Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  George Mann was born in Darlington and is the author of over ten books, as well as numerous short stories, novellas and original audio scripts.

  The Affinity Bridge, the first novel in his Newbury & Hobbes Victorian fantasy series, was published in 2008. Other titles in the series include The Osiris Ritual, The Immorality Engine and the forthcoming, The Executioner’s Heart.

  His other novels include Ghosts of Manhattan and Ghosts of War, mystery novels about a vigilante set against the backdrop of a post-steampunk 1920s New York, as well as an original Doctor Who novel, Paradox Lost, featuring the Eleventh Doctor alongside his companions, Amy and Rory.

  He has edited a number of anthologies, including The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy, and has written new adventures for Sherlock Holmes and the worlds of Black Library.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE LOCKED CARRIAGE

  BY STUART DOUGLASS

  My old friend Mr Sherlock Holmes long held the belief that the reading public had little need to know the intimate details of certain of our cases. Primarily, Holmes had in mind those rare occasions when he remained as baffled at the end of a case as at the beginning, but safe to say failure was not the sole reason for his—and my—silence. Some of our cases, in truth, were of a nature considered unsuitable for wider circulation than a brief sketch in my notebooks and a more detailed analysis in Holmes’ archives.

  But times have changed. As I sit here, an old man now, I can hear the clatter of motorcars outside in the street. Should I reach my hand out to the left, a wireless radio sits within reach, ready to transmit signals from all over the world, while to my right the telephone has been installed for so long that if feels like a commonplace, unworthy of note. Holmes himself is long gone, of course, and I myself cannot have a great deal of time left, the wonders of modern medicine notwithstanding. Perhaps this is the time to put on paper the last few unreported successes of the Great Detective’s distinguished career. If not now, after all, then never...

  It was (according to my notes) an overcast day in March when Holmes looked up from the newspaper he was busy slicing into pieces with one of my scalpels.

  “Now this is interesting, Watson,” he said, without preamble. With a final flourish he slid the blade straight down the page and pinched out the article which had evidently caught his attention. I took it from his outstretched hand and read the text slowly back to him, as was then my custom.

  A DISTRESSING MYSTERY

  On Wednesday evening at approximately 6 p.m., a porter working for the Great Eastern Railway made a distressing discovery in one of the compartments being prepared for the return journey from Liverpool Street to Leyton station. A reporter for this newspaper discovered that the porter, Archibald Aberdeen, was alerted by a passenger wishing to join the train that the compartment he had attempted to enter was already occupied by a young lady, said lady apparently having fainted during her journey from Leyton. Being unable to rouse the seated figure, a local physician was called for and he, upon examination, declared life extinct in the unfortunate passenger. As the train was an express special, thus allowing no other passenger admittance to the compartment once the journey commenced, our correspondent understands that the police are satisfied that there is no reason to suspect foul play in this tragedy.

  Not for the first time in our acquaintance I found Holmes staring at me expectantly, while I frantically attempted to ascertain the seemingly inconsequential fact which had piqued his interest.

  I admit that I was a little irked by his air of condescension and determined to prove myself not entirely lacking in intellect. Unfortunately, nothing obvious suggested itself. “I’m afraid that I fail to see what intrigues you, Holmes. The unfortunate lady was in an otherwise empty, locked carriage on a swiftly moving express train and assured, therefore, of no company until journey’s end. Given those circumstances, it cannot possibly have been anything other than natural causes. A tragedy, Holmes, but not a crime.”

  Holmes made a vague gesture with his hand, indicating neither agreement nor disagreement. “Perhaps,” he murmured. He steepled his fingers in front of his face and closed his eyes for a moment. “But equally, perhaps not,” he concluded, somewhat perversely I felt. He pushed himself from his chair with a characteristic burst of energy. “There is also the small matter of the porter, whose name I almost recognise, though from where I cannot say. Lestrade should be able to clear the matter up, in any case. Identifying a railway porter is a task even he should not find beyond him.” And with that, Holmes threw open the door and was off, grabbing his hat and coat as he passed and gesturing for me to follow.

