The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part I

by David Marcum

  Holmes swore under his breath. I followed him out of the room, dazed, and into the dressing room wing. Sure enough, Pike lay in the middle of a deserted room with his throat slashed. From the look of things, I surmised that he’d been dead for at least a quarter of an hour.

  Holmes turned to Miss Lake and Green. “No one may leave this building. I’ll have the murderer contained presently.” I could tell that he had no intention of concealing his purpose from any of the orchestra members, who stood around the corpse with wide eyes and horrified faces.

  “Where is Mr. Dorrigan’s assistant?” my friend continued. “I have need of his abilities.”

  In that moment, Green tried to flee the room and was only caught by the resourceful Robert, the cello player, who pinned him to the floor easily.

  “Mr. Green,” said Holmes, giving him a hard stare. “Your disguise was a good one, but not good enough.”

  Doris Lake looked as shocked as I’ve ever seen anyone be in my life. “Charles, you-”

  “You weren’t the only one with secrets, Doris,” said Dorrigan. “Didn’t you notice that Green joined you just after my discovery of your arrangement? I sent him to you to make sure you and that fool Pike didn’t cheat me. I didn’t order him to do a stupid thing like killing Pike, though,” he said, utterly disgusted.

  “Neither Pike nor Miss Lake appears to have made the connection to your secretary,” said Holmes, “but I believe you did.” He indicated Robert, who was still sitting on Green with good cheer.

  “He had me fooled at first,” said Robert, “but it was just too ideal - the way he’d found the orchestra, settled in so easily. He did well to keep himself from being seen in his other guise, but he couldn’t entirely avoid it.”

  Holmes nodded. “I recognized the connection between Miss Lake, Pike, and Dorrigan first, but then I realized Green’s recent entry into the orchestra and swift courting of the lady couldn’t be without significance. I didn’t know what it portended until I saw that Dorrigan’s secretary was the same man.”

  Robert the cellist smiled. “Most policemen don’t get to use their musical talents. I suppose I should be grateful for the opportunity. I’m only sorry to have to go back to my usual duties after such a long and interesting digression. I’m also sorry, of course, that I didn’t prevent Pike’s death.”

  At this moment, Green, who had been silent, exploded. “I did it for Doris, to free her from this - imprisonment! No one was supposed to come to this wing. In the morning, when the body was discovered, Dorrigan would have been suspected.”

  “Contingent,” said Holmes mildly, “on your identity as Dorrigan’s secretary remaining undiscovered and on no one poking about the way Robert has. You wouldn’t have come out of this well either way, but killing Pike was a fatal mistake, one I doubt you’d have made if you hadn’t determined that I trusted you completely, as I intended you to believe when you visited my flat.”

  “My name is Williams,” said the cellist, “Inspector Robert Williams, Scotland Yard. You may think little of us, Mr. Holmes, but one of my associates - Gregson - saw a pattern in the information he obtained from one of his informants in the opium business. I was tasked with joining this unfortunate group many months ago, and I have been trying to build a legal case against them for some time.”

  “Yes, Inspector Williams, you’re free to give your report to Scotland Yard. Your competence has been, frankly, a welcome surprise. Pike’s death is a pity, but it’s not your concern to anticipate the actions of a mentally unstable and narcissistic criminal.”

  “I agree,” the man answered with a grin.

  In the end, none of the participants in the orchestral case faced retribution except Miss Lake, Dorrigan, and Green. The lady stood trial, but since her precise level of knowledge of the opium operation beyond her activities as intermediary could not be determined, she was allowed to go free, with her broken heart as her only punishment. Dorrigan, who had possessed extensive knowledge of both the legal and illegal aspects of Pike’s involvement in the opium business, faced an unsympathetic jury who were plied with tales of ruined lives. He was given a prison sentence likely to outlast his earthly life. Green, his guilt easily proven through evidence and his own angry admission, was sentenced to hang. I cannot say that the thought of him being removed from the earth bothered me a great deal, but I did ask my friend why anyone would engage in such a blatantly ridiculous act as murdering someone when Sherlock Holmes was on the premises.

  “I have seen it before,” Holmes answered placidly. “Some criminals crave being caught and appreciated for their deeds. You saw the man when he first approached us. I’ve never met a more perfectly narcissistic personality. I believe he thought he could not fail in his plan to frame Dorrigan and free the lady, and all the better to have the satisfaction of knowing he’d done it under my nose. Barring that, he seemed to think Doris would love him more as a result of his the murder.” I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Still, this must be the most quickly-solved case of your career,” I said. “Though the details are ugly, your investigation was not.”

  Holmes, who enjoyed praise far more than he liked to let on, smiled. “Thank you, Watson. The details and mistakes of the participants aligned to give me an excellent foothold, to say nothing of Williams’s ingenuity, but I believe I did well enough with what I was given.”

  A month after the closing of the sordid case of Pike’s orchestra, Mrs. Hudson and I were finally treated to the concert I’d suggested prior to Green’s fateful evening visit. For once, however, my friend did not play alone. He was accompanied by a middle-aged policeman whose cello seemed to fill up the room. Williams was not as accomplished a player as Holmes, but then, few were. Still, I could tell by Holmes’s expression when they played that he found the man’s efforts satisfactory. I hoped, temporarily, that their shared interest might lead to my friend engaging more in society, but that was never his preference at any point in our acquaintance, and his first evening of musical partnership was also his last.

