The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  I hardly dared look at Holmes but when I ventured a sideways glance, I saw his ascetic profile bore an expression of distaste. I was about to ask in a whisper what we should do in the circumstances – whether we should turn our backs on the scene or reveal our presence – when the decision was made for us in a quite unexpected and astonishing manner.

  The green baize door was flung open and several police officers burst into the room, the lean, sallow-faced Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard at their head.

  My own surprise was nothing compared with the shock and consternation shown by the young revellers. Faced by the presence of the law, they scrambled off the sofas, hastily adjusting their attire and, under Lestrade’s orders, were soon lined up in a bedraggled formation against the far wall, some shamefaced, others, mainly the young women, brazenly defiant.

  I heard Holmes murmur, a note of amusement in his voice, ‘I never thought I should welcome Lestrade’s intervention in a case with so much relief.’

  With that, he swept aside the curtain and coolly stepped forward, much as an actor might walk to the front of a stage to receive the applause of his audience.

  Lestrade spun about, his face expressing the same astonishment which only a few moments before I had experienced at his own sudden appearance.

  ‘Mr Holmes!’ he exclaimed. ‘And Dr Watson, too! What in the name of deuce are you doing here?’

  ‘I might ask the same of you, Lestrade,’ Holmes observed drily. ‘What investigation brings you to these particular premises at this hour of the night?’

  Lestrade came forward to speak to us in a low, confidential tone.

  ‘A forgery inquiry, Mr Holmes.’

  Holmes raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Forgery, my good Inspector? What on earth gave you that idea?’

  ‘I have received reports of several young men seen entering this building late at night. As there have been a number of false banknotes circulating in the district, especially amongst the second-hand dealers in Cutlers’ Row, I thought the felons had set up their printing press here in the basement.’

  Holmes took a long glance about him, letting his gaze pass over the wall hangings and the sofas before finally coming to rest on the line of dishevelled revellers, especially the young women with their gaudy dresses and tumbled hair.

  ‘I hardly think’, he observed, ‘that the young men intended to occupy themselves tonight with the printing of counterfeit banknotes. The making of money, however, is one of their concerns but in an entirely different manner to that which you suspected. If you care to examine the contents of that desk over there, Inspector, as well as the letters lying upstairs on the doormat, you will find enough evidence for charging them with obtaining money by deception.’

  Under other circumstances, it might have been amusing to observe the alacrity with which Lestrade crossed the room to the desk and, throwing open its lid, started to ferret eagerly about among its contents, pausing only in his task to address my old friend when he saw we were about to leave.

  ‘With your permission, I shall call on you later tonight, Mr Holmes; just to hear your opinion on the case, you understand.’

  Holmes bowed in acknowledgement, making no comment until we had left the building, on this occasion by the more orthodox method of using the basement stairs, and had emerged into the street.

  It was only then that he remarked, ‘I fear I have set Lestrade back on his heels. You, too, Watson. Although we have found young Venables, I imagine it was not in quite the manner you had expected. I did warn you though that the affair in which he was involved was most probably unlawful. However, neither you nor your friend the Major have any reason to thank me for this night’s work.’

  ‘How did you reach the conclusion that it was a case of deception, Holmes?’ I asked.

  He held up a hand to detain me.

  ‘No further questions, my dear fellow. This is neither the time nor the place. Once we have returned to Baker Street and are seated in comfort by our own fireside, I shall present the facts to you.’

  It was doubtless a wise decision on his part. Nevertheless, I spent a miserable time while we changed back into our own clothes at Ikey Morrison’s and took a cab to our lodgings, turning over in my mind how I was to face the Major, knowing that I was in part responsible for his son’s arrest.

  On our return to Baker Street, Holmes treated me with great solicitude. Although he could at times be selfish and inconsiderate, at others he was a most kind and generous friend, a quality of character I have remarked on elsewhere in the published chronicles.

  It was so on this occasion. He seated me by the fire which he himself coaxed into a blaze before, pouring me a whisky and soda, he sat opposite me, his expression troubled.

