The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  A roar of approval erupted, and was followed by a mass exodus from the public house. A reinvigorated Sebastian Merridew, emboldened by this fresh news, led the way out onto the street, while Holmes and I, leaving our overnight bags in the saloon bar, joined the rear of the excited mob.

  * * *

  By the time we got back at the Penny-Farthing, Lestrade was manhandling Bartholomew Merridew out of the public house with the aid of two burly constables. For his part, Bartholomew, dressed in the greatcoat and floppy hat that were such damning circumstantial evidence against him, was swinging a tankard at the agents of the law and letting forth a stream of the basest oaths.

  “Apparently Randolph Gatts’ identification of Bartholomew Merridew as the man who followed Charles Dayton to London has proven crucial,” said Holmes.

  A gauntlet of gawkers had formed all the way to the waiting B-Wagon - the enclosed, horse-drawn carriage that was to transport the prisoner to the nearby town of Royston.

  “Get your filthy hands off me!” cried Bartholomew. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Sebastian suddenly rushed out of the crowd and pointed accusingly at his brother. “This is the murderer of Charles Dayton!” he cried. “Slap the handcuffs on him, officer! The next time we see this scoundrel, we want his carcass to be swinging from the end of a rope!”

  Obligingly, Lestrade clapped his handcuffs on Bartholomew’s wrists and was rewarded by a further string of curses. I glanced at Holmes and, to my surprise, his lips were pursed in the slightest of smiles, a habitual expression that told me the case was utterly clear to him now.

  Taking a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, Holmes said, “Let me conduct that little experiment again. The one I performed earlier. Just for Lestrade’s benefit.”

  Holmes pushed his way into a crowd that was alternately cheering, then howling in consternation - such was the division of opinion at Bartholomew’s arrest. While the constables struggled to force the man into the back of the B-Wagon, Holmes stepped forward and gave his greatcoat two vigorous rubs with his handkerchief.

  “You again!” he roared. “Do you mock me, sir?”

  “I seek only the truth,” Holmes assured, as the doors of the B-Wagon closed behind the prisoner and the two constables guarding him.

  Lestrade was eyeing Holmes suspiciously. “And what was the purpose of that little stunt?” he asked.

  Holmes held out the handkerchief for Lestrade’s inspection. It was perfectly clean and white.”

  The Scotland Yard detective shook his head, chuckled, then opined that as an unofficial agent of law-and-order, Holmes had queer ways. Then, smug in the knowledge that he had his man, Lestrade climbed up onto the driver’s box of the B-Wagon. The driver whipped the horses into a gallop and, once the police van disappeared from view, the crowds began dispersing.

  “Well,” said Sebastian Merridew, coming up to us and shaking Holmes’s hand enthusiastically. “It seems that you and your associate are no longer required. Good day, sirs.” And at that he turned on his heels, adjusted his panama hat and strode away.

  I was flabbergasted by the abruptness and the rudeness of the man’s behaviour, and said so to Holmes.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Abrupt and rude, indeed. A man plans to engage our help, yet dismisses us like servants once our help is no longer needed. However, more extraordinary still is Mr. Sebastian Merridew’s transformation from a quivering wreck to the bold leader of what could well have become a lynch mob. So in light of Mr. Merridew not inviting us to stay overnight at his residence after the exertions we have made on his behalf, I suggest we return to the Wheat Sheaf Inn and engage rooms there.”

  This was exactly what we did. I still suspected that Holmes knew more than he was telling me, but as usual I indulged him in his eccentricity of remaining tight-lipped and evasive.

  After a late lunch, Holmes rose from the table and said, “There’s nothing like an invigorating walk in the countryside to stimulate the grey matter, Watson. If I’m not back before evening, don’t wait up for me.

  * * *

  For the second morning in succession, I was awoken by Holmes. This time it was not by the malodour of some obscure chemistry experiment, but by the man himself shaking me by the shoulder.

  “Quick, Watson,” he hissed, opening his watch to show me a time of twenty-five-to-eight. “We have an impromptu appointment with our reluctant host, Sebastian Merridew.”