  The Haunting of Sherlock Holmes

  by Kevin David Barratt

  In the events that I have recorded elsewhere as “The Adventure of The Speckled Band”, I wrote that the case had more singular features than any that I had encountered up to that time in the April of 1883. Six months passed and my days with Mr. Sherlock Holmes seemed to settle back into a familiar routine until the receipt of a letter in the October of that same year set off a train of events that brought the whole horrific episode back into my life once more.

  I kept few secrets from Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, as he seemed able to glean facts from the littlest things that I said or did, I found it almost impossible to keep anything to myself. However, my family and its history were not subjects into which I wanted him to intrude, and until now I had succeeded in keeping them private. The letter that came was from my sister-in-law, who wrote to tell me that my brother, who was a gambler and a heavy drinking man, was currently in poor health because of his excesses and that she had reached her wits end with him. She begged for me to try and step in before he killed himself, or before one of his moneylenders did it for him. My brother had made and lost a substantial amount of money in the gold fields of Australia, and years back I had received a similar summons to the other side of the world to assist them in fleeing the country. They had now settled in Scotland, but a visit would mean being away from Baker Street for some time, and this was not a particularly good time to leave. Holmes had been behaving strangely of late. Cases had recently been in short supply and, knowing the ways that boredom affected him, I was convinced that his long-standing drug habits were again being employed, despite his attempts to hide them from me.

  “You must go, Watson,” Holmes declared, as I sat opposite him before the fire.

  “Yes, I suppose that I must,” I mumbled, lost in my thoughts. I then jerked myself back from them and
said, “This habit of yours is beginning to get tiresome. How much have you deduced from my thoughts this time?”

  “Very little,” he admitted, “but it is obviously a summons for help from someone dear to you.”

  It was at this point that I told Sherlock Holmes a lie. “It is not from someone dear to me, actually, but from an old comrade from my university days who wishes me to spend some time in Scotland looking after his medical practice because he has to travel abroad on family business. I could be away for some time and, depending on the date of his return, I may not be able to get back to Baker Street in time for Christmas. That is why I am deep in thought.”

  If Holmes saw through my fabrications he was polite enough to not show it, but, as he had rightly said, I must go. I quickly made arrangements to travel as soon as possible. I left Mrs. Hudson with my brother’s address in case she needed to contact me. I could hardly leave it with Holmes, now that I had lied to him, but I believed that I was not the only one keeping secrets. Holmes may have the greater intellect, but I have the greater medical skills, and I can spot the effects of drug misuse as easily as he can spot footprints.

  My time in Scotland was spent in attempting to rehabilitate my poor brother and saving his marriage. His gambling and drinking had resulted in a spiralling descent into a sickness of body and mind such as to leave him unrecognisable as the loving husband and brother that I knew him to be. He had sunk so low into debt as to pawn our dear father’s watch, a treasured heirloom that, as the oldest son, he had inherited some years ago. I believe that it was the death of our father that had first set him on this road to ruin.

  By employing a generous amount of tender care and an equal portion of steely resolve, I succeeded in keeping my brother away from alcohol and gambling for two months. His spirits revived enough for him to recommence work and earn money again. As a sign of gratitude for his compliance and efforts, I presented him with a gift. I paid the pawnbroker for the return of our father’s watch. My brother was so grateful that he broke down in tears and vowed never to return to his old ways. His wife was, of course, delighted, and she begged me to stay with them for Christmas. Despite my eagerness to return to Baker Street, I did not feel able to refuse her generous hospitality.

  Unfortunately, I was soon forced to change my plans. A letter arrived from Mrs. Hudson and it was couched in words of distress. She expressed concern that Sherlock Holmes was ill. He was spending practically all his time indoors, forsaking company of any kind. She had tried to let in clients on a couple of occasions, only for Holmes to shout at her from the landing. Even Inspector Lestrade had been turned away. She wondered what it could all mean. I had an uncomfortable feeling that it meant trouble.

  It also appeared that, despite Holmes’s insistence on no visitors, he must have taken a new lodger into our rooms. The man who could go for days with little nourishment had suddenly taken to demanding more frequent and larger meals. He had also been heard shouting at someone, “You will not succeed with your plan, you devil! You will not!” This was often followed by the heavy sound of something being thrown at the wall. Things reached a head when Mrs. Hudson heard a fearful banging on our door. She reached the top of the stairs to find the door locked. When she called to Holmes, his voice screamed at her from the other side, “Help me! Find Watson! Please, find Watson!”

  With a heavy heart I explained that I had to return home urgently. Feeling that I had done as much as I could for my brother, they both agreed with my plan to make a hasty return to London. I dare not begin to contemplate what I may find upon my return, but I was fearful for Holmes’s safety from whomever, or whatever, now occupied our rooms.

