Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2

by Puhl, Gayle Lange

  “That evening I offered him fruit and bread, all the kitchen had to offer. To be fair, I was forced to dine from the same menu. He ate, but that look was getting stronger in his eye. This morning, when I awoke, I found he had gotten up in the night and assuaged his hunger by devouring my best pair of Italian leather shoes. He had finished off the meal by chewing on my new Ascot topper, which I had worn only once.

  “The only things left in the cupboard were several bottles of wine, both red and white. For lack of anything else, I poured out a bowlful of Beaune to blunt his hunger and determined to brave the fog in search of food. While he was occupied, I pulled on my hat and coat and left.

  “My expedition through the murky, dun-coloured streets was successful and I returned with an economy-sized bag of Donaldson’s Dog Joy and some staples for myself, like steak and beer. Imagine my shock, Mr. Holmes, when I entered my flat to discover the living room couch empty, the French doors smashed, the balcony floor littered with shards of glass, and Cuddles nowhere to be found. I can only conclude that he had become unhappy with his current accommodations and had left for brighter shores. That is when I sent you that message from the nearest telegraph office and made my way to Baker Street through all this choking fog.”

  “When is Mrs. Little due to return?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

  “In four days, on Thursday,” our client replied.

  “That should be enough time,” said Holmes. “London only has about five million residents and someone must have seen such a large dog as Cuddles. Watson, I think this is a job for the Baker Street irregulars.”

  “The what?” exclaimed Mr. Little.

  “They are a band of street Arabs who aid Holmes in his investigations sometimes,” I explained. “They go everywhere, see everything and are Holmes’ eyes and ears in the city.”

  “Never heard of them,” said Bingo Little.

  “I’ve written about them a couple of times,” I said.

  “I must have skipped those stories,” he replied.

  Holmes went to his desk and wrote furiously for several minutes. Then he rang for Mrs. Hudson, handed her a fistful of telegram forms, directed her to have them sent immediately and shed his dressing gown for his hat and coat.

  “You have mobilized the irregulars,” I said.

  “Very good, Watson,” he drawled. “I told them to fan out across the city and seek this animal. Such a large beast cannot slink through the streets of metropolitan London in this day and age without someone noticing it. I instructed them to report each sighting to Wiggins, who will report to me. I expect to get results within hours.”

  “But what about the fog?” I asked.

  “Yes, there is fog. Well, it cannot last forever and when it fades away everything will become clear. Possess your soul in patience, Watson. I shall accompany Mr. Little home where he will await developments and I will inspect the premises. I doubt the animal left a note, but there may be some other indication of its intentions.”

  The afternoon passed and the fog grew darker and thicker. After Holmes returned from his expedition into the murk, he occupied himself at his chemistry table. He said only that Bingo Little had hired a glazier for the French doors and planned on throwing out the couch cushions. I tried to immerse myself in one of my yellow-backed novels but the thought of that black beast roaming amid the unsuspecting population of London gave me a feeling of suspense as thick as the vapours outside our windows. By late afternoon I was jumping at every ring of the doorbell, but each ring only announced the arrival of another telegram from the gang of children Holmes employed.

  The first one read

  “Large dark shape reported to have spent ten minutes splashing in basin at Trafalgar Square. Disappeared into mist when approached. Wiggins”

  An hour later we got another one.

  “Hulking black beast startled the Guard at Buckingham Palace. Escaped to the east in the fog. The Queen is safe. Wiggins”

  Hours passed until a third telegram was delivered.

  “Strange movements marked outside the Bank of England. Police theory is it indicates the planning of a massive robbery. Have stationed an entire squad of officers around building. Only clues are numerous footprints of a gigantic hound found on front steps. Wiggins”

  There was nothing more that evening. In the morning another telegram came up with the curried chicken and the eggs.

  “Howling heard outside the walls of the Tower of London last night. Thick mist and darkness obscured all. First thought to be the ghost of Anne Boleyn’s dog. Later level of noise convinced those hearing it to be the combined moaning of spirits of all those held prisoner and tortured at Tower since construction. Madame Blavatsky sent for. Wiggins”

  Then silence fell. The green and ochre murk outside grew more dense. No more telegrams were delivered to 221b Baker Street for the rest of that day or that night. Late the next morning another yellow form arrived.

  “Funeral procession disrupted in Highgate Cemetery by mysterious huge dark shape running through crowd. Witnesses were unable to describe it because of thick fog. Pallbearers dropped the coffin and dispersed with cries of “Dracula has returned!” Wiggins”

  That afternoon, just before tea, a last message was received. It read

  “Patrons at Criterion Bar reported enormous black monster spotted in Piccadilly Circus, looking in at them through the glass doors. No further description possible because of fog. Sight was so hideous one half of crowd swore on the spot to drink nothing but milk in future, while other half insisted on being led to Criterion’s lower regions for safety and being locked in wine cellars. Fiend then disappeared into the fog. Wiggins”

  No more telegrams from the Baker Street irregulars arrived at 221b. After reading the last report, Sherlock Holmes spent hours on a divan made of pillows in the corner of the sitting room, smoking his pipe and pouring over a folded sheet of paper. Periodically he made marks on it then sent Mrs. Hudson out for more tobacco. In order to breathe, I was forced to stick my head out a window every once in a while, despite the encroaching tendrils of mist that slipped past me to twist and curl through the room and finally blend with the smoke from Holmes’ pipe. The atmosphere became intolerable. Finally I retreated to bed.

