The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  It was sometime beyond lunchtime that same day when I was awoken by a sharp knocking on the front door. Tumbling out of bed, bone weary, and still wearing my clothes from the previous day, I was greeted at the door by the smiling face of Sherlock Holmes. He looked no worse for his earlier exertions and surprised me by admitting that he had yet to go to bed. “Too many loose ends to tie up, Mr. Mickleburgh. I left you at the station to travel across to see Mycroft. He is, of course, delighted with the outcome of the case and reassured that Campbell-Grant is now behind bars. It would have been embarrassing for the government had the murder been politically motivated.”

  “And what will happen to Devlin?” I asked, noticing that the day had warmed little since the early morning.

  His face puckered. “That remains to be seen, but I doubt he will act with any spirit of contrition. Mycroft’s view is that we leave him be. He is keen for a line to be drawn under the affair, so as not to attract international attention. In the meantime, I will do what I can to find out more about Campbell-Grant’s detention and return from Van Diemen’s Land and will acquaint you with the details in due course. I should also mention that Mycroft was very grateful for your assistance on the case.”

  “And you, Mr. Holmes?”

  He looked at me quizzically. “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering how you felt about my involvement?”

  “Well, naturally, I recognise that your academic expertise was essential in the early part of the investigation...”

  Being so tired, I was always prone to say something that I might regret. And in that moment, I did exactly that and cut him short: “I’m not concerned or bothered about my academic expertise. What I really want to know is whether you welcomed my help as a colleague, a trusted friend, someone who could stand alongside you in times of difficulty. I have no interest in continuing to work as an academic. I had hoped that our time together might have convinced you that you needed a comrade-in-arms...”

  Holmes looked at me, apparently lost for words. I had nothing further to add, and stood on the doorstep waiting awkwardly for him to respond. His parting words were, “Let me give it some thought.” I closed the door and went back to bed, a jumbled mix of thoughts and emotions saturating my exhausted brain.

  In the days that followed, I saw nothing further of Holmes. I returned to my research at the museum, to find that Dr. Spencer had barely registered my absence. The snow in London had cleared, leaving just a bitterly-cold northerly wind which chilled me on my short walks into work.

  It was just over a week after our return from Huntingdon that I finally received a visit from the man. Around seven o’clock that evening, I heard the distinctive rap on the door and opened it to find him clad in heavy leather boots, a long hunting jacket, thick woollen scarf and close-fitting cloth cap. Quickly, I ushered him in out of the cold and he wasted no time in getting straight to the point.

  “My dear Mickleburgh. I must apologise for the time it has taken me to wrap up the Campbell-Grant case and share with you the conclusion of this sordid tale. I have, for the past week, busied myself finding out more about Campbell-Grant’s transportation and passage back from Van Diemen’s Land, the principal element of which was an interview with the man himself. In the event, there was not much more to tell - he had endured fourteen years hard labour and had then been released to make his own way in what was still a hostile colony. He continued to work hard, taking a job as a cattle rancher, and saving whatever spare money he could in the hope that one day he could secure a passage back to England.

  “After a period of over ten years, he did just that. At first he was able to travel from the colony across to mainland Australia. Having been involved in the cattle trade, he chose to settle for a few months in New South Wales, and it was here that he first learned that Edward Flanders had become agent-general of the territory. Being such a high-profile figure, Flanders always seemed to be well protected and enjoyed all of the trappings that his position afforded him. Campbell-Grant determined that he would wait until Flanders made a trip back to England before attempting the murder. Within the cattle trade, it seemed to be common knowledge when Flanders planned to make these regular excursions.”

  “So the Scotsman really did bide his time then?” I said - keen to show I was interested in all of the new information, and desperate to avoid any discussion of my behaviour when we were last together. Holmes seemed content to focus on what he had found out.

  “Yes. He planned the attack on Flanders with some precision, having already gathered some relevant information on the Stoke Newington address before arriving back in England. He also revisited a family relative who had retained many of his earlier possessions, including the ceremonial rondel dagger and some of the stationery used by the Bosworth Order. Campbell-Grant told me that once he had despatched Flanders, he set out to find Devlin, taking a couple of days to discover the address in Huntingdon. He did not think for a moment that anyone would know of him or have any clue as to his mission.”

  “And how was the man when you spoke to him?”

  “Surprisingly courteous, but resigned to his fate and not in the least bit remorseful about what he has done - an attitude which will help him little when he finally faces a judge and jury.”

  “I guess so. But from your point of view, I imagine this has been another successful case?”

  “You may view it so, although I feel that I owe you another apology. I was not entirely straight with you earlier. Having spent some time with me, you will have learnt something of the peculiarities of my approach and the nature of my character. I do not claim to be an overtly gregarious fellow, but can be companionable with those I trust. I would ask you not to lay aside your academic career, but would be pleased to call on you to accompany me on any future cases which might benefit from your undoubted talents. You have proved yourself a most worthy associate and for that I thank you.”

