Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series)

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “The store was closed?”

  “The front door was shut, but not latched. Anyone could have walked in.”

  “Were there any signs of violence?” Holmes asked.

  “No, nothing. There was not a single clue there. It was as if he had been simply plucked up into the air while doing the books. The books were spread about the counter and the money was still in stacks of denominations. The lights were burning.”

  By Holmes’ still poise, I judged his interest was piqued. He asked further rapid questions.

  “What did the police say?”

  She shook her head. “That it weren’t no robbery that Horace interrupted or got involved in.” She gave a snort. “I could’ve told them that…what with all that money lying on the counter.”

  “Quite. Did they suggest any explanation at all?”

  “Only that he’d run off on his own. Thrown it in, so to speak.”

  “Which you do not believe,” Holmes added.

  “No! We had a happy marriage…happy as usual, that is. There wasn’t anything bad enough that would make Horace want to just disappear like that. Especially not after nearly forty years, anyway. He wouldn’t know what to do by himself.”

  Holmes nodded. “Now, I want you to think back to the period of time that he—your husband—disappeared. Think and try to recall if there were any unusual events or happenings around that time. Were there any people your husband spoke with that seemed suspicious or peculiar, or simply strangers to you?”

  “Nothing like that at all.”

  “Did your husband appear to be worrying about a matter which he did not confide in you?”

  “He was always worrying about the trade, but I knew about that.”

  “Had the trade fallen off to any marked degree? Or increased?”

  “It was much as usual.”

  “Did you or your husband have any regular social activities?”

  “We didn’t have a lot of time for anything much. Mostly we visited our children. They’re grown up now and settled down with families of their own. Since Horace gave up on the Freemasons, we’ve stayed at home.”

  Holmes narrowed his eyes. “Freemasons? Your husband was a Freemason?”

  “Not him. He tried to join—thought it would help the business in some way I couldn’t understand; though I never did get the right of how he was eligible in the first place. I thought Freemasons were for masons. Still, he tried and was…black-balled. Told no,” she added.

  “I see.” Holmes paused, thinking. Then he sat back in his chair. “Do you and your husband have a rival trade nearby, Mrs. Thacker?”

  “Aye. Cartwrights’ emporium. On the corner of the street.”

  “Emporium? How long has he been in business?”

  “Only a few years.”

  “It is doing well?”

  “Oh yes, he does seem to do well.”

  “One last question. It would not offend you if I guess aloud that you are not Presbyterian?”

  Mrs. Thacker looked puzzled. “No. We are not.”

  “And you are not of the Jewish faith,” Holmes maintained.

  “Indeed not. We are Roman Catholic.”

  Holmes stood. “I will look into this matter for you, Mrs. Thacker. Are you returning to Perth today?”

  “I intended to, yes.” She studied Holmes. “Do you think I am in danger, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I don’t believe you are. But I would prefer you to stay here than return. I intend to stir up a hornets’ nest and I would not like you to be in the path of angry hymenoptera.”

  “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Holmes. It will be a relief to know what has happened to my Horace, no matter how terrible his fate was.” It was clear by her words that she suspected the worst. “But I can’t stay in London. I have no luggage.”

  Holmes waved toward Elizabeth. “My secretary, Mrs. Sigerson, will see to necessary supplies for you.”

  “Yes, but even so, I would feel better if I returned home. I am a stranger here, and I don’t know my way around.” She added in a confiding manner; “I would be afraid, on my own. After all, I am a woman and unescorted.”

  Holmes replied somewhat impatiently; “Mrs. Sigerson is very capable and you will be quite safe in her company.”

  I looked toward Elizabeth. Her face was schooled into a serene expression, but I could see by the light in her eyes that she was surprised and a little indignant.

  But Mrs. Thacker looked at Holmes with deep gratitude glowing on her face. “That is so thoughtful of you, sir. I would feel quite lost, otherwise.” She looked toward Elizabeth. “And so very kind of you, Mrs. Sigerson.”

