The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  “Once I heard that he’d begun taking aim at stray dogs and cats, however, my concerns grew. In fact, I arranged for my associates with the German police to follow him on the occasion the Heraldic berthed in Hamburg. Sad to say, my intuition paid off. He had scheduled a meeting in the Reeperbahn with an elderly German with a knowledge of firearms - blind as it so happens - who, curiously enough, arrived at the rendezvous with two canes - and left with only one.”

  “Von Herder!” I exclaimed.

  At that moment, like a warning cry, the train sounded its horn. We must have been getting close to Horsham.

  “Quite so, old fellow,” replied Holmes, oblivious to the noise, “Von Herder, the gun mechanic. It is he, I have come to believe, who furnished Jack Ferguson with an air rifle. Though not the most talented of gunsmiths, Von Herder is competent enough. Not only could he obtain the basics of the hollow walking stick from gun-makers like Townsend and Reilly, but he could also combine the structural framework with the mechanism of his own air gun. Jack would certainly not be the first shooter to employ a rifle that resembled a walking stick. But I hazard a guess that he may be the first to render the employment of both of its features a necessity.”

  “Of course!” I exclaimed. “A malformed assassin concealing his weapon in the guise of a dependable cane.”

  “Quite so, old fellow. It may have been no more than coincidence that the Heraldic was delivering a shipment of tea to New York in early January of this year, but I’m willing to wager that Jack was no longer part of the crew when it left a week later. He had honed his skills with the rifle and somehow presented himself as an accomplished shooter to the lawless elements bent on exploiting America’s East Coast.

  “Word travels fast within the criminal underworld, and Jack must have learned that his services could be put to use in Kentucky. It mattered little that the Heraldic had sailed before the deed was done. No doubt he earned plenty for his work and could easily book passage back to England. My hope in meeting with your friend Ferguson is simply to confirm my reasoning.”

  * * *

  Though a closed carriage conveyed us the few miles from Horsham to Lamberley, we had to hire an open dogcart for the final leg of the journey. It began to drizzle as soon as we reached the road to Cheeseman’s, forcing us to wrap ourselves more tightly in our long coats and pull our hats even lower over our brows. Only when we recognized the familiar winding lane of Sussex clay did we know our excursion was about to end.

  No doubt, it was the unkind weather that made the seventeenth-century farmhouse appear more ominous than I had remembered. To be sure, the leaden skies and shadowy trees had darkened its redbrick walls, but I was certain that some element beyond the weather was rendering the atmosphere so oppressive.

  “I have to admit to you, Mr. Holmes,” said a sombre Bob Ferguson, who met us personally at the dark, oaken outer door, “that I’m of mixed minds talking with you. There’s no two ways about it.” He continued to speak without so much as the briefest of smiles as he ushered us inside. “I will never forget the joy you restored to my life by revealing the causes of my wife’s strange behaviour. And yet, though I know it was for the best, I cannot forgive you for compelling me to remove my Jacky from our family.”

  The reluctant host led us into a dimly-lit sitting room where bright flames danced in a cavernous fireplace, casting eerie patterns on the half-oak, half-plastered walls. Ferguson offered us each a brandy and seats on the leather couch, but his tone was anything but warm.

  Recounting the recent history of his son Jack was obviously not to Ferguson’s liking. After Holmes had asked what Ferguson knew of Jack’s latest activities, the father required a pull of the brandy and began his report with a frown. “When Jacky returned home following his first voyage - it’s been about two years now - I was hoping to see a positive change in the lad’s attitude. Unfortunately, there was anything but. Oh, he did ask if we might go out shooting, not a sport in which he had showed a whit of interest prior to his putting out to sea. But he hit some grouse, don’t you know, and seemed quite pleased with himself. I thought the outing might help us strengthen our friendship, but he remained here just a day or two. In point of fact, he collected his belongings and told us he would be taking a flat in London, thank you very much. Then he left, making off with my German dictionary for good measure. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Do you know his current location, Mr. Ferguson?” Holmes asked. “We have every suspicion that he has returned to London, and it is necessary for me to speak with him.”

  Ferguson scowled. “Is he in trouble again?”

  “One can’t be certain,” Holmes replied. “That is why I need to find him.”

  I assumed that the boy’s actual address was unimportant to Holmes. Certainly, the Baker Street Irregulars had dogged Jack Ferguson closely enough to identify his residence. Still, had his father known the boy’s whereabouts, it would have made finding Jack that much more simple.

  “No,” said Ferguson, his voice laced with bitterness, “he’s never shared that detail with me. If he had, I’m not certain I would want to share it with you. The boy has been through enough.”

  Holmes nodded. Later he would explain to me, “I wanted to learn just how estranged father and son had become. That the father doesn’t know where his son is living indicates the severity of their break.”

  We saw no sign of Mrs. Ferguson during our visit and, having exhausted our topic, we finished our brandies, thanked a sceptical Ferguson for his help, and promised to keep him up-to-date concerning any developments that involved his son. Then, with the much-appreciated aide of Ferguson’s carriage, Holmes and I made our way back through the rain and wind to the small railway station in Horsham, and ultimately home to Victoria and Baker Street.

