Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  “Every word. Fascinating stuff!”

  “Well,” I began, somewhat defensively, “I understand they are popular in certain quarters.”

  “You are too modest, Dr Watson.” The fellow’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “But I can see I have embarrassed you. My apologies.”

  “Oh, well. I... There’s no need, really,” I blustered, disarmed.

  “Oh, Arthur, I cannot trust you, can I?’ said Elizabeth good-naturedly.

  “Probably wise,” said Raffles.

  “Arthur is with the Gentlemen,” said Elizabeth.

  “I’m sorry,” I asked, “the who?”

  “The Gentlemen of England,” continued our hostess, as if no further explanation was required.

  “I sense you’re more of a rugger man, Dr Watson?” enquired Raffles, and realisation dawned.

  “Ah, the cricket match.”

  “Arthur is quite the star spin bowler,” explained Elizabeth. “The Gentlemen have come down to give the local side a bit of a thrashing.”

  Raffles grinned. “Let’s not be too hasty.” He looked around the room. “Bunny,” he called out, waving. A fellow dressed in similar attire to Raffles wandered over from where he seemed to be staring in rapt fascination at a portrait of one of James’s ancestors. There was something of the hangdog about him as he sauntered over and smiled weakly. He was marginally shorter than Raffles, his hair parted in an approximation of his friend’s groomed style, but thinner and unkempt.

  “Hullo,” he said, nodding.

  Raffles made the introductions. “Bunny Manders, John Watson.”

  “Pleasure,” I said, shaking hands with the newcomer.

  “Bunny tends to knock around with me, old school pal and all that.”

  “Hmm,” was all Manders seemed able to muster.

  For a moment, it seemed an awful, awkward silence was about to expand around us, none of us knowing quite what to say. I saw Manders positively breathe a sigh of relief when the gong for dinner finally sounded.

  “Well, there we are,” said Raffles.

  “Indeed,” I joined.

  “Yes, I’m famished,” said Manders, immediately placing a hand to his mouth. “Oh, sorry. That was...”

  “Shall we?” suggested Elizabeth, expertly covering the chap’s social misdemeanour and guiding us through to the dining hall along with the other guests.

  * * *

  Dinner was a convivial affair, and with the fortification of a glass of excellent red, I began to relax and enjoy the company of those around me. I was seated up with James, and found myself next to a charming young lady whose father was something in the overseas trade business.

  Elizabeth held court further down the table, Mr Raffles seated to one side, Bunny Manders opposite. Every so often, Raffles would glance in my direction, nodding amiably in acknowledgement. I smiled awkwardly back, and continued my conversation.

  Dinner over and done with in painless fashion, there were the usual post-repast rituals to be observed, and I am loath to admit I did enjoy a rare cigar and glass of brandy. However out of practice I was within the social milieu, I like to think I judged a juncture to retire that was neither too early to be considered rude, nor too late to outstay one’s welcome when the host simply wants to go to their own bed.

  * * *

  I awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed, sunshine bisecting the room through a chink in the heavy curtains, bringing with it the promise of a fine day. Even the prospect of an afternoon of cricket couldn’t dampen my spirits, and I must confess at this point to a curiosity over this Raffles fellow. He seemed a thoroughly decent sort and I was hoping to talk some more with him over the course of the weekend.

  At breakfast I found Raffles’s associate, Manders, casting a lone figure as he picked unenthusiastically at some kippers. I joined him. At this he seemed to perk up. Where last night I had dismissed him as a harmless buffoon, I divined he was possessed of a sharp wit, albeit with an outlook on life that leant towards the bleak. But he was affable company, and we found we held some common interest—he had taken to writing himself, and we fell into discussing craft and technique, such as we both possessed.

  * * *

  I found myself rubbing along well enough with Manders for most of the day, and he was happy to accompany me on a turn or two around the cricket pitch that afternoon.

