by June Thomson
THE SECRET DOCUMENTS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
June Thomson
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
FOREWORD
THE CASE OF THE AINSWORTH ABDUCTION
THE CASE OF THE BOULEVARD ASSASSIN
THE CASE OF THE WIMBLEDON TRAGEDY
THE CASE OF THE FERRERS DOCUMENTS
THE CASE OF THE VATICAN CAMEOS
THE CASE OF THE CAMBERWELL DECEPTION
THE CASE OF THE BARTON WOOD MURDER
APPENDIX
About the Author
By June Thomson
Copyright
I should again like to express my thanks to June Thomson for her help in preparing this fourth collection of short stories for publication.
Aubrey B. Watson LDS, FDS, D.Orth.
FOREWORD
by Aubrey B. Watson LDS, FDS, D.Orth.
Those of you who have read the three earlier collections* of Dr John H. Watson’s hitherto unpublished accounts of certain inquiries undertaken by Mr Sherlock Holmes will not need reminding of the curious circumstances under which they were acquired. However, for those who are not familiar with the facts, I supply the following brief explanation of how these papers came into my possession.
They were first obtained by my late uncle, also a Dr John Watson, although he was a doctor of philosophy, not of medicine, and his middle initial was F not H.
However, because of the similarity of his name to that of Mr Sherlock Holmes’ friend and companion, my uncle had made a study of the work of the great consulting detective and his near namesake, Dr John H. Watson, and was considered by many to be an expert on the subject.
It was for this reason that in July 1939, my uncle was approached by a Miss Adeline McWhirter who claimed to be a relative of Dr John H. Watson on his mother’s side of the family. She had, she said, inherited the despatch box containing Dr Watson’s handwritten accounts of some of Mr Holmes’ inquiries which, for various reasons, had never been published and which he had placed for safe keeping in his bank, Cox and Co. of Charing Cross.† Finding herself in straitened circumstances, Miss McWhirter had reluctantly decided to sell both the box and its contents.
After a careful examination which convinced him of their authenticity, my late uncle bought them and was planning to publish the manuscripts when war was declared a few months later in September 1939. Afraid for their safety, he therefore made copies of the Watson documents before depositing the originals in the strongroom of his own bank in London.
Unfortunately, the bank suffered a direct hit during the bombing of 1942 which reduced the papers to charred fragments and so damaged the despatch box that the words painted on the lid, ‘John H. Watson, M.D. Late Indian Army,’ were indecipherable. My late uncle was therefore faced with a dilemma for he was left with nothing to prove the existence of the originals apart from his own copies.
Unable to trace Miss McWhirter to verify his account and fearful of his reputation as a scholar, my late uncle decided not to publish the Watson papers after all and, on his death, the whole collection, together with his own footnotes and several short monographs he himself had written on various aspects of the canon, passed to me under the terms of his will.
As I am an orthodontist and therefore have no academic reputation to consider, I have, after much careful thought, decided to offer the documents for publication although I cannot vouch for their authenticity. Readers must decide that for themselves.
I have in places added footnotes of my own in order to bring up to date those already supplied by my late uncle. Readers will also find in an appendix one of his monographs, that concerning the vexed question of the true identity of the King of Bohemia.
* These collections, published by Constable and Co. Ltd., are The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (1990), The Secret Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (1992) and The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (1993). Aubrey B. Watson.
† Dr John H. Watson refers to this despatch box in ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’. Aubrey B. Watson.
THE CASE OF THE AINSWORTH ABDUCTION
I
Although I know, even as I take up my pen to commit the following account to paper, that there is little chance of it being published, at least not for several years, I have nevertheless decided to record the events in case a future editor might wish to place it before the general public.
It began one morning in September, a few months after my marriage to Miss Mary Morstan and my return to civil practice.* I was on my way home from an early visit to one of my patients in the vicinity of Baker Street and, having not seen my old friend Sherlock Holmes for several weeks, I decided to call on him at my former lodgings.
