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

by Smith, Denis O.

  I took the case and examined it. It was of silver plate, plain and unadorned, save that in one corner the initials G. T. had been engraved in a florid style. Both sides were disfigured with deep scratches, and in places the silver had been rubbed away, revealing a duller metal beneath. One side appeared at some time to have been bent and subsequently hammered flat again, and the hinges were a little awry, but it opened easily enough, and inside, behind a piece of tape, were four or five small cigars.

  “How did you come by it?” I asked.

  “I found it in the chair you are now occupying,” Holmes replied. “It was left there by someone who called earlier, while I was out, a respectable, middle-aged gentleman, I am informed. His card is on the table.”

  I took it up and read the following: “Godfrey Townsend. 34C, Gloucester Terrace.” It was an expensive-looking card, made of stiff cream board, gilded at the edges and with embossed lettering.

  “He left a message to say that he would call back at eleven-thirty,” said Holmes, glancing at the clock. “We have just enough time to describe him to our own satisfaction before he returns. Would you care to begin?”

  “He has an excellent address, near the Park,” I began after a moment, “and his taste in visiting cards clearly tends to the extravagant. Yet his cigar case has a decidedly woebegone appearance.”

  “Those are indeed the main observations one might make from the material at our disposal,” my companion concurred. “What, then, are the deductions to be made from those observations?”

  “The anomaly lies especially in the contrast between the card and the case,” I continued after a moment. “I would suggest, therefore, that your visitor’s circumstances are perhaps not the most affluent – hence the old case – and that his expensive-looking calling card is provided by his employer.”

  Holmes shook his head. “There is no mention on the card of any form of employment,” he remarked. “In any case, Mr Townsend can hardly be poverty-stricken: the cigars are very expensive ones, imported from Cuba by Waterlow’s of Oxford Street.”

  “Then the explanation must be that the case, although worthless in itself, is of great personal value to Mr Townsend because it was given to him by a friend or relation.”

  “If so, he has treated it in a surprisingly cavalier fashion,” interjected Holmes. “It has clearly been kept for prolonged periods in a pocket with coins or keys. It has also been dropped many times, both when closed and when open, and has suffered a serious derangement of the hinges, probably by being stood upon when on the floor. This seems unusually harsh treatment for something of supposedly great personal value!”

  “Do you have a better theory?” I asked, a trifle irritated by my companion’s dismissive manner.

  “There are a few indications,” said he after a moment, in an offhand tone. “Mr Godfrey Townsend is, I should say, comfortably situated, financially speaking. He is a bachelor, of course, and there are thus fewer demands upon his purse than would be the case for a married man of the same age. His present modest wealth is largely the result of his own hard work over the last thirty years, and either because of this, or because the memory of his father’s profligacy is constantly before his mind, he is very careful with his money, and does not spend it unnecessarily. His comfortable existence has, however, suffered something of a shock in the last couple of days. Something unusual and puzzling has occurred, and he has lost an item of personal property.”

  “‘His father’s profligacy’!” I cried in incredulity. “What can you possibly know of your visitor’s father!”

  “Not a great deal,” returned my friend with a shake of the head. “He entertained ambitions of his own when young, but at some stage he lost heart, perhaps disappointed at the elusiveness of success, and took to drink. His fortunes declined, he drank away what money he had and left his son with poor prospects.”

  I laughed loudly in disbelief.

  “How can you possibly pretend to know all these things?” I cried. “Come, Holmes, admit it is sheer fantasy! You have failed to find any significant indications on the cigar case and are indulging in wild speculation, secure in the knowledge that I cannot disprove any of it!”

  “Not at all,” returned my friend in a vehement tone. “I never speculate further than is warranted by the evidence. I do not claim that all my suggestions are necessarily true, Watson; merely that the balance of probability lies in the direction I indicate.”

  “Well, then, explain yourself! Why, for instance, are you so certain that your visitor is a bachelor?”

