Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “And what,” I asked, “does he sell that pays so handsomely?”

  “Stocks, bonds, debentures and the like; all tied to the Wright group of companies. There is quite a market for them, what with all the news of the gold being mined in Australia, the Cape, and Canada.”

  We entered and ascended the stairs to the second floor. There was no response to our knocking. Holmes tried the door knob and the door opened.

  “Hello! Kenny!” shouted Hall. There was no answer.

  I glanced around the room. It was about the same size as our front room on Baker Street. The great difference was that this room was immaculate. There was not a speck of dust to be seen. Everything was neat as a pin. All of the books and objets d’art were lined up in perfect order. Every picture, plaque, and photograph on the wall was hanging perfectly straight. The carpets were clean and new and the hardwood floors were gleaming. This young man was quite obviously a fiend for neatness and order.

  The only objects that were out of order were several articles of clothing, shoes, and socks that were strewn on the floor against the far wall.

  Within a few seconds of our entering I heard loud mewing and meowing. Soon a large tomcat was brushing its side against my lower leg. Another was doing the same to Hall Pycroft. He leaned down and picked up the cat.

  “Why hello there, Charles? Where is your master? Where has he gone?”

  In reply to the inane questioning of a cat, Charles meowed very loudly. He did not appear to be in a good mood.

  There was, I noticed a rather unpleasant smell in the room. It was due, in part no doubt, to the cats, but there was also an odor that was faint but all too familiar to me. I looked at Holmes and from his look I could see that he had noticed it as well. It was the smell of death.

  There was a hallway off to the left side of the room. Holmes quickly glanced down it.

  “That leads to his kitchen, toilet and spare bedroom,” said Hall. He was otherwise absorbed with the cats and continued to talk to them.

  Holmes next went to a door on the far side of the room and grabbed the handle. It was locked.

  “That’s his bedroom,” said Hall, more to Charles than to Holmes.

  Holmes knelt down until his eye was at the keyhole. As I watched him, I saw his eyes widen and a look of fear and horror sweep across his face. He quickly stood up.

  “Watson, please. Hall, put that thing down and get over here,” he said.

  I moved quickly. Hall gently lowered Charles Darnay to the floor and sauntered over, still talking to the cats as he did so.

  “Your shoulders. Now,” said Holmes. He physically grabbed Hall by the arm and lined him up beside me. The door was a solid oak and the latch and lock appeared to be of unwelcome quality.

  Hall was finally paying attention and looking quite perplexed but he did as he was told and on the count of three we rushed in unison into the door. It gave a responding crack but did not entirely open. Holmes stepped back and gave a strong kick to the plate below the handle and the door swung into the bedroom.

  The next sound I heard was an unholy shriek of terror from Hall. In the middle of the room, with a rope around its neck and dangling from the ceiling was a man’s body. The face had blackened, the eyes were protruding, and the tongue was protruding from the mouth. The entire body was naked and discolored in shades of purple, red and black. The stench in the room was sickening.

  Chapter Two

  Awful Evidence is Destroyed

  IT WAS FAR from the first time that I had looked at the terrible sight of a young man who had been dead for several days. Neither was it new to Sherlock Holmes. To poor Hall Pycroft, it was a terrifying shock. He descended into panic and rushed toward the body, grabbed it around the knees and tried to lift it.

  “Get him down! Get him down,” he screamed at Holmes and me. He kept shouting and attempting to raise the body. “Get him down!” he shouted again. The poor young man was beyond rational thought. Panic had overtaken him.

  Holmes and I gave a look to each other and walked forward until we stood on each side of Hall Pycroft. Holmes firmly grasped one of his arms and I the other and gently but forcefully we pulled them back away from the corpse.

  “Hall,” said Holmes, “Kenny is dead. There is nothing we can do. He is gone. Now just let go and step back.” He continued to repeat these words and we lifted the poor chap and dragged him back through the door and away from the ungodly sight. We forced him into the parlor and to the far wall so that he could no longer see through the door into the bedroom. When his back hit the wall, his legs collapsed and he dropped to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He was crying uncontrollably.

