The street before the grandstand was marked with a red line painted on the cobblestone surface. A flapping Finish Line sign hung over it. A double line of police kept the crowd back from the course. The London Automobile Club had hired a brass band and stationed it opposite the grandstand, where it was playing popular tunes from the music theatres of the West End. Holmes, Hopkins and I had just taken our seats on the packed risers when a cheer broke out. Lord Spedwell had arrived and was being escorted to his place next to the Botanical Gardens Director.
Soon there was a shout from someone in a high window of the Administration Building behind us. The motorcars were approaching!
I recalled from the map Sherlock Holmes had showed me in my office that the race course ran once around Regent’s Park on the Outer Circle then led into the Inner Circle, where it ended in front of the Administration Building. Now, with thousands of others, I watched eagerly as two dark spots in the distance slowly resolved themselves into a pair of motorcars, trailing clouds of dust and smoke as they circumvented the Gardens beyond the crowds. The people fell silent as they followed the sight of the vehicles as they puffed around the track. When the machines drove behind the Administration Building a roar went up and there was a surge toward the grandstand. A few moments later the sound of the motorcars grew louder and the dusty, travel-worn automobiles turned into the home stretch.
Everyone in the stands, including myself, got on their feet. The larger vehicle, obviously the invention of Sir Harvey Harris, was in the lead. It had a high wooden body set on four pneumonic tyres, with Sir Harvey and another man occupying the front seat. The afternoon sun glinted on the goggles of the driver who clutched the steering wheel as the other man waved to the crowd.
Just behind them chugged the Shelby automobile. It was of lighter build, really just an old buggy body set on wire bicycle wheels, being guided with a tiller by one of two muffled figures seated in it. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, obviously thrown up by the machine in front of it. Suddenly there was a loud report and Sir Harvey’s vehicle began throwing out great black clouds of smoke. Slowly it rolled to a stop, just yards short of the finish line. The little motorcar slipped past it and chugged across the line, braking to a stop just past the grandstand.
The crowd yelled and the police struggled to hold the excited people back from engulfing the two machines. It was several minutes before order was restored and the two Shelbys, father and son, stood beside Lord Spedwell. Sir Harvey Harris and his crewman, Kit Travelore, sullenly stationed themselves nearby.
The black smoke had ceased pouring out of the “Fast Leap”, and a cordon of officers surrounded it, protecting it from the crowd. A similar party of men encircled the “Shelby Sled” as an elbowing mass of photographers attempted to take pictures of the winner.
Mr. Jardin began his speech. He was followed by Lord Spedwell, who spoke on behalf of the London Automobile Club. The London representative of the Birmingham Voice pronounced the “Shelby Sled” the winner and Lord Spedwell presented Egbert Shelby with a check.
Mr. Shelby replied briefly to the speeches and the ceremony was over in a few minutes. With the excitement over the thousands of people gathered to witness the end of the race dispersed quickly. It was nearly time for tea.
Now it was the turn of the gentlemen of the press. There were more pictures taken and both Mr. Shelby and Sir Harvey submitted to answering shouted questions. Finally the crowd thinned and the men were able to direct their attention to their machines.
With the members of the press and the photographers gone, Mr. Jardin and Lord Spedwell quickly departed.
As we left the stands and approached the four, young Wiggins, Holmes’ little lieutenant of the Baker Street Irregulars, the band of urchins who served as the detective’s eyes and ears around London, ran up. He gave a yellow telegram form to Holmes, who tossed him a coin he caught in his grimy hand. The boy was gone by the time my friend had read its contents and put the paper in his pocket. When Hopkins and I reached Holmes he was standing next to the two vehicles, which had been rolled to a patch of lawn beside the grandstands. I pulled my attention away from the two automobiles to focus on the four meandering motorists who had just completed the famous race.
Young Miles Shelby stood by the “Shelby Sled”, his hands in his pockets. Kit Travelore, son of the famous General, with the chest and the limbs of a Hercules, had his hands deep in the engine of Sir Harvey’s automobile, a frown on his slab-like face.
