Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

“It would be in your best interests to hear what we have to say.”

  After a few moments’ hesitation, Simon Martin opened the door and allowed us to enter. The room was small and shabby, but tidy and clean. I estimated Martin to be in his early thirties. He was a plump fellow, with pouchy cheeks and a snub nose. His visage bore little resemblance to the aquiline features of his father.

  “What is this all about?” he asked, his tone more weary than truculent.

  In brief but precise detail, Holmes related the events that had taken place at Monkton House in the early hours. Martin gasped aloud and his face blanched on hearing of his father’s death. This was either a genuine reaction, or else he was a marvellous dissembler.

  “Who is responsible?” he asked, his voice trembling.

  “That is what I hope to discover. Do you know of any enemies of your father, anyone who bore him a grudge?”

  “Oh, yes. There was a man who would stoop to murder to take his revenge on my father: Hugo Carrington. But you cannot commit murder from the grave. Carrington is dead.”

  “It was he who claimed you stole the amulet from Ramesses’s tomb and sold it to him?”

  Martin shook his head violently. “He lied. True, I had taken a few trinkets from my father’s collection and hawked them, but I never approached Carrington with anything. And I would not have touched the amulet. It was my father’s pride and joy.”

  “How then did it come into Carrington’s possession?”

  “I wish I knew. I do know that because Carrington owned it, he managed to convince my father that I had sold it to him. My father hated me from that day on and nothing I could say or do would placate him. And now he has gone to his grave still convinced that I was guilty of the theft.”

  * * *

  “I believe the young man concerning the theft of the amulet. I don’t think he took it and sold it to Carrington,” I said to Holmes as we journeyed back to Baker Street.

  “He certainly appears convincing, but words are not facts, and we have to learn much more in this case before we can make definite judgements.”

  “Do you have any theories?”

  Holmes gave a smile. “Always straining at the leash, eh, Watson? Let us say that I have a number of thoughts swimming around in my brain, but these thoughts have many unanswered questions attached to them. Nothing will become clear until I have more data.”

  Sherlock Holmes spoke no more on the matter that evening. After dinner, he delved for some time into his commonplace book and then, as it was nearing the hour when I was ready to wend my way to bed, he took up his violin and began playing a series of haunting airs. I knew this was one of his techniques to assist his deep contemplation of matters at hand. With a weary yawn, I left him to it and retired in search of a good night’s sleep.

  * * *

  I rose early the next morning and was pleased to observe from my window that a gentle thaw was setting in. On entering our sitting room, I discovered Holmes at the breakfast table along with a much-revived Inspector Hopkins. His features had regained their natural colour and his eyes were as alert as usual. He was devouring a piece of toast with gusto as I took my seat at the table.

  “Mr. Holmes has just been filling me in on what I missed yesterday. It is excellent news that you managed to track down Simon Martin, who must be regarded as one of the prime suspects in the case.”

  Holmes said nothing, his features remaining neutral.

  “I’ll go round to Wandsworth with a few constables and see him this morning. It may be as well to place him under arrest pending further enquiries.”

  “Is that really necessary, Inspector?” I said with some heat.

  “Better safe than sorry, Doctor.”

  “But what about motive?”

  “He may well have been building up anger towards his father for all this time. He lost a home, an income, and to some extent his reputation. Also, by doing away with the old man, he will come into part of Sir Ronald’s estate.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, shaking my head. “Isn’t it likely that Simon Martin was written out of his father’s will after their estrangement?”

  Hopkins nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it is possible. We shall have to see.”

  Holmes leaned forward, a gentle smile softening his features. “Ah, we must let the inspector carry out his duties as he sees fit, Watson.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” said our policeman friend before slurping the dregs of his coffee and then pushing his chair away from the table. “I’ll bid you goodbye for now, gentlemen.”

  “Do keep us abreast of developments, Hopkins. In the meantime, I have a few furrows of my own to plough.”

  * * *

  “I do think Hopkins is barking up the wrong tree,” I said after we had heard the street door slam shut.

  “The usual occupation of a Scotland Yarder. At least it keeps him out of our hair for the time being.”

  “What are these furrows you mentioned?”

  “Well, I exaggerated somewhat. But I do feel a visit to my old ally Langdale Pike might well induce our tree of investigation to bear some fruit. At present it is somewhat bare.”

  Langdale Pike was a strange, languid creature who was Holmes’s human book of reference. He spent his waking hours in the bow window of a St James’s Street club where he was the receiving station and transmitter for the gossip, society secrets and untold tales of the great metropolis. If there was a hushed rumour, a hidden revelation, a repressed misdemeanour, Langdale Pike would know of it. On occasion, Holmes discreetly provided Pike with various tasty morsels and this was reciprocated on request.

  Because of the secretive nature of their association, I was never privy to their meetings. I had met Pike only once. Holmes and I had been walking in St James’s Park when we encountered the fellow. Brief introductions were made, pleasantries expressed and then, after whispering some titbit of news in Holmes’s ear, the strange man loped off, disappearing into the crowd.