  Ringing in our ears throughout the journey, however, was Ferguson’s final and unwarranted valediction: “None of this would have ever happened, Mr. Holmes, had we not followed your cruel advice.”

  * * *

  I leave to my more fair-minded readers the question of premeditation. For my part, I have never been totally clear concerning the exact role Holmes played in the shooting that concludes this account. At the very least, however, we have arrived at the point in the narrative that, as I have already indicated, presents Sherlock Holmes at his most cold-blooded.

  Unfriendly winds had been blowing throughout the night of our return to Baker Street, and yet, even as I was shuffling down the stairs for breakfast the following morning, I encountered my friend enveloped in cape and deerstalker, entering our sitting room from the outer hall.

  “Out so early in this foul weather?” I asked.

  “Indeed,” he answered, hanging his cold-weather garments on the pegs by the door. “Windy or not, it seemed the right time for the Trout boy to show me Jack’s lodgings. Sooner than later, I wanted to get the lie of the land. As it turns out, Jack has a flat in the Hanover Buildings in Tooley Street.”

  “Just south of the river - not far from the London Bridge Station?”

  “Quite so,” Holmes nodded.

  I knew of the place, having ministered to a few of its residents while I was working as a houseman at Barts. Later to be renamed the Devon Mansions during the Great War, they had originally been constructed to house the working people who laboured on the nearby docks and warehouses. As far as Jack Ferguson was concerned, he could not have found a residence of lesser distinction - five identical six-storey blocks of yellow brick.

  “The choice makes sense,” I observed. “From nearby London Bridge Station, it’s a simple train ride to Gravesend where his ship put out.”

  Not that I was overly familiar with the railway line that runs parallel to the Thames. But one could not forget the foul-weather trip that Holmes and I had made the previous year. We had journeyed by rail to Gravesend to meet the so-called “Baron of Brede Place”, Amer
ican writer Stephen Crane, who was returning to England following his adventures in Cuba during the Spanish-American War.

  But the trip I remember most involving that railway line is the seemingly endless journey Holmes and I had taken a few years before. Holmes was hoping to resolve the business with Professor Coram and the golden pince-nez at Yoxley Old Place. With time of the essence, we had been reduced to catching the morning train, which stopped at every station along the way. At Charing Cross, the next station west of London Bridge, we had set out for Higham, the depot closest to Yoxley Old Place. But that infernal trip lasted forever - three long hours to reach Higham, which is just beyond Gravesend - and we knew for a fact that the day before, Inspector Hopkins had required only ninety minutes - half our time - to make the same journey. The thought still rankles.

  Interrupting my memories, Holmes held up a small piece of paper. “I’ve taken the liberty to write Jack Ferguson a note in your name.”

  “In my name?” I replied. “Why not in yours? It is with you he has a quarrel, not with me. You’re the one who suggested he go to sea.”

  “Precisely, my dear fellow. No love lost there, I’m afraid, which is quite the point. I don’t think he’d agree to see me. A request from you, on the other hand, might make him curious enough to want to hear you out.”

  “And just what did I say in this note?”

  “You’ve asked for permission to visit his flat.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To request that he invite me in as well.”

  I thought my friend must be losing his senses. Had Holmes not just suggested that Jack would not welcome him? For that matter, Holmes suspected him of being a killer. Would it be safe for me in the lair of an assassin? Unable to mask my fears, I cast a concerned look at Holmes.

  “Nothing to worry about, old fellow,” said he. “I’ll be standing just outside the building. Once he gives his approval, your job will be to draw aside any curtains that might be in the way, open the window, and call me in.”

  I scratched my head in dismay. But knowing better than to question the rationality of my friend, I agreed to go along with his request. Still, as Holmes gave the pageboy the message for Jack Ferguson, I could not keep from wondering what trick my friend had up his sleeve.

  “Nothing to say to you”, ran the note that Billy returned to me. “But I am curious about what you have to say to me. This afternoon. 2:00”. It was signed JF.

  “Perfect,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together. “Now I have some last-minutes plans to put in motion. I’ll be back at noon for lunch. Suggest beef sandwiches to Mrs. Hudson. That joint I saw in the kitchen looked quite inviting.”

  And then he was gone again.

  * * *

  A hansom brought us to the Hanover Buildings, just south of the Thames. The winds had died, but frantic traffic, laden with tea and coffee and hops and leather, bustled along Tooley Street as the nearby ships and warehouses and shops made their demands.

  No sooner did we exit the hansom than Holmes pointed to the block nearest us. “That’s his room,” he said, indicating the second window in the first-floor line. “He’ll be expecting you. Go.” With that, Holmes turned his back and began to survey the other structures along both sides of the street.

  A gate interrupted the short black railing round the building, and I made my way through it as well as through the unlatched outer door. Traversing a dark foyer, I climbed the equally dark stairs to the first storey and, in the light of a meagre gas lamp, managed to locate what I presumed to be the second flat facing the street. I knocked hesitantly and, receiving no response, knocked again more sharply. This time the door swung open, and I immediately found myself standing face to face with Jack Ferguson.