Sir Harvey was of medium height with a head of brown hair, large ears, prominent front teeth and an air of entitlement that draped him like a cloak.
“I don’t understand it,” Sir Harvey was saying, hovering by Travelore’s side, his attention on the engine of his motorcar. “There was no reason for that backfire or all that smoke.”
Egbert Shelby was short, with rounded shoulders, straw-coloured hair, a long wrinkled neck and freckles spotted all over his face and hands. He folded the prize check and tucked it into the pocket of his duster.
“Mine was just the superior vehicle, Sir Harvey. Not bragging, just a fact.”
Sir Harvey Harris swelled up with indignation and opened his mouth to speak.
Shelby was faster. “Before you tell me again, in excruciating detail, how the finest engineers of the Midlands worked months on creating your “Fast Leap” in all its perfection and cost, let me remind you again who won this race. This money is very welcome, but I have decided that my real reward for coming in first is that I will never have to listen to one more word about you, your vehicle, and your factories and how sure you were of the results of today’s race. In short, Sir Harvey, please go away. I know I am not considered a gentleman in your circle, but I can assure you that with your arrogance, your insensitivity and your self-centred talk, you would not be considered a gentleman in mine.”
Sir Harvey’s face turned bright red and he looked as if he was going to have a stroke. Stanley Hopkins intervened. “I am Inspector Hopkins from Scotland Yard. I need to ask you all some questions about the dinner given to you by the Duke and Duchess of Treadlow at Standhill Abbey Wednesday night.”
Sir Harvey turned his anger on this fresh target. “What are you blabbering about? What does that evening have to do with Scotland Yard? In case you don’t know, I am a personal friend of the Duke, not to mention the Home Secretary, and I protest being harassed in this fashion by some police flunky!”
“Sir Harvey! My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend Dr. Watson. I can assure you that this concerns a serious theft, and your cooperation will be greatly appreciated.”
“I heard something about a jewellery theft, a few days ago, but I didn’t know it happened at the Duke’s. I have no objection to questions, Mr. Holmes, and neither does my son,” said Egbert Shelby. “We will gladly help in Scotland Yard’s investigation.”
Sir Harvey grimaced. “Well, I’m going to have to consult with my solicitor, Inspector. I don’t believe that incident had anything to do with me.”
“Where is young Travelore?” I asked. At the announcement of Holmes’ name, the fourth man had turned away from our group.
“There he goes, across the lawns. He grabbed something from the boot of Sir Harvey’s motor and left.” Miles Shelby pointed to the duster-clad figure moving away with the dwindling crowd.
“After him, men! He’s the thief!” Holmes shouted. Hopkins and my friend ran after the retreating figure across the trampled grass of the Gardens. Two constables from the group guarding the automobiles joined in, their truncheons bobbing wildly at their belts as they stumbled after Travelore. I joined in the chase, leaving a bewildered Sir Harvey and the Shelbys gazing after us.
Travelore glanced behind and saw us. His quick trot turned into a run. While he ran, he seemed to shove some bulky items into his coat pockets. I gauged the distance and the terrain. I saw he was headed toward the Br
oad Walk that bisected Regents Park on the east. It was thick with retreating members of the great crowd gathered to witness the race’s end. I veered off from the other men dodging through the scattered revellers.
I had not exerted myself like this since the days of Charles Augustus Milverton and the desperate dash across the moors during the case I later wrote up as “The Hound of the Baskervilles”. I felt the passage of the years since those days in the strain on my lungs and the pull on my leg muscles. Yet I knew that if he reached that crowd, he could melt away into the millions that made up the population of London and never be seen again.
I managed to cut the distance between us. As he rounded a clump of bushes I called upon my Rugby experience, found a last burst of energy and tackled him. We crashed to the ground and rolled until we came up against another bush. Strong hands reached down and pulled him up. I regained my feet to see Kit Travelore in the clutches of Inspector Stanley Hopkins.
