The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters

by Michael Kurland

  “What do you intend to do with the information? Where will you go from here?” I quizzed.

  “One question at a time, Watson,” Holmes responded. “What I intend to do is complicated, but in the final analysis Lord Ashton Pritchard himself will tell me either that he is a dishonest rascal, as his detractors allege, or merely a misjudged, loyal representative of the Crown. And where I go from here is elementary—straight to the horse’s mouth.”

  Chapter 3

  A QUESTION OF INTEGRITY

  The Honourable Lord Pritchard sat comfortably in his chambers in the inner sanctum of the Palace of Westminster—sitting comfortably was what he did best—and, together with a beautiful, young woman on his staff, he reviewed the list of visitors who had requested an audience with him. Lord Pritchard, a handsome, fashionable figure in his early forties, wore his perfectly-coiffed, light brown hair parted in the middle, and he was forever glancing at himself in the mirror of a small makeup case he kept on the corner of his desk.

  He was always encircled by gorgeous sycophants, who doted over him like mother hens as a routine function of their official duties. They delivered on a silver salver his newspaper and coffee in the morning, tea and crumpets in the afternoon, and frequently one of the elegant attendants would accompany him to a fine restaurant in the evening, then later to a play or concert, depending on his preference.

  “Lady Hartpence—what does she want?” Lord Pritchard inquired as he studied the list of ten visitors.

  “She seeks a position on the Antiquities Commission,” came the nonchalant reply.

  “Lady Hartpence is not one of my favourite guests. Let her wait until she becomes bored, then tell her I shall consider her when a vacancy occurs,” Lord Pritchard ordered arrogantly.

  “Now here is someone unfamiliar to me, Ian Crutchfield. What is this all about?” his lordship asked.

  “He says he was sent by Mr Joshua Heinz and wishes to conceal his reason for coming until he meets with you in seclusion,” the young woman apprised.

  “Hmm. Very well, I shall see him first, then,” the nobleman stated, surprising his underling.

  Ian Crutchfield humbly entered the spacious office and respectfully introduced himself, complying with the appropriate protocol.

  “What brings you here, Crutchfield?” Lord Pritchard wanted to know, leaving his visitor standing and hanging on to a satchel. “Do you also represent the British East India Company, as did your associate, Joshua Heinz?”

  “Why, yes, I do, as a matter of fact,” Crutchfield acknowledged. “Our company was much contented with the results of your campaign to increase the taxes on its competitors, the spice traders who deal with the hierarchy on the isle of Sumatra.”

  “Do you propose another mutually beneficial arrangement?” Lord Pritchard queried boldly, his voice low but dripping with expectation.

  “Yes, but your role in this instance would be more complex,” Crutchfield disclosed. “We need you to intercede with Queen Victoria, who is likely to sign the treaty with the Americans to eliminate tariffs completely on gems and jewellery, a treaty that would negatively impact the importation of those luxury goods from our colonial nation, India.”

  “Intercede with the Queen? It might be beyond the limits of my capacity,” Lord Pritchard said plaintively, aghast at the notion.

  “If you cannot accomplish that, perhaps you could lead an effort in the Upper House to block the treaty, if she signs it,” Crutchfield countered.

  “And controvert the will of the royalty?” Lord Pritchard argued.

  “It is a reasonable alternative to seeing the British East India Company injured severely,” Crutchfield further debated.

  “I need some time, time to contemplate this. Come see me the day after tomorrow and we shall discuss it again,” Lord Pritchard decided.

  After Crutchfield’s departure, Lord Pritchard notified his staff that all other engagements were to be cancelled. He paced on his plush red carpet and attempted to visualise a strategy, tantalised by the prospect of a lucrative reward for successfully influencing Her Majesty. He rehearsed the words in his approach to her, then he arrived at the conclusion that his intelligence and glibness would win her over.

  But what if she refused to grant him the opportunity to meet? He ironed out this contingency by substituting her presence with that of the prime minister. “Surely he will listen to my pleadings and agree with my position,” Lord Pritchard said aloud to himself. “He will carry my message to Queen Victoria and persuade her to see the dangers in signing a pact with the Americans.”