  When we first had met, Jacky had been able to conceal the hatred he harboured towards his infant half-brother. His murderous intent showed only when Holmes had confronted him regarding the boy’s foul plan. Now, however, with his thick, flaxen hair combed straight back, that same devilish look appeared permanently etched into his features. His knotted brow, curling lip, and narrow, brutish eyes conveyed a rage that he clearly felt no longer compelled to hide. Worse, as much as one might hope to deny it, his deformity added to his sense of menace. For though I would be the first to protest the casting of so general an aspersion, in this instance his twisted spine seemed to reflect his twisted nature.

  “I welcome you to my home,” said he, bidding me enter with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. He indicated an old armchair, which I took and, pulling out one of two wooden chairs nesting under a rickety table, he sat down with his bent-back to the window. I recognised the trick, one often employed by Holmes himself. With the window behind him, Jack’s face became silhouetted by the brightness outside, the result rendering his facial expressions difficult to discern.

  “I don’t see my father much,” he offered. “I should imagine that you came at his request - though I don’t know how you discovered this place.”

  I thought of Sammy Trout and the Irregulars but, playing my cards close to the vest, I said rather cryptically, “As you know, I work with Sherlock Holmes, and when he wants to find someone, that person is found.”

  “Holmes!” Jack spat out. “The man who tore me from my family? The man who turned me into what I have become?” The more animated he grew, the more spasmodically his entire body jerked.

  “Holmes wishes to speak with you,” said I calmly, “but he fears that you wouldn’t let him through the door.”

  “He’s got that right. Quite the detective!”

  “He anticipated you would react in such a fashion. That’s why he asked me to pave the way. He was hoping I might talk you into letting him come up here. You see, he’s just outside the building, awaiting a sign from me at the window to summon him in.”

  With some effort, Jack turned his body and glanced suspiciously at the window behind him. White curtains of gauze-linen barely covered the glass.

  “What does he want with me?” Jack questioned.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Why not let me signal that he can come up?”

  Jack glanced at his bureau, a sure giveaway that something he wanted lay concealed within. Except for drumming his fingers on the table next to him, however, he sat motionless a moment or two. At last, with a sigh of resignation, he said, “Why not?” and waved me towards the window.

  All I had left to do was carry out my instructions from Holmes. I spread the two curtains apart and then pulled up the sash. Holmes was pacing below, his eyes fixed on the window in search of any movement. I motioned for him to come up, at the same time being sure - as, for some strange reason, he had directed - to keep the window open and the curtains drawn.

  No sooner had I completed the task than I turned round and discovered myself face to face with the revolver Jack was now pointing at my head. As if playing a chord on a piano, he had arched the fingers of his free hand on the top of the bureau, their obvious strength helping him maintain his balance.

  “No need for the gun,” said I.

  “Just a precaution,” he replied, pointing the barrel at the chair I had occupied. “Now sit.”

  I did, and with Jack still standing, we silently awaited the arrival of Sherlock Holmes.

  Moments later came a quick rap.

  “Enter,” commanded Jack, the barrel of the gun now turned toward the doorway.

  Holmes walked in cautiously, eyed the pistol, displayed his empty hands, and opened wide his coat to show that he carried no weapons.

  Motioning with the gun, Jack gestured for him to sit down.

  Holmes pulled the second wooden chair away from the table, placed it to my right - opposite Jack - and turned it slightly so it wasn’t in direct line with the window. He then seated himself and faced the gunman.

  “Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” said Jack,
“be so kind as to inform me of the nature of your business.”

  Holmes flashed a brief smile, and then, after stealing a glance at the window, got straight to the point. “I merely wish to ascertain, Jack Ferguson, that it was not the L&N Railroad that hired you to assassinate Governor Goebel in Kentucky last month.”

  For a man holding a gun, Jack displayed an alarming lack of control. His eyebrows shot up and he lurched backward upon hearing Holmes’s charge. “Who claims that I assassinated anyone?” he demanded.

  This time Holmes’s smile lingered. “Please, Jack, don’t take us for fools. We know of your recently acquired talent with guns. We know a man of your description was seen in the Capitol grounds in Frankfort. We know you met with the gun maker von Herder in Hamburg when your ship put into port there last year, and thus we suspect that the walking stick you utilised in Frankfort was, in fact, an air rifle constructed by the German. Finally, we know that you boarded a railway in Kentucky after shooting the governor, secured a ship in New York, and ended up here in Tooley Street.”

  Jack Ferguson’s demeanour grew darker with each point ticked off by Holmes. “If you know so much, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, how come you don’t know who hired me?”

  “That’s why I’m here, Jack, to find that out - before we hand you to the authorities for shipment back to America.”

  “Ha!” he snorted. “That’s funny, with me holding the gun. Though I don’t suppose it matters all that much, since neither one of you is leaving here alive. When I explain to the police that I found two men burglarizing my flat and shot them dead, you won’t be in a position to tell them otherwise.

  Shooting us dead? Consider me foolish, but I had not anticipated so dramatic a turn of events. Though I realised Holmes had entered the flat unarmed, I earnestly hoped he had some sort of plan for extricating us from this dilemma. As I gazed at Jack’s pistol, however, nothing popped into my head.