  On the morning of the fourth day, mere hours before the scheduled return of Mrs. Little, her husband made his way through the persistent pea-souper atmosphere of our room to the sofa. A strong breeze was lifting the fog outside and I threw open a window in an effort to clear the air. Holmes thanked Bingo Little for coming in response to his telegram and announced he had not yet found Cuddles.

  Mr. Little was despondent at the news.

  “I’m jolly sorry to hear that, Mr. Holmes. How I wish Jeeves were here. I have seen that man perform miracles solving problems much more convoluted than simply that of a missing dog. What a brain! All Bertie’s friends think the world of Jeeves. If only I could remember that address in the South of France!”

  Sherlock Holmes stood up, stiff and austere, and handed Mr. Little his hat. “If you believe my services are inadequate…”he began.

  “No, no, Mr. Holmes! Please, don’t think that! I am sure you’re straining every nerve and putting your entire coconut into my case. I’ve never had much brain power, you see, and I really admire the birds with the goods that can just look at a crossword or a newspaper acrostic and blurt out the answers like water from a pipe. Please continue your investigation. My better half arrives today at 5:30 and I am booked to meet her at the station. What will she say if I don’t have Cuddles in tow? My life will not bear living without your help.”

  “Very well, Mr. Little. I will remain on the case. Please get up off your knees.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you both. Call me Bingo. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I do have one request.”

  “Name it,
Mr. Holmes, and it will be yours, up to half my kingdom.”

  “I see the fog has lifted. I think the next step is to have lunch at your club. Both Dr. Watson and I have been cooped up here too long and could do with a change of scenery.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. And you too, Dr. Watson. Call me Bingo. I’ll be glad to treat you to lunch. I think you will enjoy it. The Drones have a fine wine cellar, the chef is a good sort and the bread is always fresh. Some of the members have come back from their relatives’ places in the country and we’ll find such jolly fellows there.”

  Holmes and I got our coats and hats and in a short time we found ourselves walking into the famous Drones Club. Mr. Little spotted Bailey Cavendish, the Club manager, who was hovering in the entrance hall. The man hurried over to our client and touched his sleeve discreetly.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Little. We have a problem here. Do you happen to know Mr. Wooster’s address in France?”

  “No, I don’t. Why do you need Bertie’s address?”

  “Well, it isn’t really for him. Mr. Freddy Widgeon suggested that Mr. Wooster’s man Jeeves would be of great assistance during our current troubles. But if you can’t help us…”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute! If it’s little grey cells you need, I have just the ticket standing right here. This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, well-known as the sharpest knife in the drawer. He happens to be doing a little something for me right now. I’m sure he would be happy to listen to your problem. Would you bend your brain to this, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Of course. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  This seemed like a good idea, since the foyer where we stood seemed to be the location of a rugby match and the noise from the bar, where men stood three deep clamouring for refreshment, was deafening. Cavendish led us through the dining room, where boisterous members were flinging rolls at each other as if they were trying to knock over bottles at a fun fair, and into a small office. He closed the door and motioned us to chairs.

  “Normally this is something that would be taken up by the Committee, but every blessed member has been detained in the country by their aunts and they all are currently forbidden to come down to London upon threat of disinheritance. As for the problem I mentioned, to make a long story short, I believe the Drones Club is haunted!”

  Bingo Little gave a great start. “You mean like ghosts? Spirits? Wraiths, shades, organized ectoplasm? Conan Doyle’s special friends?”

  “Exactly.”

  Bingo Little needed clarification.

  “You are talking about those who have gone to their reward, departed this life, and are currently pushing up daisies?”

  “Yes, I mean travellers to the Great Beyond, who have gone to their eternal rest, entered the next world and now inhabit the Happy Hunting Grounds.”

  “Mr. Cavendish, what gives you that idea?” said Sherlock Holmes. He nudged me and I began taking notes.

  “I do think it is only a couple of ghosts, sir. It is not like one cannot walk down the corridor without tripping over a winding sheet or eat a meal without faint hollow voices disturbing one’s enjoyment of the Coc au Vin. But there have been strong signs since yesterday and the incidents are getting worse.”

  “Tell me about the incidents.”

  “You must understand that until today, when the fog began to lift and many members were able to return to London, the Club has been very quiet. Last night’s dinner special was tripe a la Baltimore. It was just out of the oven and was left to finish on the table in the kitchen. The chef turned his attention to fixing the salad and when he turned around, the entire dish was gone!”