  * * *

  Later in life, Inspector Lestrade was pleased to admit that he owed a portion of his dazzling career to his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. In the early years of their acquaintanceship, however, he preferred, naturally if gracelessly, to stress his own solid police work and judgement of character and to skate quickly over any involvement by Holmes. Holmes, for his part, viewed Lestrade as competent enough for a policeman, though with a greed for popular acclaim which was anathema to my friend. These facts explained why Lestrade was always gracious enough to allow Holmes access to any case in which he expressed an interest. Nothing attracts public approval so quickly as success, I find.

  So it was that within the hour we were ensconced with the inspector in his dusty Scotland Yard office, and the sallow-faced little man was checking a file for information on Holmes’ behalf.

  “No, Mr Holmes, the name Archibald Aberdeen rings no bells at all,” he said, handing the file over to my friend and settling back in his seat, with a surreptitious wink in my direction. “Though since you can’t actually say why we would know this gentleman, or even when or where we might have come across him, that’s not entirely a surprise. What’s your interest, if I might ask, Mr Holmes? As no one else could possibly have been in the carriage, we were intending to close the file on this case. Unless you have some particular theory as to the cause of the young lady’s death?”

  “Heart problems, possibly?” I ventured. The girl was young to suffer such a fate, but it was not unheard of, and the suddenness of her collapse argued against the more common ailments of the young.

  “An excellent suggestion, Dr Watson! That was the very conclusion of the physician who examined the body. A weak heart, he said, which could have failed at any time. I must tell you, Mr Holmes, that a substantial amount of money was found in the carriage, in addition to shop boxes containing small items of feminine jewellery. In light of this, the matter is not viewed as a criminal one. To be honest, I can’t see what interest you might have in the case at all.”

  “A substantial amount of money, you said?” asked Holmes, ignoring the rest of Lestrade’s speech entirely.

  “Nine ten-pound notes, no less, as well as—” He consulted the file again. “As well as one five-pound note, two pound notes, five shillings and a ha’penny, all discovered in the young lady’s handbag.”

  “Not theft then,” said Holmes. “And the young lady alone in a locked carriage the entire time. A corridorless express train, Lestrade, I think you said?” He nodded to himself in apparent confirmation. “Is there family?’

  “There is. Within the hour her father was able to identify the poor lady as Miss Emily Williams, a respectable sort who lives—lived— with her parents in Putney. Miss Williams’ fiancé, Mr James Hogg, had gone to the station to meet her and, not finding her there, had enlisted her father to help him search. The victim’s body was discovered shortly after Mr Williams reported her missing to the police. There is a sister nearby, too, I believe. She was not involved in the search but a constable was sent round to break the news.”

  “The fiancé did not report it directly?” asked Holmes, without waiting for a response. “Not that it matters. Someone will always miss a respectable young woman.”

  “Nearly one hundred pounds!” I exclaimed, finally having a chance to
speak. “What on earth was she doing carrying such a sum around with her? Where had she come from that she needed so much money to hand?”

  Lestrade was, I believe, about to answer, but Holmes spoke first, irritation evident in his voice. “She was buying items for her wedding, Watson. That much at least is obvious, surely?”

  I have remarked previously on my friend’s astonishing ability to pluck facts from the seeming air, but I admit that this pronouncement left me dumbfounded. Before I could say anything, however, Holmes continued. “The money, Watson. From her father, presumably, Lestrade?” The inspector nodded in confirmation as Holmes went on, “Nine ten-pound notes, and a considerable amount of other denominations. Change, in other words, but given the amount involved, change from a selection of items, and with money enough left for further, more substantial purchases. The sort that an engaged young woman might make when preparing to set up a home of her own. Combine this with the fact that the young lady in question was returning by train from the shopping esplanades of the city, and that Lestrade mentioned items of jewellery, and the conclusion is inescapable. I need hardly add that either something caused her a great deal of distress before she boarded the train, or she had experienced second thoughts about her upcoming nuptials.”