Sherlock Holmes steadied me. “Watson! Watson! Indeed, I shall never get your limits! Why, you’ve not lost a bit of your old form! The same blithe old boy as ever!”
I was winded by the run and bruised by the fall, but Holmes’ words warmed my soul. He seldom gave compliments and I treasured his words.
“Just helping, Holmes.”
“And a good job, too,” said Stanley Hopkins. The two policemen ran up, soon followed by Sir Harvey Harris and both of the Shelbys. One of the policemen clicked a pair of handcuffs on Travelore’s wrists. “Another minute and he would have left the Park and been gone. What do you have to say for yourself, young man?”
Travelore held up his manacled hands. “Why am I under arrest? The race was over and I was just leaving.”
“You were leaving with the Duchess of Treadlow’s necklace. Search his pockets, Hopkins,” said Holmes.
A make-shift contraption made up of tubes and wires, about the size of a small book, was retrieved from one pocket. I looked at it in wonder.
“What in the world is that?”
Sir Harvey and the Shelbys, father and son, joined us. “Let me see that,” said Miles Shelby. Hopkins handed it to him and the young man turned it over in his hands.
“I recognize this piece as a smoke bomb. If these wires were hooked up to the automobile accelerator, the explosion would have cut access to the petrol line. There would be an explosion with smoke and the engine would stop”.”
Sherlock Holmes pulled a large round tin out of Travelore’s other coat pocket. A continued search yielded nothing else. Holmes examined the flat, round container.
“Whatever Travelore may have done to make Sir Harvey’s machine lose the race, there is no sign of a necklace, Holmes,” I said. “Just that tin of grease. Travelore acted as mechanic for Sir Harvey’s motorcar. It would be natural for him to have a tin of grease in his pocket. He would use it for maintenance of the vehicle.”
Holmes smiled and held out the tin. “Read what is printed on the label, Watson.”
“Voyage Axle Grease for Carriages.”
“Precisely, Watson. This is grease for the lubrication of carriage wheels. Motorcars use an internal system for greasing their wheels. This tin’s contents are useless for an automobile.”
“Then why would Travelore carry it about?”
“That is a very good question, my friend. Do you remember the one unusual fact of this case? Didn’t it strike you as odd that while two necklaces were stolen, one was left behind at the scene?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Both the gold and diamond necklace and the rope of pearls were taken because they were in identical locked cases. Only when the thief broke open the cases did he know which necklace to steal. The determining factor was the means of transport. The pearl necklace wasn’t taken because it couldn’t be smuggled away by the thief.”
“But the pearl necklace was worth twice what the gold and diamond one was!” said Hopkins.
“The very act of hiding the rope of pearls from inquisitive eyes would have destroyed its value.” Holmes took the tin and pried open the lid. Inside was a dark pool of thick grease, glistening in the light. “Watson, give me your handkerchief, if you please.”
I pulled out my handkerchief and watched in fascination as Holmes’ thin, sensitive fingers dug into the tin’s contents. After a few moments we gasped as he pulled forth a long, blobby, slimy object from the grease. He ran it through his fingers and handed it to me. It was heavy and slick, dripping black drops onto the grass. I wrapped it in the cloth and tried to wipe off some of the oily covering. I nearly dropped it in shock as my efforts produced a glimpse of gold and a flash of diamonds. I was holding the Duchess of Treadlow’s gold and diamond necklace!
Sherlock Holmes calmly wiped his fingers on his own handkerchief. At the sight of the recovered jewellery, Kit Travelore struggled against the two policemen who held him, but his efforts were futile. Inspector Hopkins gave commands and the prisoner was taken away to Scotland Yard. Hopkins took possession of the necklace and ruined his own handkerchief polishing off the last of the grease.
“There must be quite a story behind how you figured out who was the thief, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I will need the information for my report.”
“Come to Baker Street this evening and I’ll explain,” Holmes replied. “Meanwhile, hand over your soiled handkerchief to Hopkins, Watson. Undoubtedly he needs to include it as evidence in his report. In its present state it’s of no use to you.”
