The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part I

by David Marcum

  Sherlock Holmes of London

  A Verse in Four Fits

  by Michael Kurland

  If you’ve a missing heir to locate, or a bank you have to guard,

  There’s only one detective, and he’s not from Scotland Yard.

  When the duke has lost his coronet or the treaty’s gone astray,

  It’s Sherlock Holmes of London who’s called in to save the day!

  What the dog did in the night-time only Sherlock Holmes can hear.

  He knows why the boot was missing from the doorway of the peer.

  You may find him considering where redheads can be found

  Or lost in thought while studying the footprints of a hound.

  In the frigid nights of winter when the fog swirls in the street

  And the gas light from the street lamp don’t illuminate your feet,

  And you hear the steady clopping of a hansom down the mews,

  Why it’s Sherlock Holmes of London out following his clews.

  Queen and Wolfe and Wimsey and a host of private ‘tecs

  Along with Marple and Millhone and the others of their sex

  And Gregson and Lestrade - all of them have their place,

  But it’s Sherlock Holmes of London who we trust to solve the case.

  The Adventure of the Slipshod Charlady

  by John Hall

  You may well surmise that following that first case in which I was associated in some small way with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and which I have called A Study in Scarlet, I followed Holmes’s work with some considerable interest, and even ventured to hope that I might again at some point, and in some humble capacity, be able to join with him in the chase. I was, as you may recall, sharing rooms with Holmes at the time, and I had no real occupation or interests of my own, so I clutched eagerly at any opportunity for diversion. Holmes, however, was then, as always, somewhat reluctant to encourage confidences, and I had to wait several weeks after the conclusion of that first sensational problem before he allowed me to share in another investigation.

  It was late spring, and the weather was showing every promise of improvement after what had been a very dreary fortnight. I had risen a little before my usual hour, and was somewhat surprised to find that Holmes, so often a late riser himself, had already breakfasted. Before I could remark upon this, or do more than wish him good morning, he said, “Well, Watson, and how does your writing progress?”

  “Pretty much finished, Holmes. And if I do say so myself, a very promising little tale. I have great hopes for both its publication, and its reception by the reading public.”

  “It will, I trust, be instructive? Scotland Yard could well use a proper textbook of detective procedure!”

  I laughed. “I fear it will hardly be that, Holmes, although you may be sure that I have given full attention to your remarkable methods. But the public taste is both fickle and demanding, insisting upon entertainment, diversion, some degree of imagination, as well as mere dry and dusty factual exposition.”

  He groaned, and lit a cigarette.

  “But surely you would not deny the power, and utility, of imagination?” I protested. “Had you not been able to imagine what had taken place in that dreadful house, then-”

  He raised a hand. “That was hardly imagination, Doctor,” he said in that pedantic tone which he sometimes adopted. “A purely scientific reconstruction of events, as the French put it, based solely upon observation and deduction.”

  “H’mm,” said I, not wishing to argue the point before I had finished my breakfast egg. Then, recognising an opportunity, I went on, “And have you any small problems in hand just now which might call for your unique talents? Having finished my own account of that horrid and most puzzling case, I confess that I am at somewhat of a loose end, and would welcome some mental stimulus, even vicariously.”

  He smiled ruefully, and shook his head. “There is nothing of similar moment just now. It is true that I have one or two insignificant matters in hand, but they are mainly pedestrian enough, scarcely likely to appeal to your Epicurean palate.” He paused. “However-”

  “Well?” said I, eagerly.

  “Well, then, there is one small problem that I cannot immediately solve. Tell me, Watson, why would a manservant spend all day in the cellar of his master’s house?”

  “H’mm. To avoid being asked to do some uncongenial work?”

  Holmes laughed. “Practical as ever, Doctor! But it can scarcely be that, for the master is absent from the house all day, and there is no wife who might bustle about the place and give the man unwelcome orders.”

  “Well, then. Rats? Or perhaps he is helping himself to the master’s wine?”