  “Oh, he’s very good,” he said of Raffles, who I spied for the first time that day leading the Gentlemen out onto the field for the first of the afternoon’s play. Manders entered into a garbled explanation of the status of the Gentleman as first-class amateurs in the game, in relation to the more professional standings of the so-called Players, but it was lost on me, as I suspect it was him. My dislike of cricket came not from ignorance of the rules—I understood them perfectly well—but from the interminable length of time each match took to play out. With a smile I recalled Holmes’ succinct essay on the subject, of few words and strictly not for print, and determined to enjoy this brief exposure to the game.

  On the basis of the afternoon’s play, the reputation of Raffles as a spin bowler was quite correct. He took six wickets in quick succession, keeping the enthusiastic local side to a minimum of runs, which were then matched in short order as the Gentleman went in to bat. Raffles himself added a hefty number to the total.

  “That was quite the performance,” I begrudgingly told him over refreshing lemonade in the marquee following the end of play.

  “Too kind, Dr Watson,” said Raffles, as relaxed as ever. “Cricket is as much founded on luck as it is skill. There are more worthy challenges in life.”

  “You’re staying for this evening’s festivities?”

  “Oh yes, wouldn’t miss James and Elizabeth’s shindig for anything. Would we, Bunny?”

  “What?” said Manders, who had reverted to the ill-at-ease fellow I had met last night in the presence of his friend. “Oh yes. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I’m afraid, Dr Watson, I shan’t be able to let you off the hook much longer,” said Raffles, a sly glint in his eyes.

  “Whatever do you mean?” I replied warily.

  “I will be demanding to know at least a little of your adventures with Mr Sherlock Holmes before the weekend is out.”

  I sighed, relenting with a weak smile. “Very well, I am at your disposal this evening.”

  “Excellent!” exclaimed Raffles. “One’s life is so dull. We all need vicarious pleasure from time to time. Eh, Bunny?” At that, he slapped his companion on the back, causing him to cough and splutter into his lemonade.

  * * *

  And discuss we did.

  Much of that Saturday evening has been lost to the more pressing events that would soon overtake them in my memory. However, the more informal evening of entertainment provided by James and Elizabeth was punctuated by a not-unpleasant conversation with Mr Raffles on my activities alongside Sherlock Holmes. He quizzed me at length on the case of “The Sign of Four”, which he declared a favourite and had reread many times, and was in awe to hear first hand the tale concerning the giant rat of Sumatra. It still chilled me to this day, but I was happy to recount it with little coaxing.

  Raffles maintained his unflinching admiration for Holmes and myself. “I am but a malingerer, a tedious man of leisure who would give much to experience even a little of the danger you have found yourself in.”

  “I believe Holmes would have it that my colourful style makes too much currency from that aspect of his investigations.”

  The evening was soon over, a pleasant soiree of good company and good food, and I now felt foolish for any apprehension preceding my arrival. Raffles excused himself surprisingly early, with a promise to renew our acquaintance in London, and it was only then I realised the unfortunate Manders had been absent for much of the evening.

  I spent something short of an hour in the company of James and Elizabeth, who had been such excellent hosts, and I vowed to myself I would make more effort in the future to see them. Then I,
too, took my leave, making my way up the wide staircase.

  Within a few minutes I was nestled once more in the comfortably apportioned bed, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

  * * *

  “John.”

  I felt a hand shaking me awake and an urgent voice hissing in my ear. “John, wake up!”

  I opened my eyes to find James standing at the side of the bed, holding a lamp above his head, although pale dawn light was creeping in around the curtain edges. “James?” I mumbled, disorientated. It felt just minutes since I had fallen asleep. “What is it?” And then I was bolt upright in bed, fearing the worst. “Elizabeth?”

  “Lizzie’s fine.” His face was grim. “You’d better come.”

  I wrapped my robe about myself and, bleary-eyed, followed James from the room, down the main staircase and into the drawing room. I was not quite prepared for the scene before me.

  Elizabeth sat, her entire frame devoid of the usual vigour. She looked up as I entered, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, then looked away to the rear wall which was lined with books. Except a small square of books had seemingly been removed—or rather slid aside, and then it became clear. It was a hidden panel, released by a catch or some such, revealing a safe—the heavy door of which was wide open.