  “It can hardly be an appointment if it’s impromptu,” I pointed out gruffly, but did as instructed and pulled on my less-than-pristine clothes.

  We strode towards Ashbrooke House, the residence of Sebastian Merridew. As was Holmes’s habit when on the scent, he was impervious to my inquiries, refusing to tell me where he had been or what he had done since I last saw him the previous day.

  Ashbrooke House, on the edge of Elmswell, was a modern structure with steep gables, and it was surrounded by plain, though not unattractive, gardens. A gravel driveway, fringed with rhododendron bushes, approached the front of the house.

  As we negotiated the driveway, Holmes checked his pocket watch, and I guessed that time was an important factor in whatever he had planned. “We must hurry,” he urged. “It’s only a quarter-of-an-hour before eight.”

  At Ashbrooke House’s stone porch, Holmes gave the bell-pull a sharp tug, summoning Sebastian Merridew’s butler. On learning that he was in the presence of the illustrious London detective Sherlock Holmes, the manservant showed us to the drawing room, where he announced us to his master before departing.

  Sebastian Merridew, who was relaxing in an armchair with a cup of tea, was most annoyed at our unexpected appearance. “I thought the case was closed. What’s your business?” he snapped.

  “We’ve been put to some small expense,” said Holmes, coolly.

  Sebastian’s lip curled into a sneer. The change from that snivelling wretch we first encountered in the Wheat Sheaf Inn the previous day was remarkable. “It was not I who called you here from London,” said Sebastian. “Charles Dayton went to summon you.”

  “Yet your foreman was acting on your behalf, Mr. Merridew.”

  At this juncture, I became aware that Holmes wasn’t actually concerned about being compensated for the few efforts we had exerted in tracking down Charles Dayton’s killer. He was embarking on a ruse to expose the meanness and spitefulness of Sebastian Merridew.

  “I owe you nothing,” Sebastian insisted. “If you reckon you have a claim against me, take me to court. If not, good day, gentlemen.”

  Before another word could be uttered, a clock chimed, announcing the hour of eight. With it came the gallop of hooves. Through a bay window which gave us a view along the rhododendron-lined avenue, we saw the B-Wagon which had yesterday taken Bartholomew Merridew to Royston Gaol drive up to the front of the house.

  “What’s this?” yelled Sebastian, leaping to his feet as he watched Inspector Lestrade clamber down from beside the driver.

  Seconds later, the Scotland Yard detective had joined us. His pinched face was a vision of contrition as he regarded Holmes, and he held his cap deferentially before him.

  “If you would be patient enough to listen, Mr. Merridew,” said Holmes, “everything will be explained.”

  Quivering with anger, Sebastian resumed his seat.

  “This case has been dogged by lies and deceptions. Only by peeling away these lies and deceptions can we come to the truth of the matter. Firstly, we must look objectively at the evidence that has proved so damning to your brother. Randolph Gatts testified that he saw Bartholomew arriving at Elmswell Station - dressed in his rather unique greatcoat and hat - shortly after Charles Dayton. Secondly, we have three independent witnesses - myself, Dr. Watson, and a London cabbie - who saw a man wearing such singular attire attack and fatally wound Charles Dayton. Thirdly, while Dayton lay dying, he
struggled to extract a penny and a farthing from his wallet in a desperate attempt to identify his assailant.”

  “The meaning here is obvious,” said Sebastian. “Dayton meant the Penny-Farthing public house. It’s owned by Bartholomew. Dayton was accusing my brother.”

  “Quite so,” said Holmes. “However, this is just one possible scenario. Let us now suppose that Randolph Gatts is lying. You see, Gatts’ appearance and demeanour fail to convey the impression of poverty so usually seen in one who begs for a living. In fact, for a tramp he appears rather too well-to-do. Furthermore, his insolent tongue is more apt to chase away donors than to elicit alms from them. So we now have the question of who is financing Randolph Gatts’ extravagance?