  “There are one or two pieces of information my friend Pike may be able to furnish me with, which could help to clear some of the fog surrounding this affair,” remarked Holmes as he donned his overcoat and wrapped a muffler around his neck. “If fortune is on my side, I should return by lunchtime a somewhat wiser man.” He gave a dry chuckle as he departed.

  There was very little for me to do but wait for his return, so after Mrs. Hudson had cleared away the breakfast utensils, I settled down by a cheery fire to read the morning papers. I thought that perhaps a consideration of the latest matters of state might clear my brain, so that later I could address the details concerning the murders at Monkton House with a fresh eye.

  However, I had only just finished perusing The Times, when Mrs. Hudson announced that I had a visitor. It was Miss Martin.

  “I hope I am not intruding,” she said delicately as she took a few tentative steps into the room.

  “Not at all,” said I. “Please take a seat by the fire. Would you care for a hot drink to warm you?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I was hoping to have a word with Mr. Holmes.”

  “I am afraid he is out on business at the moment. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  The young lady gave me a gentle smile, but I could see in her eyes that she was disappointed that my friend was not on hand to attend to her, and that I was a poor substitute.

  “I was just wondering… if any progress had been made regarding the death of my uncle.”

  “There is nothing new to report at the moment, but Mr. Holmes is still very much on the case.”

  “I see.”

  “I wonder if I may ask you a question, Miss Martin?”

  She seemed a little surprised at my request but smiled at me demurely. “Why, of course.”

  “What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Simon Martin?”

  “Well, I don’t really have a relationship with him. I have not seen him or been in communication with him since he left Monkton House about
six months ago.”

  “Do you take your uncle’s view that he is a thief and a blackguard and that he stole his father’s amulet to sell it to Hugo Carrington?”

  Now the lady looked flustered. Her eyelids flickered and she clasped her hands together in an awkward movement. “I… I don’t really know. Sir Ronald was convinced of it, so I suppose I believed him.” She paused for a moment and examined her gloved hands.

  “Simon did have his champion, however,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “I believe that Simon’s friend, Captain Henry Carmichael, made assurances to Sir Ronald that his son was innocent.”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “You have met Captain Carmichael.”

  “I encountered him on his visits to the house – that is all.”

  “How did Sir Ronald react to Carmichael’s claims regarding Simon?”

  “Sir Ronald listened patiently, I believe, and then instructed Carmichael to go. Sir Ronald told me that there was no way he would be fooled by a confederate of Simon’s, no doubt sent by his son in an attempt to weave a web of lies in his favour.”

  “How did you get on with Simon when he was living at Monkton House?”

  “I cannot say that we had much to do with each other. He was rarely about the house and ate most of his meals elsewhere. He was quite civil, I suppose.”

  “You appreciate that it is possible that he may return to Monkton House? He could well be the master if he inherits his father’s fortune.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “Do you know the details of Sir Ronald’s will?”

  “I am not certain, but it is possible that he cut Simon out of the will. He did talk about doing so. The incident with the amulet wounded him deeply. The details won’t be known until the official reading. The will is not yet a matter of public record.”

  “However, it does seem likely that you are the main beneficiary.”

  “I don’t want to consider such matters at this time, Dr. Watson. My main concern is that the person responsible for the murder of my uncle and his butler be caught and put behind bars.”

  “Of course. At least you have your fiancé to comfort you.”

  “Yes, Alan has been a great support to me. When this dark business is over, he wants us to marry, very soon.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” I said warmly. “Although I believe you had set your wedding for the summer of next year.”

  “Yes, we had. But circumstances have now changed so drastically. I am very much alone in the world. Alan is very keen to be my husband so that he can look after me formally and be my protector.”

  “I understand. And do not fret, for I am sure that Mr. Holmes will solve the mystery before long. He is rarely confounded.”

  “That is good to know. I trust that either you or he will keep me informed of developments?”

  I nodded. I could do no more. I was very well aware that Holmes did not always confide in me, and I felt sure he would not be prepared to do so with someone so closely involved in the matter as Miss Martin.

  My visitor rose and held out her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. I appreciate you giving up your time.”

  I shook her hand gently and led her to the door. With a final nod of parting she left the room.

  I must admit that I was puzzled by Miss Martin’s visit. Certainly, I had learned more from our little talk than she had from me. I gazed out of the window onto the street below and observed the lady on our doorstep. There was a carriage waiting for her by the kerb and as she approached it Alan Sanderson emerged and embraced her. They exchanged a few words before stepping inside. Within seconds the carriage was away down the street, merging into the throng of traffic.

  What was the real reason for her coming to Baker Street? Was Alan Sanderson the instigator of the visit, eager to learn news of the investigation? I was sure that Holmes would have some views on the matter.

  * * *

  Sherlock Holmes returned to Baker Street at lunchtime. I could hear that there was a spring in his step as he made his way up to our sitting room. He entered briskly, his eyes bright and a smile upon his thin lips.

  “Your expedition has been a successful one,” I said.

  “Your deduction is correct, Doctor. I have learned things from the estimable Pike with possible bearings on our case.”

  “I have news for you also. We have had a visitor.”

