Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  James was on his feet. “Are you suggesting that one of our guests is responsible for the crime? Preposterous!”

  “I never suggest. I merely present facts.”

  “The staff,” said Elizabeth, fighting back tears. “It must have been one of the staff!”

  “Do you have any reason to suspect any member of your household staff?” enquired Holmes.

  “No, but...”

  “Then you should not.” Holmes spread his hands wide. “It is a common malpractice of the upper classes to rely on cliché when presented with absolutely no evidence.”

  I saw James’s face colour with anger, his hands balling into fists. “How dare you!” I thought he was going to hit Holmes and I tensed, preparing to step in between, but Raffles beat me to it.

  “Come now, James. You asked for Mr Holmes’ assistance, and he is giving it willingly. Nobody is at fault because the facts are not as you would wish them to be.” Raffles’ even words had a calming effect.

  “Yes, yes of course. You’re right, Arthur. My apologies, Mr Holmes.”

  I attempted to break through the hot, tense atmosphere that now pervaded the room. “What do you suggest, Holmes?”

  “There is only one course of action open to us, I fear.”

  “Which is?” asked James. Holmes looked directly at him.

  “You must search the belongings of all your guests.”

  A stunned silence replaced the tension. “What?” blurted Elizabeth, now rising in shock to stand side by side with her husband.

  “That’s quite impossible,” maintained James.

  “Quite clearly it is not impossible. Your guests have belongings. They can be searched.”

  “I agree with Mr Holmes, I’m afraid,” joined in Raffles, causing a startled Manders to sit up.

  “I say, Raffles, steady on,” he exclaimed.

  “No, no, Bunny. It’s quite correct, and the only way to be sure. Isn’t that, so, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes inclined his head in agreement.

  “You see? I will happily subject myself to a search, and so will Bunny.” Raffles smiled amiably.

  “We will?” asked a confused Manders. “Yes. Yes, I suppose we will.” He sank back into the chair, crushed.

  “But our guests, the explanations...” pleaded Elizabeth, the prospect of social embarrassment seemingly more devastating than the theft of her tiara.

  “I have no personal connections to any of your guests, bar one, so kindly lay the blame for this intrusion at my feet,” said Holmes, still reclining in the chair.

  James sighed and with a look to Elizabeth, capitulated. “Very well.”

  Holmes jumped easily to his feet, clapping his hands together with a sudden injection of energy. “Sergeant Cope?” The representative of the local constabulary looked surprised to be called upon. “If you could rouse your men, we should be able to have this taken care of with the minimum of fuss.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the portly police officer, almost standing to attention before bustling off, clearly happy to have something of import to attend to.

  * * *

  As Holmes had alluded, the process of searching the belongings of the houseguests was a simple and quick affair. They were, for the most part, already packed, having had several hours of indolence in which to assemble their possessions into an array of valises and weekend bags.

  “If they have nothing to hide, they will not object,” Holmes said in an aside to me, and he was quite correct. As the guests had effectively been under house arrest that morning, they were more than happy to cooperate with the search if it hastened their departure. All apologies from James and Elizabeth were waved away with good grace and humour as they lined up outside the dining room to present their various items of luggage for appraisal.

  I stood side by side with Holmes, watching as the sergeant carried out the search, opening each case and dismissing the owner when each new bag failed to bring forth the stolen tiara. James held Elizabeth’s hand, his wife growing more anxious with each new bag.

  Raffles and Manders came in together, both dressed for the off. “Here we are,” said Raffles breezily, “all ready for inspection. You first, Bunny.”

  Manders’ voice trembled with nervous energy. “Um, yes. Of course.” He placed his modest valise on the table before the sergeant, his eyes twitching as he watched the policeman rummage through his belongings. He breathed a sigh of relief when the sergeant shook his head, but then looked even more distressed when Raffles presented his own baggage with a friendly grin.