  “Oh really, Holmes,” I complained. “This is sheer conjecture on your part. There is no way you could possibly know intimate facts about Miss Williams’ private life.”

  Holmes was in no way discomfited by my expression of doubt. “The lady returned with nearly all of the money she had taken shopping, Watson. Have you ever heard of a woman showing such self-control when shopping for her own wedding? Either she was forced to cut her trip short, or her heart was not entirely set on the expedition in the first place.

  “No small love gift for her future husband either, you will note, Watson. I would hazard, therefore, that the two were not quite so close as one would imagine of a pair of young lovers. Further, she was on the half-past two special express train, not the later and more leisurely one. No, Watson, I think I am safe in stating that something led Miss Williams to abandon her plans and return home.

  “Had she not done so, she might well have avoided the grisly fate which overcame her in that unfortunate railway carriage.”

  “Really, Mr Holmes, there’s nothing to suggest a grisly fate,” interrupted Lestrade, with asperity. “I’ve already said, nobody else entered the carriage, and as the train was a special express there was no possibility of anyone getting on at another station. Not to mention that the lady was found sitting in her seat, as calm as you like. She could not have been more secure in a locked and bolted room.”

  “Was anything disturbed?” I asked carefully.

  “The lady was not... insulted in any other way, if that’s what you’re asking, Dr Watson,” replied Lestrade with some embarrassment. “Her clothes were essentially intact, thankfully. In fact, with the exception of single glove, everything appears to be accounted for.”

  “What sort of glove?” Holmes asked, his interest obviously roused.

  Lestrade consulted the thin file again and read out a brief description. “Dark blue lady’s glove, right hand, lace at wrist, three small pearls on the back.” He shrugged helplessly. “That’s all we have I’m afraid, Mr Holmes. The other probably fell down the back of the seat or got missed by whoever picked up the carriage later. Nobody likes to hang about on a job like that, now do they?”

  Evidently having heard enough, Holmes leapt to his feet. “Very well, Lestrade; if you will excuse us, I think we had best go and examine this peculiar carriage, which can cause a murderer to disappear into thin air. Come along, Watson!” he ordered as he pulled open the door and headed down the stairs.

  I followed after him as best I could, with Lestrade’s entreaty that there was no reason to jump to hasty conclusions soon lost in the air behind me.

  * * *

  As I walked alongside Holmes, he fired a series of questions at me. That he was not actually speaking to me was clear enough from the speed with which one question followed another and, more obviously still, from the way he answered the questions himself.

  “Why did the killer not take the money in his victim’s purse, Watson? Hmm, perhaps her bag fell under the seat, and he simply never noticed it. In the struggle, perhaps? But Lestrade said there was no struggle. Which does not necessarily mean there was no struggle, of course. Did Miss Williams sit quietly and allow herself to be slain? I think not, Watson. For that matter, how could she be murdered if no murderer could possibly have been present? I am temporarily puzzled, I admit it, Watson.”

  I took advantage of a brief break in this monologue to interject. “You’re sure this is murder then, Holmes?”

  Holmes stopped in his tracks and turned to address me directly. “Which would you prefer to believe, Watson—that a murderer extracted himself from a locked carriage in a moving train or that the lady’s glove somehow managed the same trick by itself?”

  That was hardly the question I was asking, I pointed out to Holmes with some acerbity. All very well to mock, I reminded him, but a young woman lay dead and, if Holmes was to be believed, her killer remained at large.

  Holmes, to his credit, had the grace to look abashed. He was not a callous man, but he did tend, on occasion, to overlook the human element in his cases. “My apologies, Watson,” he said, beckoning to a passing hansom cab. “I can conceive of no reason why Miss Williams should have removed a single glove, disposed of it in so comprehensive a manner and then conveniently and quietly died. Not to mention the small matter of Mr Archibald Aberdeen.” He spoke to the cabbie and, as we settled ourselves, I asked him about our destination.

