Mammoth Book The Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (Mammoth Books)

by Smith, Denis O.

  “When we arrived back in England, Woodforde Soames at once made enquiries of all our suppliers, and it began to appear that money held by Sir George Kirkman which should have been used for the expedition had not been paid. Why this had happened, we could not discover – various rumours were circulating – so we came down here this weekend determined to get to the bottom of the business, and in no very good humour, as you will imagine. Sir George has been occupied with his guests, however, and it proved impossible to get him on his own to discuss the matter. Then, on Saturday evening, Soames took me to one side and told me that Kirkman’s secretary – this poor devil here – had approached him in confidence, seeking advice. He had recently learned, he said, that money rightfully belonging to the African expedition had been improperly diverted elsewhere by Kirkman, and he was unsure what to do with this information. Torn between loyalty to his employer and his own sense of honesty, he had found his position intolerable, and the strain of it had nearly driven him mad, he said. Moreover, the money dishonestly taken from the expedition’s fund was, he was convinced, but a small part of a very large scheme of fraud. This information certainly bore out the rumours we had heard in London, but had been scarcely able to credit, that Sir George Kirkman is as good as bankrupt and has been engaging in all kinds of financial chicanery to try to conceal the fact.”

  “Bankrupt!” cried Lestrade incredulously. “What about his mines?”

  “The rumour is that they are all practically worked out.”

  “His iron foundries?”

  “Running at a loss for several years.”

  “His engineering works, then?”

  “No orders. Woodforde Soames had the impression, from what Hepplethwaite told him, that Kirkman has been engaged in one financial swindle after another for many years, and there seems a possibility that his entire fortune has been built on such foundations. Soames and Hepplethwaite did not have time to conclude their conversation on Saturday, but the secretary said he would try to speak to my friend again on the subject the next day. That, so far as I know, is how matters stood on Saturday night. It seems to me now that Soames’s death on Sunday afternoon cannot simply be coincidence.”

  Holmes nodded. “It is probable, then, that Hepplethwaite arranged to meet Woodforde Soames here at the folly, once the archery competition was finished. But Kirkman must have suspected what was afoot, and followed his secretary, picking up a spare bow and arrow from the archery field on the way, as I suggested earlier. No doubt it was he who hid behind the folly, where he would have been able to overhear their conversation. I imagine that when they had finished speaking, Soames left first, and the secretary stayed behind a few moments so that no suspicion would be aroused by their being seen together. But Kirkman must have slipped through this gap in the undergrowth by the side of the folly, struck his secretary on the head with a stone, and then followed Soames down the path and fired the shot that killed him.”

  “No wonder he was so interested to see where your investigations would lead you!” I cried.

  Holmes nodded. “And no wonder he left so abruptly when he did. He would know that if we examined the folly we were certain to find Hepplethwaite’s body. Quickly! We must get our hands on him before he can work any further villainy!”

  We ran back along the path at the top of our speed. Two men were working in the kitchen gardens, and Holmes instructed them to bring the body of the unfortunate secretary from the folly to the house. In a garden by the side of the house, we encountered Miss Greville and her mother, sitting on a bench.

  “Oh, Mr Holmes!” cried Miss Greville earnestly, rising to her feet. “Do you see any hope for Mr Whiting?”

  “Indeed I do, Miss Greville,” returned Holmes briskly. “Have you seen anything of Sir George Kirkman recently?”

  “Well, it really is most odd,” returned Miss Greville’s mother, “and I am not sure that I entirely believe it, but there is a wild rumour going round that he was seen driving himself off in a dogcart towards Winchester about fifteen minutes ago! They say he was lashing the horse as if his life depended on it! Absurd, isn’t it?”

  “He must have gone to catch the London express,” said Lestrade, consulting his watch. “It leaves Winchester in about five minutes.”

  “How long will it take him to get to the station there?” Holmes queried.

  “About a quarter of an hour. He will have reached it in time, but we cannot. He has escaped us.”

  “What of the halt where Watson and I alighted earlier? That is barely seven minutes’ distance from here in a trap, and the London train must come this way and pass through there.”

  “That is true, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade replied. “Unfortunately, however, the London express does not stop there, but steams straight through.”

  “It will stop if we tell it to!” cried Holmes. “There is, I observed, a signal-box at the halt. If we can get the signals set to danger, the train will have to stop!”

  “By George! I think you have it!” cried Lestrade.

  In a few moments the groom had put a horse in the shafts of a trap, and we were rattling at a furious rate down the winding country lanes. We clattered to a halt in a cloud of dust in the station yard, leapt down and ran onto the platform. In the distance, a plume of smoke indicated the rapid approach of the London express.

  The signalman looked up in alarm as we sprang up the steps and burst into his little cabin. Quickly, Lestrade identified himself and instructed the man to alter the signals, but he hesitated.

  “It is strictly against regulations,” said he.

  “Regulations be blowed!” cried Lestrade angrily as there came a sharp whistle from down the track and the distant beat of the engine came to our ears.

  “It is almost upon us,” said the signalman. “It is too late.”

  “There is a murderer on that train,” said Holmes. “Let it pass and he will escape. Stop it and your name will be honoured for ever!”