  * * * *

  The next day, Lord Pritchard cleared his calendar and made a journey to Buckingham Palace, where he exerted his clout to speak to Her Majesty’s appointments secretary. The gentleman was annoyingly formal and he interrogated the politician about his purpose, asking why he declined to employ the proper channels to gain an audience with the Queen.

  “The matter is an urgent one, and the proper channels expend valuable time,” Lord Pritchard informed the appointments secretary.

  “Nonetheless, it is necessary that you follow procedure,” the aide advised. “I shall render a decision once I hear from your sponsors in the nobility.”

  Lord Pritchard failed to accept this rejection gracefully and left the room in a huff, heading directly to Number 10 Downing Street to secure an appointment with the prime minister. There, he found the atmosphere more accommodating and arranged a dialogue with the prime minister for the following Tuesday.

  Satisfied, Lord Pritchard returned to his chambers and summoned to his desk the newest member of his staff, a curvaceous, blue-eyed, exquisitely-attired bookkeeper with honey-blond hair and an infectious personality.

  “I have cause to celebrate a victory today,” he said to her cheerfully. “Make reservations for the two of us tonight at six o’clock for a table in the Chancellor’s Room of the University Club.”

  “With pleasure, my Lord, right away,” she responded, with excitement in her voice.

  * * * *

  At mid-morning the following day, Ian Crutchfield appeared in the outer office of Lord Pritchard, this time with a companion, Sir Wendell Bernard. They were shown into the inner chamber after they were announced by the office manager.

  “I have brought along my superior, who has the authority to negotiate your recompense if you accede to our appeal,” Crutchfield began.

  “I already have taken steps in that direction,” Lord Pritchard revealed. “I shall enumerate your concerns to the prime minister next Tuesday at three o’clock, and he will present them to Queen Victoria. That is the normal chain of command. We mustn’t avoid protocol in an issue as delicate as yours.

  “As for my recompense, it will be double that which I received in the Dutch East Indies affair. The troubles with which I am now burdened are twice as knotty. I should like a deposit of five thousand pounds this afternoon.”

  “Your terms are acceptable, Lord Pritchard, and we shall return later today with the money,” said Sir Wendell Bernard. “Which do you prefer, small or large notes?”

  “Small—they raise fewer eyebrows,” his lordship instructed as the men turned to exit. As they left, he rang the brass bell on his desk and told the young woman who answered his call to contact the caterer on Edgeware Road.

  “I am providing lunch for my staff, and I want only the best cuisine London has to offer,” he explained. “If the proprietor objects to such short notice, make him aware that the fare is for The Honourable Lord Pritchard. Then he will apologise for being contrary.”

  * * * *

  Ian Crutchfield and Sir Wendell Bernard arrived back at the House of Lords at one-thirty, Crutchfield clutching his satchel that now bulged on the sides. Crutchfield’s superior spoke first as they stood patiently at Lord Pritchard’s desk while he finished the last bite of his luncheon repast.

  “Do you wish to count it?” Sir Wendell begged to know.

  “Heavens no, not now, I trust that it’s all t
here. I would not want to be here doing nothing but counting the rest of the day,” Lord Pritchard complained. “Just empty the contents of your bag into the safe over by the sideboard. The door is unlocked.”

  The visitors did as directed and returned to the front of the desk, standing erect and silent.

  “Is there something else you wish to discuss?” Lord Pritchard asked irritably.

  “Yes, there is,” Crutchfield spouted. “How much was the bribe Joshua Heinz paid you to promote his cause in the tariffs affair?”

  “It was not a bribe!” his lordship proclaimed. “It was a reward for my efforts. Besides, you should know the answer to your own question. You are his associate.”

  “Actually, I am not,” the visitor revealed. “I never made the acquaintance of Joshua Heinz. I deceived you, Lord Pritchard. My name is not even Ian Crutchfield. I masqueraded as Ian Crutchfield to obscure my true identity, because my real name has been the subject of notoriety. I am Sherlock Holmes, the renowned consulting detective.”