  “A second point is that Gatts mentioned to me that by habit, Bartholomew carries a riding crop. Indeed, I was threatened with it by Bartholomew himself. Yet Charles Dayton’s murderer carried no riding crop, as Gatts went out of his way to mention. He did, however, carry a baling hook.”

  Sebastian Merridew shifted uneasily in his chair. “This is all very interesting, Mr. Holmes, but if Bartholomew didn’t kill Dayton, then who did?”

  “You did, of course,” said Holmes simply.

  Sebastian made a show of being taken aback. “This is preposterous! Where is your proof?”

  “If you’ll indulge me, I’ll come to that.” Holmes paced up and down, seemingly oblivious to those of us in the room as he arranged his ideas. “Let us continue with a second scenario which will completely exonerate Bartholomew. Although he is guilty of threats of violence, he is not responsible for vandalising your agricultural machinery, nor of poisoning of your cattle. The vandalism and the poisonings were carried out by you in an effort to implicate Bartholomew.”

  “Poppycock!” said Sebastian. “Why should I do such a thing?”

  “On your father’s death, each of his two sons received half of the Merridew estate. Your brother is still a bachelor. If he is found guilty of Dayton’s murder and is executed, you will inherit his land and his property.”

  “As strong a motive as I’ve ever seen,” said Lestrade.

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, dryly. “My suspicions were aroused when I discovered I was originally to have been consulted on a case of little more than threats and vandalism. These are matters that the local constabulary are more than capable of handling.” Holmes turned his indefatigable gaze on Sebastian. “Your decision to consult Sherlock Holmes was a ruse by which you convinced your unfortunate foreman to take the early train to London. At the last moment, you told Dayton that you would not travel with him, but that you would stay behind under the pretext of protecting your property from Bartholomew.”

  Following Holmes’s logic, I asked, “If Gatts was lying, and no one followed Dayton onto the train, why did he head for Waterloo to shake off someone tailing him?”

  “Because he was followed onto the train, Watson. Only it was Sebastian Merridew who boarded the train, disguised as his brother, Bartholomew.”

  “My foreman would never have boarded at Elmswell Station if he had suspected any danger,” Sebastian insisted.

  “But you didn’t get on the train at Elmwell,” said Holmes. “You got on the train a short distance down the line at Blixworth Station. You then made sure Dayton saw only the clothing you were wearing, the same type and style of clothing as Bartholomew is wont to wear. So, following your instructions, Dayton headed to Waterloo, thus giving you time to arrive at Baker Street in preparation for your murderous attack.”

  “I’m sure I still have my unused train ticket about the house somewhere,” said Sebastian, his voice increasingly desperate.

  Holmes reached into his pocket, stepped forward, and placed three ticket stubs on the small table beside Sebastian Merridew’s armchair. Two of the stubs belonged to one ticket and had identical numbers at either end. These Holmes pushed together. “This is Charles Dayton’s ticket,” he explained. “The return end of the ticket was found on Mr. Dayton’s body, while the forward half I recovered last night from a large pile of collected ticket stubs at King’s Cross Station.” Holmes leaned across the table and picked up the remaining ticket stub. “This is the forward half of the second ticket that you and your foreman bought from the station master at Elmswell Station yesterday - the ticket that you just said is somewhere about the house. It is consecutively numbered, and has been verified against the numbered tickets at the station. I also recovered it from that pile of ticket stubs at King’s Cross.”

  Caught out in his lie, Sebastian Merridew became silent. Meanwhile, Lestrade had walked over to the bay window. He waved to the driver of the B-Wagon, who in turn rapped on the roof of the police van. The back doors swung open, and two constables emerged. They were escorting a man dressed in a black greatcoat trimmed in sheepskin, his face obscured by a brown floppy hat.

  “What’s Bartholomew doing here?” Sebastian protested.

  “It’s not your brother,” Holmes informed Sebastian. “He’s still at Royston, on a charge of assaulting the arresting police officers.” As the mystery man shuffled into the sitting room, flanked by the two constables, Holmes said, “I give you Mr. Thaddeus Chad, a gentleman of the road, our key witness, and a man whose acquaintance I so fortuitously made on my wanderings yesterday evening.”