  “Here,” said Captain Blake abruptly, stepping to the row of heavy levers. “Never mind this man. I’ll do it myself! I learned about these things when I had a spell with the Royal Engineers.”

  At this, the signalman sprang forward. “Very well,” said he. “Let me do it.” He pulled two of the heavy levers towards him, as the bright green locomotive, wreathed in smoke, burst into view round the distant curve and thundered towards the little station. There came an ear-splitting din, as the driver saw the signal ahead of him and applied the brake, and the wheels skidded with a shriek along the shining steel track. Through the platforms the train roared and screeched, and past the signal cabin, which shook like a leaf in a storm as the heavy engine passed it, until finally, in a cloud of steam and smoke, it came to a halt some thirty yards further on.

  Sherlock Holmes sprang down the steps, and I followed him along the track to the back of the train, and round to the other side. We heard Lestrade call out, as he caught sight of his quarry in one of the carriages, and at that moment a door on our side was flung open, and the portly figure of Sir George Kirkman sprang down and landed heavily on the ballast. We rushed forward as he rose to his feet and withdrew something from within his coat.

  “Look out, Watson! He’s got a gun!” cried Holmes, flinging himself upon the fugitive before he could raise his arm. The two of them struggled wildly for a moment, until Holmes managed at length to wrench the pistol from the other’s grasp and send it spinning through the air and into the bushes beside the track. Then, as Kirkman seemed about to break away, Holmes caught him with a right hook to the jaw, and he fell heavily to the ground. In a moment Lestrade and Blake had joined us.

  “Thought you’d make a fool of the law, did you?” cried Lestrade, as he clapped a pair of handcuffs on his prisoner. “We’ll see about that!”

  “Well, well,” said Holmes to me, as he stood up and brushed the dust off his clothes with his hands. “That appears to be that! I don’t know what your plans are, Watson, but I should very much prefer to be back in London
this evening. So, what say you to taking this train which has so conveniently stopped for us?”

  The Adventure of

  KENDAL TERRACE

  AMONG THE MANY strange and puzzling problems presented to Mr Sherlock Holmes during the time we shared chambers together, the story which was told to us by Mr Henry Claydon holds a special place in my memory. To an outside observer, there were certainly aspects of the affair that appeared absurd and almost farcical; but for those intimately involved in the matter it must have seemed anything but humorous. What is undeniable is that it was a very perplexing business, and one, moreover, which, but for the intervention of Sherlock Holmes, would very likely never have been solved at all.

  It was a pleasant evening, just a few days before midsummer. Our meal concluded and cleared away, we had fallen into a discussion of the latest scientific opinion on the nature of sunspots, and of the possible effects of these phenomena upon terrestrial events. From these rarefied heights, our conversation had drifted on by way of other natural phenomena that were not yet fully understood to a consideration of the more mundane but equally intriguing mysteries with which the history of human society abounds. I had often observed that despite Holmes’s occasional pretence of ignorance of some field of human enquiry when he was not in the conversational vein, there was in reality scarcely any subject I could raise upon which he did not have an informed opinion. But upon the unsolved human mysteries of past centuries his knowledge was perfectly stupendous. Whether it was an inexplicable murder in the sixteenth century, a puzzling theft in the eighteenth, the baffling disappearance of some famous person or the mysterious publication of an anonymous manuscript, my friend appeared to have all the facts at his fingertips, and he held me enthralled as he ranged widely over these fascinating, unsolved problems. Some of his conclusions were at once so surprising and so interesting that I may one day make them the subject of one of these short sketches. Some of them, indeed, seemed on first hearing simply too startling to be true, but as he explained to me how he had arrived at his conclusions, I was in almost every case convinced that he had indeed hit upon the truth.

  “You appear to have made a close study of these ancient problems,” I remarked.

  “I have had little else to occupy my time recently,” said he.

  “You have no case in hand?”

  My friend shook his head. “I have had three prospective clients call upon me this week. Two of the cases were entirely devoid of interest. In both of them I was able to make a few suggestions, which I trust will be useful, as I sat here in this room, but I did not propose to enter into either matter to any greater extent than that. In the third case, that of Mr Tanner of Norwood, as you may recollect, I accompanied that gentleman back home to investigate the curious incidents he had described to me, only to find when we reached Norwood that someone had reported the matter to Scotland Yard, and that, despite taking almost four hours to respond to the report and travel the short distance to Norwood, they had already made an arrest. Furthermore, I could not doubt, from the facts available to me, that they had the right man, for it was the very person to whom my own suspicions had been drawn by my client’s account.”

  “I shall have to remind you of this,” I remarked with a chuckle. “You have often said that the official force can scarcely ever be trusted to do the right thing, but it seems that in this case at least they were, by your own admission, entirely correct.”

  “Perhaps so,” returned my friend, “but they had received some material assistance. The man they arrested had already made a full confession of his part in the affair before the police even arrived. It would therefore have been somewhat difficult for them not to have identified the villain. For all the intellect involved, Scotland Yard might as well have sent a pair of Trafalgar Square pigeons down to Norwood. They would probably have managed the matter just as successfully, and would certainly have arrived somewhat sooner. In short, Watson, I have had no worthwhile case all week, and time lies heavy upon my hands.”

