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

by Smith, Denis O.

  A church clock was striking three when I at last found myself on the pavement of Cheapside once more. As fast as I could, I hurried past St Paul’s churchyard and round into Ludgate Hill. When I reached the coffee shop, I was relieved to see that Inspector Lanner, whom I knew well, was still there, sitting at a table near the window. Of Holmes, however, there was no sign. In a moment I had joined the policeman, and he was acquainting me with the latest facts in the case.

  “Early last Friday morning,” he began, “a Mrs Unwin, who runs a small boarding house near the Midland station in Leicester, reported to the police that one of her temporary lodgers, a man calling himself Varney, seemed to her very like the description of Quinlivan she had read in her newspaper. She had not yet seen him that morning and believed that he was still in bed. The police quickly went round there, but found that his room was empty. Clearly he had left before Mrs Unwin herself had risen. He had spoken the evening before, she said, of taking a train to Hull, so the police at once notified their colleagues there to be on the alert. What they did not know at the time was that on that same morning we had received a letter in London from Quinlivan himself, posted in Leicester on Thursday afternoon. Most of the letter was taken up with protestations of his innocence. But he was convinced, he said, that if he gave himself up he would never receive a fair hearing.”

  “I cannot see how he can possibly be innocent,” I remarked. “The matter could scarcely be clearer!”

  “His claim,” Lanner explained, “is that someone must have been in the house before him, for he says he found Lady Yelverton dead when he entered her drawing room. It was this, he says, that made him cry out in anguish as he entered, making him appear deranged to the maid.”

  “Could it be true?”

  Lanner shook his head dubiously. “A window at the back of the drawing room was found to be open,” he replied, “despite the fact that the day was a cold one. It is just possible that someone could have climbed out from there into the back yard, and escaped that way.”

  For some minutes I sat pondering the matter in silence.

  “What does Holmes make of it all?” I asked at length. “When I saw him earlier, he said that the case was as good as closed, and that he knew Quinlivan’s whereabouts.”

  Inspector Lanner appeared surprised at this information.

  “All he has said to me,” he replied, “is that we are dealing with a very cunning and resourceful villain.”

  “He has certainly managed to give you the slip so far,” I remarked. “Were any further clues found in Leicester?”

  The policeman nodded. “Mr Holmes and I travelled down to Leicester on Saturday,” said he. “We examined the room at Unwin’s boarding house, which the man calling himself Varney had occupied, and made one or two discoveries. He had spoken on Thursday evening of taking a train to Hull the next day, but when I examined his room I found a pocket railway timetable under the bed, which had been folded back at the page showing the Glasgow trains. It might have been there a little while, of course, and been missed by the maid who cleaned the room after the previous occupant, but it did make me wonder if the mention of Hull had been a blind, to throw us off the scent if we ever managed to trace him as far as Leicester. We had had no word back from Hull, anyhow, so I at once alerted the Glasgow police. That this man, Varney, was in reality Quinlivan was confirmed, incidentally, by a letter I found in the room, on the floor beneath a chest of drawers, where it had probably slipped down as he was packing. It was a single folded sheet of paper, without an envelope. The writer had not put his address, and the message was a brief one: ‘Dear Matthew,’ it said, ‘you must give yourself up to the police at once. It is the only thing to do. We are convinced of your innocence, but if you remain in hiding, no one will believe you. Heed my advice. Your true friend, Rev B. Arnold.’”

  “That certainly sounds as if it were sent to the man you are seeking.” I remarked. “Has anything come of these enquiries?”

  “Well, we have not yet got the man, but a discovery was made yesterday which proves that his talk of Hull was indeed a blind. A sorter at the General Post Office in Glasgow noticed a letter addressed to Mr M. Quinlivan and marked ‘to be called for’. A warrant was at once obtained and the letter opened. It proved to be similar to the one I had found in Leicester: ‘You must give yourself up. Do not despair’ – that sort of thing. It was signed by the same person, the Reverend B. Arnold. There was again no address at the top of the letter, but the envelope was postmarked ‘London East’.”