  “It’s gone, John,” said Elizabeth in a quiet voice. “My tiara. Taken.”

  I didn’t know what to say James went to Elizabeth’s side as tears shone in her eyes. “There,” he soothed, “don’t upset yourself.”

  “Dr Watson, is it?’ A uniformed police sergeant had been peering into the safe as I entered the room. He now turned towards me.

  “Yes,” was the only acknowledgement one could give to such a question.

  “Sergeant Cope is with the local constabulary,” explained James helpfully.

  “Bad business, this. And early, too,” he added, a touch indignantly, perhaps at the injustice of being wrenched from his bed at such an ungodly hour.

  I stepped forward to get a closer look into the safe. “Was it just the tiara that was taken?” Elizabeth nodded. Both her and James were looking to me expectantly.

  “What are your thoughts, Sergeant?” I enquired.

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, sir.” With that, Cope lapsed into silence and continued to peer ineffectually into the safe.

  “James,” I heard Elizabeth whisper.

  “Yes, all right, Lizzie,” he said placatingly, squeezing her shoulder. “Ah, John, old man...” He ushered me from the drawing room and out into the main hall. “This has all been a bit of a blow, Lizzie’s devastated.”

  “Yes, I can see,” I said, affecting an air of sympathy.

  “Aside from some cove creeping around the house of a night, that tiara was a gift from my late father. Money aside, there’s the sentimental value. We were wondering...”

  That sense of expectation I had felt a minute earlier blossomed further.

  “The chances of getting a detective up from London before Monday are zero,” James continued, “and the trail will be stone cold by then. These local bobbies are not the brightest of buttons...”

  “James,” I started, suddenly conscious of where the discussion was headed, but he cut me off with a pleading look.

  “I hate to ask, we both do, but...”

  * * *

  “Watson!” said Sherlock Holmes as he stood framed in the doorway of Cunningham Hall, the brightness of the Kent sunshine contrasting starkly with the neat dark suit he wore.

  “Holmes,” I managed to mumble in greeting through a sudden yawn.

  “You look terrible. I thought you’d come down here to relax.”

  We were several hours on from the moment James had wrenched me awake; since then there had been urgent conversations, excursions to the local post office to rouse postmistresses from beds, special telegrams to London and hasty breakfasts, all finished off with anxious hours of waiting.

  “I feel dreadful at having dragged you down here, and as a personal favour, too,” I said, feeling the need to apologise, but Holmes waved me away with a raised cane.

  “Think nothing of it. There was a certain difficulty in arranging a train down to Kent at such an early hour, and on a Sunday, but a minor inconvenience at most.”

  I was woefully embarrassed that I had acquiesced to James’s request that I summon Holmes immediately to tackle the matter of the theft. I had expected intransigence. But it was nearly noon on Sunday, and here he was. Pristine and, I noted with apprehension, bristling with enthusiasm.

  “It’s a terrible business,” I said as we entered the house, my voice echoing in the hallway. A strange hush had descended on the house, despite the fact the local constabulary had not yet permitted any guest to leave.

  “Yes, yes,” said Holmes. “Let us get straight to the matter in hand.”

  A small welcome delegation awaited our entrance into the drawing room. James rose immediately from Elizabeth’s side, who I was pleased to see more composed after the earlier shock. “Mr Holmes,” he began, “please accept our apologies for dragging you all the way down here. And please, don’t blame John, we did rather put upon...”

  Holmes smiled thinly. “I only blame Watson for anything in the most trying of circumstances,” he murmured, glancing at me with the conspiratorial look I had witnessed so many times throughout our friendship.

  Introductions were made, but Holmes’ eyes were already darting to every inch of the room, the personalities before him secondary to this new game he had been presented with. He affected a modicum of charm and sympathy towards Elizabeth, but Sergeant Cope was dismissed with nary a look. Curiously, Bunny Manders was present, sitting unobtrusively in a chair to the side. I nodded in his direction and he smiled back, with his usual hangdog, out-of-place expression.