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth replied, without a hint of irony in her voice.

  “I have some business to attend to first….” Mrs. Thacker looked askance at Holmes. “I can’t afford to miss this opportunity to tour the warehouses and look for new stock.”

  But Holmes had already dismissed her. He had moved toward the shelves of files and records and begun pulling out train timetables. Instead, Elizabeth moved to Mrs. Thacker’s side and tactfully walked the woman to the door, hurrying her along without appearing to do so. She made arrangements for the woman to return to Baker Street later in the day and closed the door behind her with a sigh.

  “You don’t mean to leave me in London, do you?” she accused Holmes, moving back to the sofa and dropping the empty notebook onto the cushions.

  Holmes looked up briefly from the timetable he was studying. “Yes.”

  “But you assured her she was in no danger. Why do you need me to stand guard?”

  “It is merely a precaution.”

  “I would serve you better in Scotland,” Elizabeth countered.

  Holmes put the timetable down and rubbed his temple and I could see he had been expecting this protest. “No, you wouldn’t,” he replied flatly. “I suspect Horace Thacker has been captured and possibly murdered by the Freemasons. I intend to infiltrate the Perth branch and learn firsthand what became of him. I cannot do that in your company because the Society is fraternal. It is also, if I am right, insidiously powerful and dangerous in this area.”

  “But the Freemasons are a peaceful society,” Elizabeth replied.

  “Yes, usually they are,” Holmes agreed. “But greedy aggressive men can turn a sect to their own advantages and previously have. This is not the first time I have dealt with corrupt members.”

  I coughed to gain their attention. “Elizabeth understands more than I do, I am afraid. I can’t see why you so strongly suspect the Freemasons to have murdered Thacker.”

  “The Freemasons are a secret society which began somewhere in the seventeenth century. They have roots in the ancient Templars, who were quite openly a blood-thirsty organization. Some of those tendencies have filtered down into the Freemasons—albeit secretly. Most affiliated branches are as innocent as their reputed aims claim. But some groups go to extraordinary lengths to benefit their members. I am positive that Cartwright of Cartwrights’ Emporium is a grand master of the Perth Freemasons. To confirm this I must in some way get myself invited to a meeting.” Holmes moved to lean against the mantelshelf.

  “But…surely they can’t simply carry out these terrible activities as you suggest?”

  “They can. They have. In one of my unsuccessful cases, Watson—which is possibly why I have not spoken of it to either of you until this moment—I discovered that a certain member had risen from laborer to wealthy, landed city councilor in a very short period of time, solely due to the propaganda and political conspiring of his fellow Freemasons. There was even a murder—a single, tactically brilliant murder that cleared the way for this schemer. Unfortunately I was unable to supply even a shred of proof and the police could do nothing.

  “But this is outrageous!” I said. “To think a group of men could simply order society as they pleased….”

  “Groups of men have been doing exactly that throughout history,” Holmes replied clinically. “The Freemasons are ou
trageous only because it is a secret organization and you have no power over it. They do have their own set of moral codes, but they also have a set of traditional enemies, developed through the intrigues of the past and who include Jews and Roman Catholics.”

  “Horace Thacker!” I exclaimed, as all the pieces fell into place.

  “Exactly.” Holmes replied.

  Elizabeth straightened from her perch on the arm of the chair. “That case isn’t in your notes or I would remember it. It also doesn’t explain why I must stay in London.”

  Holmes lit a cigarette. “After the unsuccessful conclusion of the case I was forced to leave the city at very short notice. My life was threatened and if I ever returned I have no doubt that the threat would still be in force. I have no wish to bring a similar nemesis down upon you.”

  “I make my own choice,” Elizabeth replied.

  “I have already explained that the society is fraternal,” Holmes added, with something like irritation in his voice.