  It was Christmas Eve when I arrived back in the Metropolis. As I made my way from the train station back to Baker Street I saw shopkeepers and passers-by making the most of the festive season. Groups of singers stood on street corners, gloved and muffled against the cold. Everything appeared normal, in stark contrast to the thoughts running through my head. As I entered 221b, our landlady came running up to me, clearly in a state of distress. The anxious looks upon her face showed that she was both pleased and relieved that I had returned. Words tumbled from her, and I had to raise my hands to silence the torrent.

  “Mrs. Hudson, please calm yourself. Firstly, let me thank you for sending for me. Secondly, I do not know what I will find, so I beg of you to return to your rooms until I have evaluated the situation.”

  She said, “Be careful, Doctor. Whoever this other person is, he must have some nasty hold over Mr. Holmes, or why hasn’t he let me call the police and have him removed?”

  With a promise to speak to our landlady later, I left my case and coat in the hall and ascended to our rooms. Each of the seventeen steps seemed to pull at my feet as if to prevent me from reaching the door. I was also aware that I was holding my breath, as if I was fearful to make a sound. However, I must have made some sound for, as I reached the landing, I heard the turn of a key, and our door was thrown open. Holmes stood on the threshold in his dressing gown.

  Such a change had come over my friend. His face was grey, sweat stood out upon his forehead, and he had a look of intense horror upon his face. His voice came as a croaking rattle as he said, “Oh, Watson! Watson! Thank God you’ve come.”

  Grasping my coat sleeve, he pulled me inside and quickly closed and locked the door once more. He stood with his back against it, and I could see that he was shaking, as if in a considerable state of anxiety.

  “Holmes, you are shivering,” I said, my voice filled with concern.

  “It is not cold which makes me shiver,” Holmes said in a voice that seemed to come from a great distance. “It is fear. It is terror.”

  At these words, the hairs seemed to rise on the back of my neck, for I had heard these exact words before. In April, Helen Stoner of Stoke Moran had said the same in this very room before laying her story concerning the speckled band before us. Slowly, I approached Holmes, guided him to his armchair, and sat him down. I offered him a drink, but he made no reply.

  As I poured him a large brandy, I looked around. The room was a mess, with a number of objects on the floor by the door to Holmes’s bedroom, as if he had been throwing them at it and had left them where they fell. The table and sideboard were weighed down with a large number of dirty plates and dishes as if they had not been cleared for days. A strange thing was that it looked as if there had only been one diner. There was no fire in the hearth, and the whole room felt as cold as the grave.

  I placed the glass to Holmes’s lips and made him drink a little brandy. As he gave a choking cough a little colour seemed to return to his face. I poured myself a drink and sat across from him in my own chair.

  “Holmes, you spoke just now of fear and terror. Fear and terror of your mysterious guest?”

  “Guest, Watson? There is no guest. What is here has come uninvited.”

  “And what is here?” I asked quietly.

  Holmes appeared to be looking over my shoulder towards his bedroom. When he spoke, although I recognised the voice, the words were not what I expected to hear from my friend.

  “As you know, Watson, I am not a superstitious man, and logic tells me there are no such things as ghosts, and yet I say in all faith that I am being haunted by an evil spirit.”

  “Evil spirit? Surely-”

  “An evil spirit with a name, Watson, and that name is Dr. Grimesby Roylott.”

  Despite the look of seriousness upon his face I had only one reaction to his announcement. I broke into a hearty laugh. As tears began to roll down my face, I saw tears of another sort roll down Holmes’s face. I fell silent, and Holmes continued with words that again came from Miss Stoner, spoken in a high voice with an intensity that sent a thrill down my spine.

  “Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me?”<
br />
  It was not the lack of a fire that suddenly chilled me. I leaned forward and looked into Holmes’s vacant eyes. My heart seemed to stop until I saw a light return to them. When I spoke, it was in a voice that showed him that I no longer doubted that he was a troubled man.

  “Holmes, I swear to do everything that I can to help you through this.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” he replied, and again I saw tears well up in his eyes.

  After another mouthful of brandy, Holmes proceeded to explain the events that had brought him to this singular position.

  “At first it began as a feeling that something was approaching. I forbade Mrs. Hudson to let anyone into the house, but as time went on I knew it was already here. I began to hear Roylott’s voice coming from my bedroom.”

  I asked what the voice had said, but I feared I knew the answer. He became animated and began to shout, “Meddler! Busybody! Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!” As he settled down again, he said, “At all times of day I heard him, but no matter what I threw at him, he kept on returning to taunt me. He warned me that day when he came here to keep myself out of his grip. Well, now he has me in that grip, and matters are approaching a climax.”

  “What makes you think that?” I asked.

  His voice took on a distant sound again and the pitch rose as he said, “Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle.” I remained silent as he continued, “I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room.” The light then returned to his eyes and he looked at me.

  “Holmes, this is intolerable. If you truly believe that someone is whistling in the night and menacing you with a snake, how does the snake get in and out of your room? There are no vents, no bell-ropes.”

  “Spirit snakes do not require bell-ropes.”

  “And spirit snakes do not attack the living in their beds. For Heaven’s Sake, Holmes, return to your senses before it is too late.”