  “It is strongly suggested by his ornate calling card. No married man would order such an extravagant specimen. His address, too – 34C, Gloucester Terrace – indicates that he occupies rooms on an upper floor of the house, which is more suggestive of a bachelor than a married man, you must admit.”

  “His comfortable existence, then, his hard work, profligate father and all the rest of it?”

  “In your own analysis,” responded my friend after a moment, “you saw that the most obvious anomaly lay in the contrast between the distressed-looking cigar case and the elegant visiting card, but you were insufficiently bold in the deductions you drew from that observation. You made the mistake of assuming that the cigar case Mr Townsend left here was his property just as much as was the visiting card.”

  “Any other assumption would be ludicrous!” I protested strongly. “Why, the case has his initials upon it! Surely you are not suggesting that he found the case in the street on his way here, and that the coincidence of the initials is some kind of fantastic chance!”

  My friend shook his head. “No,” said he with a chuckle. “I am not proposing such an unlikely coincidence. But when we examine the case, we cannot fail to be struck by the incongruity of finding those expensive cigars there. There seems something unnatural about it, like finding half a dozen bottles of claret in a potato sack. It is difficult to imagine a man so fastidious in his taste in visiting cards and cigars regularly producing this case in society with equanimity. There is a smell about the case, too, of older, cheaper tobacco. This suggests that Mr Townsend’s cigars have not been in there for longer than twenty-four hours or so, and that, prior to its present employment, the case has not been put to use for some considerable time. All in all, therefore, it is surely not an unreasonable conjecture that the case is not Mr Townsend’s usual one, but one which has been pressed into temporary service, and which was perhaps once the property of someone else – a member of his family, say, who might well have shared his initials.”

  I nodded. “It is possible,” I agreed.

  “The likelihood of this conjecture is increased,” he continued, “when we note a date: 1840 – presumably the date of manufacture – inscribed in small characters, inside the case.”

  “I saw no date.”

  “Nevertheless, it is there. Now, 1840 is much too early a date for our middle-aged visitor to have bought the case when it was new, and yet the engraved initials are very rubbed, and appear as old as the case itself. It seems a plausible hypothesis, then, to suppose that the case belonged originally to Mr Townsend’s father, and that the latter’s initials were also G. T.”

  “That does seem a reasonable conjecture,” I conceded.

  “Now, the case must have been fairly expensive when new, so Mr Townsend’s father must have thought it worth his while to make such a purchase – perhaps because of the class of society he hoped to move in – rather than buy a cheaper but equally serviceable case. We can therefore conclude that he had at that time some money, or some ambition, or both.”

  “The case may have been a present from a wealthy relative,” I interjected.

  “Yes, that is possible, but if so, our line of reasoning is similar: he had some moneyed connections, at least one of whom thought sufficiently of him to buy him a good quality cigar case, in the belief, presumably, that he would value it and that it would accord with his expected station in life. However, the case has subsequently been so damaged
and ill-treated that we must conclude that the senior Mr Townsend subsequently took to drink. There is no other plausible explanation for the careless abuse to which the case has been subjected. So serious is this abuse, indeed, that we must conclude that he became a hopeless drunkard, in which case it is likely that he drank away whatever money he possessed, leaving his son with nothing. That the son – our morning visitor – now enjoys a modestly comfortable existence, as indicated by his address, his visiting card and his expensive cigars, is therefore almost certainly the result of his own hard work. Is there anything else?”

  “You stated that Mr Townsend was careful with his money.”

  “Well, it seems likely, does it not, that some misfortune has befallen Mr Townsend’s usual cigar case? That he does not have a spare one that is presentable, and has thus had to press this very battered old specimen into service, indicates that he is a man who does not spend his money unnecessarily. No doubt the father’s profligacy made a deep impression upon his mind when he was younger and has produced an opposite inclination in the son.

  “As for his reason for calling upon me, it must be presumed that he has had some puzzling experience. Save only yourself, no one calls upon me who has not. That he should have had a puzzling experience, and have also lost the use of his own cigar case, probably within the same twenty-four hours, would be something of a coincidence were the two matters unrelated, and it therefore seems a fair conjecture that the two incidents are connected.”

