLMES:Now, Mr. Fox.

  FOX:I don’t see how I can help you gents. I just make keys and fix locks.

  HOLMES:Were you at the pawnshop on Monday?

  FOX:Yes I was. Mr. Alderbright ordered the locks changed. He said the man he sacked had a key to the place.

  WIXOM:That’s not true! They never gave me a key!

  HOLMES:Mr. Pennell, this has become a recurring issue. Did Wixom have a key?

  PENNELL:I thought he did. I thought Alderbright would have given him a key.

  HOLMES:I see. Now Mr. Fox, did you pay a visit to Mr. Wixom on Tuesday?

  MRS. WIGGS:Yes he did! I told him he wasn’t home, but he wanted to come in anyway and I wouldn’t let him!

  GREGSON:Speak when you’re spoken to, Mrs. Wiggs!

  HOLMES:Mr. Fox, why did you want to see Mr. Wixom?

  FOX:Just business, that’s all.

  HOLMES:What sort of business?

  WATSON:Perhaps you wanted to sell him a copy of the new key you made.

  FOX:You can’t prove that!

  HOLMES:One other thing: How did you know where Wixom lives? (SILENCE) Had you done business with him before?

  FOX:No. I never saw him before in my life!

  MRS. WIGGS:That’s a lie!

  FOX:That’s the truth!

  WATSON:Just a minute, Mr. Fox. How did you know where he lived?

  FOX:I know how to track down customers. How else am I supposed to stay in business?

  HOLMES:Then you thought of Wixom as a customer?

  PENNELL:Now, wait a minute! We paid you to change our locks and make us new keys, and then you tried to sell copies to the thief who stole from us in the first place?

  GREGSON:What about that, Mr. Fox?

  FOX:Lies, total lies! I didn’t go to see Wixom.

  HOLMES:Then you went to see Mrs. Wiggs.

  FOX:What’s wrong with that? I knew she cleans the pawnshop every week and would need a new key to get in.

  WATSON:You clean the pawnshop, Mrs. Wiggs?

  MRS. WIGGS:’Course I do. How do you think Alderbright and Pennell come to hire Albert in the first place? I knew they was lookin’ for a clerk, so I told Albert, and he applied for the job, and he got it! If it hadn’t been for me, they might still be lookin’, and who knows what would’ve happened to poor Albert!

  HOLMES:And at what hour did you clean the pawnshop this last time?

  MRS. WIGGS:The usual time. Sometime after they closed on Monday night.

  GREGSON:So you were in the shop the night Alderbright was murdered.

  MRS. WIGGS:Well, he wasn’t there when I was there!

  GREGSON:Was Wixom with you?

  MRS. WIGGS:At the pawn shop? No!

  GREGSON:I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I can’t let this go on any longer! It’s clear to me what happened: Wixom and Mrs. Wiggs were both in the shop when Mr. Alderbright appeared. There was a struggle, Wixom took the dagger and stabbed him, and as he lay dying, they both helped themselves to all the available cash. Then they locked the place and left.

  MRS. WIGGS:(BREAKS INTO TEARS) No, that’s a lie! You’re makin’ it up! (CONTINUES CRYING, LOUDLY)

  WIXOM:Why are you doing this to the poor woman? She didn’t have anything to do with it!

  GREGSON:Oh? Then are you ready to confess, Wixom?

  WIXOM:No, I didn’t do anything either! Mr. Holmes. Help me! Please!

  HOLMES:That has become difficult, for now I know you were not sick and your coughing was a sham... a very convincing one, for it deceived both Dr. Watson and myself.

  WATSON:Wait a minute, Holmes! Why on earth would he pretend to be sick?

  HOLMES:Unless I am very much mistaken, he intended to use his constant coughing as proof he wasn’t well enough to leave his room the night of the murder. It was a novel plan, but he forgot one important detail. And--here it is!

  WATSON:Wh--Let me see that!

  HOLMES:Do you recognize it, Doctor?

  WATSON:This is the bottle of tincture of benzoin that I gave him to take for his cough... and it’s still full! It hasn’t even been opened!

  HOLMES:I found it in his wastebasket yesterday.

  MUSIC:BRIDGE

  SOUND EFFECT:IN HOLMES AND WATSON’S ROOMS

  WATSON:Well! This is one investigation I won’t bother to write up!

  HOLMES:Is that
so?

  WATSON:It’s the only one I know about where Gregson turned out to be right all along.

