The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  “I wish our generals and admirals shared your very flattering view of my authority on those medical matters, sir. They are feudal and reactionary to the core.” Sir Henry settled himself back on the sofa. “Until recently, the Duke of Cambridge sat like the legendary immoveable object at the pinnacle of the Army command, and his notions of war were Crimean, or even Napoleonic - bright flags, befrogged hussars at the charge, and the thin red line in bearskin hats. He was not susceptible to any change, whether it be to the scarlet colour of our military uniforms or the deplorable state of our medical services, despite Miss Nightingale’s noble efforts.”

  Sir Henry mopped his brow with his handkerchief as Billy edged through the sitting-room door with a tray of coffee. “I do apologise, Mr. Holmes,” he said as he accepted a cup. “I grow a little warm on the subject.”

  Holmes waved away his visitor’s apology, and Sir Henry took a moment to sip his coffee and compose himself before he continued. “I may be here on a wild goose chase. It is entirely possible that I have misunderstood a situation, seeing phantoms where none exist, and I am wasting your time and my own. In which case, I would be grateful if you would return this to Doctor John Watson, who I understand lodges here.”

  He held out a battered and grimy foolscap manila envelope. “The flap was unsealed, and I am afraid most of the papers inside blew away, and some were trodden under by horses or rolled across by carriage wheels before I could retrieve them. The title page remained, half out of the envelope, and under the circumstances I shall describe, I took it upon myself to read the address thereon, and do myself the honour of visiting you.”

  Holmes took the envelope and pulled out the half-dozen or so pages it contained. “This is Doctor Watson’s manuscript of his notes on a recent case of mine. He prepared them for publication in The Strand.” He looked up sharply. “Has there been an accident? Is Doctor Watson injured?”

  “Let me tell you what I know,” Sir Henry replied. He described his decision that afternoon to walk rather than take a cab from his house in Burlington Gardens to Charing Cross Hospital, where he was to inspect some new carbolic bandages for binding broken limbs. Nothing untoward had occurred as he strolled, although the sky grew ominously dark as he threaded through by-ways to avoid the crowded shopping arteries of the West End, and he wished he had brought his umbrella. Lamps were being lit as he dodged between omnibuses and carriages at Piccadilly Circus. As he reached the far side, Sir Henry heard a commotion behind him, and saw a four-wheeler cab crossing the circus against the flow of traffic and creating a jam. He had thought nothing of it until he reached Trafalgar Square, when again there was a disturbance as he crossed the street, and he turned to see the same cab, or so he thought, again pressing through the traffic towards him in defiance of the general direction of other vehicles, and causing a stir.

  “I have seen enough drunken and obstructive behaviour by cab drivers not to be surprised when they ignore the rule of the road,” Sir Henry said with a rueful smile, “but this driver seemed particularly intent on creating mayhem. His behaviour was not appreciated by other road users, even by his fellow cabbies, who shouted imprecations and abuse at him that would have put their licenses in peril, had a constable been present.”

  Sir Henry had passed on, turned into the Strand, and stopped in front of Charing Cross Station to buy a box of matches. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a four-wheeler trundle past him and stop a few yards further on, by the Cross. He turned to pay the boy, then started, looked back, and saw that three men had jumped from the cab. One of them seemed to point towards him before they were swamped by a swarm of pedestrians surging from the station.

  He lost sight of the men. Then, through a gap in the crowds, he saw them pounce on a gentleman in an overcoat and bowler under a streetlamp a few yards away and drag him to the cab. They bundled him aboard, and in the struggle the man dropped an envelope from which papers spilled. Sir Henry rushed to the gentleman’s aid, but he could not force a way through the press of pedestrians before the cab doors slammed, and the cab took off at a furious rate.

  Sir Henry picked up the envelope and what papers he could find, and immediately reported the incident to the policeman on fixed-point duty at Trafalgar Square. The constable escorted Sir Henry to the nearest police station, where he gave a statement.