  For the next few minutes Elizabeth stood opposite Holmes and resisted stubbornly. Unfortunately, it was one of the few areas in which Holmes remains her superior. I watched the exchanges with frank curiosity, wondering what it was that was causing Elizabeth to resist so persistently against such outright denial. It was pushing Holmes into a position he had never found himself in before and I did not envy him his place.

  Finally he dragged his fingers through his hair in an old nervous mannerism I had not seen him use for quite a while. “Elizabeth, please!” He caught at her hand where it rested on the shelf—a rare demonstration. “I would willingly take you anywhere and know that you are as capable as me of escaping danger. But not this time, when you would be in greater danger than I.” He moved away.

  “Because I am a woman,” Elizabeth said bitterly.

  “Yes.”

  Elizabeth finally acknowledged there could be no other outcome and she conceded with far more grace than I would have managed under similar circumstances. “I will get a cab for you. The overnight train from St. Pancreas leaves in thirty minutes.” She walked toward the door.

  Holmes shut his eyes for a minute and took a deep breath. “Elizabeth?”

  She looked over her shoulder.

  “I will miss my companion. Bitterly. But I will not change my mind.”

  “And I will worry about you.” She gave him a small smile. “You pack. John will need to go home and collect his own requirements, so you cannot afford to wait.”

  At the front door he paused before climbing into the hansom. “I will be as quick as I can, Elizabeth. One conclusive piece of proof is all I need.”

  “Yes, I know. I will be waiting.”

  He climbed in while Elizabeth told the driver the destination and sat back in the corner opposite me. Once the cab had turned the corner, he sat forward again and smacked the frame of the carriage. His face was grim and his eyes bored, sightless, through me.

  On the train, Holmes was restless. Elizabeth’s opposition had rocked his equanimity. Certainly the case had been quite driven from his mind. This was so unusual and out of character for Holmes that I remained warily silent. Elizabeth’s quick words to me as I had climbed into the cab continued to echo in my mind. “Watch out for him, John. I feel….” She broke off, frowning, then shivered, her eyes on some distant point. She refocused on me and attempted a smile. “Just be careful.”

  Her manner and Holmes’ moody introspection were unsettling and I was beginning to fancy I felt the same foreboding Elizabeth had hinted at. I got very little sleep that night and I know Holmes had none, for he did not bother disturbing the covers of his bed. I was restless and woke several times, when I would watch with sleep-filled eyes as he strode up and down the passage outside, smoking, completely unperturbed by the rocking of the train.

  We arrived in Perth around dawn and Holmes was all for proceeding immediately to Horace Thacker’s drapery shop, such was his impatience to solve the case and return. His whole bearing thrummed with wire tight tension. I put on my best stern doctor’s voice and suggested that as the shop would not be opening for business at all that day, we could investigate at our leisure and we would be much better employed in settling into our rooms at the hotel and breaking our fast in comfort.

  Holmes gave way grudgingly and I studied him covertly as we made our way to Holmes’ favorite inn. I’d seen this type of tension and irascibility before, of course, but only when Holmes had been forced to wait for answers or the development of one of his cases, or when there was nothing on hand to distract him. Yet he had this mystery before him; one with every promise of being a vintage for its strangeness.

  He inquired curtly at the desk for rooms.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Holmes. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Holmes looked up from the register. “You have?”

  “Yes sir. Ever since this cable arrived last night.”

  Holmes all but snatched the telegram from the clerk’s hands and tore it open. I moved to behind his shoulder and read it too.

  “Return at once. Mycroft.”

  The hand holding the paper began to tremble and he dropped the cable to the desk and put his hand in his pocket. “Elizabeth,” he said softly. “Something has happened to Elizabeth.”

  I felt a cold hand clench at my own heart with Holmes’ whispered inference.

  Holmes looked at the clerk. “When is the next train to London?”

  The clerk looked at the desk clock. “You’ve just missed it sir.”

  “I said the next train!” Holmes rapped out.