  ‘I think you should see these, Watson. I found them in the desk in Buckmaster’s vault,’ he said, handing me three visiting cards.

  I looked at them disbelievingly. They were all similar in size to the one Venables had given me which he had found in his son’s bureau drawer and all bore the same address of the A. M. S. Head Office in Titchbourne Street. Only the names were different. They were respectively those of a Canon James Micklewhite, Secretary of the Anglican Missionary Society; a Captain Horace Landseer, a retired naval officer, Director of the Association of Merchant Seamen; and a Miss Florence Lovestanleigh, Lady Treasurer of the Actors’ and Music-Hall Artistes’ Sanatorium.

  ‘What does it all mean, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘I think this will explain it,’ he replied, handing me a sheet of paper. ‘It is a specimen letter, almost ready for posting, one of many I found in a compartment in the desk.’

  The letter, which had been neatly produced on a typewriting machine, bore the same address as the cards – A. M. S. Head Office, Buckmaster Buildings, Titchbourne Street, London E. 1., and lacked only a recipient’s name and a signature at the bottom to complete it.

  It read:

  As secretary of the Animals’ Model Sanctuary, may I draw to your attention the work done by our organization to aid our four-footed friends?

  I have particularly in mind the plight of aged cab-horses and costermongers’ donkeys which, when they are too old to continue working, would, without our intervention, end their days miserably in a knacker’s yard.

  We have managed to rescue many of these pitiful dumb creatures, enabling them to live out the rest of their lives in peace and dignity at our sanctuary in the depths of rural Wiltshire, together with starving cats and dogs retrieved from the streets of all our major cities.

  As an animal lover yourself, I am sure you can appreciate that much more needs to be done. However, A. M. S. depends entirely on the benevolence of its supporters in order to continue its good work.

  May I therefore prevail on your generosity to send a contribution by postal order to the above address?

  All donations are most gratefully received and you may rest assured that the money will be put to excellent use. I remain, Sir, Yours etc.

  ‘You understand now?’ Holmes inquired when I had finished reading the letter.

  I burst out, ‘Yes, Holmes; I do indeed! And a very despicable affair it is, too. God knows how Venables will take it when he discovers his son is involved in this kind of fraudulent activity!’

  Aware of my distress, Holmes said quietly, ‘I think, my dear Watson, that we should wait to hear what Lestrade has to say and we are in possession of all the facts before we speculate any further on young Venables’ part in the affair.’

  However, Lestrade, who arrived about an hour later and who joined us by the fire, could offer little comfort. Indeed, the information he had to tell us made matters worse, not better.

  From the letters and papers found in the desk, together with the statements taken from the young men involved in the deception, the activities of the A. M. S. were more widespread than either Holmes or I had imagined. In addition to the bogus charities of which we were already aware, Lestrade added several more to the list, including
the Agency for the Maintenance of the Sabbath, the Academy for Metaphysical Studies and the Alliance of Moon-worshippers and Satanists.

  Lestrade had brought with him the A. M. S. ledgers, which showed that over a period of eighteen months, the length of time the fraudulent charities had been operating, the group had, discounting costs of postage and printing, amassed the considerable sum of £1,463. 15s. 8d.

  The books also included long lists of the names and addresses of subscribers, indicating the amount each individual had donated, the sums ranging from a modest half-crown to five guinea contributions. Further moneys in the form of postal orders had been discovered inside the letters lying on the doormat in Buckmaster’s vestibule.

  ‘A very clever scheme,’ Holmes remarked as Lestrade finished his account. ‘Quite unlawful and reprehensible, of course, but one has to grant the young men a certain ingenuity of mind. They have even had the foresight to use the initials A. M. S. for each of the charitable organizations they claimed to represent, thereby saving themselves the cost of having separate letter-headings printed. One serves for all. I wonder what title we ourselves should give them? The Amateur Mendicant Society perhaps? It seems apt. They have turned the craft of the begging-letter, usually little more than a cottage industry, into a highly successful business venture.’