  We left him there and returned to the bedroom and the dangling corpse.

  “Please,” said Holmes, “do a quick examination of the body whilst I look around the room.”

  I nodded and began my unpleasant task. With the exception of a chair that lay toppled over by the wall, the room was every bit as neat and prim as the parlor. I was stopped, however, almost immediately by what I saw lying on the floor below the young man’s feet. There was a magazine, a rather cheap one, with drawing or photographs on every page. The pictures were shocking. Page after page had images of young men, all in various states of being unclothed and all engaging in unnatural acts with each other. I was horrified and called immediately to Holmes. He came at once and looked at the magazine, but his face did not evidence repulsion as mine must have. He scowled and appeared deeply puzzled. His examination was interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen. I lost control of myself,” said Hall Pycroft. He was deathly pale and holding on to the door frame for support. “I’m fine now. I’ve recovered. What can I do to help?”

  Before I could answer, I could see that Hall’s glance had gone to the magazine on the floor. A look of fear came over his face and he rushed forward and grabbed the magazine off the floor and made as if he would stuff it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Hall,” commanded Holmes. “Put that back. You cannot tamper with evidence. It is a serious crime. Put it back immediately. Here, now give it to me.”

  Hall Pycroft stepped back and pulled his jacket around his torso. Holmes stood and walked directly in front of him, extending his hand in a demanding manner.

  “You can’t! You can’t!” Hall cried. His moment of self-control had vanished and he was again in panic. “You can’t let people see this. You can’t. It will be all over the press. I know his mum and his father, and his family. They will die. It would kill them. It will destroy them for the rest of their lives. You can’t! Please. I beg you. No!”

  Holmes lifted his hand and placed it on the young man’s shoulder and brought his face close to Hall’s frightened countenance.

  “I am sorry, Hall. But you cannot remove evidence. The wheels of justice grind slowly and painfully, but they cannot be tampered with. It will be terrible for his family, but it cannot be avoided. I will not allow you to make yourself a criminal by attempting to do good. Now give me the magazine and go back to the parlor and sit and wait for us.”

  Holmes’s tone was compassionate but determined and the magazine was handed over to him. Hall’s face was contorted with pain and tears. He staggered back out of the bedroom.

  “My dear doctor,” said Holmes. “Would you mind taking the poor lad out of here and down to the pub on the corner? And have the publican call for the police. I will continue my investigation. You might take these miserable cats with you and see if the pub can find them any food. They do not appear to have eaten for several days.”

  I nodded, lifted one of the toms and gave him to Hall and took the other in my arm. I led Hall and we made our way back down to the street and to the local pub.

  The publican promptly fetched saucers of milk and some morsels of fish for the hungry felines and a brandy for Hall. He sat quietly and sipped on it, leaning down to stroke the cats and muttering loving words to them. A police officer soon appear
ed at the door and I hastened to lead him back to Kenny’s flat, babbling some information about the situation as we walked and not bothering even to introduce myself.

  He was a large chap, the constable, and he had the puffy face and small eyes that tend to be associated with the Midlands. Londoners, somewhat smugly, refer to the look as porcine. This is unforgivably snobbish on our part but it accurately conveyed the chap’s appearance. Upon reaching the room in which the body of Kenneth Arkell was hanging the constable stopped, stared and slowly shook his head.

  “Ahh … noo. It’s Olive and Norm Arkell’s boy, Kenny,” he said, and paused. “Ahh, dear. Such a shame. He was such a bright light. Not many of our lads make it to Cambridge. We all had such hopes for him. It’s so sad. So sad.”