  HOLMES:Meaning that if his conclusion was right, mine was wrong? I’m afraid not, Watson. Publish or not as you wish, but let us not forget that at no time did I declare Wixom to be innocent. My concern was to learn if he had an accomplice, which he did.

  WATSON:Of course. Mrs. Wiggs.

  HOLMES:I had barely met her when she lied about where he was on the Monday when he came asking for my help. She furnished a false alibi, which is a crime in itself.

  WATSON:But if his pretended coughing fooled me, it certainly fooled Mrs. Wiggs. I prefer to think she was convinced he had a genuine illness.

  HOLMES:No doubt. And now, I should like to close any association with this case, with only one regret.

  WATSON:And that is?

  HOLMES:I should have stayed in Manchester a few more days.

  MUSIC:DANSE MACABRE (THEME UP AND UNDER)

  WATSON:This is Dr. John H. Watson. I’ve had many more adventures with Sherlock Holmes, and I’ll tell you another one... when next we meet!

  MUSIC:(FADE OUT)

  The Adventure of Canal Reach

  by Arthur Hall

  In describing the extraordinary experiences that it has been my good fortune to share with my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I fear that I have been guilty of neglecting to mention that his brother, Mycroft, occasionally passed on to us cases that subsequently proved to be of great interest. In fact, I grew to consider a communication from him to be an almost certain prelude to some new and unexpected adventure.

  When Holmes was beset with the lassitude that, if it were not interrupted, inclined him towards the cocaine bottle, such a brotherly intervention was particularly welcome to us both. At such times I found it impossible to rouse him from the onset of a deepening depression of the spirit, but the prospect of a new problem or a new client invariably acted as an instant restorative.

  I recall one bright autumn morning when we were faced with such circumstances. Holmes was at the beginning of the perilous slope that led to his darkest moods, and as I finished my breakfast I searched my mind for a distraction. I saw that his meal was untouched.

  “Holmes, these kippers are delicious.”

  He gave me a disinterested glance. “Are they, Watson? You can have mine if you are still hungry. As for me, I have no appetite.”

  “But you must eat something.”

  His eyes flashed with impatience and I readied myself for a bombardment of disparaging remarks when our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, entered to place a telegram before him. Knowing the signs she quickly withdrew, and silence descended upon us.

  “Will you not open it, Holmes?” I prompted after a few moments.

  He raised his head to look at me gloomily. “Doubtlessly you are hoping that this is some new affair to arrest my attention,” said he. “There is nothing on the envelope to suggest that, so it may equally be a reminder of an unpaid bill.”

  “It would not be difficult to decide the matter,” I remarked as I pushed my plate away.

  With a shrug, he slit open the envelope with his unused knife. “Mycroft wishes me to see one of his employees.”

  He pushed the form across to me and I read:

  My clerk, Marius Jackman, may prove of interest to you. I trust it will be convenient if he calls at ten o’clock.

  Mycroft

  “This could be something new.” I was glad to see a slight change in his expression. “You must not despair, old fellow.”

  “Perhaps the man has lost his pen, or his cat.”

  “I recall that some of the cases that you have described as most satisfying have developed from small incidents.”

  Holmes nodded his head “That is true, I suppose. But wait. My pocket-watch tells me that the time is ten minutes to ten o’clock now. Be so good as to ring for Mrs. Hudson, so that the breakfast things can be cleared away by the time our visitor arrives.”

  This was quickly accomplished. At ten precisely, the door-bell rang and Mr. Marius Jackman was shown into our room. He was a tall young man of about twenty-five, clad in the sombre attire that clerks in government service invariably wear. He sat down with us, as we took the armchairs around the unlit fire.

  “And now, sir,” my friend began, “pray tell us how we can assist you.”

  I noticed that Mr. Jackman had no difficulty in distinguishing between Holmes and myself, as with new clients in the past, and concluded that Mycroft must have described his brother accurately. I saw also that, although our visitor had laid down his hat and stick, he had neglected to remove his gloves.

  “My superior, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, has sent me to you, sir.”

  “My brother has notified me in advance. I assume you have a story to tell.”

  The young man shifted in his chair. “Indeed I do. But I see that you are scrutinizing me closely, Mr. Holmes. Have we, perhaps, met before?”

  “I think not,” my friend replied. “It is both my habit and a necessity of my profession to observe and draw conclusions from my clients. On occasion, the results can be helpful.”