  “Baker Street, Watson, where you will drop me off, then I think you should make a visit while I busy myself elsewhere. Lestrade says the unfortunate victim had family in the area of Leyton station: a sister. Go and speak to her, there’s a good chap, and discover what you can about Miss Williams’ state of mind recently. I have a feeling there may be something useful to be learned.”

  “And what of you, Holmes? Where will you be while I go calling?”

  Holmes allowed himself a thin smile. “Oh, here and there, Watson,” he said. “Perhaps even a trip to Aberdeen.”

  * * *

  Miss Williams’ sister, when I called on her, was a slight, timid creature who seemed surprised that I wished to speak to her about Emily, but determined to help, nonetheless. Would that I could have said the same of her husband.

  A tall, painfully thin man with sparse sandy-coloured hair and an untidy moustache of the same colour, George Fellows paced up and down in front of his wife as though to barricade her against any threat from myself. With his long arms and legs flapping at each side, and his head bobbing forward and back in annoyance, I was put in mind of some carnivorous bird preparing for flight. Even after I explained that I was working with Mr Sherlock Holmes and the Metropolitan Police Force, Fellows regarded me with ill-concealed distrust.

  “Why on earth would my wife know anything at all about the movements of her sister?” he spluttered. “As I’m sure the police are aware, Margaret and her family... do not speak.”

  I noted Fellows’ slight pause and, turning to the lady in question, ventured to enquire the cause of the estrangement.

  “My father does not approve of George,” she replied. “He thinks—”

  “That she married beneath herself!” Fellows interrupted. His face was flushed red with anger and, as he continued, his words tripped one over the other in his haste to spit out his fury. “That fool of a father of hers thinks that she would have been better marrying a clerk, not a mere sweep like me! A mere sweep! Me, who worked my way up from climbing boy, and now with half a dozen men working under me—aye, a businessman, no less! And as for Hogg, the precious clerk? A mealy-mouthed sycophant, ingratiating himself with the old man, turning Emily’s head with his big talk, while the whole family looks down on honest working men.”

  He stopped to draw
a breath. He was sweating and scarlet-faced, and pointed at his wife for emphasis as he repeated, “A mealy-mouthed sycophant that Margaret would never entertain. No, nor her noddy sister!”

  Shocked though I was by the man’s anger and lack of reverence towards the dead, there was little I could politely say in response. I had no wish to upset Mrs Fellows any further, even though her husband appeared to labour under no such compunction. She presumably believed her sister to have died of natural causes; who was I to disabuse her of that comforting notion? In fact, I was considering making my excuses when Mrs Fellows spoke again.

  “There can be no harm in telling the truth now,” she whispered. Then, gathering her courage, she continued in a considerably louder voice, “Yes, I did meet with my sister yesterday morning. It was when my husband was at work. She’d taken some money out the bank and wanted me to go with her, to do a bit of shopping, fill her bottom drawer for her.” She stifled a sob and took a deep breath. “Oh sit down, George, please! Stop your complaining for a minute and listen to me.”

  As I remarked to Holmes later, the change in the woman was remarkable. I had taken her to be a timid mouse and her husband to be the bully who had cowed her completely. And yet with an abrupt wave of her hand she gestured at her husband to sit then turned back to me, with a glint of determination in her eyes.

  “Please do not concern yourself with George’s intemperate words, Dr Watson. It is merely the desire of a loving husband to stand for no slight, however small, against his wife. It makes him—” she paused, considering her next word “— stressful.”

  “You must understand that my father has always assumed that both of his daughters would marry someone from his own line of work. He has worked in the bank for thirty years, you see, reaching his present position on the board some ten years ago. He knows only bank staff and their families—he can imagine no better society, nor a better match for his children. So when I met George, and fell in love with him, it mattered little to my father that he is the proprietor of a successful business, only that he is not an office worker like himself. And so my father will not speak to me, now or in the future, and I have been cut from his will entirely, while Emily... well, she had her Mr Hogg, as respectable a clerk as ever earned a wage behind a bank counter.