  Holmes had listened to Sir Henry’s account with great attention. He now leapt from his chair and paced the room. “You were wearing a black overcoat and a bowler?”

  “I was. And a red tartan scarf. It and my coat are on your coatrack downstairs.”

  Holmes strode to the door and called for Billy The boy confirmed that Doctor Watson had left the house that afternoon wearing a black overcoat, bowler, and red tartan scarf.

  “You said you thought the same cab was behind you in Trafalgar Square and in Piccadilly.” Holmes said, resuming his pacing. “What made you think so?”

  Sir Henry frowned. “It was getting dark. I’m not sure-”

  “Think!” Holmes stopped and shook his head. “I do apologise.” He slipped into the chair opposite his visitor and leaned forward, his palms pressed together. “Was there anything about the horse, or perhaps the driver, that caught your attention? Let us start with the driver - was he wearing a hat? I imagine he was, in this weather.”

  Sir Henry closed his eyes as he tried to recall. “Yes, a battered stovepipe. The old-fashioned type, taller than the usual top hat, but bent, concertinaed, as it were.”

  “And his coat?”

  “Nothing remarkable. A caped coat of some description. Perhaps an Ulster.”

  Holmes elicited nothing more from Sir Henry about the driver, and only the colour of the horse, difficult to determine in the poor light, but probably a bony chestnut, a typical cab horse. He had seen the three men who had jumped from the cab for a fleeting instance, through a dense crowd, and he could not swear to their clothing, although he thought one was dark-skinned and might have been an Indian.

  Holmes considered for a long moment. “You say you started, Sir Henry. You paid the match boy, then you started and turned - Why? What surprised you?”

  “I’m not sure-”

  “A sound? A cry? A premonition of danger?”

  “No, no. I am sorry, I cannot recall.”

  Holmes again seemed lost in thought for a few moments, his hands clasped before him, almost in an attitude of prayer, before he spoke again. “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm you, or kidnap you, perhaps to keep you from attending a vital meeting or event?”

  “Enemies? No-one at all,” Sir Henry answered. “I make no secret of my disdain for the War Office and all its works. The Duke of Cambridge, before he was ousted from office, was kind enough to refer to me as a ‘meddling quack’, but as for an attempt to silence me by violence, an attack or abduction - the idea is preposterous. Although it must be admitted that the incompetent execution of the kidnapping does suggest War Office staff work.”

  Holmes stood. “I must thank you for coming to me, Sir Henry.”

  “I was not a Jeremiah, then?” Sir Henry asked as he stood. “You really think there is cause for concern?”

  “I do.” Holmes held up his hand. “It appears that Doctor Watson has been abducted. I do not know why, but it is possible that this action is directed towards me. In my line of work, I have managed to accumulate a plethora of enemies, some of whom would stop at nothing to wound me, entrap me, or seek to bend me to their will. Let me see you out.”

  * * *

  I awoke to find myself lying on a buttoned leather sofa, with a thick head and a foul taste in my mouth. The dingy room was brightly lit, illuminating a cracked ceiling and stained green paper peeling from the walls. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and I blinked at a bald gentleman in evening clothes who sat opposite me on a matching sofa, regarding me benevolently over his half-moon spectacles and smoking a
long cigar.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor.” The bald man said in a soft American accent. He turned to a thin, black-skinned, younger man in a frock coat who leaned against the mantel of an ornate fireplace. “Get the doctor a whisky.”

  I waved away the offer, my head still swimming. “Water, if you please.”

  I was offered a tumbler, and I gulped the water gratefully. “I seem to recall an accident - no.” My recollection cleared, and I staggered to my feet and stood, very shaky on my legs. “I was attacked.” I slumped back onto the sofa, breathing heavily. “This man and others attacked me with Chloroform.” I waved a weak arm at the dark-skinned young man who had fetched my water. “I demand-”

  “Professor Ballantyne-” the bald man overrode me.

  I frowned. “My name is Watson.”

  “Come, come, Sir Henry, there is no need to be shy.” The bald man blew a stream of cigar smoke across the room. “Your reputation puts you at the very pinnacle of your profession.”