  “I do apologise for the state of my clothes, I’m terrible at packing. Elizabeth tells me I just need the love of a good woman to take care of that stuff.” This coaxed a smile from Elizabeth. But standing beside him, Manders looked positively ill as the latches were released on the case.

  Holmes had remained still throughout, but as the sergeant’s pudgy hands worked their way through the case, he lent forward. Manders looked to be barely breathing, and I thought he would faint clean away as the policeman opened Raffles’s washbag and peeped within. The sergeant closed the bag, turning to Holmes and shaking his head. Manders breathed out heavily, all tension leaving his body. Holmes nodded once at the sergeant, and if I didn’t know better I’d say the ghost of a smile played on his lips.

  His case secured once more, Raffles proceeded on an enthusiastic promenade of the room, giving out fond farewells and all his hopes for a happy outcome to the present situation. He stopped before Holmes, the two men facing each other. Raffles smiled. “Mr Holmes.”

  “Mr Raffles,” said Holmes, simply

  “And Dr Watson,” said Raffles, moving to me, taking my hand. “Yours has been a rare pleasure, and I shall hope to renew our acquaintance quite soon.”

  “Yes, I should like that,” I replied. And I meant it. I liked the chap immensely, and Mr Manders, despite his awkwardness, had a certain charm.

  Then the two men were gone, off back to London by whatever means was available to them.

  * * *

  I would like to say at this juncture that the matter of the stolen tiara was resolved quickly and satisfactorily. That was not to be the case.

  There were still a few guests whose baggage was yet to be searched, but as each of them arrived in the dining room to lay bare their belongings, it was becoming increasingly doubtful the item in question would be miraculously brought forth. And so it was with a great lack of enthusiasm that Sergeant Cope hunted through the final item of luggage, then shook his head to indicate the negative outcome.

  Elizabeth sat immediately, retaining her composure, but clearly shaken by the outcome.

  “I am so terribly sorry,” I soothed, but it felt an empty gesture. Why I felt the need to apologise I wasn’t quite sure, but it was offered nonetheless.

  “It’s not your fault, John. Thank you. And thank you, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes appeared unperturbed by the outcome, as if it were expected. “My sincere apologies. The facts, in this case, have done a disservice and I am afraid I have nothing further to offer.”

  Holmes appeared remarkably sanguine about his lack of success. “I suggest at this point you place yourself in the hands of Sergeant Cope and the local constabulary. I am sure their policing skills are beyond reproach and this unpleasant matter will be resolved very soon.”

  At this the sergeant puffed out his chest in pride, missing any sense of irony laced into my friend’s words.

  I offered to stay down in Kent for a further evening, but James and Elizabeth would hear nothing of it, insisting they’d like to put the whole thing behind them and get back to normal. If we didn’t delay, there would be a train back to London that we had a chance of catching.

  Holmes accompanied me to my room to retrieve my luggage. “Watson, I fear I have done you an injustice before your friends,” he said, arms placed wide against the window frame as he peered out onto the grounds.

  “No,” I replied quickly, “I have done you the injustice. Calling you
down here on a personal whim. Quite unacceptable.”

  “You have rendered unswerving personal service over many years of friendship. It speaks highly of your character that you feel embarrassed to have called on my services for personal reasons.”

  I put my jacket on and hefted my valise from the bed. “Shall we?” I asked.

  “Indeed,” said Sherlock Holmes, turning from the window.

  * * *

  There was a hurried and awkward farewell in front of the house. James and Elizabeth were somewhat deflated, as would I have been, but clearly the disappointment stemmed from the failure of Sherlock Holmes to conjure forth the stolen item. They were simply too polite to say. I was keen not to sully our relationship for the sake of Mary’s memory, and promised a return visit to Cunningham Hall later in the summer.

  The carriage delivered Holmes and I just as the train was heaving into the station, and we were soon comfortably appointed in a compartment and chugging back towards London. I caught myself dozing, and suddenly realised how tired I was. I let sleep take me, leaving Sherlock Holmes gazing out at the passing countryside, that ghost of a smile still playing on his lips.