  “Have you been able to trace this man, Arnold?”

  “Not so far. He calls himself Reverend, but we can find no clergyman of that name in London.”

  “Perhaps he belongs to some small and obscure nonconformist Church.”

  “That must be so. But all our resources have so far failed to find him.”

  “You are not aware of any other discovery that Holmes has made?”

  The policeman hesitated a moment before replying.

  “Just one, that I know of, Dr Watson, and between ourselves, it seemed more to indicate that his mind was losing its grip than anything else. It was as we were examining the bedroom at Unwin’s boarding house. Mr Holmes had picked up a white hair from the hearth and fallen silent. I spoke to him but he did not answer. He just stared at the hair, examined it with his lens, stared at it again, and did not open his mouth for thirty minutes or more. On the train back to London, I could see that he was excited about something, but he said little, except that the murderer had made a slip, ‘a tiny, tiny slip’, he said. ‘He has been very clever, and has come within a hair’s breadth of getting clean away,’ said he, ‘but he will not evade us for much longer now.’ Then he laughed, in that odd, silent way of his. Quite frankly, Dr Watson, had it been anyone but Mr Holmes, I should have found myself another compartment to sit in at the first opportunity. One gets accustomed to Mr Holmes’s odd ways, but confined for a hundred miles or more with someone laughing to himself the whole way is almost too much for anyone to stand.”

  At that moment, the shop door opened and Holmes himself appeared before us, an expression of urgency upon his features.

  “Pray forgive the delay,” said he in a brisk manner. “If you will come now, I have a cab waiting outside.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Lanner in surprise.

  “To arrest Mr Quinlivan,” said Holmes.

  There were two four-wheelers standing in the street outside. Holmes opened the door of the first one, and I was surprised to see that it already had one occupant, a thin, reserved-looking man, with short dark hair and a small beard.

  “This is Mr Woodward,” said Holmes as we climbed in. “He is to assist us. Our first port of call will be Gordon Square,” he continued as the cab rattled off, “home of Mr Basil Thorne, nephew of the murdered woman. He asked me to notify him at once when I had some positive news, and I think he should be present when his aunt’s murderer is arrested.”

  “You believe Quinlivan has returned to London, then?” I queried.

  “I am absolutely certain of it, Watson. Has Inspector Lanner brought you up to date with the case?”

  “Indeed. He informs me that you attach great significance to a hair.”

  My friend chuckled to himself. “It may appear a somewhat slender thread on which to hang a case,” said he at length, “but it has proved sturdy enough for the task. It is, after all, a horse’s hair.”

  “A horse’s hair!”

  “Indeed. And it has led me at a merry gallop, from a small boarding house in Leicester to the present whereabouts of the most sought-after villain in England! He is a very cunning man, Watson, and if we had not found him now, I think it likely he would never have been found at all!”

  No more would he say, and we travelled on in silence. As we turned into Russell Square, I observed that another four-wheeler, which had been behind us in Southampton Row, turned the same way.

  “That cab appears to be following us,” I remarked. “
I am certain I saw the same one in Ludgate Hill, as we left Brown’s Coffee Shop.”

  “So it does,” said Holmes with a chuckle. It was clear from his tone that he knew something we did not, and Lanner glanced behind us with a frown on his face.

  “I wish I knew what was afoot,” said he.

  “All will be revealed shortly,” cried Holmes gaily. “Trust me, Lanner, and you could yet gain the divisional superintendent’s position you aspire to!”

  With a sigh, the policeman sat back in his seat. “Very well,” said he. “We are in your hands, Mr Holmes.”

  Arriving at Basil Thorne’s house in Gordon Square, Holmes, Lanner and I were shown into a richly decorated chamber, used as a study. A tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man, with firm features and a small dark moustache, Thorne listened with an expression of intense interest as Holmes quickly explained to him what had been discovered in Leicester and Glasgow.