  “There is, as far as I am aware, no wine. And no rats - and if there were, there is a useful and practical body of men known as ‘rat catchers’ who will solve that particular problem cheaply and effectively.” He thought for a moment in silence. “I confess, Watson, that Mrs. Bradley’s little problem has given me much difficulty, though doubtless the real explanation will prove to be as prosaic as your own very practical suggestions.”

  “Mrs. Bradley? Do I-”

  “You have never been formally introduced, but I fancy you will recollect the lady. Some sixty years of age, or perhaps a trifle more, of the working class, usually somewhat down at heel?”

  “Ah, yes! I noted her appearance down when I was writing up the study in scarlet which began our association.” I glanced at the old notebook which lay upon the table by my elbow. “Here we are - ‘a slipshod elderly woman’ was my rather ungallant depiction. I recollect that my first thought was ‘bunions!’ I did wonder if my professional services might be called upon.”

  Holmes laughed. “It is true you might be helpful in that regard,” said he. “But it was the wish to consult upon detective, and not medical, problems that originally brought Mrs. Bradley to Baker Street about a month ago, and I must confess that I have nothing in the way of advice to offer.”

  “Perhaps if you were to lay the facts before me, it might help you to arrange them in a way which would prove capable of explanation?” I suggested tentatively.

  “You are right, it does sometimes help to lay out the problem methodically. Very well, then. Mrs. Bradley is what is politely called a ‘daily’ or ‘domestic,’ or more vulgarly a ‘charlady,’ that is, she makes a slender living by cleaning floors, polishing furniture, and similar unskilled but necessary household tasks.”

  “Not - and no offence to her, or to others of her profession - but not the sort of person to have a problem which would require your services?” I ventured to suggest.

  “You would hardly think so, but you would be wrong, Watson. Indeed, I have asked her to call in here this very morning before she goes to work.”

  Rather surprised I pulled out my watch. “So late? Late, that is, to begin daily work of that sort.”

  “Mrs. Bradley informs me that she begins work at ten in the morning, and finishes at three in the afternoon. Her employer is, as I say, absent from the house all day on business, so there is no question of her interfering with his activities by mopping the floor whilst he is at his desk writing letters, or some such task.”

  “I see. That in itself makes sense, but is somewhat unusual.”

  Holmes nodded. “It is one odd aspect among several. A curious household, I gather. Ah!” he said, as there was a ring at the front door, “I believe that’s the lady herself. Please remain, Doctor, for I should be pleased to have your views on the matter.”

  A moment later, Mrs. Bradley was shown into our little sitting-room, and I escorted her to a chair, into which she sank with an audible sigh of relief. I had already remarked upon her dilapidated shoes - indeed, slippers would be nearer the mark - but now I took the opportunity to cast her a surreptitious glance, and observe her gen
eral appearance more closely. She was perhaps some sixty years of age, stout, with a mop of untidy grey hair escaping from beneath the frayed brim of an unfashionable hat. Darned stockings, and an ancient coat with a slightly greasy collar of fur from some unidentifiable species, completed the picture. Altogether you could scarcely expect to find a more typical, if timeworn, example of the class to which she so clearly belonged.

  “Now, Mrs. Bradley,” said Holmes in his most soothing voice, “this gentleman is Doctor John Watson, and I have told him something of your worries, but perhaps you would be so kind as to begin at the beginning, for his benefit, and pray omit no detail.”

  “Well, sir,” said Mrs. Bradley, “I hardly know what to tell you, it all seems something and nothing, like.”

  I may add by way of parenthesis that her speech was the purest Cockney, with many a dropped “h” and the like. I shall not endeavour to reproduce it at all accurately here, as the reader will doubtless be able to imagine it.

  Holmes, with an obvious effort of will, prompted her, “Pray allow us to be the judges of that, madam. Now, you began your employment some six weeks ago, is that not correct?”

  “That it is, Mr. Holmes, and I rue the day! What with that Naylor sneaking about the place, and telling outright lies into the bargain! Why-”

  “You forget, Mrs. Bradley, that the good doctor here knows nothing of the matter,” said Holmes, with just the merest hint of asperity.

