The League of Mendacious Men (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 10)

by Steven Ehrman

  The League of Mendacious Men

  A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale

  Steven Ehrman

  Copyright © 2015 Steven Ehrman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:1508630879

  ISBN-13: 978-1508630876

  DEDICATION

  To Audrey with my enduring love.

  DEDICATION

  Works by the Same Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  special note

  Works by the Same Author

  The Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tales

  The Eccentric Painter

  The Iron Dog

  The Mad Judge

  The Spider Web

  The Lambs Lane Affair

  The Rising Minister

  Robin Hood’s Revenge

  The Spanish Butler

  The Viking General

  The League of Mendacious Men

  The Frank Randall Mysteries

  The Referral Game

  The Visible Suspect

  The Zombie Civilization Saga

  Zombie Civilization: Genesis

  Zombie Civilization: Exodus

  Coming soon:

  Zombie Civilization: Numbers

  Chapter One

  “So, you have a meeting with Mr. Arthur Blake this evening, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  Holmes and I were in our sitting room as he made his comment. I had been reading and had not mentioned to my friend my plans for the evening. The surprise at his deduction evidently played out on my face, as I saw Holmes break into a slight smile.

  “It is true, Holmes, though I cannot see how you could know such a thing,” I replied.

  “The observation is a mere trifle, Doctor,” he said in a light-hearted fashion. “As a child could see, you are presently reading the poetry of Jonathan Swift.”

  “I do not see how that is instructive.”

  “To one who knows you as well as I, it is very illuminating.”

  “I am intrigued, Holmes,” said I. “Please continue.”

  “It is only that although you are fond of Gulliver’s Travels, you find Mr. Swift to be somewhat vulgar in his other writings. Do not protest, I know it to be true,” said Holmes, as I raised a hand. “I myself am not a patron of the poets of our island. I believe you once described my knowledge of literature as ‘nil’.”

  I grimaced as he spoke the words. It was true that I had once attempted to catalogue Holmes’s interests early in our relationship. As I grew to know the man, I realized just how inaccurate my attempt had been.

  “Holmes, that was long ago, and I made that list as a way to fill the hours back during my convalescence when I was mustered out of the Army.”

  “Of course, but in any case the only times I have known you to read the poetry of Swift is when you have an engagement with Arthur Blake. He being a poet of Irish extraction, the connection is obvious. Admit it, Doctor, you are studying as if for an exam.”

  I could contain myself no longer, and I burst out in laughter.

  “Very well, Holmes,” said I. “It is true that I find Swift a bit coarse. I do have a social engagement with Blake this evening. Despite my affection for the man, he does have a tendency to make me feel as if I am a callow youth with no appreciation for the arts. So I am, in fact, studying as if I were at university. Blake simply adores Swift, and I thought that perhaps a well-chosen line or two from one of his poems might make me appear more erudite than I actually am.”

  “Watson, you are a man of science,” said Holmes. “You have no reason to feel inferior to any man.”

  I felt a great warmth towards Holmes for his kind words.

  “Even so, it is no great inconvenience to brush up upon the work of a master satirist such as Swift. I shall not be the center of attention tonight at any rate. I am a mere visitor to the League, with no voting rights.”

  The poet, Arthur Blake, and I had become acquainted through the offices of an old friend of mine in Afghanistan. Blake was a fine fellow and though he was quite different from myself, we had become friends. He was a member of one of the most unusual clubs in London. They called themselves The League of Mendacious Men. The League was a social group whose members regaled each other with the most outlandish of tall tales.

  This exclusive club had a membership that was capped at seven members. In order to gain admittance, a prospective member had to be sponsored by a current member and then had to pass a test to be asked to join. The test consisted of the telling of an original tall tale in front of the established members. A vote was taken upon the completion of the story. A single nay vote was enough to doom a prospective member. I had been invited as a guest by Blake to observe the festivities, such as they were.

  “A night at that liars club sounds simply tedious to me, Doctor,” said Holmes with a scowl.

  “Holmes, those are surprising words coming from a detective.”

  “Why surprising, Watson?”

  “Because a man in your chosen profession often deals with those who hold the truth as only a passing acquaintance.”

  “That is true, of course, but rooting out a criminal is much different than trading stories over cigars and brandy.”

  “I believe the gentlemen of the League drink whiskey and soda as a rule, but your point is well taken,” said I. “It is mere diversion, but then what are social clubs for?”

  “Perhaps you are right, Doctor,” said Holmes. “Although such entertainment is not something which I seek out, many men do enjoy such gatherings. Even Mycroft belongs to a club.”

  “This may be the most difficult club in London to join, as they have only seven members. The death of Sir Rodney North has opened up a berth for someone.”

  “With such a small number, those who are already members must be a most select group,” said Holmes.

  “That is the real oddity of the club, Holmes,” said I. “The members, while all accomplished men, are not the most famous or even richest men of London. Blake says that the League prides itself on being an eclectic group. The League feels that too many like-minded men would prove dull indeed.”

