The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  I observed a strange crunching feeling under the soles of my boots, and on closer examination, I discovered that a part of the floor was covered in places with small round globes, less than one-tenth of an inch across. I picked up one of these, and examined it, but could make nothing of it. I therefore picked up a few of these, and folded them in a piece of paper torn from my notebook, and passed them to Holmes for his perusal.

  He examined them carefully through his high-powered lens before bringing the paper to his nose and sniffing cautiously.

  “Birdseed,” he pronounced.

  “Birdseed?” I repeated incredulously. “I see no trace of any birds here.”

  “In that case, Watson, what would you make of this?” he asked me, smiling.

  “I cannot tell,” I answered. “This is most curious - I have never encountered anything of this nature before. To find a house with but a few rooms and the entrance hall fully furnished, and with some birdseed on the bare boards - it passes all understanding.”

  “Well, well,” smiled Holmes. “Shall we pay a call on the neighbours?”

  We left the house by the way in which we had entered, Holmes carefully re-locking the door leading from the kitchen to the hallway, and made our way to the front.

  “See, Watson,” said Holmes, gesturing with his stick towards the windows of the house we had just left, “there are no curtains in the window, and no sign of habitation from the street. Would you not swear, from this aspect, that the house was uninhabited?”

  “I would indeed.”

  “And now,” said Holmes, knocking at the door of one of the houses opposite. “Let us see what we can discover.”

  The door was opened by a maid, who listened to Holmes’s request to talk to the mistress of the house. This personage transpired to be an elderly lady, who regarded Holmes through a pair of thick spectacles.

  “Excuse me, madam,” Holmes addressed her. “I have a rather delicate question to ask. I am a complete stranger to London, but I am the only nephew - indeed, I believe I am the only relative - of my aunt, who passed away two days ago. I received the telegram this morning, sent by her neighbour, Mrs. Parker, and came from Hampshire right away, together with my friend here.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, Mr...?”

  “Johnson, madam. I apologise for not presenting you with my card, but in the heat of the moment...”

  “I quite understand, Mr. Johnson. As I was saying, I am sorry for your loss, but I fail to understand what your aunt’s death has to do with me. Do you know of some connection between her and me?”

  “No, no, no. It is nothing of that nature, I assure you. My query is a more general one, though of a delicate nature, as I say. It is the matter of the funeral. I have no knowledge of the undertakers in this part of the world, and I was wondering if you had any knowledge of firms who provide these services?”

  “My dear husband passed away some years ago, and his funeral was arranged by the firm of Nathaniel Urquhart, whose business is not far from here - on the Kennington Road, in fact.”

  “My condolences on your loss, madam. Thank you for the information.” Holmes bowed slightly by way of thanks.

  “However,” our interlocutor told us, “if you would like to know more about these things, you should ask over there,” and she pointed towards the house from which we had just come.

  “Indeed?” Holmes raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, it’s a strange thing,” she went on in a conspiratorial whisper, “but that house hardly ever seems to have anyone entering or leaving it, and as you can see, it is marked as being to let, and appears empty, but there have been at least three funerals from there in the past eighteen months. I am not sure, but I think there may have been four.”

  “That does seem to be an excessive number,” Holmes agreed. “And you have no knowledge of the undertakers who carried out these services?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that, but it did seem more than a bit strange to me that there should be so many funerals in such a short time.”

  “Perhaps they were children who had succumbed to some common malady,” I suggested. “Diseases such as chicken-pox can be very contagious, and often prove fatal to young infants.”

  She shook her head. “These were not children’s coffins. I had half-a-mind to tell the police about it, but then I said to myself that I was just imagining things. It does seem strange, though.”

  “I agree that it is more than a trifle peculiar,” Holmes confirmed. “I thank you for your information regarding Urquhart. I will take your recommendation. Thank you for your time, and goodbye.”

  “What in the world did you hope to gain from that conversation, Holmes?” I asked, as we walked away.

  “We have been informed, have we not, that there has been an extraordinary spate of funerals conducted from that house.”

  “But that is impossible,” I expostulated. “We have seen for ourselves that no-one lives there.”

  “Indeed they do not. But we should consider the possibility that they die there, or at least, that their bodies are taken from there.”

  “I begin to understand you, Holmes.”

  One aspect of our findings continued to puzzle me until we returned to Baker Street, and I asked Holmes, “By-the-by, what do you make of the birdseed that I discovered on the floor of the room?”

  “Oh, that is common birdseed, such as is used to nourish caged birds. There is little remarkable in the seed itself, merely in its presence.”

  “Caged birds? In an empty house? There were no feathers or any other sign that there might have been a bird in there. At any event, I observed none.”

  “Then, my dear Watson, I would recommend that you secure the services of a good optician.” So saying, he leaned across and plucked something from the back of my right shoulder, which he proceeded to scrutinise.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A feather. I believe it to be a wing feather from a specimen of Serinus canaria, the common domestic canary. I can only assume that it escaped your notice as it drifted onto your coat.”

