Sherlock Holmes Never Dies
New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries
Collection Five
The Stock Market Murders
The Glorious Yacht
The Most Grave Ritual
The Spy Gate Liars
Craig Stephen Copland
Note to Sherlockians
These four novellas are pastiche stories of Sherlock Holmes. The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are modeled on the characters that we have come to love in the original sixty Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The settings in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras are also maintained. Each new mystery is inspired by one of the stories in the original sacred canon. The characters and some of the introductions are respectfully borrowed, and then a new mystery develops.
If you have never read the original story that served as the inspiration of the new one—or if you have but it was a long time ago—then you are encouraged to do so before reading the new story in this book. Your enjoyment of the new mystery will be enhanced.
Some new characters are introduced and the female characters have a significantly stronger role than they did in the original stories. I hope that I have not offended any of my fellow Sherlockians by doing so but, after all, a hundred years have passed and some things have changed.
The historical events that are connected to these new stories are, for the most part, accurately described and dated. Your comments, suggestions, and corrections are welcomed on all aspects of the stories.
I am deeply indebted to The Bootmakers of Toronto (the Sherlock Holmes Society of Canada) not only for their dedication to the adventures of Sherlock Holmes but also to their holding of a contest for the writing of a new Sherlock Holmes mystery. My winning entry into that contest led to the joy of continuing to write more Sherlock Holmes mysteries.
Over the next few years, it is my intention to write a new mystery inspired by each one of the sixty original stories. They will appear in the same chronological order as the original canon appeared in the pages of The Strand. Should you wish to subscribe to these new stories and receive them in digital form as they are released, please visit www.SherlockHolmesMystery.com and sign up.
Wishing joyful reading and re-reading to all faithful Sherlockians.
Respecfully,
CSC
Contents
The Stock Market Murders
The Glorious Yacht
A Most Grave Ritual
The Spy Gate Liars
About the Author
More Mysteries by Craig Stephen Copland
The Stock Market Murders
A New Sherlock Holmes Mystery
Chapter One
Why Birmingham?
PARIS HAS ONE. Parisians called it Le Métropolitain. The folks in New York City call theirs The Subway. Londoners, rather sensibly, refer to the network of trains that run underground as The Underground. Many of the clients who came to see Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street traveled on the Underground, getting off at Baker Street Station and walking the short distance to Holmes’s rooms. This has been somewhat more difficult of late as a result of the construction taking place at the station, where hundreds of workmen and machines toil to build the new Underground line that will connect Baker Street with Waterloo.
It may seem odd that I would introduce my account of one of the most complicated cases ever pursued by Sherlock Holmes by reference to something as mundane as London’s Underground. I do so because the Underground, and very specifically the Bakerloo Line, was directly connected to a series of brutal murders and one of the greatest commercial frauds ever perpetrated on the citizens of England. I have given the case the name The Stock Market Murders but it involved far more than a run-of-the-mill murder or two and, to this day, it has yet to be completely solved.
This unusual case began for me on the morning of Saturday, 15 September in the year 1900, the autumn of the first year of the twentieth century. I had been married for several years and my wife and I were living in a pleasant home not far from Paddington Station. The first floor of the house was occupied by my medical practice, which, I am grateful to say, had prospered and was providing me with a more than sufficient income; so much so that I had restricted the office hours to Monday through Friday, giving us the luxury of a full weekend of leisure.
On that Saturday, I rose early. It was a splendid fall morning and I took myself on a brisk walk around the Lagoon of Paddington Basin. The mist rising off the water, the warmth of the morning sun, and the sweet smell of the autumn leaves and flowers gave a lift to my soul, and I had to believe that my life indeed was blessed. So, I returned to my home and sat on my porch, feeling rather settled and contented, sipping morning tea and reading the British Medical Journal.
At half-past seven, a hansom clattered up the quiet street and stopped in front of my house. I was about to shout that my office was closed for the weekend and direct whoever was in the cab to Saint Mary’s Hospital when the door opened and out stepped my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes. It being a Saturday morning, he was dressed casually in a riding jacket and open shirt and he waved and smiled as he approached my porch. It had been several weeks since I had seen him and this visit, while most welcome, was a surprise. I have to admit that I missed him. The adventures we had had in the past may well have been dangerous and at times foolhardy, but they certainly did stir my blood in a way that a full slate of patients with their oh-so-English complaints never could.
I smiled, rose and welcomed him, but with the premonition that my leisurely weekend was about to go the way of all flesh.
“Good morning, my dear doctor,” he said. “I am so glad to have found you at home. I was quite hoping I would.”
We shook hands and exchanged a few morning pleasantries, whereupon he gave me a good looking over and said, “Ah, but you are looking prosperous. Allow me to congratulate you on your new specialization in providing care for the veterans of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces—a most admirable service.”