  “Whom do you know in the League besides Mr. Blake?”

  “Only one,” I replied. “That is Colonel Raymond Pelham, the explorer, and I know him only slightly. Harold Wainwright, the esteemed American journalist, is the new prospective member. Oh dear, look at the time. I must be off, Holmes.”

  I soon excused myself and hurried from our rooms. The League of Mendacious Men was on St. James Street, and I hailed a cab. I might have walked had I left earlier, but as I was expected at eight o’clock, with a cab I would just make it.

  With several minutes to spare I was deposited on the sidewalk in front of the club. A dignified doorman took my name and led me inside.

  The room I entered was an ornate one and seemed typical of any ordinary London gentlemen’s club. There was a cheery fire, and the smell of cigars was strongly present in the air. There was an assortment of leather chairs and sofas, but a single round table dominated the room. A small knot of men were holding court near a sideboard that served as a drink tray. The group included Arthur Blake. My host spotted me immediately and quickly made his way to my side. Blake was a strongly built fellow
of forty-five years. He had the long, flowing hair of the artist and the quick wit of the Irish people.

  “Watson,” said he in his familiar Irish lilt, “how wonderful to see you. I am glad you could make it.”

  “I would not have missed this for the world, Blake,” I replied.

  “I hope you appreciate just how special this night is. It is not every day that The League of Mendacious Men approves a new member.”

  Just then we were joined by an older man. He was white of hair and had a distinguished carriage about him. He slapped Blake on the back in a hearty manner.

  “Well, my boy, is this the visitor to our club that you have been telling us about?”

  “It is indeed, sir,” said Blake with a wide grin. “Dr. John Watson, allow me to introduce you to Judge Edward Bainbridge.”

  I bowed to the gentleman and he received it with a dignity that stated it was his due. Blake had previously told me that the Judge was a widower and that the man had lost a daughter as well. It seemed a great deal of tragedy for one lifetime.

  “Jonathan, come greet our guest,” said the Judge.

  A man of medium height and some forty years of age nodded, excused himself from the others, and approached. He had a full, dark beard and glasses. He was introduced to me as Jonathan Sawyer, a South African by birth. He had been orphaned as a boy and had, by the force of his will, made his fortune in his country’s diamond mines and immigrated to England ten years ago.

  In turn I was acquainted with the rest of the members. Captain Joseph Marbury was a tall, stout man with fiery red hair and a walrus mustache to match. He had crossed the Atlantic many times as a respected master of passenger steamships.

  A short, balding man past middle age was introduced as Wallace Hunter. I discovered he was a wealthy investor of the City. He seemed a melancholy sort that evening. I wondered if it was his natural temperament or if he was experiencing some unhappiness in his life.

  Next in line was Colonel Raymond Pelham, the explorer. He was a tall, slender man with a military carriage and a bristling mustache. I was well acquainted with the name, but I had only met him in passing at social events.

  The last member of the group was the prospective inductee, Harold Wainwright, the American journalist. He was a painfully gaunt fellow with red hair. He was clean-shaven, in the American fashion, and flashed a winning smile as we were introduced. I knew of the man, his reputation was a growing one, but had never met him in person before.

  There was much jocularity directed at Wainwright. The members reminded him that his application depended upon an entertaining tall tale. With good-natured laughter we were soon seated at the round table. It was clear that the table normally seated only seven and that an eighth chair had been added to accommodate myself. It made for a somewhat crowded, but intimate setting.

  There were no servants inside the club proper, and the members mixed their own drinks. I made myself a whiskey and soda, as did most of the others. Only the Judge drank brandy, and I noticed he made several trips to the sideboard.

  Conversation around the table became general. I had the Judge to one side of me and Colonel Pelham on the other. He was describing his speaking tour of America from several years past.

  “It is a wonderful country, Doctor,” he said. “The people are friendly and warm. In fact, I first met Wainwright in New York City during my tour. He was working for one of the city’s papers.”

  “That’s right,” said Wainwright’s voice from across the table. “He was good enough to give an interview to a humble provincial.”

  “Then was it you who sponsored Mr. Wainwright?” I asked of the Colonel.

  “No, though I endorse his membership,” he replied. “In fact, it was Hunter who nominated our representative of the fourth estate.”

  He motioned towards the balding investor. Wallace Hunter was sitting next to the Judge. They appeared to be in close conversation.

  “They have been thick as thieves lately,” he continued, “and when Sir Rodney passed we all agreed that perhaps it was time to open up the membership to our American cousins. We value the diversity of our membership.”

  I heartily agreed with the renowned explorer. I had always found diversity of thought a fine course to set. I would have said more, but I saw that Arthur Blake had risen. He produced a gavel and rapped the table with it. The membership recognized the call to order and conversation ceased.

  Blake had already told me that the chairmanship was rotated on a monthly basis and that he held the chair for this month.

  “Brothers of The League of Mendacious Men,” he intoned, “I call this meeting to order. As you all know, a seat has become open among our company with the passing of Sir Rodney North,” vague murmuring came from around the table, “and tonight the membership shall pass judgement upon a new member. Who sponsors this man?”