  “But what makes you think that Quinlivan is in London again?” he asked in a puzzled voice as Holmes finished. “Do you believe he’s staying with the man whose letters you found?”

  Holmes nodded his head. “Yes,” said he, “the two of them are together. But I had quite forgotten Mr Woodward!” he cried abruptly, springing from his chair. “Perhaps his testimony will make matters clearer.” He hurried from the room and returned a moment later with the thin man who had travelled with us in the cab. “This is Mr George Woodward,” said he, “who has some very important information.”

  For a moment the newcomer glanced about the study, as if somewhat abashed by the opulence of his surroundings. Then, at a nod from Holmes, he raised his hand and spoke with an abruptness that set my hair on end.

  “That is the man,” said he, pointing at Thorne.

  For a moment there was silence, then Holmes spoke.

  “I should perhaps explain,” said he in an urbane voice, “that Mr Woodward is a clerk at the left-luggage office at Leicester railway station. He was on duty there on Friday morning when you deposited a bag, Mr Thorne, before catching the early train back to London.”

  “He must be mistaken,” said Thorne in a tone of puzzlement. “I have never been to Leicester in my life.”

  “Matthew Quinlivan was there.”

  “So I understand, from what you have told me, but I fail to see the relevance of that to myself.”

  “You are Matthew Quinlivan.”

  “What!” we all cried as one.

  “It was a very clever scheme,” said Holmes calmly, addressing Thorne, who had taken a step backwards in alarm. “You have been living above your income for some years. Two years ago, you expected your aunt to die and you ran up very large debts in anticipation of your imminent inheritance. Inconveniently for you, she did not die, and you therefore determined to take matters into your own hands. It was vital, of course, that in the event of her death no suspicion should ever attach to you, and to that end, you conceived the idea of establishing the existence of a fictitious character – Quinlivan – who would commit the crime in as obvious a manner as possible, so that there could be no doubt as to who had done it, and then vanish without trace. Knowing your aunt’s weakness for charitable causes, especially those with a religious connection, you could be reasonably confident that ‘Quinlivan’ would gain access to her, and confident also that, because of her very poor eyesight and hearing, she would not detect the imposture.”

  “Nonsense!” Thorne interrupted with a cry, his voice dry and hoarse. “What of the letters Quinlivan received from the clergyman you mentioned?”

  “You wrote them yourself, Thorne, to add to the air of verisimilitude surrounding the murderer’s flight.”

  “It is nonsense, I say!” Thorne cried again. “You seem to forget, Mr Holmes, that it was I who called you in to the case in the first place!”

  “No, I have not forgotten that. It was your first mistake. You were confident that your deception would never be uncovered, and considered that it could only add to your appearance of innocence if you feigned impatience with the police and consulted me. But the truth is now known. The bag in which you secreted the clothes, wig and false beard, which you had worn when playing the part of ‘Quinlivan’, is now in the hands of the railway police.”

  “You devil!” cried Thorne in a voice suffused with hatred. “You clever, clever devil!” He made a sudden dive for the desk that stood behind him, yanked open a drawer and drew out a heavy-looking pistol.

  In half a second Holmes was across the room and had flung himself on the other man. For a moment they wrestled for the gun, then, with a deafening crash, it went off and a shower of glass fell to the floor as the bullet struck a picture on the wall. Lanner and I sprang forward and attempted to bring Thorne down but, with a hoarse cry of effort, he gave up his struggle for the gun, thrust us aside and raced for the door. In an instant, Holmes had a whistle at his lips and had blown a shrill blast. There followed the sound of a great commotion in the street outside, and we hurried to the front door. Upon the pavement before the house, his face contorted with rage, lay Basil Thorne, held securely in the grip of three uniformed policemen.