  “You are suggesting, then,” said I, chuckling, “that Mr Townsend wishes to commission you to find his missing cigar case?”

  “You laugh, Watson, but it may well be so. I cannot pretend that it is a very exciting prospect, but let us wait and see. Many a memorable case has had an equally unpromising beginning. We shall soon know the truth of the matter, for that is probably his ring at the bell now.”

  A moment later, Mr Godfrey Townsend was shown into my friend’s sitting room. A man of middling size, he was about fifty years of age, with a broad, pleasant face and bright eyes. He took the chair Holmes indicated, then glanced in my direction.

  “Dr Watson has been good enough to assist me on a great many occasions,” said Holmes, by way of introduction. “His presence can only benefit our enquiries. Your property, I believe,” he continued, holding out the old cigar case.

  “Thank goodness!” cried Townsend, his eyes lighting up as he took the case. “I was wondering where I had left it!”

  “It is not the only such object you have lost lately, I think,” remarked Holmes.

  “Indeed not. It is the loss of my own cigar case that has obliged me to use this old one of my father’s, God rest his soul! It has seen better days,” he added as he slipped the case into his pocket. “I have only delayed buying a new one in the hope that you can help me find the one I have lost.”

  “What were the circumstances in which you lost it?” asked Holmes.

  “Bizarre, sir! Bizarre and puzzling! Nay, more than that, downright inexplicable! I not only lost a cigar case yesterday, but gained an experience I could well have done without!”

  “You have our full attention,” said Holmes in a tone of interest. “Pray, let us have the details.”

  “By all means,” said Townsend. “It is soon enough told – though not so soon forgotten. I am, you should know, an importer of Venetian glassware, for which the appetite of the country seems, I am glad to say, insatiable. You may have heard of the firm of Zeffirelli and Townsend. If you own any Venetian glassware, it is more than likely that it was imported into the country by our firm. These business activities have made me a man of very regular habits. Yesterday, for the first time in many years, these habits were altered, and the consequences were exceedingly unfortunate! I am not at all a superstitious man, under normal circumstances, but I cannot help noting in passing that yesterday was Friday the thirteenth, which is said by some to be an unlucky day. While this is hardly an adequate explanation of the series of misfortunes that befell me yesterday, it is scarcely more ridiculous than any other explanation I have been able to devise.

  “I am a bachelor, and live at 34, Gloucester Terrace, where I occupy a set of rooms on the top floor. Each day I leave the house at precisely eight-thirty-seven, and take a cab to my office. Yesterday, however, I awoke at five o’clock with severe toothache, and after suffering for three hours I sent a note round to my dentist, whose surgery is nearby. I received a reply that he could see me at half past eleven. I also sent a note to my office to inform them that I should not be in until the afternoon.

  “I left my rooms at ten o’clock, as there were one or two small matters I wished to attend to before my appointment. As I was descending the stair, a door opened on the landing below and a man emerged, wearing a hat and coat. I recognized him as Mr Smith, who has the rooms on the floor below mine. He is a very private man and our paths seldom cross. I doubt if I have seen him twice in six months. Now, my usual routine having been altered by the toothache, I welcomed this opportunity to renew our very slight acquaintance.

  “‘Good morning,’ I called as I descended the stair.

  “He looked round quickly as he was closing his door, an expression of suspicion upon his face.

  “‘We don’t often see each other,’ I continued in a lighthearted, friendly tone.

  “‘What of it?’ he responded gruffly. Then, without another word, he went back inside his room again and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “I was surprised at such discourtesy and felt quite put out for some time afterwards. But it was a pleasant morning, and as I walked down to the Park and on towards Oxford Street, I managed to shake off the feeling of despondency with which the encounter had left me.