  Blake had pointed at Harold Wainwright.

  “I do,” said Wallace Hunter in a clear voice.

  “Then all is in order. Mr. Harold Wainwright, please rise,” said Blake.

  Wainwright did as he was bidden.

  “Have you a story for the membership?” asked Blake.

  “I do, Mr. Chairman,” said Wainwright.

  “Then please tell it,” said Arthur Blake. “And remember that we will vote on your ability to tell a pleasing tale. The floor is yours.”

  Chapter Two

  Harold Wainwright nervously cleared his throat. He looked at each man in turn before beginning.

  “I was in a bar in New York many years ago having a drink at a table alone when two men entered. Mind you, they did not enter at once. The first man came in, sat at a table, and ordered a drink. He was a tall, ruddy man, well-built, and with long whiskers down each side of his face, which was the custom at the time. He was drinking in silence when the second man entered. This fellow was a shorter man with a slender build. He passed the first man and then came to a stop. He turned and faced the first man with astonishment in his eyes. The conversation ran as follows.”

  “Why, Bill, you son of a gun,” said the second man. “I can hardly believe my eyes.”

  The first man, who was evidently Bill, looked to the other and smiled.

  “Jim, why the astonishment?” he asked. “Are you surprised to see me or are you surprised to see me in a bar? Neither is a cause for shock. New York is my home, so it should not be surprising to find me here, and as my drinking habits are well-known, finding me in a tavern is equally unsurprising. In any case, please join me. This is my first day back home.”

  Jim sat down, but continued to stare, slack-jawed, at his fellow human being.

  “Bill,” he finally began, “it is just that I heard that you were dead.”

  “I heard that same rumour, old friend, but I knew it wasn’t true right away.”

  “Of course you did,” said Jim with a rueful smile, “and now I see the same for myself. Tell me, old friend, what have you been up to these past few years? You being a native Knickerbocker, it was a rude awakening to find that you had abandoned Gotham.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Jim. As my twenties faded into my thirties, I found myself staring straight at old mister forty with nary an accomplishment to my name. I decided upon a program in which I would face as much danger as a modern man can get. There being no dragons to slay, I decided upon the most fearsome predator on the continent to confront.”

  “What beast would that be, Bill?” asked Jim.

  “I decided upon the mighty grizzly bear. I would hunt one down and kill it.”

  “But, Bill, that ain’t too dangerous. With a rifle you could kill a grizzly before it got within a hundred yards of you.”

  “You misunderstand my mission. I wanted each task as difficult as possible. That being the case, I resolved to kill my grizzly barehanded.”

  “Well, Lord Almighty,” returned a dazed Jim.

  “So I made my way out to the Wyoming Territory and began tramping through the woods trying to find a bear, but they
got a breed of talking owls out West. They figured out who I was and what I was doing (they don’t like hunters), so they began calling out Bill’s a comin’ whenever I went into the woods.”

  “What did you do, Bill?”

  “Well, I didn’t have a gun, so they felt pretty safe. I finally decided that I would throw a rock at the next one that bothered me. You remember that I was starting pitcher for The Brooklyn Heights Zephyrs, right?”

  Jim nodded vigorously.

  “I found me a likely looking throwing stone and put it my pocket. The next owl that called out my name, I threw my special speedball and killed him straight out. I retrieved the stone, and the next four owls got the same treatment. At that time the owls and I made an agreement. They could let the forest know they see someone, but they had to pretend that they didn’t know me. We agreed they could ask ‘who’, but nothing else.”

  “Well, that must have spread, Bill, ‘cause that’s what they say around here too.”

  “It likely did spread. Anyways, I kept on tramping through the woods trying to find a grizzly. It’s just like finding a policeman, when you want one they are never there, and when you don’t want one you can’t get rid of them.

  “I looked for my grizzly all summer and fall. It finally turned to winter and the local folks told me the bears were all hibernating by then. It seems they sleep through the winter. That sounded like an admirable idea, but it didn’t stop me. It got mighty cold that winter. I froze up solid a couple of times at night, but the sun always melted me out the next morning.

  “Finally I found a likely looking cave, and I stood at the mouth of it and shouted out asking were any bears in there. I didn’t have long to wait, as a huge old grizzly with a nightcap on came out at a trot. Seems I woke him up and he was powerful upset.

  “He saw that I didn’t have no firearm, and I swear that he sat on his haunches and laughed at the sight of a human animal facing down one of his kind with nothing but balled fists. He quit laughing pretty quick when I slugged him one in the jaw and knocked him over. Now, we went at it pretty good for about five days. Bears are wonderful wrestlers and this one, I found out later his name was Bob, was as good as any of his kind. Finally, on the fifth day I landed a beauty of a left hook square on his nose and he went down hard. I jumped on him and pinned his shoulders to the ground and asked him if he was ready to cry uncle. He said he was and that ended the match.