The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  “With The White Bird destroyed, in Monson’s mind, Woodhouse tried to convince Monson that he had just shot down his own men. Monson, not being a man who took criticism gently, possibly driven mad by all the financial pressures upon him, then murdered Woodhouse in a rage. He landed near Lubec, hoping that the plane would either drift out to sea or sink, with Woodhouse in the cockpit. He then made his way back to Mineola and sought out Feliciano.”

  Belanger looked puzzled. “Then where is The White Bird, Holmes? And what of the other Monson plane? Nobody had reported any crashes in that area.”

  “There were no crashes in that area, you are correct, Commander. The White Bird must have turned out to sea, with one man dead or wounded or the other barely conscious. I am told that some airplanes can fly for some distance without direction from a pilot. I believe that The White Bird flew on, essentially unmanned, and crashed in the Gulf of Maine.”

  “And the other plane?” I asked.

  “Commander Belanger, I am positive that if you have some men investigate the Maine lake where that one gentleman claimed to have heard a crash - Round Lake, was it? - you will find the remains of Monson’s other plane and the dead crew. It is only some fifty miles from Passamaquoddy Bay. A stable aircraft, and Sutton did say that Monson’s amphibian was extraordinarily stable, could fly that distance.”

  Detective Detmer, who had met us when we landed, interjected, “What about Feliciano, then. Who shot him? What has this to do with The White Bird?”

  “Ah, Mr. Feliciano was merely a minor player in this drama. He took Monson in when Monson had realized that he had just murdered five men. Even a personality such as Mr. Monson would find such a thing shattering. He most likely contacted Feliciano in the hopes that the gangster could supply him with a way of leaving the area, even the country, unnoticed. But they argued. Feliciano was found in one of his own flop-houses that were used by his prostitutes. Perhaps Monson made a nuisance of himself and Feliciano was forced to intervene and eject his friend from the premises. The argument deteriorated into a mutual gunfight that you Americans seem so fond of, and both men were mortally wounded. Feliciano died before he could be helped. Monson, wounded but conscious, drove out to the only other refuge he knew, Woodhouse’s ‘play house’, and then, as the reality of his actions entered his mind, called his mistress, Mrs. Woodhouse, for solace. She may have already been at the house awaiting him.”

  “Then the guy lived for a while until we got to him. Anything else, Mr. Holmes?” said Detmer. “Any thoughts as to where we can find The White Bird?”

  Holmes spoke without hesitation. “No, Detective. I am afraid that The White Bird shall forever remain a ghost. Ocean currents have most likely deposited the wreckage far out to sea. The question remains: shall we make our finding public or not?”

  I looked at Holmes with furrowed brow. “Surely you do not suggest that we keep this all a secret, Holmes? The world must know what happened here. The French flyers made it all the way across to America. A despicable industrialist thwarted their success. We must tell the world.”

  Belanger looked from Holmes to me. He had a peculiar expression, a mixture of understanding and determination. “I think I know what Mr. Holmes will say to that, Doctor.” He shuffled his feet and looked at Holmes. Holmes nodded and mouthed the words go on.

  “Look at the celebrations in New York, Doctor,” he continued. “America is ecstatic over Lindbergh’s achievement. America’s aeronautical industry stands at the top of the world now. We cannot cast a pail of cold water on such pride. It would be better for all concerned that the world believe that Nungesser and Coli almost succeeded but that Lindbergh did. It would be counterproductive to reveal the events of May 9th. Agreed, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Yes. I concur completely, Belanger. We shall inform Miss Hatmaker and Mr. Nungesser that the disappearance of their dear Charles was due to navigational error and dismal weather. We should spare them the grisly truth, as all who were responsible are now deceased. There would be no sense in complicating their suffering.”