Over the years I had come to expect that Sherlock Holmes could discern what to all others was hidden, and this was no exception. Still, I was utterly perplexed.
“All right, Holmes. There has been no public announcement of that news. There is no mud on my sleeve. My slippers are not burnt, nor is one side of my face more tanned than the other. There is no picture of Chinese Gordon for me to be looking at, and I have not even glanced at my war wound. So out with it, how in heaven’s name did you know about my intentions?”
Sherlock Holmes has a way of smiling in a manner that, while friendly, is annoyingly condescending. He did so yet again.
“My dear doctor, whilst you have not put an announcement in the press, you have had a shining new brass plate affixed to your front door which reads John H. Watson, M.D., Providing Particular Services for the Care of Veterans. There was truly not a scrap of deduction required.”
He nodded in the direction of the door behind me. I turned and noted the plaque that a workman had installed two days earlier and had to laugh at myself.
“And how, my dear Watson, is your good wife? Might she be up and around so that I may pay my respects?”
“No. She will be terribly disappointed to have missed you but she is away to Keswick for several days. Along with three friends from church, she is attending a conference of the Christian Suffragette Movement. She is serving as Secretary for the local chapter. They are calling themselves The Daughters of D
eborah and are determined to be better judges of the good Lord’s people than we men have been.”
“That, I am sure,” said Holmes, “would not be difficult. As long as they do not change their name to Daughters of Jael, you are probably safe from incurring a splitting headache.” He chortled at his attempt at wit and I responded in kind, even though I had no idea what he was talking about.
“As your dear wife is away, I shall not have to apologize to her for dragging her husband and my only completely reliable friend off to help with a new case, shall I?”
I suspected this was coming and I must confess that I could not help but smile.
“I may have to miss mass one more time but I am happy as always to offer my services for whatever they are worth. When do we start?”
“Shall we say … in five minutes? I believe that is all the time it will take you to pack an overnight case, and stock up your medical bag.”
I shook my head in wonder, turned, and stepped back into my house.
“Five minutes it is then,” I said.
“You might want some reading material as well,” he shouted after me. “It’s a bit of a journey. And kindly bring your service revolver along.”
Five minutes later, I stepped into the waiting hansom. To my surprise, there was a young man sitting in the seat beside Holmes.
“Allow me to introduce my latest client,” Holmes said. “Dr. Watson, meet Mr. Hall Pycroft, currently employed at Hichens Harrison in the City and the official guardian of two tomcats.”
The young fellow smiled and extended his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Dr. Watson. I am a devoted fan of your stories.”
He was a comely young man, with a very fair complexion and sandy colored hair. He was seated, so it was hard to judge his stature, but he was not overly tall and of slight build. His hand was thin, almost delicate, with long fingers. His accent, however much he may have tried to overcome it, was still unmistakable and anyone could tell that he was born well within the sound of Bow Bells. I appraised his age at somewhat less than thirty and noted that his left hand bore no wedding ring. Judging from his appearance, I thought him more likely to spend his time in an art gallery or a theater than on the rugby pitch.
“Mister Pycroft,” said Holmes, “is taking us up to Birmingham.”
“Birmingham!” I exclaimed. “You did not mention Birmingham.”
“Did I not? Dear me. Would you have joined me so readily if I had?”
No self-respecting Londoner voluntarily and enthusiastically visits Birmingham. I confess that when Holmes told me to pack for overnight, I was rather hoping for the South Coast, or perhaps the Cotswolds.
“Most certainly, I would,” I lied.
Holmes laughed and we exchanged some bantering pleasantries for the few blocks to Euston Station. We boarded the train to Birmingham and, once we had started on our way, he turned to the young man.
“It shall be some time before we arrive there, so could you please relate to my friend all of the details of your concern. There is no need for brevity, but do be as precise as possible. And kindly begin by explaining my remark about the cats.”
The lad forced a self-conscious smile and with an unsure voice, began.
“Right, sir. I will do that sir. Yes, well, my friend … my best friend, Kenneth Arkell, is from Birmingham. We were at Cambridge together. He has two cats that he cares about very deeply. He’s always talking about them.”
He seemed quite nervous and I sought to put him at ease, so I interjected a friendly question.
“A cat lover, you say. Brilliant. And do these two tomcats have names?”
“Ah, an excellent question,” said Holmes. “A detail I had neglected to establish. Thank you, doctor.”
The lad looked a bit sheepish but replied. “Yes sir. They do have names. One is Charles Darnay and the other is Sidney Carton.”
Both Holmes and I laughed at the absurdity of naming cats after characters from Dickens.
“And just why,” I asked, “would he so name his cats?”
“Because, sir, they are very temperamental.”
“I beg your pardon? How does that have anything to do with it?”