  The clerk seemed to shrink back away from the desk. I looked at him pityingly, for I knew the effect Holmes’ countenance had on those who attempted to oppose his will. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning, sir,” the clerk stammered.

  Holmes slammed the flat of his hand down on the desk in reaction to this bad news. He whirled to face me. “Back to the station,” he said shortly.

  The return to the station was silent. Holmes’ eyes were focused on an invisible point in middle distance, narrowed and glinting with an unveiled danger. His hand tapped a quick rhythm on the top of his cane. Otherwise he was perfectly motionless, and I was afraid to disturb him.

  Our first action upon reaching the station was to investigate the swiftest alternatives available to get us back to London. The clerk behind the counter proved helpful, fortunately, but he could not get us back to the city earlier than midnight. I could see the information chaffed Holmes to the quick. It was then I offered my one contribution to the sad, sorry adventure.

  “Holmes, look. This timetable. There is a train leaving Carlisle at midday. If we could get to Carlisle….”

  A back-light flared deep in his eyes and he turned back to the clerk. “I want to hire a special. To whom do I speak?”

  The journey back was a nightmare of darkest imagination. For the entire trip Holmes stood at a window, motionless, neither smoking nor walking. Nor did he communicate with me just what sort of danger he thought Elizabeth might be in. His only comment was a scathing answer to what, on reflection, seems a foolish question. “It is Elizabeth who is in trouble, or she would have signed the cable herself.”

  • Chapter Ten •

  _________________________

  •ï¡÷¡ï•

  MYCROFT WAS SITTING in his usual seat in the private salon of the Diogenes Club, a drink and ashtray on the table beside him and several newspapers folded on the table to his right. He watched us approach across the shining tiles, his face unreadable.

  “My cabby found you, then,” he said, as we reached him. He waved to the chairs beside him and I sank into one.

  Holmes merely pushed his hands into his pockets. “Come, Mycroft; I have expended nearly the last of my admittedly limited patience on the officials of the British railway system.”

  Mycroft closed the book he held in his lap and rested his hand on the cover.

  “The case you were investigating was a ruse designed to have you depart from London and
leave Elizabeth behind. They’ve taken Elizabeth.”

  I watched Holmes’ face for his reaction to this confirmation of his fears. “I should have seen that,” he said after a moment’s silence. His voice was quite flat and emotionless. “Freemasons!” It was a curse. His eyes cut away from us both and he looked toward the window behind us. “The old woman set the bait perfectly.”

  “Elizabeth evidently did see it. They had quite a struggle taking her away. Your rooms are in ruins.”

  “You have been there?”

  Mycroft shrugged. “Mrs. Hudson sent for me. The woman was hysterical. She had been held at gunpoint while they attempted to extract Elizabeth from the rooms.”

  I felt the small wave of horror in me swell as the scene played itself out in my mind.

  Holmes ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it. “I have been a fool!” he said to himself. “They invent a tale that sends me racing for one of the furthest points from London, leaving Elizabeth behind…in safety.”

  Mycroft said gently: “I suggest you go home and look for any messages Elizabeth may have left. I have looked and found none, but you know her better than I. I will finish here and follow you.”

  Holmes turned and walked away. Mycroft looked to me as I stood to follow. “Watch him, Watson. He is straining the limits of his control.”

  “Yes. I am aware of that.”

  “My decision to bring you here first was the correct one,” Mycroft said, standing up. “The disarray that will greet you at Baker Street would unnerve even the most placid of characters.”

  It was a warning that was not lost on me. I nodded a farewell to Mycroft and walked swiftly to catch up with Holmes as he hailed a hansom.

  At Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson met us at the street door. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face had aged several years in the short period we had been gone. “You’ve seen Mr. Mycroft?” she asked Holmes fearfully, half-barring his way to the stairs.

  “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I have,” Holmes replied. He pushed her gently aside and climbed the stairs.