  As Holmes and I walked back to the seaplane, I contemplated the implications. History would forever consider the disappearance of Charles Nungesser and Francois Coli, intrepid and brave aviators who sought only to advance aviation, as an enduring mystery. I convinced myself to record this investigation, one that I consider to be one of the most unsatisfying cases of my association with Sherlock Holmes, and store it away in a safe place until such time as the world became ready for such. Of Holmes, I worried that he was losing his touch, his enthusiasm for the relentless pursuit of truth and justice.

  We stayed in America long enough to see Charles Lindbergh return in triumph to New York City on 11 June 1927. The following day, Holmes and I had a final dinner with Detmer and Belanger to say farewell. We left for home on the 14th.

  On the trip home, Holmes continued reading the accounts of Mr. Lindbergh’s incredible feat. His enthusiasm for aviation was growing. On the day before we were to dock in Southampton, Holmes and I were relaxing on deck, I reading a medical journal, Holmes the newspaper. Out of the blue, my friend said, “Amazing stuff this aviation business. Now there will be people clamoring for a flight to everywhere. Know what I think I shall do, Watson?” he did not wait for my response. “I shall make a small investment in the Imperial Airlines. I think they should do rather well, don’t you think?”

  I did not have it in me to tell Holmes what I thought - air travel is for the birds and they are welcome to it!

  Epilogue

  On the 18th of August I received a telegram from Commander Belanger informing me that some wreckage from a white colored airplane was recovered two-hundred miles east of New York City. He went on to say that the remains were too badly decomposed to identify what aircraft they came from. He hinted that Holmes was right and The White Bird rested on the sea floor. For now, the case was closed.

  At the end of August, Holmes excitedly read of the disappearance of The St. Raphael, a Fokker tri-motor attempting to cross the Atlantic with Princess Anne Lowenstein-Westhern (or Lady Anne Saville) aboard. He was sure that he could solve that case too.

  As long as there are no more airplane flights, I shall be happy.

  The Adventure of the Avaricious Bookkeeper

  by Joel and Carolyn Senter

  For many years, my visits with my old friend, Sherlock Holmes, had been both infrequent and brief. During The Great War, we were completely lost to one another. I was on frequent, sometimes almost constant call as a volunteer physician to provide medical attention to our wounded returning from France. The injuries to our soldiers were so numerous and so severe that I fear I more often found myself lamenting the failures than delighting in the successes of my attempts to heal those desperately mangled bodies. I had no direct knowledge of Holmes’s activities during that appalling conflict. On two occasions, I travelled down to Sussex with the intention of not only assuring myself of his safety and well-being but, perhaps to visit with him, if only briefly. On the first occasion, I found the cottage empty; there was simply no one at all in residence. Enquiries in the neighborhood raised no information as to where Holmes might be, so I returned to my place of dwelling as uninformed about Holmes as I had been before my visit. On the second occasion, I was met by Holmes’s housekeeper, who greeted me most warmly. She invited me in and set before me a most welcomed and elegant tea. We chatted for, perhaps, two hours about old times interspersed with a bit of local gossip, but whenever I made an enquiry about Holmes, I was told only that, “Mr. Holmes is away just now.”

  The very few visits we had enjoyed, after the long awaited armistice, occurred more by happenstance than by design. Occasionally, Holmes’s interests and, perhaps, some business endeavors, brought him back to London. During such times, Holmes would, occasionally, honour me with a telephone call from his lodging place suggesting that we meet. Sometimes I would join him at his hotel
for a meal and perhaps a leisurely stroll through the streets of London. One of his unheralded invitations bore the welcomed suggestion that we meet at Simpson’s for dinner for old time’s sake. I was delighted to be able to join him there once again. It was while we were enjoying our after dinner cigars that I broached the suggestion that we might actually plan a proper meeting for some future date - a meeting of longer duration than our “ships passing in the night” encounters, and one which we could both pleasantly anticipate. I suggested that a propitious occasion might be in celebration of his 75th birthday. He agreed without hesitation, to my surprise, and suggested, again to my surprise, that he would plan to devote a fortnight, perhaps a bit longer, to our visit.