  “It may be that your practice is following the pattern of most medical practices,” I observed, laughing. “One old physician for whom I worked for a few months while a student never ceased to lament how the arrival of fine weather always brought a severe decrease in the numbers of his patients.”

  My friend nodded. “Perhaps it is. But sometimes it seems that the present age has abandoned altogether the production of interesting mysteries. I have therefore been occupying my all too abundant leisure time in working back through those of past centuries. At my present rate of progress, I should soon be on to the cave murders of the Stone Age.”

  I laughed. “Perhaps your missing clients will all turn up together one rainy day, as tends to happen in a doctor’s practice.”

  “I rather doubt it,” responded Holmes with a dry chuckle. “Anyhow, I have now abandoned all hope that any clients will appear this week, and can only hope that next week will show an increase in business!”

  As it happened, however, my friend was on this occasion mistaken, and his despair premature. Scarcely five minutes after he had uttered these words our conversation was interrupted by the mad jangling of the front-door bell.

  “What an impatient caller!” I remarked, as the wild ringing of the bell continued in an unbroken clamour.

  “It is a client, or I am much mistaken!” cried Holmes in delight, springing to his feet and clapping his hands together. “I recognize the symptoms. Let us clear away this litter you have left, Watson,” he continued, picking up the day’s newspapers, which were scattered upon the floor beside his chair, and tossing them into a corner.

  A moment later, our landlady appeared with a card upon a salver. “Mr Henry Claydon to see you, Mr Holmes,” said she.

  “Ask him to step up, Mrs Hudson,” responded Holmes, but scarcely were the words out of his mouth when there came a rapid drumming of footsteps upon the stair. Moments later, a young man, breathless and frantic-looking, appeared behind the landlady and, without further ceremony, edged his way into the room. Though he was dressed in the smart clothes of a City man, they were dishevelled and grubby looking. He had a black eye, there was blood upon his face, and the bowler hat he carried in his hand was in a sorry, crumpled state.

  “Pray excuse my abrupt entry,” cried he, “but my situation is desperate.” Behind him, Mrs Hudson closed the door quietly, an expression of disapproval upon her face. “Mr Holmes!” he continued with a cry, rushing suddenly forward and grasping my hand. “You cannot imagine the terrible thing that has happened!”

  “I am sorry, but you are under a misapprehension,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “I am not Sherlock Holmes.”

  “What!” cried he, springing back as if he had received an electric shock from touching my hand. “Oh, no!” he continued in a wailing tone, clutching the sides of his head, as if in great pain. “Don’t say it is happening again!” With a vigour that was alarming to witness, he abruptly cast himself down to the floor with a cry of, “Madness! Madness! All is madness!”

  “My dear sir,” said Holmes in an anxious voice. “Pray be calmed. I am the man you seek. I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  “You are?” cried the other, abruptly ceasing his moaning and looking up. “You really are? Why, then, you at least are where you are supposed to be. The Lord be praised!”

  “It is clear you have suffered some misfortune,” said Holmes in a measured tone. “If you will take a seat and tell us about it, perhaps we can be of assistance.”

  “Misfortune?” cried our visitor, rising to his feet and dusting himself off. “Ha! What I have suffered, Mr Holmes, is a unique and terrible experience. Why, sir, it knocks all other mysteries of the world into a cocked hat.”

  “Pray, let us have the details.”

  “Certainly,” returned the other, who appeared a little calmed by Holmes’s soothing manner. “Some men, as you know, have their pockets picked in the street, and lose their watches. Other men have their houses broken into and lose the odd candl
estick or two. I have lost to a thief something far greater in every sense than these trifles.”

  “Pray be precise.”

  “Gentlemen, while I was at work today, thieves have been busy in Kendal Terrace, North Clapham, where I have lived happily for six weeks. I returned home this evening to find that my house has been completely stolen away!”

  “What!” cried Holmes and I as one.

  “You see?” said our visitor, a note of satisfaction in his voice at our surprise. “It is enough to drive a man insane!”

  “But surely,” I suggested, “you have made a mistake? Surely, if your house does not appear to be there, you have simply turned inadvertently into the wrong street? Many suburban streets in London are of very similar appearance. Might you not simply have confused one street with another?”

  “Certainly not!” retorted Claydon. “I think I know my own street well enough, thank you, though I have lived in it but a little while. Besides, I could see through the parlour window of the house that my furniture was still in place.”

  “Ah!” said Holmes. “I see. So the house itself has not disappeared? It is still there?”

  “Certainly.”

  “But it is now occupied by someone else?”

  “Precisely.”

  A look of intense disappointment came over Holmes’s features at this mundane explanation of what had promised to be a more outré mystery. “Is it not possible,” said he, “that there has merely been some sort of confusion over the letting arrangements? Perhaps, under the misapprehension that you have moved out, the agents have given a key of the house to someone else, so that they can look it over. I recommend that you speak to your landlord on the matter, Mr Claydon.”