By eight o’clock that evening, Stanley Hopkins was settled in my old armchair at 221b Baker Street. I sat on the sofa and Sherlock Holmes lounged in his own armchair except when, during his explanation, he rose to pace back and forth across the carpet. Brandy was served and our guest was encouraged to smoke. Stanley Hopkins and I had cigars while Holmes lit his old clay pipe and smiled at us both.
“I will start at the beginning and answer any questions you may have at the end. When we arrived at Standhill Abbey I examined the scene of the crime before we talked to any of the Abbey’s inhabitants. As I said, Watson, it was clearly an outside job. The storeroom door was forced, the outer means of access at the upper floor was securely locked and the alibis of the servants, the guests and the family were iron-clad.
“Yet the thief needed intimate knowledge of the Abbey in order to know where the jewels were kept after a party. My attention centred on the meandering motorists. I questioned the Duke about them.
“Mr. Egbert Shelby and his son Miles had never been to Standhill Abbey. That is not surprising considering their social circumstances. Kit Travelore’s father, the General, had visited a few times with his wife, as a social lion collected by the Duchess. Sir Harvey Harris, on the other hand, owned successful factories that the Duke had invested in, and between social and business interests, practically had the run of the place. He would be the most familiar with the Abbey’s routines.”
Hopkins looked at Holmes. “Are you saying Sir Harvey was involved in all this? You pulled that tin of grease out of young Travelore’s pocket yourself.”
“Kit Travelore had no first-hand knowledge of the routines of Standhill Abbey, gentlemen. However, remarks given by the Dowager Duchess of Treadlow and Mr. Shelby indicated that Sir Harvey likes to talk. And talk. And talk.
“Imagine Kit Travelore, sitting beside Sir Harvey day after day during the race, listening as his employer continually chattered for hours, bragging about his factories, his accomplishments and his connections, including the famous and very rich Duke of Treadlow and his ancient family. I’m sure that the entire layout of Standhill Abbey and details about every daily habit were repeatedly laid out during the early days of the race.
“The telegrams I sent out inquired into the financial status of Sir Harvey, Mr. Shelby, Miles Shelby and Kit Travelore. Egbert Shelby sunk his life’s savings into creating the “Shelby Sled”. He had to deny his son�
�s request to attend medical school because every spare penny went into the machine. So the Shelbys, father and son, had use for 24,000 pounds, the worth of the necklace. But the 2,000 pounds of prize money was enough to send young Miles to medical school.
“Sir Harvey had spent a lot of money developing his “Fast Leap” but he was better able to afford it. His motorcar was an expensive hobby. He had many chances to steal the necklace during his previous visits to the Abbey, but no reason to take it.
“Kit Travelore, on the other hand, had left Oxford under a cloud. It seems there were questions raised about certain gambling clubs of which he was a member.
Holmes pulled the yellow telegram form he had received that afternoon out of his pocket. “It pays to have discreet friends on Fleet Street.
“The General had managed to keep the scandal out of the papers, but Travelore was forced to leave his staircase and face life with only an inadequate (he thought) allowance. The entire route and the stopping places each night were published in the papers even before the race began. The dinner party at Standhill Abbey had been announced by the press long before the motorcars started from the Birmingham Botanical Gardens. The General’s son must have had the idea about the necklace before the race began because he cobbled up that smoke bomb and brought along the tin of grease. After Travelore was taken away I examined the tools in the “Fast Leap” boot. I found a metal screwdriver with signs of furniture varnish on its tip. Kit Travelore was the second son, with no hope of inheritance. 24,000 pounds would have been very handy indeed.
“The final proof was when he ran. I must say, my dear Watson, I am greatly impressed with the agility you displayed this afternoon. It was quite like the old days. Now, Inspector, let me offer you another glass of this fine old brandy. The vino of Italy has its points, but nothing equals a glass of wine at home in the company of old friends.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 7