  “Of course. A lady. Celia Martin?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I note that you have drawn a chair nearer the fire, which, in your chivalrous way, you would do to assist a lady to ward off the winter chill. I sense a faint aroma of perfume in the air, and, if I am not mistaken, it is the same that was worn by Miss Martin when I talked with her yesterday.”

  “Indeed, it was she.”

  “Then we both have tales to tell. May I suggest we recount our separate adventures over lunch at Simpson’s? Something warming with a glass or two of claret would make a fine accompaniment to our storytelling.”

  Within half an hour we were seated in Simpson’s restaurant in the Strand. Having ordered mutton, we were sipping the wine. “So, friend Watson, I am eager to hear what Miss Martin had to say to you. Now, as always, pray be precise as to details. Relay her words as accurately as you can recall them.”

  I did so, including my observation of Miss Martin’s fiancé waiting for her as she left. Holmes sat in rapt attention, nodding judiciously on occasion.

  “Well done, Watson, a fine, detailed recitation. It is clear that this lady has much she is not telling us.”

  “What is she hiding?”

  “I am not absolutely sure, but I suspect that there is more to her relationship with Simon Martin than she is admitting. Then there is Sanderson’s desperate rush to get married…”

  “Perhaps he really wants to cherish and protect her. These things happen, Holmes, you know.”

  “I fear it is his concern for feathering his own nest rather than any affection for Miss Martin which is his motive.”

  “You are incorrigible, Holmes. Think of poor Miss Martin, how vulnerable she must now feel.”

  Holmes gave me one of his sardonic smiles. “Ah, Watson, you always had great empathy with the gentler sex.”

  Before I could respond to this uncalled for comment, the waiter arrived with the carving trolley.

  “No more chatter now, old fellow, until we have put away this delicious-looking meat.”

  We ate in companionable silence and then, as we lingered over coffee and brandy, I finally prompted Holmes to reveal what he had learned on his visit to Langdale Pike.

  My friend sat back and closed his eyes for a moment before he began. “I found Pike as usual by the window of the club, partaking of his morning seltzer and a little black cheroot. He greeted me cheerfully and bid me sit next to him.

  “‘What is it this time, Mr. Holmes?’ he asked. ‘Another dark deed in the corridors of power, or a lady of the night skewered by a follower of the Ripper?’

  “‘What can you tell me about Sir Ronald Martin and Hugo Carrington?’ I said, ignoring his fanciful preamble.

  “‘Ooh, the terrible twins of Egyptology. You no doubt know of their rivalry. Initially they did work closely as a team in the search for the tomb of Ramesses VIII, but then there was a serious quarrel and Martin struck out on his own and, of course, discovered the tomb and its treasures. You can imagine how Carrington felt.’

  “I nodded.

  “‘To call him a bitter man would be to underestimate the boiling fury that seethed within him. He bore the deep hatred of Ronald Martin to his grave. It seemed that the anger he felt helped to weaken his already diseased heart, which did for him a few months ago. I must admit I have a sneaking sympathy for him. He really did not deserve to be sidelined. However, by all accounts he was a difficult and unreliable fellow who was too fond of his drink.’

  “‘What do you know of his personal life?’

  “‘Ah, that i
s where I can lift the veil a little on what is certainly not common knowledge. He was a bachelor, but there was a bastard in the wings: an illegitimate son born some thirty or so years ago. Nothing very much is known about the mother. It is rumoured that she died in childbirth, but I cannot confirm that.’

  “‘What happened to the son?’

  “‘Now we come to the interesting part. Apparently, he was a difficult and rebellious child. Perhaps that is not too surprising, because his father had some irrational tendencies also, but in the son these were far worse. He was taken away, to an institution for all I know, and he may still be there, rotting in some padded cell.’

  “‘So he did not benefit from Carrington’s will. He did not inherit his estate?’

  “‘Ah, my crystal ball does not reveal any further facts in the matter.’

  “‘What about the amulet that came into Carrington’s possession? He claimed that Sir Ronald’s son sold it to him.’

  “Pike shrugged his skeletal shoulders. ‘He may well have. That is the scenario generally accepted. Certainly, Sir Ronald was convinced it was true.’

  “‘Indeed,’ I replied. ‘It was the large pebble thrown into the pool that caused so many ripples.’”

  Sherlock Holmes sat back in his chair, extracted a cigar from his case and lit it before continuing. “And that, my dear Watson, is as much information as I could glean, and it certainly does help. We need to find out what happened to Carrington’s son. He may well be the key to the whole mystery.”

  “How will you do that?”

  Holmes frowned. “By painstaking research. Sometimes detective work can be mundane. There are two avenues to follow. We must discover who inherited the Carrington estate, however meagre it was. This information can be obtained from the Public Records Office on Chancery Lane. The second search – for his son and where he ended up – will not be as easy.”

  I was about to reply when my attention was caught by a figure moving swiftly across the restaurant, weaving in and out of the tables, heading in our direction. It was Inspector Hopkins. He arrived somewhat flushed in the face and breathless.

  “How on earth did you know we were here?” I asked in astonishment.