  ‘That is only to be expected,’ Lestrade replied heavily, in tones of deep disapproval. ‘All the young gentlemen involved are well-educated and come from good family backgrounds. Indeed, some of the fathers are from the very professions which their sons claimed to represent in their charitable appeals. We’ve found the younger son of an archdeacon among them, as well as a naval officer and a retired major from the Indian Army.’

  I groaned inwardly at this last remark of Lestrade’s but kept silent as he continued, ‘As I understand it, they are all black sheep of the family, short of money but disinclined to earn it honestly.’

  ‘They will be charged?’ Holmes inquired.

  ‘Indeed so, Mr Holmes. We cannot allow even an archdeacon’s son to deceive the public in this manner. It gives charity a bad name. My men are at this very moment informing the parents that the young men are being held in custody and of the charges which will be brought against them. What sentences are passed is for the courts to decide. One of them, the son of the Indian Army major I was telling you about, is likely to get off more lightly than the others. He only joined the conspiracy a few months ago and so wasn’t one of its instigators.’

  This was a small crumb of comfort and one which I fervently hoped would console Venables when he learnt of his son’s arrest.

  Lestrade, who had risen to his feet in preparation for leaving, added, as he buttoned up his overcoat, ‘I forgot to mention that one of Buckmaster’s employees was involved in the affair. The manager was paid a weekly fee for turning a blind eye to what was going on in the vault and to the fact that the young men had helped themselves to goods from Buckmaster’s warehouse in order to furnish their secret club-room, although he swears he knew nothing about any conspiracy to defraud. I have no doubt, however, that he will be dismissed from his post.’ Lestrade shook his head, his lean features sombre with disapprobation as he paused in the doorway to pass a final judgement. ‘Greed, Mr Holmes. A terrible thing is greed.’

  As the door closed behind him, Holmes turned to me.

  ‘You will speak to Venables, Watson?’

  ‘Yes; I shall call on him tomorrow.’

  There is no need for me to describe my interview with the Major except to say it was a most painful occasion, made no easier by my old companion’s pitiable attempt to see his son’s disgrace in the best possible light.

  ‘The law must take its own course, Watson,’ he said as we shook hands before I left. ‘At least I shall have the comfort of knowing where my son is, even though it may be behind bars. I can only trust that this will teach Teddy the lesson he so badly needs.’

  Whether it did or not I have no way of telling. Soon after Teddy Venables’ arrest, the Major moved away from the district, no doubt too ashamed to face his friends and neighbours. I never heard from him again and do not know what happened to him subsequently nor to his son after he had served his prison sentence.

  In case Venables should still be alive, I have for his sake refrained from publishing an account of the case apart from making a passing reference to it in ‘The Five Orange Pips’, which I doubt my former army companion will ever read. He was not a man who found much pleasure in books and as neither his name nor his son’s is mentioned in the relevant passage, no one is likely to connect them with the case of the Amateur Mendicant Society.

  There are two short postscripts I wish to add to my account. The first concerns Inspector Lestrade who claimed all the credit for the uncovering of the fraudulent charities.

  Whether it was for this reason that he failed to inquire why Holmes and I were concealed in the lower vault of Buckmaster’s premises and how we had gained access to the building in the first place, or whether, in the flurry of official business after the arrests, the question slipped his mind, I do not know.

  As for the forgery case which Lestrade was investigating when he burst so unexpectedly into Buckmaster’s vault, this was later solved on information received from one of the gang in return for an undisclosed remuneration. The forgers had set up their printing-press in the cellar of the Britannia public house, in the very doorway of which one of Lestrade’s own officers had been posted, disguised as a tramp, on the night the Inspector had raided Buckmaster’s premises; the same man who, as Holmes had observed at the time, had failed to change his boots.