I found him, surrounded by test tubes and retorts, busily engaged in a chemical experiment which had filled the room with the most noxious fumes.
‘It is a test I am carrying out into coal-tar derivatives,’ he explained, having greeted me cordially. ‘Unfortunately, I have not so far succeeded. But I shall persevere with the task until I discover a satisfactory solution.’†
‘If you do not asphyxiate yourself first, Holmes,’ I remonstrated, crossing the room to fling open the windows.
‘My dear fellow,’ he replied, ‘I should much rather die in the cause of chemistry than suffocate with the boredom of idleness.’
‘You have no cases on hand then?’
‘Not at this precise moment. However, I am expecting a client to call shortly although what his business is remains a mystery. You may if you wish read his telegram which is on the table.’
Picking up the sheet of paper, I glanced over the message which read: WILL CALL ON YOU TODAY AT 11 AM ON URGENT BUSINESS STOP AINSWORTH.
‘It is hardly informative,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps the matter is too delicate or too complex to explain in a telegram.’
‘Or my prospective client is too miserly to spend more than a few pennies on sending it. We shall soon find out. It is a quarter to eleven now. Will you wait for his arrival, Watson, to find out what this urgent business is about? Or have you more pressing affairs of your own?’
‘I shall be delighted to stay,’ I replied. ‘My practice is fairly quiet at the moment.’
‘But evidently flourishing,’ Holmes remarked. On seeing my surprise, he continued, ‘There is no mystery, Watson. As soon as you walked into the room, I noticed you were wearing new boots which, judging by their quality and the distinctive pattern of stitching along the uppers, were bought at Eastgate’s of Brompton Road.* Anyone who can afford their prices must be well on the way to success. And now, my dear fellow, come and sit down in your old armchair and tell me what you have been doing since I last saw you.’
There was, however, little time for private conversation. Hardly had we sat down and Holmes had filled and lit his pipe than the front door bell rang and his client was shown into the room.
He was a large, florid man, very broad across the chest and with features to match his girth for the heavy chin, beetling eyebrows and broad, fleshy cheeks, mottled a dark purplish-red in colour, seemed exaggerated beyond normal. His presence, too, was larger than life as was his voice, both of which seemed to fill the room to overflowing.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ he boomed, fixing both of us in turn with an impatient glare from his bright blue eyes.
‘I am Sherlock Holmes,’ my old friend replied.
‘Then who the devil is he?’ our visitor demanded, turning that choleric stare in my direction.
‘That gentleman is Dr Watson, a colleague of mine,’ Holmes explained coolly.
‘I came to consult you, not some other d–d fellow!’ came the riposte.
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sp; I half rose from my chair in preparation to leave the room, having no desire to cause any unpleasantness between Holmes and his prospective client. As I did so, Holmes gestured to me to remain seated before addressing his visitor in a cold, clipped voice.
‘Either Dr Watson remains in the room or you must leave, sir. He has my complete confidence and I have no intention of conducting any business in his absence. The choice is entirely yours.’
For a moment, I thought the man would explode with rage. His chest swelled up like a turkey cock’s and his mottled complexion turned an even brighter red while his blue eyes were positively blazing. However, he managed with difficulty to contain his anger and, nodding curtly to me as if giving me his permission to stay, he acquiesced grudgingly.
‘Very well, Mr Holmes. I agree.’
‘Then pray be seated, Mr Ainsworth, and explain what urgent business has brought you here.’
‘Not Mr Ainsworth,’ he retorted, lowering himself into the armchair which Holmes had indicated and which he entirely filled with his enormous frame. ‘I am Sir Hector Ainsworth. As to my business, sir, before I begin to explain that, I should first like to know your fees. I am not a rich man.’
I saw Holmes suppress a small smile at this confirmation of his client’s parsimony. However, it was with a serious expression that he explained his terms, adding that these did not include expenses.