  “You mean the food had been eaten?”

  “Exactly! Tripe, shrimp, mussels, seasonings, every splash of gravy had vanished. All there was left was the large stoneware baking dish that had held it all.”

  “The chef saw nothing?”

  “He claimed he didn’t, but I must admit he is French and drinks while he cooks. That is not all. Later that evening I noticed a chair out of place in the smoking room, and when I moved it back I found a pipe on the carpet, badly chewed.”

  “It is not unusual to find a pipe with teeth marks on the stem,” said Holmes.

  “This pipe had teeth marks on the bowl, sir. It had an unusually large bowl, carved out of African ironwood. It belonged to Mr. Freddy Widgeon, sir, and he had been detained out of town by police authorities for a week. Something about a policeman’s helmet. He just got in today. He said it was not in that condition when he last saw it.”

  “What else?”

  “Three newspapers, both morning and evening editions, including the comic pages, were discovered chewed to a sodden pulp in the library, an overcoat belonging to Mr. Prosser, left behind when he debarked for Monaco, was found ripped to shreds in the cloakroom, and, most sinister of all, the club kitten is missing.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Only the sounds in the night.”

  “What sounds in the night?”

  “Irregular sounds, sir, from the ballroom. As if people were dancing.”

  “Any music?”

  “No, sir. McGarry, the barman, only heard scuffling noises last night. He told me this morning and I went up to investigate. There were marks in the dust.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of a floating apparition leaving marks in the dust before. Perhaps your ghost has a more earthly origin, Mr. Cavendish. Who else knows of these incidents?”

  “Just myself, McGarry and Mr. Freddie Widgeon. I thought it best not to panic the staff or the members by spreading such news around. I asked Mr. Widgeon about the pipe, you see, and he advised me to get hold of Mr. Wooster’s man Jeeves.”

  “I think we can carry on without Jeeves,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Since the ballroom was the site of the latest occurrence, let us begin there.”

  Bingo Little was still uncertain. “Wait a minute, Cavendish,” he said. “When you say ghosts, you are talking about the dearly departed, someone who has gone the way of all flesh, and is most sincerely dead?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m talking about someone from the hereafter, who has left this vale of tears, met his Maker, been fitted for a set of wings and collected his room key to that Grand Hotel in the Sky.”

  “Ah. Just making sure, Cavendish.”

  The Club manager led the way upstairs on the Grand Staircase. He explained that the basement of the Drones building held the kitchens, pantries, wine cellar and swimming bath of the club, along with changing rooms for the bathers. The ground floor was the one we had just left, with the foyer, the bar, the dining room, the small office, the library, the writing room, the smoking room, the billiard room and two card rooms. The first floor was divided into small bedrooms. They could be reserved for use by club members if they found themselves stuck in London between trains or when certain authorities or relatives might be searching for them. Above that was the ballroom, decorated in the style of Louis the Fifteen, and topping out the structure was a veritable labyrinth of attic rooms, stuffed with the flotsam and jetsam of things that frequently collect as a Club goes through life.

  “I believe that an attic should be stocked with only those things that will prove useful,” said Sherlock Holmes as we climbed past the bedrooms.

  “An admirable sentiment, Mr. Holmes,” replied Cavendish, “but impractical in a community situation such as the Drones. Suppose that Lord Ferryside, an old member and Club benefactor, comes back from his travels in the Canadian wilderness and gifts the Drones with a giant hairy moose head, complete with a full set of antlers, and all of it mounted on a wide slab of Sequoia wood. It would be far too hideous a monstrosity to hang anywhere in the public rooms, yet the…the…”

  “Old fathead,” said Bingo Little.

  “Well, yes, the member will expect it to be exhibited in
a prominent place when he comes down next spring to see his dentist. We just chuck it up in the attic, along with the other monstrosities, and whip it along to the library when he telegrams to reserve a room the next time he is on his way. There is a special peg there reserved for gifts from the members, along with a shelf for ugly vases and statues adorned with clocks in their stomachs and such. After he leaves the object d’horror is put back in the attic. The system has worked like a charm for years.”

  “What if the donor appears unexpectedly?” I asked.

  “Then he is delayed at the bar, not a difficult thing to accomplish, and the item is quietly carried down the back stairs and put into place. Ah, this is the ballroom.”

  Cavendish opened a pair of tall carved doors and turned on the electric lights. I blinked at the sight within. The long, wide room was lined with mirrors. Each sheet of reflecting glass was bracketed with marble columns. Each column was adorned with a golden electric sconce. Between the mirrors were sets of golden curtains draped over floor to ceiling windows. Against the wall at our left were stacked dozens of gilt chairs, under draped white cloth, while at the far end stood a stage fitted out for an orchestra. The ceiling was painted with famous scenes from the history of the Roman Empire. From plaster medallions covered with gilt hung four elaborate crystal and gold chandeliers. A waxed hardwood floor stretched out before us, throwing back a dull gleam from the brilliant lights above.