  * Dr John H. Watson introduced Mr Sherlock Holmes to two other cases, that of Mr Hatherley, an account of which was published under the title of ‘The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb’, and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness, which so far has not found its way into print. (Dr John F. Watson)

  * This was the second time Mrs Watson had gone to see her aunt in 1887, an earlier visit having taken place in September. Vide ‘The Five Orange Pips’. (Dr John F. Watson)

  † Dr John H. Watson and his wife had problems with another domestic, Mary Jane, a ‘clumsy and careless servant girl’ who also had been served notice by Mrs Watson. Vide ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’. (Dr John F. Watson)

  * Mr Sherlock Holmes had published a monograph on the subject, entitled ‘Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos’, which is referred to in The Sign of Four. (Dr John F. Watson)

  * Mr Sherlock Holmes’ skill at house-breaking and opening locks was put to use in several cases, including ‘The Adventure of the Illustrious Client’ and ‘The Adventure of the Retired Colourman’. (Dr John F. Watson)

  * In ‘The Adventure of Black Peter’, Dr John H. Watson refers to ‘five small refuges in different parts of London in which he (Mr Sherlock Holmes) was able to change his personality’. (Dr John F. Watson)

  * There is some confusion as to where exactly Dr John H. Watson was wounded. In A Study in Scarlet, he states that he was struck in the shoulder. However, in The Sign of Four, he refers to his ‘wounded leg’. (Dr John F. Watson)

  THE CASE OF THE REMARKABLE WORM

  One of the most extraordinary cases in which my old friend, Sherlock Holmes, was involved and with which it was my privilege to be associated began with a dramatic abruptness one hot Friday evening in August, some time after my marriage to Miss Mary Morstan.

  Having not seen Holmes for several weeks, I had called on him at my old lodgings in Baker Street to find him in a wry mood, inveighing with mock exasperation against the dearth of interesting stories in the newspapers.

  ‘What has happened to all the criminals, Watson?’ he complained in a half-serious, half-humorous fashion. ‘Has the warm weather driven them all out of London to seek refuge at the seaside for the season? Not even the Daily Telegraph this morning could produce a single noteworthy case. It contained nothing but reports of regattas and garden parties. If this continues, I shall be for
ced to retire to the country and keep bees.’*

  Hardly were the words out of his mouth than we heard through the open window the sound of wheels rapidly approaching and then drawing to a sudden halt outside, footsteps hurrying across the pavement and, seconds later, an agitated ringing at the front-door bell.

  Holmes, who had been lounging back in his chair, sat up, instantly alert.

  ‘A woman judging by the footsteps,’ said he, ‘and in considerable distress, too. I believe, my dear old friend, that we are about to receive a new client and that my beekeeping will have to be postponed.’

  At that, the door flew open and the woman in question rushed into the room.

  It was a dramatic entrance, worthy of Grand Guignol or one of Verdi’s masterpieces for she had about her a dramatic, not to say operatic, intensity. Young, beautiful, with her black hair tumbling loose and wearing a light cloak which even my unprofessional eye could detect had been hastily thrown over her shoulders, she confronted Holmes, who had scrambled to his feet, with this impassioned entreaty: ‘Come at once! Is Isadora! ’E say, “Fetch Mr ’Olmes!”’

  The message, spoken in a strong foreign accent, meant nothing to me but Holmes responded immediately. Seizing his hat and gesturing to me to accompany him, he ran after her down the stairs and out into the street where the four-wheeler in which she had arrived was still waiting.

  There was only time, as the young woman was giving the driver an address in Kensington, for him to murmur to me, ‘The man is Isadora Persano, a well-known, international journalist and an old acquaintance of mine.’

  Once the cab had started off, Holmes was able to question her and it was possible to piece together some account of what had happened; no easy task because of her broken English and the hysterical and barely coherent manner in which she expressed herself.

  It seemed that Isadora Persano had retired to his study earlier that evening to write an article. At some point during the evening, quite when it was not clear, a small parcel, addressed to Persano, had been delivered to the house and had been taken upstairs by Juan Alberdi, a Mexican manservant.