Sir Hector puffed out his cheeks and looked much taken aback.
‘That is a great deal of money, Mr Holmes,’ he remarked.
‘On the contrary, my fees are considered reasonable and, under certain circumstances, I am prepared to charge only by results. Should I fail, you will pay nothing.* If, however, you think these terms excessive, I advise you to take your business elsewhere,’ Holmes suggested suavely, rising to his feet as if he considered the interview over.
‘No, no! You mistake me, sir!’ Sir Hector blustered. ‘I am prepared to accept your fees. I am not used to London prices, that is all. Why, the cab driver who brought me here from Paddington station charged me sixpence – yes, sixpence, sir! – for the journey. It is outrageous! Of course, I refused to tip the fellow.’
‘Your business with me concerns money?’ Holmes inquired in an attempt to bring his client back to the point.
‘Money? What the deuce made you think that?’ Sir Hector demanded, swelling up once more with fury at Holmes’ interpretation. Then recalling whatever business had brought him to Baker Street, he once more subsided.
‘Well, yes, Mr Holmes, money does come into it although I cannot for the life of me imagine how you came to such a conclusion. It concerns my daughter Millicent, my only child and therefore my sole heir. She is already in possession of a small capital sum, left to her by her mother, my late wife. But under the terms of her will, my daughter cannot touch either the capital or the interest until she marries or reaches the age of thirty, whichever occurs first.’
Sir Hector paused here as if his account were over and he were waiting for Holmes to reply.
‘I do not see the point,’ he began.
‘Not see the point! Why, it is as plain as the nose on your face, sir! The scoundrel who has abducted my daughter intends to marry her by force and then seize hold of her money! That is the point, Mr Holmes! I am surprised a man of your much-vaunted intelligence fails to grasp it.’
Holmes’ lean features flushed with anger but he controlled his impatience and, when he spoke, his voice was admirably calm and steady.
‘I think, Sir Hector,’ said he, ‘that you should start at the beginning. When exactly was your daughter abducted?’
‘Sometime last night. I was told of her absence by her maid who, going to wake her this morning, found her bed empty.’
‘Do you know who has abducted her?’
‘Of course I do!’ Sir Hector boomed in reply. ‘It is the assistant groom, a miserable little runt of a creature called Weaver, Albert Weaver. Once I lay hands on the man, I intend horsewhipping him to within an inch of his life! That is your brief, Mr Holmes. You find my daughter and return her to my care. At the same time, you hand Weaver over to me to deal with as I think fit.’
‘So that you may horsewhip him?’ Holmes suggested, both his tone and expression perfectly serious.
The irony was lost on Sir Hector who nodded vigorously.
‘Exactly, sir! I am glad you have at last grasped the point. Now is there anything else you need to know?’
‘A few more facts, Sir Hector. Where does Weaver sleep?’
‘Sleep? What the devil has that to do with the case?’
I saw Holmes’ jaw tighten before he said in a voice as cutting as a steel blade, ‘If I am to take on the inquiry, then I must decide which questions are relevant. I repeat: Where does Weaver sleep?’
‘Over the stables, where grooms are usually accommodated. The head groom and the stable boys also have rooms there.’
‘How did Weaver gain access to the house last night? Were there any signs that he had broken in?’
Sir Hector seemed strangely disconcerted by this question and for several long moments remained uncharacteristically silent. Then he said with obvious reluctance, ‘Not that I am aware of although I understand from the cook that when she came downstairs at six o’clock this morning, she found the back door unlocked and unbolted.’
‘So someone inside the house must have let him in?’ Holmes suggested with sweet logic. As his client again remained silent my old friend continued, ‘Sir Hector, it pains me greatly to have to put this question but it must be asked. Has your daughter indeed been abducted or has she in fact eloped?’
The effect of this question on Sir Hector was not as extreme as I had expected. There was no eruption of anger although his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. However, when he spoke, it was with the exultant tone of a man scoring a point in an argument.