  “At eleven o’clock I was leaving Waterlow’s, the Oxford Street tobacconist’s, when I observed a man standing in the open doorway. He was tall and thin, with a sallow face and a large black moustache, waxed at the tips. As I passed him, he raised his hat and introduced himself as Inspector Porter of the Detective Division of Scotland Yard. His voice was polite, but tinged with an odd accent, so that I wondered if he came from the north.

  “‘Excuse me, sir,’ said he. ‘I am sorry to trouble you, but would you mind stepping this way a moment?’

  “‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘What is it about?’

  “‘We wish to ask you a few questions,’ said he. ‘Let us go somewhere quieter for a minute,’ he continued, leading me across the pavement to where a small closed carriage stood at the kerb.

  “‘It will not take long, I hope,’ I remarked as I climbed in. ‘I have a dentist’s appointment at eleven-thirty.’

  “He did not reply, but climbed in beside me and closed the door. There was another man already in the carriage, a massive, giant of a fellow, who occupied the whole of the other side. His chest was like a barrel, his arms appeared about to burst apart the sleeves of his jacket, and his neck was, I think, the thickest that I have ever seen on a human being.

  “Inspector Porter called something to the driver, and we rattled off in the direction of Marble Arch. He then leaned back in his seat, folded his arms and pursed his lips.

  “‘I understood that you wished to ask me some questions,’ said I, puzzled by his silent manner. He turned and looked at me.

  “‘What is your name?’ said he after a moment.

  “‘Townsend.’

  “The two men exchanged glances, then Porter turned to me again.

  “‘If you remain silent,’ said he, ‘you will not be harmed.’ There was a note of menace in his voice which I did not much care for.

  “‘Whatever do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘Why should I remain silent?’

  “Before I could speak another word, the giant opposite abruptly leaned across the carriage and grabbed my arms tightly. The man beside me then took a small medicine bottle from his pocket, poured a few drops of liquid from it onto a piece of rag, then clapped the rag over my nose and mouth. For a moment, I was aware of a very sweet s
mell and a ringing in my ears, then I had lost all consciousness.

  “How long I remained insensible I do not know, but as I came to my senses, the carriage was drawing to a halt. The man calling himself Inspector Porter opened the door and sprang out, and the other man took my arm, pulled me roughly to my feet and propelled me out onto the ground. I felt quite dizzy and sick, but I had little time to feel sorry for myself. I was quickly marched across a dirty, rubbish-strewn yard, and in through an open doorway. As if in a dream, we passed through a deserted kitchen, along a bare, uncarpeted hallway, and up a dark flight of stairs, all festooned with dusty cobwebs. At last I was led into a large empty room and forcibly seated upon the bare boards of the floor, my back against the damp and discoloured wall by the window. The shutters of the window were closed, but they were not very tight fitting, and a narrow beam of daylight entered through a gap between them and cast a little illumination into the bare and dusty room. The thin man closed the door and consulted his watch, then the two of them began to speak animatedly in a strange, foreign tongue. It was clear that I was the subject of their discussion, for they glanced or gestured in my direction several times, and I caught the words ‘Townsend’ and ‘Gloucester Terrace’ once or twice in their otherwise unintelligible conversation.

  “My head was beginning to clear now, and I made to stand up. In a trice, the thin man’s hand had slipped inside his jacket and emerged holding a long, straight-bladed knife. With one swift movement of his arm, he flung the knife in my direction. I dropped to the floor in terror and closed my eyes as the knife flashed mere inches above me and struck the window shutter with a heavy thud, where it continued to quiver for several moments.

  “Before I had time to react, the thin man had followed his evil-looking knife across the room, and, as if to deter me from trying to seize it, had withdrawn a second, identical to the first, from within his jacket. Brandishing this in my face, he pulled the first knife from the shutter and deliberately dropped it at my side, where it stuck in the floorboard, an inch to the side of my foot. The two men laughed heartily at this, in a way that made my blood run cold. Then, still laughing, the thin man retrieved his knife, and the two of them resumed their discussion. Needless to say, I made no further attempt to stand up.