  He walked around the body, giving it a cursory glance, and then stopped when his boot struck against the magazine lying on the floor. He picked it up and muttered, “Oh dear. We’re not having any of this nonsense. Trash like this has to be burned.” He stuffed the magazine into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Holmes looked at him, positively shocked. “Pardon me, constable, I believe that magazine is evidence and must be included as part of your investigation.”

  The large chap turned his gaze on to Holmes, gave him a hard look and said, “Magazine? What magazine, sir? I did not see a magazine, and as far as I know, neither did you, sir, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Holmes had dealt with a great many police officers over the years and was not about to be cowed by a local Birmingham constable.

  “I know perfectly well what is good for me, constable, and it is to give a truthful report to Scotland Yard about what I found here.”

  “Really, now. And what good would that do? It can’t bring him back, now can it? Maybe that’s what they do in London, Mr. Londoner, but that’s not what we do here. This lad has a mother and father and family here in Birmingham and all they need to know is that their boy, this promising lad, had some tragic events in his life and chose to end it. That’s what will be in my report, and Saint Peter himself couldn’t be more truthful.”

  “And, pray tell,” asked Holmes, “just what tragic events did he have?”

  “Well, Mr. Londoner, he had a series of rejections in his love life.”

  “Good heavens, man. How could you possibly know that?”

  “I know that because he’s close on to thirty years old and still not married, so obviously his love life has not been successful. Like we say down at the station, you don’t have to be no snot-nose Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.”

  Holmes was not expecting that observation and was at a loss for words. The constable continued.

  “And clearly he had a disappointing setback in his career.”

  “Constable!” Holmes sputtered. “There is no evidence of that whatsoever.”

  “Wrong again, Mr. Londoner. Kenny Arkell worked in finances. And we all know that anyone who is successful in finances gets promoted to the City. And he’s still here in Birmingham, so we know that he must have had a painful loss.”

  The policeman took a glance around the room and continued.

  “And I observed—and by the way you can learn a lot by just observing closely—that he has a bowl and saucer for a cat but there’s no cat. So, on top of his sad love life and failed career, even his beloved cat has abandoned him. That’s the type of detail Sherlock Holmes would take note of.”

  “The cats,” announced Holmes, “are at the pub on the corner and did not abandon him.”

  “Well that proves it, then. They preferred the company of the barmaids and left him heart-broken. So, sir, that is what’s going to be reported.”

  He pulled a pencil and notebook from his belt and held it up in front of Holmes.

  “Now, sir, I need to get your name and your friend here. First name first.”

  Holmes was silent for a moment and then replied, slowly and imperiously, “Snot-nose.”

  I left Holmes to deal with the constable and the local police station and returned to the pub to find Hall Pycroft. He was sitting quietly in the corner stroking the now contented Sidney and Charles. The two of us carried the cats to the station and boarded the train back to London.

  Conversation between the two of us was limited but at one point I looked straight at him and said, “Hall. You do know what happened to your friend, don’t you? Would you mind explaining it to me?”

  The poor lad again turned ghostly pale. “Oh, please, Doctor Watson. Don’t ask me to do that. Please don’t ask me.”

  No more was said and we both continued to stroke the cats. Hall chatted with the feline in his lap. I did not. At Euston station, I hailed a cab and had the driver take Hall to his flat and then me back to my home in Paddington.

  Chapter Three

  If It Happens Three Times

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I once again I neglected church and the state of my eternal soul and chose to wait in 221B Baker Street for the return of my cherished but peculiar friend. He appeared shortly after noon, greeted me with a nod, sat down, pulled his lower legs up onto the chair and closed his eyes.

  Clearly he did not want to converse, but I did and had waited several hours for the opportunity.

  “Such a shame,” I began, “that the young man foolishly engaged in such risky behavior. He should have known better.”

  Holmes opened his eyes and looked at me in silence, but with unmistakable mild disdain.

  “And just what,” he asked, “do you think happened to him?”

  “It’s perfectly obvious, is it not? I do not think he took his own life. I believe the appropriate conclusion would be accidental death by self-strangulation. Surely you know about that. Cutting off your oxygen so as to enhance your erotic sensations.”