‘Elope, sir? With a groom? My daughter has too keen a sense of family honour to do any such thing. Besides, if she had eloped, why would she leave all her clothes behind? Answer me that, Mr Holmes.’
‘You mean she took nothing?’
It was Holmes’ turn to be disconcerted.
‘Not a stitch!’ Sir Hector retorted with undisguised triumph. ‘I myself questioned her maid most carefully on that very point.’
‘How curious!’ Holmes murmured, half to himself.
I doubt, however, if Sir Hector heard this comment for, his anger once more roused, he was holding forth in his usual overbearing manner.
‘That is not to say nothing was taken. Oh, no, sir! The infernal scoundrel, Weaver, helped himself to my gig and the pony to go with it as well as my daughter’s horse which I gave her on her twenty-first birthday. Nice little mare; cost me a fortune. And that’s not to mention the tackle. Saddle, bridle, the lot, gone from the stable! And now, Mr Holmes, is that the last of your tomfool questions? Or is there something else you need to know?’
‘Only a description of your daughter.’
Sir Hector seemed curiously nonplussed by this request. Screwing up his eyes as if trying to focus on some far-off image he only dimly perceived, he was silent for several moments.
‘There is no point in beating about the bush, Mr Holmes,’ he said at last. ‘My daughter Millicent is no beauty. In fact, to put it bluntly, she is a very plain young woman; takes after her late mother. Age, twenty-two; dark hair; tall, about my height and built like a grenadier.’
Although I had to bite my lip and turn away to look studiously out of the window, Holmes received this information with perfect gravity.
‘And what of Weaver, the groom?’
‘I’ve told you already, he’s a miserable little runt of a man; a former jockey; clean-shaven; sandy-coloured hair. Age? I have never troubled to ask the fellow but I suppose he must be about twenty-six. As for Jemima …’
‘Jemima?’ Holmes sounded perplexed.
‘My daughter’s mare, Mr Holmes! She’s a chestnut; white blaze on the forehead; jumps like a
cat. Now is that all, sir? Then I assume you will want to make inquiries at Elmsfield Hall, my place of residence. Here is my card, giving details of my address. The nearest station is Elmsfield, a small market town a few miles from Reading. I suggest you catch the 12.45 train from Paddington which I myself intend taking.’
‘I am afraid that may not be convenient, Sir Hector,’ Holmes replied firmly. Turning to me, he continued, lowering one eyelid fractionally although the rest of his face remained perfectly sober, ‘I should much appreciate your assistance on such a complex case, my dear doctor, but I believe you have some urgent business of your own to attend to first. At what time will you be free?’
I was much surprised at Holmes’ unexpected invitation as well as amused by the manner in which it had been made. Joining in the spirit of the game, I pretended to ponder on the proposition for a few seconds before replying.
‘I should be finished by one o’clock.’
Sir Hector, torn between exasperation at Holmes’ refusal to accept his own arrangements but mollified, as I have no doubt Holmes intended, by my old friend’s reference to the complexity of the case, broke in impatiently.
‘Then I suggest you catch the 1.25 train instead. I shall send the carriage to meet it. Good morning to you, gentlemen.’
Shaking hands energetically with both of us, he seized up his hat and stick and went stamping out of the room.
Holmes waited until he heard the street door slam shut behind him before bursting into laughter.
‘What an extraordinary man, Watson! ’Pon my word, I declare I have rarely met such a peculiar client. As for the case, that presents a most unusual dilemma. Has Lady Millicent been abducted or has she eloped? And if she has eloped, why has she taken no clothes with her except, I assume, what she was wearing at the time? But what were they? Hardly just her nightgown, one supposes. And why take her horse? If she and Weaver intend a runaway marriage, I would have thought it would have been more of an encumbrance than a blessing. By the way, my dear fellow,’ he continued in an offhand manner, ‘I was right, was I not, in assuming you would be willing to accompany me this afternoon?’