  * * *

  It was a pleasure to arrive back at Baker Street—it usually was— especially as there was soon a fortifying cup of tea provided by Mrs Hudson to restore jaded spirits. I let myself sit a while and enjoy a moment of calm. Even Holmes seemed content to just idle in his chair; it was also possible he was deep in thought. One never could tell. He gazed straight ahead, a cigarette in one hand, the other hanging limp to the side of his chair.

  Feeling refreshed, I left Holmes to his thoughts and decided to unpack. Placing the valise on the bed in my room, I stooped forward to release the catches. As I opened the bag, I cried out and almost jumped back in horror.

  Perched atop my washbag was a diamond tiara.

  Elizabeth Cunningham’s diamond tiara.

  A laugh caused my head to snap round. Holmes stood leaning with casual grace against the doorframe, smoke curling away from the cigarette held up to his mouth. He laughed again, a deep, joyous laugh, before turning about to walk into the sitting room.

  “Holmes!” I shouted, stalking after him. “What is the meaning of this?” And damn it to hell if he didn’t just keep on laughing. He threw his head back and laughed long and hard. Incensed, I strode back to my room, returning with the tiara clutched in my hand.

  “This is no laughing matter, Holmes! This,” I said, holding the tiara up high, “is a stolen item! And it is in my valise!”

  Holmes managed to bring his laughter under control. “Forgive me, Watson, but somebody has played a marvellous practical joke, and it has quite tickled me.”

  “I am glad you find it so funny,” I said with some indignation.

  “There was serious intent behind this. Somebody set out to steal the item, but it has been executed with a certain amount of style and wit. Completely transparent from the start, but humorous nonetheless.”

  “Explain!” I cried.

  Holmes leant back, fixing me with a steady gaze. “It all hinges on the irreproachable reputation of John H. Watson, MD.”

  “Me?” Now I was thoroughly perplexed. I sat on my own chair, gently placing the tiara on the table, afraid it could to shatter into a thousand pieces.

  “A robbery has taken place. A criminal act, but the details of how that occurred are sideplay. The thief is clever and experienced. I imagine it was the matter of a moment to gain access to the safe and purloin the item. Barely worth my attention.”

  “Go on.”

  “The style of the act is inherent in what happens next. The thief could have simply vanished into thin air, but their absence, as I am convinced it was one of the houseguests, would have aroused suspicion. The theft of the item was bound to be discovered sooner rather than later, leaving the problem of couriering it from the house.”

  “But every bag was searched.”

  “Every bag, except yours.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then paused to consider. Holmes was quite right. At no point in proceedings had any suggestion been made to place my own baggage under scrutiny. I looked at Holmes, agog.

  “Who would dare suggest the baggage of Dr Watson, the famed and trusted associate of Sherlock Holmes, be searched in pursuit of a thief? Your honour and integrity are beyond question.”

  I coughed back sudden embarrassment at these words, unsure of what to say. “But that’s...”

  “Quite brilliant,” breathed Holmes with rare admiration. “And our thief in the night would have been counting on that, planning their enterprise around that very reputation. There was risk, it may not have worked, but every thief must factor in a certain amount of random chance and uncertainty in their schemes.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” I spluttered, indignation getting the better of me again.

  “We shall know the answer to that quite soon, I should think. But there is more to this than meets the eye.”

  “We must return to Kent,” I insisted. “Return the tiara, or at least telegram to let the Cunninghams know we have it.”

  “No, no, Watson. For then we would be prevented from learning the identity of the culprit. And I should so like to meet them.”

  “You mean, they’ll be coming here? To retrieve it?”

  “Why go to the trouble of stealing such a trinket if the ultimate aim is not to possess it?”

  “But that would be madness!” I said, pacing from my chair to the table and back again. “Breaking into 221b, of all the—”

  “Watson, calm yourself. It is a further mark of the audaciousness —or arrogance—of our thief. The dividing line between the two is a thin one.”