  “Good heavens, Watson. Have you bid goodbye to your entire rational capacity? He was murdered.”

  I was shocked by that statement and immediately challenged him to substantiate it.

  He sighed and extended his legs to the floor.

  “There was no question that he did not commit suicide. No one who is obsessed with the care of his cats would leave them to starve. And the mess of the clothes around the room is entirely out of keeping for one so fastidious. He was obviously not intending to die. As to its being an accident, I suggest that you review the literature on this unspoken but far from unknown practice. Those who engage in it do not stand on chairs and then kick the chair to the other side of the room. They take all possible precautions to make sure that if they do lapse into unconsciousness, their feet and knees relax and touch the floor. Add to that discrepancy the fact that the magazine was crisp and new, not dog-eared and stained as would be the case in one who engages in such actions. No doubt whoever killed him wanted it to appear that he died in the way you supposed him to, but the evidence points conclusively to murder.”

  I nodded slowly, once again chagrined by my failure to see what had been so apparent to Holmes, but I had to ask, “If so, then by whom and why?”

  “That, Watson, is what I now must deduce. I must admit that it has presented me with a challenge.”

  He once again closed his eyes and drew up his feet. I was quite sure that I would have no further conversation that day and prepared to depart. I was stopped by the sound of the door on Baker Street opening and closing and a set of footsteps ascending our stairs.

  “Good afternoon, Holmes, Watson,” said Inspector Lestrade as he strode into the room. He walked past both of us and over to the mantle, where he helped himself to a cigar and a snifter of brandy.

  “If I have to work and pay you a visit on a Sunday afternoon, I do believe I’m entitled to some minor pleasures of the flesh, wouldn’t you agree Holmes? Did your dear Mrs. Hudson leave any lunch out? I missed my dinner at home and had only a miserable sandwich at the station. Are you not going to offer me anything, Holmes?”

  Holmes was giving the inspector a sideward glance bordering on hostile.

  “I am quite certai
n that you did not just happen to drop in looking for a bite to eat.”

  “No?” replied Lestrade. A smug smirk had emerged on his ferret-like face. “And here I thought you might wish to be hospitable, it being Sunday and all. But if you insist, I will admit that I heard you had been up in Birmingham yesterday. A bit of a nasty and salacious thing going on there, what? So sad when fate and carelessness take the life of a young man who should have had a fine future to look forward to.” He smiled, again smugly.

  Holmes was not amused. “If you believed that his death was accidental, then you would not be here, would you, inspector?”

  “Ah, ha. Right you are. I’ll have to get up earlier in the morning, won’t I, if I am to deceive Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are, however, not entirely correct. I am here because earlier this week there was another tragic accidental death of a young lad who was also a Cambridge man. A fine young fellow named Arnold Bush. Must have fallen off the Tower Bridge, he did, and drowned in the Thames.”

  The change in Holmes’s posture and his facial expression gave him away. He was interested.

  “Do tell, sir. What happened?”

  “All we know is that some folks nearby pulled his body out of the water just down from the bridge the next morning. He had a flask of gin in his pocket and so the local constable assumed that he was three sheets to the wind and fell off the bridge, didn’t know how to swim and drowned.”

  Holmes was positively smiling. “And you would not be here telling me this if you believed that to have been what happened.”

  “Did I say he was a Cambridge man? Yes, I did, didn’t I? Did I mention that he was on his college swimming team while he was there? No? And that he was wearing a winter coat on a mild fall night?”

  Holmes had taken the bait and was drawn in, with no sign of objecting.

  “Had he spent several hours at the pub and become inebriated?” asked Holmes.

  “Seems he was an abstainer. Somewhat fixated on bodily health. I did say that he was a Cambridge man, right? Did I say that he was from King’s College, graduated five years back with his Tripos in mathematics? No, well he did. Does that strike you as odd?”