  “Oh, to be sure! Well then, Doctor, and you, Mr. Holmes, though you’ve heard this already - well, then, six weeks or so ago I applies for this job with the colonel - Colonel Fanshawe, that is, and such a nice gentleman, what I would call a real gentleman, if you follow me - anyway, I applies for the job, the hours being so good, and the colonel, him being away all day at his office, and making no trouble and all.”

  “You got the job,” said Holmes, “and entered upon your duties at once. There were, I understand, no other servants kept, save only the manservant, this Naylor whom you mentioned?”

  “That’s right, sir. And a proper little sneak he is, at that!”

  “In what way?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Well, sir, you’d be doing your floors, and that, and you’d look up, and there ‘e is, standing in the doorway, or wandering about the corridors.”

  “I see. I must confess I see nothing particularly objectionable in that,” I said.

  “No, sir. Not in itself, as you might say. But then, a week after I started, the colonel, he says to me, ‘Mrs. B.-’ and ‘e always calls me that, nice and pleasant as you please, and no edge to ‘im at all - ‘Mrs. B., there will be some workmen in for a few weeks or so, down in the cellar. Some small repairs to be done, nothing to worry about, so pray do not be alarmed if you hear them banging and crashing,’ something to that effect.”

  “And they duly arrived,” Holmes supplied.

  “They did, sir. Or ‘e did, for there was only one of ‘em, a nice young fellow. I saw Naylor - Mr. Naylor, ‘e likes to be called, I don’t think! - anyway, Naylor let ‘im in, showed him to the cellar. Now, I-”

  “One moment,” said I. “Have you ever been into the cellar yourself?”

  “Very good, Watson!” Holmes exclaimed.

  “No, sir, I ‘aven’t what you’d call been down there,” said Mrs. Bradley. “But I did - not to be sneaky, or anything of that - but one day when I’d the ‘ouse to myself I took a peep in.”

  “And?”

  Mrs. Bradley shook her head. “Nothing, Doctor! Just an old brick cellar. Nothing down there at all, excepting some old bits and pieces of furniture, and them very much the worse for wear, all banged about and that.”

  “No wine rack? No sign of rats?” asked Holmes, with a sidelong glance at me.

  “No wine rack, sir, certainly. As for rats - why, if I’d even suspected such a thing I’d ‘ave given my notice at once!”

  “To be sure,” said Holmes. “But thus far, with the exception of your dislike for the manservant Naylor, you have given the doctor no indication as to what it is which so perturbs you.”

  “Indeed I ‘aven’t, sir. Well, then, like I was saying, I seen the young fellow come, but I never seen ‘im go, being s ‘ow I’d left before ‘e’d finished. Now, that’s all well and good, but the next day, Naylor, ‘e tells me the young chap is already down in the cellar, and wasn’t to be disturbed. Well, as the day wore on, I could ‘ear some banging and that down there, and so I knew the young chap, ‘e was ‘ard at work, so after an hour or so I looks for Naylor to ask if I should make a cup of tea for the young man, that being only right and proper and expected, ‘im being a tradesman and that. But Naylor now, ‘e was nowhere to be seen, so I knocks on the cellar door, and calls out, did I ought to make a cup of tea.”

  “Well?” I asked.

  “You may well say, ‘Well,’ sir! Well, it was Naylor ‘imself who called out from the cellar, “Thank you, Mrs. Bradley, that won’t be necessary.” Now, what d’you think of that?”

  “Why, that Naylor was down there, perhaps making sure the job was properly done?” I said. “Or perhaps the young man had asked him for a hand with some heavy work?”

  “‘Eavy work!’ Mrs. Bradley found the notion amusing. “Not ‘im, sir! No. no, you mark my words, Doctor, ‘e’s up to no good. And I’ve noticed that there ain’t no young tradesman - no, nor old one neither! - around the place. But yet there’s still somebody - and it’s Naylor, that I do know for a fact - messing about in that same cellar, day after day. And what I’d like to know, Mr. ‘Olmes, is what you might be able to do about it? Only I’ll be ever so grateful if you could set my mind at rest.” And this was said with such an evident and honest sincerity that I leaned over and patted her arm.