  I was more than a little crestfallen that I had failed to observe what was clearly an obvious sign that a bird had, in fact, at some time been present in the room. “You are certain it has come from a canary?” I asked Holmes.

  “I am as positive as I can be without a microscopic examination,” Holmes told me. “The shape of the feather, its colour, and the barbs on the tips are almost conclusive, however.”

  “But how would a canary find its way into an empty house?” I asked.

  “I do not believe that it found its own way. The presence of the food on the floor would seem to confirm that. I fear, Watson, that we are about to find ourselves rubbing shoulders with one of the more detestable specimens of the London criminal. Would you be good enough to reach down the volume of the Index that deals with the letter ‘W’, and read for me what you find regarding Edward Wilson.”

  I perused the scrapbook in question, and under the relevant entry, read out the following words, which had been written in the sprawling and near-illegible hand that Holmes used for such matters, “Edward Wilson, born-”

  “Yes, yes, Watson,” Holmes exclaimed patiently. “The meat of it, the nub.”

  I read on and reported, “You have written here that he is one of the most vile men plying his trade at present. This is strong language, Holmes.”

  “Indeed so. I have my reasons for believing this. Read on.”

  “His offences are such that he has so far escaped the attentions of the police, it would seem.”

  “So they have, but I have had my eye on him for quite some time now. This may be what I need to arrange the fate for him that he so richly deserves.”

  “Good Lord, Holmes. You have written here that his business, at least as far as the
law is concerned, appears to be breeding canaries, and training them to sing. But you have good reason to believe otherwise?”

  “Indeed so. I believe him to be one of the most villainous of all the criminals in London at present. He will stop at nothing to achieve his ends, which are, I believe, evil incarnate.”

  It was unlike Holmes to use such terms to describe those against whom he had set himself, and I could not help but enquire further.

  “Ah, Watson,” was his reply, uttered in tones of sadness and compassion. “He preys on vulnerable young women, of the poorest and most defenceless kind. They are shamelessly exploited in ways I do not care to expound upon, and when they appear to be of no further use to him, they are disposed of, brutally, and without remorse. These he also refers to as his ‘canaries’, and he treats them as if they were indeed beings of a lower standard than humanity.”

  “He is a man to be avoided, then?”

  “On the contrary, Watson, I wish to meet him, and put an end to his activities.”

  “Why is this villain still at large, and why is he not behind bars?” I expostulated.

  “He is damnably cunning, and uses his skills to cover his tracks in such a way that none of his tricks can be traced to him. Young Stanley Hopkins has had his suspicions for some time, ever since I informed the police of Wilson’s activities, but even he has been unable to find the proof that would satisfy a jury, and Hopkins is one of the best of the bunch at the Yard. However, this hair that I removed from the pillow in the house, while perhaps not constituting a legal proof, may yet form a strand in the noose that winds itself around Wilson’s neck.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I told you that Wilson cynically refers to the young women whom he exploits as ‘canaries’. This is partly a cynical allusion to their caged nature, but also, I have heard it said, that all of them are fair-haired, or blonde, as our French cousins would have it, if not by nature, by artifice. And so,” he added, bending to one of the microscopes that graced the table by the window, “this hair, naturally dark, has been treated to give it a fairer appearance.”

  “So you believe the man who ordered the funeral a year hence from Mr. Nathaniel Urquhart was this Wilson?”

  “I believe that to be the case.”

  “And his purpose for doing such an extraordinary thing? For showing his hand, so to speak?”

  “Ah, that is something that at present I have been unable to deduce. There is something confoundedly mysterious here, Watson, and I am unable to determine it.”

  * * *

  For a few days, I was busy with my practice, and Sherlock Holmes was engaged on other cases, but it was with some excitement that I received a telegram from my friend, requesting me to call on him at the rooms at Baker Street.

  “I believe we are to attend another funeral from Belvedere Gardens,” he remarked. “We are not invited, but I feel we should at any rate view the cortège as it leaves the house.”

  “Wilson?” I enquired.

  “Indeed so. Word has come to me - through sources that I prefer not to reveal at present - that one of his ‘canaries’ has departed this life, and he is ready to dispose of her.”

  I shuddered. “There is something monstrous about this, Holmes.”

  “I agree.”

  “But why does he not dispose of the bodies in Whitechapel?” I asked.

  “I cannot tell, but I agree with you that this business of carrying them across the river to Southwark seems a deucedly long-winded way of doing his foul business. But come, are you ready?”

  We set off on our journey, and paid off our cab as soon as we had crossed Blackfriars Bridge.

  “It is best if we proceed on foot from now on,” Holmes told me, but failed to provide a reason for this.

  We reached Belvedere Gardens and took up our positions opposite the house where we had discovered the birdseed and the other mysteriously furnished rooms.

  A hearse, drawn by a pair of black horses, was already standing outside.

  “There is no coffin inside at present,” I whispered to Holmes. Indeed, not only was there no coffin, there was a complete absence of undertaker’s mutes or any other person who appeared connected with the funeral.