  “And your partner—is he an accomplice in your charade?” Lord Pritchard demanded.

  “Yes, he is,” Holmes additionally disclosed. “He is Inspector Peter Jones, an official police agent from Scotland Yard.”

  “Imposters! What are your designs?” Lord Pritchard further demanded.

  At this point, Inspector Jones entered the confrontation.

  “I am taking you into custody for malfeasance,” he stated bluntly. “You can come with me peaceably or make a scene. In the latter event, I shall blow my whistle and summon the two constables I have stationed in the hallway.”

  “I insist first on speaking to my lawyer,” Lord Pritchard said with indignation.

  “You can meet your barrister at headquarters,” Inspector Jones informed him. “All prisoners have the right to talk to their attorneys, but only after we follow certain procedures.” He then produced a set of handcuffs and clasped them on Lord Pritchard’s wrists.

  “This is madness, I tell you. I shall have your job for this,” his lordship snapped as he was escorted out of the office, past his horrified admirers.

  Holmes stayed behind and guarded the safe until one of the uniformed officers relieved him, having secured the agitated miscreant in a waiting carriage for transport to the lockup.

  * * * *

  Holmes returned to Baker Street and related to me the details of his escapade. Clapping my hands, I congratulated him on the successful ending of a difficult case, but he cautioned me to hold the applause, because there were matters still unresolved.

  “My work has only just begun,” he said curiously. “That Lord Pritchard was corruptible has been established, but the story of Joshua Heinz, the man with the crooked nose, has yet to be written. And the cost of cinnamon remains triple what it ought to be.”

  Chapter 4

  A SHADOWY FIGURE

  Sherlock Holmes was enamoured with the news account in the next morning’s edition of the Times, which headlined the arrest of Lord Pritchard in the top right-hand column of the front page, and, in an editorial with harsh wording, the newspaper condemned the wretched condition of Parliament’s moral fibre.

  “This is brutal, Watson!” my fellow-lodger exclaimed. “It is so refreshing to read that the newsies are distressed about the conduct of Lord Pritchard, over whom they once fawned because his antics in the Upper House gave them reams of controversial material to publish.” Holmes surmised that the politician would be overcome with humiliation and depression, which would render him ripe for a tell-all interview. “I shall drop in on him at the jail before he is released on bail and see if he is ready to cough up some incriminating facts about Joshua Heinz. Once Lord Pritchard posts bond, he is likely to feel emboldened and keep quiet about his co-conspirator.”

  “I can’t fathom his lordship keeping quiet about anything,” I quipped.

  Just then, Billy, a page boy at Baker Street, clambered up the stairs, knocked, and entered our rooms.

  “I have a message for you, Mr Holmes,” he sputtered, “and it is marked ‘personal-confidential.’ Do you want me to wait for a reply?”

  Holmes took the envelope, broke the seal, and quickly scanned the communiqué. He handed over the envelope to me so I could see the return address and he told Billy there was no reply, giving him two shillings for the prompt delivery. I saw that the letter came from a Mr Harold Upshaw, comptroller of the British East India Company, and I was eager to hear what he had to say to Holmes.

  “Mr Upshaw is disturbed by the publicity his company endured this morning and wants me to call on him today to ‘set the record straight,’” Holmes quoted from the message. “I am just as eager as he to get to the bottom of the Joshua Heinz conundrum. Well, Watson, are you up for a busy afternoon?”

  “By all means, let’s be on our way,” I answered, tickled that Holmes would invite me along on this caper, because I welcomed a chance to psycho-analyse the egotistical Lord Pritchard, given my longstanding fascination with the brain patterns of dishonest government personnel.

  Holmes had accurately predicted the emotional state of his lordship, for when we encountered him in the cellblock, he expressed remorse for his predicament and wondered aloud if his colleagues would expel him from the House of Lords due to the shame he brought upon them.

  “In here, I am treated like a common criminal,” he mourned, rubbing the stubble on his chin and cheeks.