  Mrs. Hudson still owns the Baker Street property, but bless her, she is no longer physically able to manage it as of old. Her niece, Agnes, now occupies Mrs. Hudson’s old flat on the ground floor. Over the years, Mrs. Hudson had garnered a substantial portion of her own income from continuing to let the flats at 221 Baker Street to some parade of new tenants. I had been in contact with both Mrs. Hudson and Agnes for several weeks and, as luck would have it, the “B” flat was to be vacant for the first month of the new year. I dipped into my savings and sent payment for the entire month’s rent, even though it was unlikely that we would occupy the flat for that entire time. Being able to enjoy Holmes’s company in our old digs would have been worth a great deal more to me.

  Holmes arrived at our old Baker Street address first. Agnes provided him with a key, and he had already made himself at home by the time I arrived. The door was unlocked and I felt perfectly comfortable in turning the knob and walking into the sitting room as I had done thousands of times before. What an incredible delight it was to find Holmes ensconced in an easy chair, his legs stretched out toward the comfortable glowing coals in the fireplace, and smoking a bowl of shag in one of his more fetid old pipes.

  Ever the perpetual stoic, Holmes simply said, “Hello there, Watson, nice to see you.” Then he continued to puff clouds of blue-gray smoke which formed a vaporous halo around his slightly balding head.

  “Happy birthday,” I greeted him, sounding much less enthusiastic than I felt.

  Holmes nodded an acknowledgement of my good wishes, took an exceptionally long puff on his pipe, exhaled at length and said, “Nice of you to remember, Watson, and to arrange for us to occupy our old digs. I suppose that that required a bit of doing. This chair isn’t quite as comfortable as my old one, but wrapped in our familiar surrounds, it will certainly do.” He resumed his fixed gaze on the glowing coals for several minutes. Then he looked at me for the first time since I entered the room, twitched his lips into as much of a smile as Holmes could ever muster, and said, “Really, very nice to see you, old friend.”

  I suppose that it might appear odd that two old friends, no matter how extensive their mutual history might have been, would spend the better part of a fortnight merely enjoying each other’s company. We ventured out only for constitutionals, which were brief for the rain was incessant, or for partaking of some repast. We spent a great deal of our time chatting about our memories from our old days together. Of course, we shared information and confidences about each of our mutual experiences since that “most terrible August in the history of the world.” My contributions to those moments of sharing were, I fear, remarkably dull. Save for my medical endeavors during The War, my life had been filled with those humdrum events that collect from an unremarkable and routine existence. I had continued to practice medicine now and then. I attended the theater from time to time. I was an occasional spectator at sporting events (some of which involved horses,) and otherwise, I had spent my days reading, chatting with neighbors, or indulging in whatever pastime as might present itself.

  Holmes, on the other hand, could keep me fascinated for hours with the tales of his various adventures. The commonly accepted view that he had retired to the South Downs was far from true. He had moved to The Downs, but he had certainly in no way retired. I could fill volumes by recounting his personal adventures accumulated during the past decade. Perhaps, indeed, one day I shall undertake doing just that. It had been quite a while since I had touched pen to paper to tell the public about the remarkable adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and I have rather missed that.

  Occasionally, he would make allusion to some fragment of information which gave me a glimpse of the activities in which he had engaged during The War. I never knew whether he did this purposefully or accidentally. Some of these brief glimpses revealed to me a hint of the invaluable services which he had rendered The Crown during that disastrous conflict. I felt quite uneasy even listening to his passing comments about some of his more clandestine activities. Suffice it to say that without Holmes’s efforts, The War might well have continued for many more months. I learned that, for the past few years, Holmes had spent some time in France and had actually developed additional fluency in the French language. Not surprisingly, considering his wartime activities, he had also acquired a familiarity with the German language.

  Upon coming down for breakfast one morning, I found Holmes standing at the bay window silently staring down into Baker Street.