  “Then what must we do?”

  Holmes rose and walked across the sitting room to claim another cigarette. He turned as he struck a match to light it. “We have some dinner. And then we wait.”

  * * *

  The sitting room at 221b was wreathed in darkness, the only illumination coming from the pale moonlight falling in a slanted shaft through the windows. Sinister shadows choked the familiar room, transforming it into a nightmarish landscape as the paraphernalia of Holmes’ various pursuits were pulled out of shape.

  My friend was seated in his armchair, as still as a statue. The only signal he was even awake was the glassy, cat-like sheen of his eyes.

  I had been sat in the comfort of my own chair in such a fashion for some time, and it was now the early hours. My mind and body yearned for sleep, but Holmes insisted there was yet a game to be played out before the sun rose once more over London.

  On the dining table sat the tiara, the cause of all the weekend’s trials. I sighed and returned my thoughts exclusively to the vigil at hand.

  Scant minutes later I was sure I had heard a movement to my left and behind Holmes: the door to my own room. Yes! There it was, the scrape of wood on wood. At that very second I would have gone crashing through the door to tackle the blackguard before they could even place one foot down, but Holmes raised a hand in a placating manner. I forced myself to sit back, subjecting the arms of the chair to unnecessary force.

  A floorboard creaked within; the intruder was now firmly inside the walls of 221b. How Holmes could remain so calm was beyond me. Seconds later the door to my room eased silently open, and I sensed rather than saw the shape of a figure creeping into the sitting room. I remained as still as possible, awaiting the signal from Holmes. But when?

  The dark silhouette padded stealthily behind the armchair in which Sherlock Holmes was seated. The figure paused, then after a second, made straight towards the table. A gloved hand reached out towards the waiting tiara.

  “Now, Watson!”

  At that I launched myself from the chair, diving bodily towards the intruder, knocking their legs from beneath them in a neat tackle. With an anguished squawk, the figure went down like a sack of coal. They writhed terribly, but I was able to wrench an arm round behind them. “Ow!” screamed the fig
ure as the threat of dislocation persuaded them that any movement was to be discouraged.

  A match rasped; a moment later the room was bathed in light as Holmes lit one of the gas lamps ranged around the walls. “All right, you have me,” a muffled voice protested. “You have me, I shan’t give you any more trouble.” I hauled the interloper to their feet and turned them roughly to face me.

  “Manders?”

  I had to look twice, but there was no mistaking it. Standing before me, blinking sheepishly in the sudden light, was Bunny Manders! I have to say, he was the last person I had been expecting!

  “Mr Manders, a pleasure to renew our acquaintance,” said Holmes cheerfully. “Can we offer you anything? A tiara, perhaps?”

  “Oh, very funny,” frowned the unfortunate cove.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?” I demanded, pushing the fellow down onto my chair.

  “Absolutely nothing,” he said, affecting a petulant defiance that had not been present before.

  “I imagine the police will have a few things to ask you,” I said.

  “I imagine they will.”

  “A brilliant plan, Mr Manders, quite brilliant. And it nearly succeeded.” Manders looked sullenly back at Holmes and stayed silent.

  “What are we to do with him, Holmes?”

  “It is perhaps a touch early to be bothering those tireless bastions of law enforcement. For now, we should restrain Mr Manders until such time as we can avail ourselves of the services of the nearest police station.” Holmes moved to light another gaslamp. “There are handcuffs on the window ledge, Watson, if you would be so good?”

  “With pleasure.” As Holmes watched our guest, I moved quickly to the window to retrieve the shackles. A movement outside caught my eye and I glanced out onto the darkened Baker Street to see a uniformed police constable perambulating his way along the road. A beat bobby walking fearlessly through the night, lamp held aloft to light his way.

  “Holmes, there’s a bobby out there. That’s a stroke of luck.”