  “Strange,” muttered Holmes. “By whom and for whom was this ordered?”

  “It was ordered by myself, for your benefit, Mr. Holmes,” came a rough voice from behind us.

  I turned to behold a face, the likes of which I hope never to see again. The brow was bestial, beneath which a pair of dark eyes glared, and the lips curled in an animal’s snarl exposing jagged and crooked teeth.

  I started, and even Holmes seemed taken aback.

  “I surprised you there, I think, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the apparition said, with an unpleasant chuckle. “But I had been expecting you as soon as I was told you had visited my little hideaway.” He nodded towards the empty house. “I can see you are still wondering who I am and who informed me of your doings.”

  “Not at all. You are obviously Edward Wilson, and the woman who told us of the funerals here was in your pay.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed. “You have me placed to rights,” he said. “I’ll give you that, Mr. Holmes. But you are mistaken if you think I would pay money to my dear old mother for her work in helping bringing you to meet me. Now, if you don’t mind, you two gentleman are going to pay me a visit at my place, and we will have a little talk.” He had hardly finished speaking when two roughs came from the shadows, and before Holmes and I had fully grasped what was happening, our arms were twisted behind our backs, and I could feel rope being placed around my wrists, binding them together.

  “In you go,” Wilson said, gesturing to a baker’s van. “We’re going for a short ride.”

  The two bravos pushed us into the closed vehicle, and Wilson presumably acted as driver, or sat with the driver. We could see nothing of the road as we rattled and swayed our way through the streets of London. I started to speak to Holmes, but was instantly checked by a heavy hand on my shoulder and the gruff words, “It’ll be better for you if you say nothing. Try to speak again without being told you can, and you’ll regret it.”

  I held my peace, as did Holmes. For my part, I was racked with apprehension regarding our possible fate, but as far as I was able to judge in the semi-darkness that surrounded us, it appeared that he was unconcerned.

  After what I estimated was about forty minutes, the jolting and rattling stopped, and the doors of the van were opened. Holmes and I were unceremoniously escorted by our gaolers to what appeared to be a warehouse, where Wilson was already seated behind a rough table. A faint sound of birdsong was audible from a darkened corner of the room.

  “So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Wilson sneered. “I hear that you have been looking into my affairs, and as you might imagine, since you have the reputation of being an intelligent man, I am somewhat averse to others poking their long noses into the business of my canaries without my permission.”

  Holmes smiled wanly. “I can quite understand that,” he remarked in an easy tone of voice.

  “My problem now is how to proceed. Your reputation does not lead me to believe that a financial inducement will cause you to drop your interest in my canaries.”

  My friend seemed to be seized with a fit of coughing. “You are correct,” he spluttered out, in the midst of his paroxysms.

  “In that case, I must take measures to ensure that you do not meddle any further in my business, or indeed, the business of anyone else. That goes for your friend here,” he added, nodding in my direction.

  Holmes, who was still coughing, nodded. To my horror, I heard him say, “I quite understand your position, Mr. Wilson. I would probably feel the same way myself were our positions to be reversed. However, may I trouble you for a trifle?”

  “Why not
?”

  “My handkerchief is in my pocket. Would you permit me-” here his coughing interrupted his speech for a full thirty seconds. “Would you permit me,” he resumed, “to have my hands untied so that I might at least be a little more comfortable as regards my throat?”

  Wilson laughed, not altogether pleasantly. “See to it,” he ordered one of his henchmen. “Slowly, and no tricks,” he warned Holmes, as my friend rubbed his hands together, and slowly extracted his handkerchief from his pocket. “Excellent.”

  Holmes raised the handkerchief to his face, and coughed twice. “Thank you,” he said, removing the cloth from his face briefly, before replacing it.

  The room was suddenly filled with the noise of the police whistle, concealed in the folds of the handkerchief, which Holmes was blowing with all his might. Before Wilson or his bravos could react, the door crashed open, and four police constables entered, truncheons drawn, with Inspector Stanley Hopkins at their head.

  The scuffle which ensued was brief, thanks to the element of surprise enjoyed by the guardians of the law, and Wilson and his men were quickly overpowered and handcuffed. Hopkins himself released me from my bonds, and I thanked him sincerely for his efforts.

  “Search the place,” Holmes instructed the police-agent. “You are likely to find some canaries, and not all of them will have feathers.”

  * * *

  That evening, Inspector Stanley Hopkins called at Baker Street, where Holmes greeted him warmly.

  “My congratulations, Inspector, on a remarkably fine piece of work.”

  Hopkins shook his head. “The credit is all yours, Mr. Holmes,” he said to my friend. “We needed you to allow us to enter his premises and search the place. We cannot thank you enough. Over twenty of Wilson’s ‘canaries’ are now free to live their own lives, poor things, and I am positive that Wilson and his men will not see the outside of prison for many years once they have been sentenced.”

  I was still in the dark. “It is clear that you baited the trap to catch Wilson with both yourself and me,” I said, “and that you knew that all this was going to take place.”