  I shook my head to clear it. “I know of Sir Henry Ballantyne, of course, but I am not he.” I rummaged in my coat pockets. “I am not Sir Henry. If I had remembered to carry my card case, I could have proved that fact to you.”

  “You try our patience, Doctor,” the bald man said stiffly. “How likely is it that we should pluck the wrong doctor from a crowd of pedestrians in the Strand?”

  My brows knitted furiously as I tried to recall what had happened to me. I had stopped outside Charing Cross Station to light my cigar - “You called for a doctor, and I turned to the cry.” I patted my pockets again. “Where are my cigars, and where is my manuscript?”

  * * *

  Holmes directed Sir Henry to the cabstand beside the station. He closed the front door behind him and stood in the hall for a moment, head bowed, before he looked up and saw Billy and Mrs. Hudson peering out of the kitchen. “I do not have a clear picture yet, but I am afraid-”

  The doorbell rang. Holmes opened the door and found Inspector Lestrade facing him, well-wrapped in an overcoat, scarf, and bowler. Holmes held up his hand. “I am sorry, Inspector, I am engaged in a most serious matter in which I must employ all my resources-”

  “The London and Counties incident,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “A bad business, Mr. Holmes. Just passed to me from the C Division and the City Police. The bank guard lingered for a week, but died this morning.”

  “As I said, Inspector. I cannot-”

  “But we have a lead on the gang, sir. The Negro who fired the fatal shot dropped this.” Inspector Lestrade held up a black leather glove.

  Holmes stiffened. He regarded the inspector with narrowed eyes for a moment, then he turned and led the way upstairs.

  * * *

  Inspector Lestrade accepted a glass of whisky and leaned forward in his seat on the sofa. “Just a week ago, on Friday morning, a man purporting to be an American businessman on a visit to this country with the intention of investing in a considerable building project, presented a promissory note from an American source at the counter of the London and Counties Bank in Oxford Street. He had successfully discounted a dozen or more large-denomination notes at various banks in the preceding days.”

  Lestrade gulped his whisky and continued. “What the gentleman did not know was that the Bank of England had issued a warning against such notes, several of which had been found to be forgeries. The work was brilliant, undetectable from the real thing, but a sharp-eyed clerk had noticed that a note drawn on a New York bank was dated next year, not this. The issuing bank was contacted by cable for clarification, and they repudiated the document.”

  Holmes refilled Lestrade’s glass and he continued. “All London bank clerks were briefed on the suspicious notes, and when one was presented that morning by a gentleman in an astrakhan-trimmed coat, wide-awake hat, and with an American accent, the manager of the London and Counties requested the gentleman join him in his office. The man smelled a rat and bolted, and two other men followed him, racing for the door and a cab waiting outside.”

  “One of the gang was wounded,” Holmes said.

  “Shot by the guard. We have the hospitals closely watched, and a warning sheet was sent to doctors’ surgeries and clinics.”

  The doorbell rang downstairs, and a moment later a thunder came on the stairs and Sir Henry Ballantyne was at the door, his face flushed with exertion. “It came to me just as I reached Baker Street Station, and I ran back to tell you. I started and turned from the match seller at Charing Cross because I heard a cry. Someone called for a doctor.” He gasped for breath, his hands on his knees then looked up, frowning. “I heard a loud cry of ‘Doctor!’”

  Holmes passed Sir Henry a glass of whisky, and as the doctor gulped it and recovered his composure, he gave Lestrade a summary of the facts of the abduction. “If we accept the likely supposition that the gang called to you,” Holmes said to Sir Henry, “then their intention may have been to single you out for attack or capture. I ask again, can you think of anyone who might wish you ill?”

  “No-one.”

  “Have you written for the public press recently?”