  I found myself without words, touched to the core and forever grateful that he had called upon me that cold winter evening. I knew that it was likely to be the last time that I would stand shoulder to shoulder with the great consulting detective. What he did not realise - and what I chose not to share with him - was that I had but a short time to live. His description of my ‘distinctly sallow complexion’ and ‘somewhat cumbersome gait’ had been well observed, but misdiagnosed. In fact, it was evidence of my rapidly declining health as a result of what my doctor had diagnosed, two days earlier, as an advanced case of Addison’s Disease, an affliction of the adrenal glands.

  Regaining my composure, I asked Holmes if he would like to join me for a nightcap of brandy or whisky. He declined, saying that he had an appointment with a police inspector at Scotland Yard as part of a new case concerning the mysterious disappearance of a Russian ballerina from a famous touring company. His parting words were that the case had a number of fascinating features which keenly interested him. Without further dialogue he was off, an enigmatic figure gracing the darkened streets of the capital in pursuit of the inexplicable. I closed the door behind him and smiled - it was exactly the way that I wished to remember Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  The Adventure of the Double-Edged Hoard

  by Craig Janacek

  It was an early December day, the snow still fresh on the ground, when Sherlock Holmes inquired if I would be interested in assisting him with another one of his cases. As it was only towards the tail end of the first year of our association, there were but a rare few adventures in which he had to date deigned to include me, despite my great curiosity regarding the matters of the mystery at Lauriston Gardens, or the disappearance of Mr. James Simmons from the Savoy.[1]

  On the day in question, which itself was happily free of the typical gloomy winter fogs, Baker Street was still enjoying its morning quiet before the roar of passing hansoms and omnibuses would begin to fill the air. The two of us had recently finished breaking our f
ast. I was absently perusing the morning editions, while in the armchair across from me, Holmes was smoking his morning dottles and reading Langemann’s Textbook on Metallurgy.

  “Hark to that!” said Holmes, snapping closed the book and pulling his long legs back from the cheery fire. “Why, if I am not mistaken, I think we are about to have a caller.”

  I glanced up. “Why do you say that, Holmes?”

  “The overwhelming majority of people, Watson, rarely utilize the full gamut of their senses. Vision, of course, is employed, though there is a vast chasm between seeing and observing. But the others are sadly neglected except during unusual occasions when a person turns his complete attention to the sense in question, such as during a concert by Norman-Neruda at the Albert Hall, or while enjoying an epicurean repast at Simpson’s. I, on the other hand, have engaged in a systematic training that enables my senses to be alert at all times. That is how I can tell that a police wagon has just pulled up in front of our rooms.”

  I stood and made my way over to the half-parted blinds in order to verify his statement. As he had predicted, I noted the presence of a Black Maria at the curb of the snowy street.[2] I shook my head in amazement. “I fail to see, Holmes, how you could tell it was a police wagon rather than any other four-wheeled carriage?”

  “The bell, Watson, the bell.”

  Any further explanation was cut short by a knocking upon the door. The boy in buttons entered to announce our visitor, which proved to be our old-acquaintance Constable John Rance. Despite Holmes’s previous ill-treatment of the man, the constable had come around to the opinion that Holmes was a bit of a magician and had forgiven Holmes’s once harsh words.

  Holmes peered at the man. “From whom do you bring a message, Mr. Rance?”

  Rance pulled a note from his coat pocket. “From Inspector Lestrade,” he replied, handing it over.

  Holmes nodded, as if this confirmed a theory of his, and without looking at it, he glanced over at me. “What do you, say, Watson, to a trip up to Cambridge?”

  Rance gave a little jump of surprise, and his features assumed a mystified expression. “Have you been hiding in the telegram room at Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes chuckled. “No, that sounds like a dull occupation indeed, Constable. If I recall my Bradshaw’s correctly, pray inform Lestrade that we will arrive upon the eleven o’clock train.”

  The man’s brows furrowed in utmost astonishment and he tipped his hat. “Very good, sir.”

  When Rance had departed, Holmes turned to me with a smile. “Well, Watson, are you coming?”

  I nodded my agreement. “Why not? It is a case, I presume?”

  “Oh yes, and quite a peculiar one. Certain elements bring to mind the Williams case of ‘11 or the more recent Greenwich hammer attack.[3] The official forces are completely puzzled, of course. Hence they are calling me in to shed some light where all is dark.”

  I shook my head. “How could you possibly know that, Holmes? You haven’t even opened the note. I admit that I am as mystified as Constable Rance.”

  Holmes laughed. “I am afraid that was rather simple, Watson. There was a note of the case in last night’s paper, which mentioned that our old friend Lestrade had been called in to assist the local force. As soon as Rance told me the sender of the note, I knew exactly what it must comprise.”

  “Ah, that is rather simple then.”

  “Everything unknown passes for something splendid, Watson. The sad part of science is that it can, at times, take some of the wonder out of the world. For myself, I prefer to maintain a bit of mystery to my methods. It elevates my little reputation amongst the official police force.”

  I glanced at my pocket-watch. “If we are to meet Lestrade as promised, we must set off at once. Should I pack a valise?”

  Holmes shook his head as he threw on his long grey travelling cloak and close-fitting cap. “No, I imagine we should be back well before the bell strikes midnight. I expect this to be a simple matter.”