  * * *

  “As I have had occasion to remark in the past,” said Holmes as we discussed the case over a whisky and soda in his rooms that evening, “all evidence – even, sometimes, that of eye witnesses – is like a crooked signpost on a winding woodland path. The direction in which it is pointing is never entirely clear, and is apt to change as one changes one’s own position.

  “The evidence found in Leicester appeared to indicate that Quinlivan had gone on to Hull, or possibly, as Lanner conjectured, Glasgow. But I was not convinced: if a man is cunning enough to present his pursuers with one false scent, might he not as easily present them with two? It struck me as unlikely, under the circumstances, that both the letter and the timetable should have been left behind as they were. It was almost as if he wished his pursuers to know who he was and where he had gone. There was no envelope with the letter, so we could not say where he had been staying when he received it, and no address upon the letter itself, so we were also unable to find the whereabouts of his one supposed connection, the man who signed himself ‘Reverend Arnold’. There seemed something excessively coincidental about this, and I began to feel the presence of a calculating, guiding hand behind it all, attempting to lead us carefully away upon a path of his choosing. At first glance it appeared we had made discoveries, but in truth we had learnt nothing whatever. Underlying this exercise in futility I seemed to dimly perceive a pattern unfolding; but to what end? This was the question that vexed me, Watson. And then I found the hair, and my perspective on the case altered completely.

  “It was a white hair, and seemed likely, therefore, to have come from the head of the man we sought. But it was coarse to the touch, and I quickly realized it was not a human hair at all, but that of a horse. Now, it was not impossible that an ordinary horse’s hair might have been carried into the house on someone’s clothing, but the fact that it was the same shade as the hair of the man who had stayed in the room most recently seemed an odd chance. A closer examination with the aid of a lens revealed that one end of it had been neatly cut, almost certainly with a pair of scissors, while the other end had traces of glue adhering to it. I could not doubt then that it had come from a manufactured article, and it required no great leap of imagination to conjecture that the article in question had been a wig, worn by the room’s last occupant.

  “But what did this mean? Why should anyone pretend to be Quinlivan? There seemed no point to it. Unless, I thought, as the idea struck me like a bolt of lightning, the same person pretending to be Quinlivan in Leicester had pretended to be Quinlivan all along! That there was, in other words, no such person, and never had been! That would make sense of the false trails he was strewing before us, for it would clearly have been in his interests to make his assumed character as solid and real as possible for a little while. Then, in a trice, he would take off his disguise and ‘Quinlivan’ woul
d vanish utterly from the face of the earth. But if this were true, then all that had happened must have been planned well in advance, for the fictitious Mr Quinlivan had been flourishing for three months or more. There seemed only one conceivable purpose for such an elaborate plan, and that purpose was the deliberate murder of Lady Yelverton.”

  Holmes paused and took a sip from the glass at his elbow.

  “You see, Watson, how the discovery of a single hair transformed my view of the case? One moment I was helping Lanner to trace a violent eccentric who appeared to have killed Lady Yelverton in hot-blooded anger, the next I saw unfolding before me a carefully constructed, cold-blooded plot to murder a defenceless old lady. But if ‘Quinlivan’ did not really exist, who was it that had played the part so convincingly for the past three months? I at once thought of Thorne, who had never been seen at the same time as ‘Quinlivan’, who would know of his aunt’s susceptibility to charitable callers and who stood to gain substantially from her death. The case seemed clear.

  “Our enquiries at the railway station in Leicester quickly established that no one who had been on duty there on Friday morning could remember seeing a man matching Quinlivan’s description. This puzzled the police, who believed he had purchased a ticket there for Hull or Glasgow; but I took it as a further confirmation of my theory: Lady Yelverton’s murderer had removed his disguise and entered the station inconspicuously as himself, probably, I conjectured, to return to London. If this were so, it was possible he had deposited his disguise somewhere safe, to be collected later, when the hue and cry had died down. I gave Thorne’s description to the clerk who had been on duty at the left-luggage office on Friday, and was gratified to learn that a man exactly answering to it had deposited a leather bag there early in the morning.