  “Only one article this year, for the American magazine, Collier’s Weekly,” Sir Henry answered. “I wrote on my experiences in the late War Between the States. As you may know, Mr. Holmes, my family is originally Canadian, with strong ties to the United States. After gaining a medical degree, I volunteered my services to the Union Army during the last two years of the War, and I saw a great deal of traumatic injury caused by shrapnel, rifle and musket bullets, and the bayonet. In recent years, I have attempted to convince the British Army that immediate treatment of wounds, at the battlefront, rather than in hospitals far behind the lines, saves soldiers’ lives.”

  Holmes took down a copy of Who’s Who from the bookshelf. He flicked to Sir Henry’s entry and read it. “Your residence is noted as Burlington Gardens, and also detailed is your connection with Charing Cross Hospital.” He closed the book. “You would not be a difficult person to track down, even for a visitor to this country.” Holmes refilled the inspector’s and Sir Henry’s glasses and poured himself a whisky. “We may make certain reasonable suppositions. If Sir Henry was not targeted for personal reasons, then the abductors needed a doctor, specifically an expert on wounds. The evidence is inconclusive, but the presence of the Negro suggests that the abductors and the forgery gang are one and the same.”

  “What will they do when they discover they have the wrong doctor?” Sir Henry asked.

  “Hopefully, attempt to persuade Doctor Watson to treat their wounded comrade.”

  Inspector Lestrade shook his head. “As I said, Mr. Holmes, the bank guard died this morning. That means they are for the gallows when we catch them. Even if Doctor Watson cooperates-”

  “That fact must be kept from the evening newspapers,” Holmes said, slamming his fist in his palm. “As far as the press are concerned, the guard is recovering.”

  Inspector Lestrade made to interrupt, but Holmes held up a restraining hand. “Only his immediate family may be told the truth. Once the fraudsters know they have murdered the guard, they will have no compunction in committing further murders - whether for one or a habit of homicides, the penalty is the same, death by hanging.”

  “I will certainly try, Mr. Holmes,” Inspector Lestrade said doubtfully, “but the papers will have the story by now - they have their contacts within the Force, and not just desk sergeants-”

  Holmes stood. “I am a resourceful man, Inspector,” he said in a tone dripping with menace. “I will use all my cunning, and my connections to both the highest and lowest in the land, to blight the career of any reporter who jeopardises the life of my friend by reporting the guard’s death. He will find all access to the inside information he needs to pursue his trade, whether from you gentlemen at Scotland Yard or the criminal fraternity, locked an
d barred against him.”

  Lestrade put down his glass and stood. “I appreciate your interest - your very intense interest - in this matter, Mr. Holmes, and you may count on me and on the cooperation at the Yard, but we will be hard put to see to it that every editor in London receives word before this evening, and tonight the morning papers go to press.”

  “Leave that to me, Inspector.” Holmes turned to Sir Henry. “We must take precautions for your safety, Doctor. The possibility remains that our supposition that the gang aimed to abduct a physician is incorrect, and that you personally were the object of the attack.”

  “I will post a constable outside Sir Henry’s residence,” Lestrade said.

  Holmes unlocked the drawer of his desk and took out his revolver. He checked the cylinder and pocketed a handful of cartridges. “As you say Lestrade, if the gang hear that the bank guard is dead, they will have reason to dispose of Watson, whether he treats their comrade or refuses to. We must find them, and capture or destroy them before that news reaches their ears.”

  Sir Henry stood. “If I would not be a burden, I would much prefer to join you in your pursuit of these miscreants. With the inspector at my side, I will be perfectly safe, and consider, gentlemen, you may have need of a doctor.”

  “What of the dropped glove, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked, holding it out.

  Holmes peered at it. “It is a perfectly commonplace leather glove, of no evidentiary interest at all.”

  * * *

  “You have mistaken me for Sir Henry,” I told the bald man, as I had several times, with increasing exasperation. “I believe he and I may be of an age, and from the Spy cartoon I saw in Vanity Fair, I know that he has a moustache of similar cut to my own. I have read Sir Henry’s articles in the medical press, but I do not know the gentleman personally, and I have nothing like his experience of wounds, or his surgical expertise. I am a general practitioner, but I am not, at the moment, in practice.”