  Thirty minutes later, when we had finally settled into the otherwise empty train carriage, Holmes pulled out his briar-wood pipe and crossed his legs. “Would you care to hear an account of the case, Watson?”

  “Of course, Holmes. I am all ears,” said I, leaning forward.

  “Both Lestrade’s note and the London dailies are rather vague, but I tracked down a copy of yesterday’s local paper which has a concise account of the circumstances. Here are the facts as I know them, Watson. Two nights ago, Dr. Everett Ackroyd, Regius Professor of History at Cambridge University[4] and Director of the Fitzwilliam Museum, was murdered within a stone’s throw of the entrance to the Old Court at Pembroke College. It appears that the eminent professor was highly beloved by both his students and the townsfolk; therefore his sudden slaying has excited strong concerns that others may be in danger.”[5]

  “A tragic story, to be sure, Holmes, but hardly that unusual. Why the concern that anyone else is at risk?”

  “Because of the particularly brutal form of the murder. It seems, Watson, that Dr. Ackroyd left the Museum about half-past five in the afternoon in order to meet the train due from York at three minutes after six. He was accompanied by his old friend and comrade, Professor William Sidney, Sub-Curator of the Museum and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxons.[6] The object of these two esteemed gentlemen in meeting this particular train was to receive the legacy bequeathed by the late Earl of Chesterfield to the Museum.”

  “The same Earl of Chesterfield who recently was killed by his assistant?” I interjected, the lurid details still somewhat fresh in my recollection.

  “Precisely, Watson. While it is far too early to form any definitive hypotheses, we must consider that the Earl’s recent demise may in some way be connected to the mystery at hand. It appears that Chesterfield left his personal collection of medieval weapons, as well as several priceless illuminated manuscripts, to enrich the museum of his alma mater. Dr. Ackroyd refused to entrust the reception and care of this valuable legacy to a mere subordinate. Therefore, with the assistance of Professor Sidney, the two men proceeded to remove the entire collection from the train, and packed it away into the Museum’s gig.”

  “Hold a minute, Holmes. How old was Dr. Ackroyd?”

  Holmes smiled. “An excellent question, Watson, and one that had also occurred to me. The paper is silent on this matter, but a quick perusal of Bulmer’s Directory before our departure from Baker Street informed me that Dr. Ackroyd was born in 1806.”[7]

  “So, he was seventy-five years old? And his colleague, Professor Sidney, was he of a similar age?”

  “Much the same, Watson. He was only two years younger than Dr. Ackroyd.”

  I shook my head. “That is most unusual, Holmes, for two such distinguished and elderly men to perform their own manual labor.”

  “I concur, Watson. Most of the manuscripts and more fragile items were packed in cases of pinewood, but many of the weapons were simply done round with velvet, so that considerable effort was involved in moving them all. However, it seems that Dr. Ackroyd was so nervous that any object be injured in the process that he refused to allow any of the railway employees to assist. Every article was carried across the platform by Professor Sidney and handed to Dr. Ackroyd in the cart. When everything was in its place, the two gentlemen personally drove the cart back to the Museum. It appears that Professor Sidney later testified that Dr. Ackroyd was in excellent spirits, and not a little proud of his feat of physical exertion. He even made some jest in allusion of his prowess to a Mr. Ramsey, the museum’s janitor. The latter had met the cart upon its return, and enlisting the help of his friend Walton, the pair of them unloaded the contents under the watchful eyes of the two older gentlemen. Once Dr. Ackroyd was satisfied that his new curiosities were safely tucked away in the storeroom and the door locked, he entrusted the key to his sub-curator. He bid the
three men ‘good evening’ and departed in the direction of his college. He was never seen alive again.”

  “What happened?” I asked, aghast.

  “At eleven o’clock, about an hour-and-a-half after Dr. Ackroyd’s departure from the Museum, a commissionaire was passing along the front of Pembroke College and came across the lifeless body of the professor lying a little way from the side of the road. According to the paper, Dr. Ackroyd had fallen upon his face, with both hands stretched out. His head was literally split in two halves by a tremendous blow, which it is conjectured must have been struck from behind.”

  “Why would they conclude such a thing?”

  “Because Dr. Ackroyd had a peaceful smile upon his face, Watson. It was as if he had still been dwelling upon his new archeologic acquisitions when the blow suddenly fell. There was no other mark of violence upon the body, except a bruise upon his left kneecap, presumably caused by the fall itself.”

  “Have they determined a motive?”

  “Ah, that is the most mysterious part of the affair. Dr. Ackroyd’s purse still contained forty-two pounds, and his golden pocket-watch was untouched. Robbery cannot, therefore, have been the incentive to the deed.”

  “Unless the assassin was disturbed before he could complete his work,” I suggested.

  Holmes shook his head. “It will not do, Watson. This idea is refuted by the fact that nobody reported such a thing. And the body was stone-cold when it was discovered by the commissionaire. I highly doubt whether the local coroner is capable of fixing a precise time of death, but even on a mid-winter’s night, it would take some time for that to occur.”

  “So why precisely are you involved, Holmes?”