  The man in question removed the hat covering his face, a hat indistinguishable from that of Bartholomew Merridew’s, revealing the grizzled beard and wrinkled face of an elderly man.

  “Do tell us your interesting story, Mr. Chad,” said Holmes.

  Falteringly, Thaddeus Chad began. “For years, I eked out a living at Elmswell Station. The rail travellers were not unkind to me and I received sufficient alms to survive well enough. Then, barely two weeks ago, Randolph Gatts came into my life. With threats and brute force, he sent me packing. Too old to start over somewhere new, I moved my pitch to the next station along the Great Northern Line, to Blinxworth Station.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Can you tell us what happened yesterday morning?”

  “Early yesterday, before the first train, I saw Sebastian Merridew, coming along the back road from Elmswell. I was sleeping under a hedgerow and, being a light sleeper by nature, Mr. Merridew’s footfalls had awoken me.”

  “Would you describe what Mr. Merridew was wearing?”

  “The very clothes I’m now wearing myself, sir. When he returned from London later in the morning, Mr. Merridew again didn’t see me tucked up under the hedge. He threw this hat and coat into a nearby ditch.”

  Holmes gave his hands another vigorous rub and said, “Please reach into your coat pocket, Mr. Chad.”

  The old tramp put his hand into the front pocket of the greatcoat and pulled out a torn piece of card. “It’s the return portion of a ticket from King’s Cross to Elmwell,” I ejaculated.

  Lestrade pounced on the ticket stub. Its number matched the other half of the second ticket which Sebastian Merridew and his foreman had purchased at Elmswell Railway Station.

  Addressing Sebastian Merridew, Holmes said, “You chose Blinxworth Station because yesterday there was no station master on duty who might later identify you as having got on or off the first train. Unfortunately for you, Mr. Chad was present. And you were doubly unfortunate in that you forgot to dispose of your return ticket before throwing away the clothes that you used as a disguise to implicate your brother in Charles Dayton’s murder.”

  As if that weren’t enough proof, Holmes took out a pristine white handkerchief and rubbed it across the material of the greatcoat Sebastian Merridew had worn on his murderous sally the previous day. The linen was soon dark and discoloured. “You see, Watson,” said Holmes. “My experiment on the particulate content of London fog wasn’t entirely in vain. Whereas Bartholomew Merridew’s greatcoat was unblemished because he hadn’t been in the vicinity of London yesterday, Sebast
ian Merridew’s greatcoat is literally laden with soot and grime.”

  Again Sebastian Merridew jumped to his feet. He pointed angrily towards Thaddeus Chad. “No one will believe this vagabond!” he shouted.

  “He’s more credible than Randolph Gatts,” said Lestrade, “who’s already confessed to obstructing a police investigation by lying on your behalf.”

  At that, Sebastian Merridew lunged desperately at Holmes, but was intercepted by the two constables. As the policemen dragged Merridew away to the B-Wagon, Holmes matter-of-factly opened his pocket watch. “If we hurry, Watson,” he said, “we can make the next train to London.”

  Thus ended the strange and tragic case of Charles Dayton, our anonymous client, a man who was so treacherously murdered by his unscrupulous employer.

  Capitol Murder

  by Daniel D. Victor

  For an educated human being to arrange an assassination, he must have a streak of the monster in him - even if the man he purposes to be slain is regarded by him and by multitudes as an enemy of God and man.

  - David Graham Phillips, “The Assassination of a Governor”, The Cosmopolitan, April 1905

  I

  I suppose the appearance of yet another American should not have been too surprising. After all, so many of them have played significant roles in some of the most personal adventures of my friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Why, our very first investigation together, the case I titled A Study in Scarlet, involved the American Jefferson Hope and the Mormons of Utah. And Holmes himself will never forget Miss Irene Adler of New Jersey, the female adversary whose successes earned from him the distinctive accolade of “the woman”. For that matter, I myself was shot in the leg by one James Winter, the notorious “Killer” Evans from Chicago.