  “May I ask what you have deduced from my appearance?”

  “Certainly, but I fear that there is little to tell. I know already that you are a clerk in my brother’s department at the Foreign Office, and I perceive that you write with your left hand, although you may not always have done so.

  Mr. Jackman became very still. And eyes Holmes warily. “I am at a loss to understand your reasoning, sir.”

  His puzzled expression did not surprise me, for I had seen it on the faces of many before now. Sometimes I had been able to define the path of Holmes’s thoughts, but this was not one of them.

  “There is nothing mysterious about it,” Holmes replied with a quick smile. “When I see that you remove your hat and hold your stick with your right hand, I naturally conclude that this is the hand you use most. However, when I observe that you do not remove your gloves, I ask myself for an explanation. As the index finger of your right hand glove is empty, it is apparent that you have somehow lost the finger. You could no longer wield a pen with such a damaged hand, yet you earn your living as a clerk. Therefore, you must now use your left hand for writing, at least.”

  “That is quite amazing,” said our visitor. “Yet it is simple enough when you explain it.”

  “That observation has been made more times than I can count.”

  “My lost finger is the result of childhood foolishness. I picked up my father’s shotgun when his back was turned. Until recently, I had a glove with a false finger fitted to it, but it seems to have been mislaid. My injury is rather upsetting in company.”

  “As much harm is done by accident as by deliberate intent,” Holmes remarked. “A most regrettable misfortune, especially for a boy. But now sir, pray relate to us the story you mentioned.”

  “Since my experience, I have pondered over it constantly,” Mr. Jackman began. “It seems to be harmless, and nothing but a silly practical joke. My preoccupation must have been noticeable, because on resuming my work, it was not long before Mr. Mycroft Holmes asked me the cause of it. I was surprised that he took the matter seriously, and immediately referred me to your good self.”

  “I cannot help you until you make me conversant with the facts,” Holmes reminded him.

  “Of course. A week ago, I took a few days holiday in Bath. I am an amateur historian in my spare time, and I wanted to look over the Roman remains there. I took a room at a small hotel and had been there a day when one of the other guests, a man who introduced himself as Mr. Peter Smith, struck up a conversation with me. We soon discovered that we had much in common and spent many hours together, touring the ruins and taking meals together. At his insistence, we shared a table for our meals in the hotel. Mr. Smith
was extremely friendly and companionable, but I found it strange that he would allow me to pay for nothing. Our visits to coffee-shops, a theatre on one occasion, and even my hotel bill were paid for by him, to my utter astonishment. When I offered to pay my way he would have none of it, waving away my attempts.”

  “And what did this most generous fellow eventually ask in return?” Holmes asked with a knowing look.

  Our visitor raised his hands in a confounded gesture. “Absolutely nothing. That is why this incident was so puzzling! In fact, what happened was the very opposite to what I had come to expect. When I made a final attempt to reimburse Mr. Smith for some of the expense, he merely laughed. ‘I’ll tell you what, Marius my friend,’ he said just before we went our separate ways. ‘You come to visit me this weekend. I’ll show you some more historical places and you can buy me a meal if you’ve a mind to, although that doesn’t matter. It’s just your company I desire. Like you, I am unmarried, and loneliness sometimes overcomes me.’”

  He paused, as if reflecting again on the situation.

  “Did you agree?” I prompted.

  “I did indeed,” he replied. “for I felt obliged to. On Saturday morning, I caught the early train to West Byfleet and hired a trap at the station. Mr. Smith had told me that his residence is situated close to that section of the River Wey, which is a canal connecting West Byfleet to Basingstoke, and after asking directions several times, I was able to find the area. I left the trap and walked along the narrow towpath, and began to wonder if I had arrived at the wrong place. I found myself confronted by a waterway long disused, stagnant and thick with algae and weed. It was a silent place, without any sound, until I disturbed some birds that had nested in the clumps of vegetation at the edge of the thick brown water.

  “I paused to look at my surroundings more carefully. There were houses spaced along both banks, but every one that I could see appeared derelict. I walked further, hoping to see Canal Reach, for that was the name of the house that Mr. Smith had used, to be an acceptable place of residence in the midst of all this decay. I passed a number of old barges, moored at the opposite bank and already half-surrendered to the elements, before there appeared a long plot of uncultivated land with a single house at its end. As I approached the house, I could already see that it was in a similar condition to the others, and that a faded sign hung awkwardly and proclaimed it to be the address I sought.”