  “I confess,” said Holmes, “that your problem is indeed a curious one. And I fear that I have little to offer in the way of advice from your last visit. Perhaps, Watson, you have some words of wisdom.”

  Put thus suddenly on the spot, as it were, I struggled for words. “Ah - is the matter then so distressing, Mrs. Bradley, that you really cannot see your way to remaining in the house? There are surely other openings for you?”

  “Now, Doctor! Isn’t that just what I’ve been thinking myself?” said Mrs. Bradley. “But you see, the hours is so good, and the pay is so good - it’s only the nagging worry, as you might call it.” She hesitated, obviously waning to say more.

  “Well, Mrs. Bradley?” said Holmes.

  “Well, sir, there’s two things. First-” and again came that hesitation.

  “Well?” asked Holmes a second time, with a little more impatience in his tone.

  “Well, sir, you might just think that it’s an old lady’s fancy, but I’m sure that little sneak Naylor followed me ‘ere. And if you was to go to the door with me, and keep an eye open, I can promise you that you’ll see ‘im.”

  “And why should he follow you, do you think?” asked Holmes, evidently puzzled.

  “Why, bless you, sir! To see if I’ve been ‘ere to talk to you, like.”

  “H’mm, I see. You said there were two things?”

  “Ah, yes. You see, sir, Naylor, ‘e let on that ‘e ‘as some urgent business errands to do for the master, this very afternoon. Now, suppose you was to call round, I could let you ‘ave a look in the cellar, easy as anything. That way you might be able to tell me what you think, even if it’s to say there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I see.” Holmes glanced at me. “What say you, Doctor?”

  “An excellent notion,” said I.

  “Very well then. I have a note of the address,” said Holmes, “and we shall call at, say, two o’clock. Is that satisfactory?”

  “That it is, sir, and it’ll set my mind at rest,” said out visitor, clambering to her feet.

  I rose to see her out.

  “By
the way, Watson,” said Holmes in his languid fashion, “you might just stand at the door a moment, and see if Mrs. Bradley is indeed being followed.”

  “Very well.”

  “Oh, and Mrs. Bradley - how did you come to hear of me? I do not believe you mentioned that to Watson.”

  “Well, sir, it was a friend of the colonel’s, a young chap ‘e was, came to call on the colonel one day, only ‘e was out. The young man, proper gent, he looks very forlorn, says he’s come a long way, and wouldn’t mind a cup of tea and that. So I makes him one, and somehow we got to talking - ‘e ‘ad no sort of edge to ‘im, talked as nice as you like, and somehow - don’t you never ask me just ‘ow - he gets me to tell him wha’s been bothering me, and then ‘e says: “You should talk to Mr. Sherlock ‘Olmes, he’s the man to solve this problem,” and ‘e gives me your address, writes it down on a bit of paper. And so ‘ere I came,” she finished with a note of triumph.

  “I see. Very well. Watson?”

  “Ah, yes. This way, madam.” I led the way to the street door, and saw Mrs. Bradley off, but I did not return at once. Instead, I partly closed the door, and looked keenly out through the slit which remained. To my surprise - for I had put Mrs. Bradley’s suspicions down to mere fancy - I saw a man lurk from out of the shadows, for all the world like some villain of melodrama, and take the same direction as Mrs. Bradley. My first instinct was to accost him, or at the very least to follow him, but then it occurred to me that we already knew his, and Mrs. Bradley’s, destination. To follow would perhaps spoil Holmes’s plans, and so, albeit reluctantly, I made my way back up the stairs, and told Holmes what I had seen.

  “Ah. It shows that Mrs. Bradley’s suspicions were correct in at least one regard,” said Holmes. “Let us see if her other concerns are equally well founded.”

  It was with some considerable impatience that I set myself to wait until two o’clock in the afternoon. I tried one of Clark Russell’s collections, In the Middle Watch, but could not concentrate on it as it deserved, and it was with great relief that I heard Holmes saying, “We have twenty minutes to keep our appointment, Watson.”