“Well sir, Kenny says that … well … he says that they are the best of toms; they are the worst of toms.”
Holmes and I both laughed out loud and then groaned at the absurdity. Our reaction seemed to put the young chap more at ease, and he grinned and continued.
“Kenny and me got to be chums at Cambridge. We were both at King’s and studying mathematics and seeing as we both come from working families and didn’t fit in with the toffs, we become real close. Both of us did our Tripos and did well and I found a billet at Hichens Harrison and he got himself one at London and Globe.”
“Pardon me,” I interrupted. “You both studied maths, but then you went directly to work in the City.”
“Well, yes, sir. We could see that numbers were numbers and you could either work with them at a poor desk in a university and be paid a few farthings, or you could work with them in the City and be paid hundreds of pounds. So, we chose the City. I had a slow start but am doing very well for myself now, and Kenny was so diligent that they put him in charge of their office in Birmingham. That made him happy seeing as that is where he was from and his mum and da’ and brothers and sisters are all there. But we kept up our friendship and once a week, every week, every Thursday that is, when he had to come to London to his head office for their weekly meeting, we would get together. He’d spend the day in the office in the City, and after work we would have a pint or two with some friends from school at the Cheshire Cheese. I’m not much of a one for sitting and drinking so I would not stay long. But Kenny would stay and chat and laugh until near closing time. Then he would bunk in at my place and sleep in the spare room. We were doing that now for the past five years. Never missed. We always looked forward to it. He would never stay any longer than overnight as he had to get back and look after Sidney and Charles. He chatted all the time about his cats and doted on them as if he was their mum.
“The week before this one just past, he arrived at my rooms around eleven o’clock in the evening, like he always did. But he wasn’t smiling. He looked pale as a ghost. All he said to me was, ‘Sorry. I’m not doing well. I’ll just go to my bed. We can chat in the morning.’ But through the night I could hear him. He was pacing back and forth and I heard him sigh and even speak a few oaths, which was most unlike him.
“At breakfast, he was silent and hardly ate. But then he looked at me, and he had some tears in his eyes and he said, ‘Hall, you are my dearest friend. And I have to ask you a favor, and I beg you not to refuse me.’ He looked so desperate that I agreed straight away. And he then says to me, ‘If anything happens to me, promise that you will look after Sidney and Charles. If they were ever to suffer, I simply could not bear it.’ I asked him what he was talking about but he said no more and packed up his things and departed. He thanked me as he turned away and went out the door and again I could see tears on his face.
“Two days ago, I waited for him at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. But he never showed up. I thought he must be delayed at his office and I went back home, seeing as I have to be up right early every morning to read the wires from New York. But by eleven, he did not show up at my door. So, I walked over to the pub and looked for him. But he wasn’t there. I asked the publican if he’d been in and he said that none of the chaps who used to meet there every Thursday evening had shown up. I sent off a telegram to him asking him to tell me if something was wrong. I had no reply. That’s when I knew that something must be wrong. So yesterday, as soon as I was done in my office, I went to visit Mr. Holmes and ask his help. That is my case, sir. I know it may seem petty to you and nothing like all those I’ve read. But I just know that something is amiss.”
Here he stopped and I could see the deep concern on his face. However, I must admit that I was surprised that Sherlock Holmes would take on a case that was about no more than a yo
ung man, a Brummie for that matter, who did not show up for work. Holmes, as I should have expected, read my mind and responded.
“You are quite correct, my good doctor. It is not the type of case that I would normally accept. And you know perfectly well that I have little use for household pets. Your failure to bring your bull pup to Baker Street many years ago was something over which I silently rejoiced. However, I have seen enough of people who are obsessed with their pets, utterly illogical though it may be. Men and women of that ilk will starve themselves before they allow their precious dogs or cats to go hungry. So, I know that when anyone so inclined asks his friend to take care of them for him, something must be very wrong, and the premonition of untoward events about to occur must be sincerely and strongly believed. This case fits that pattern and thus we are off to Birmingham.”
The train journey north into the Midlands was agreeable enough. England is a pleasant place in September and the succession of small farms and cottages we viewed from the train window had a quieting effect on my disposition. The vista changed as we entered Birmingham, the center of so much of England’s industrial economy. One after another, the dark satanic mills that the poets objected to were passed, until we reached the heart of the city.
From New Street Station in Birmingham we walked the dozen or so blocks to an elegant mews that ran off Corporation Street.
“This is Kenneth’s home,” said Hall. He indicated a very respectable white terrace house. “He has the second floor to himself and his cats.”
Holmes looked intently at the property. “Your friend has done well for himself. Even in Birmingham, a set of rooms in a neighborhood such as this one would require a gentleman’s income.”
“Kenny is very diligent, sir. His entire income is from his sales commissions and he has been very successful.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 1