  “You are not all that common,” Holmes said with sarcasm, “but there is a means by which you may redeem yourself and improve your circumstances.”

  “Tell me how. I demand to be freed at once,” Lord Pritchard stated.

  “Make a clean breast of your wrongdoings, reveal the names of those who have paid you to perform, and testify against them in court,” Holmes proposed.

  “But that would only ensure my censure by the Lords,” he replied.

  “That is inevitable, I’m afraid,” said Holmes confidently. “Your only choice is to cooperate with the authorities.”

  “That is the same argument Inspector Jones presented to me this morning, and I told him then that I would ponder the possibility,” Lord Pritchard recalled. “I have the same response for you, Holmes. After all, it is you who is responsible for my ruination.”

  “On the contrary, Pritchard, you alone are responsible,” Holmes retorted. “Show some good faith and begin with what you know about Joshua Heinz of the British East India Company.”

  “Oh, him. Why such interest in a minor character in a much more elaborate drama?” the prisoner queried, raising the prospect of deeper waters than Holmes had envisioned.

  “I have my reasons for probing his role in your misconduct, not the least of which is the exorbitant price of cinnamon,” Holmes recited.

  “The exorbitant price of cinnamon? What has that got to do with all this?” a bewildered Lord Pritchard asked irritably.

  “It is just a quirk of mine,” Holmes admitted to him. “Pay no attention, but it appears you are oblivious to the repercussions of your actions, as well as the deleterious impact they wrought on households throughout the empire. More so, I am curious to know how you came to be associated with the crooked-nosed Heinz.”

  “We were introduced at a party in the French ambassador’s mansion, but that is the extent into which I wish to delve at this time,” Lord Pritchard concluded. “Now leave me in solitude before I beckon the guards.”

  After we left his lordship stewing in his own juices, Holmes and I reported his obstinate nature to Inspector Jones, who threw up his large hands in disgust and enlightened us about the defendant’s lawyer claiming entrapment by the police.

  “He will attempt to have the charges dismissed by raising that issue,” the inspector complained.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Holmes said to reassure him. “By the time that defence is proffered, Joshua Heinz will have confessed to bribery and agreed to bear witness against Lord Pritchard.”

  “If only I could share your certainty, I would f
eel less pessimistic—my career hangs in the balance,” said the officer ruefully, his puffy cheeks red from anxiety and his wide, grey eyes darting between the two of us.

  On the way out of police headquarters, Holmes sought my impressions of Lord Pritchard’s brain patterns, and I conjectured that his remorse failed to be grounded in the heinous aspect of the offenses for which he had been jailed.

  “He is only sorry that he has been caught, not because he has betrayed the trust of the population,” I theorised. “This is the typical posture of a supercilious aristocrat who is inclined toward recidivism.”

  “His contempt for the public aside, Lord Pritchard will become even more mighty if Inspector Jones’s fears of an acquittal materialise,” Holmes forewarned.

  Our next destination was a complex of office buildings and warehouses near the riverfront on Commercial Road, where we would come vis-à-vis with a belligerent Harold Upshaw, comptroller of the British East India Company and a staunch critic of the press, Scotland Yard, and Holmes, too.

  “Where did this preposterous notion originate that Joshua Heinz represented our firm in an illegitimate plot with Lord Pritchard?” Mr Upshaw demanded to know immediately upon our arrival.

  Holmes politely gave him an explanation, admirably holding his temper.

  Mr Upshaw made a comment that indicated he understood, then startled us both with what else he had to say:

  “We have no one employed here by the name of Joshua Heinz, nor is he our lobbyist or an agent of any kind. He falsely held himself out to be acting on our behalf. We insist on an apology that must appear in print tomorrow, or we shall file a lawsuit for defamation because of the damage to our reputation.”

  “Your frustration is misdirected,” Holmes countered. “The apology you desire must come from Heinz himself and the newspapers that reported his misrepresentation as gospel. I and the police cannot be held liable for the activities of a lawbreaker and the press.”