  “Mr Holmes.” A clear voice rang out from the back of the room, breaking through the hush. I was taken aback to realise that AJ. Raffles was also present, his tall, lean frame emerging from a patch of shadow. He must have been standing stock-still for me not to notice his presence. “It is a rare honour to finally meet you.”

  “I’m sure it is,” replied Holmes, eyes focused on the safe rather than the newcomer.

  “Ah, Holmes,” I said, “this is Mr Raffles.”

  “AJ. Raffles at your service.” Raffles positively beamed at Sherlock Holmes.

  Then I saw something that would have eluded even the sharpest observer in the room; I only did so as a result of many hours spent observing Sherlock Holmes at work. A flash of the eyes, a split second moment, but Holmes looked at Raffles. His eyes darted from the safe, fixed on Raffles, then his attention was singled back to the safe. It was a scant moment, but for a mind like Sherlock Holmes’, that glance would have provided a lifetime of opportunity.

  “Now,” he said, taking a further step towards the safe, eyes narrowed. “I think it’s time you told me everything.”

  Holmes listened intently as the story of the tiara’s theft was related in detail, starting with the arrival of the weekend guests and finishing with the discovery of the open safe by an early-rising maid that very morning. James and Elizabeth were exhaustive in their detail, but Holmes thrived on facts. I punctuated events with salient information, while Raffles and Manders stayed supportively silent throughout.

  “I will do what I can, though I fear this may not be much. I should not wish to raise expectations unduly.” Holmes’ words seemed to cut both James and Elizabeth. They said nothing, but I could feel Elizabeth’s disappointed eyes on me, silent accusation radiating out from her.

  Blithely unaware of the disquiet his last statement had caused in my hosts, Holmes got down to work. He examined the safe in great detail. He gently nudged the small, yet heavy, door back into place with his cane, scrutinising the combination and lock. He sniffed once, then began to walk backwards, placing his feet carefully down as his eyes swept over the polished wooden floorboards.

  With his back almost at the door, he rose up to his full height and gave
the room one final look. Those present gazed back, seemingly incapable of taking a breath. Raffles was leaning forward over the back of the chair that his associate reclined in, watching events unfold with rapt fascination.

  “Watson,” declared Holmes, whirling round like some dervish and exiting the room. I shot an apologetic glance to those assembled, and followed—as I had on many occasions.

  Holmes was already halfway up the wide staircase, stooped low and holding his cane in hands clasped behind his back, when I emerged into the hallway. We proceeded up the staircase, along a hallway and up yet another staircase. All the while, Holmes was hunched, taking in every detail, every errant thread or scuff. I sympathised with the staff going about their business, forced to leap aside as the inexorable force of Sherlock Holmes swept down a corridor; or the guests, detained by the inconvenience of theft, jumping back in alarm as they emerged from their room — it certainly wasn’t every day that the world’s greatest consulting detective glided by your bedroom door.

  By and by, I found myself following Holmes out into the fresh air through a convenient side door; and so our perambulations continued around the side of the house. He paused briefly at the rear of the property and peered up towards a window framed by trailing ivy, glanced down at the ground, then continued on his way. Soon we had come full circle.

  “Well?” I asked hopefully as we stepped back into the house, but Holmes remained silent on our way back to the drawing room.

  The group awaiting our return had seemingly not moved in the time we had been absent; eager looks awaited us on our entry to the room. I remained standing while Holmes eased his thin body into a chair. He steepled his fingers before his face and looked at each person in turn. Eventually he spoke.

  “I fear,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that I have nothing encouraging to report.”

  Expectation deflated from the room like a child’s balloon, the colour draining from Elizabeth’s face.

  “I can find no evidence to suggest forced entry,” continued Holmes. “Either the thief is possessed of such skill that they leave no trace of their insertion into the house—highly unlikely—or the thief is still amongst you.”