  “Good morning, Holmes,” I bade him. “Have you already finished breakfast?”

  “Yes, some time ago,” he replied.

  “Would you mind if I had mine now?”

  “Of course not, not at all. Take your time. I think you’ll find it quite delicious,” he said, but he made no move to join me at breakfast table. He just remained fixed at the window.

  I uncovered my tray to find the usual fare that Agnes was so thoughtful as to provide every morning: eggs, rashers, a muffin, a pot of still-steaming tea, with small bowls of marmalade, jam, and butter. Holmes was correct, the breakfast was delicious.

  Just as I had finished my last sip of tea, Holmes turned away from the window and asked me, “Watson, the rain has stopped at last. Would you fancy a stroll in the great outdoors?”

  I was a bit taken aback by this suggestion. True, the rain had stopped, but I thought that the January weather would still be a bit cool for a comfortable morning’s constitutional. I hesitated a few seconds before answering him.

  “Do you not think it a bit chilly for such an outing?” I asked.

  “No, no, old fellow. Where is that old Watson spirit? We both have top coats, hats, and warm scarves. Come along. The freshly rain-washed air will be good for us,” Holmes urged as he was donning his own scarf and coat. He adjusted his hat and waited by the door for me to follow suit and join him.

  Holmes was, again correct. The weather was chilly but not unpleasant, and the air had been amazingly freshened by the fortnight of rain. Even on a chilly January day, Regent’s Park seemed the best place in the environs to stretch our legs after many days of near isolation in Baker Street. It took but a few minutes for us to reach the park where we both concluded that a turn around the Outer Circle would be a bit demanding for two no-longer-young fellows, so we continued to the Inner Circle. As one might expect, very few other visitors to the park were in evidence on a January morning, but a woman pushing a man in a wheelchair came toward us shortly.

  “Poor devil,” I whispered to Holmes, “I don’t know how many of his like still suffer from injuries received in that wretched war. I couldn’t count the number of mutilated young bodies I saw.” Just then the couple passed us continuing their counterclockwise circumnavigation of the Circle.

  “Yes, of course, we both saw our share of the tragedies of that war, but I’d say that the young man in the wheelchair was neither a victim of, nor even a witness to, those tragedies,” Holmes said.

  “How so, Holmes?”

  “Well, his age, first of all. I would have taken him to be no more than a year or two past his twentieth birthday. It is possible that he could have served in the military but not during The War. He had his left leg extended in a very rigid position. Al
though I could not actually see the cast on that limb, I think it likely that he was wearing one. The woman pushing the chair is not his nurse, but I’d say, rather, she is his wife. I believe that the young man was suffering from an injured leg, possibly a broken leg, from some fairly recent accident.”

  “How do you know that the woman was his wife?”

  “The young woman was with child. I would venture to estimate that she was in her fourth month. I would have thought that such a matter would not have escaped the notice of a medical man.”

  “Well,” I replied, more defensively than I intended, “I am not in the habit of staring at young women’s abdomens.”

  “But consider, this pregnant young woman is pushing a young man, of approximately her same age, in a wheelchair. Would it be likely that that young man would be anyone other than her husband?” Holmes asked.

  “It could be a brother or some other relative,” I conjectured.

  “That is certainly possible,” Holmes admitted, “but the fact that they were wearing matching wedding bands speaks more loudly of their being husband and wife, don’t you think?”

  “Wedding rings! That’s almost beneath you, Holmes. Why, even I could have...”

  Holmes just glanced at me with one of his knowing glances. I let the matter drop.

  We continued our stroll around the Circle until a light drizzle caused us to quicken our pace.

  “It is inconceivable to me, Holmes,” I said, “that neither of us thought to bring an umbrella.”

  Holmes said, “Yes, the casual observer might take us for tourists unaccustomed to the London weather.” We both chuckled and hurried back to our old digs where it was both dry and warm.