The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 1 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

“That doesn’t change the fact that this time Yancy was really killed, and by two bullets fired into his chest by Race Johnson. You saw the body yourself, Snow.”

  “Yes, I did,” Ben admitted. “But what I saw convinced me of Race’s innocence.”

  “How come?”

  “Remember the residue of black powder around the wounds? It was consistent with the distance between Race and Yancy at the time of the shooting, but it was all wrong for another reason. The powder residue would have been on Yancy’s shirt or coat, not on his bare skin. He was shot later, after he’d removed both his shirt and the metal pan that protected him. And that means Race didn’t do it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sergeant Baxter said, holding up his hand as everyone started talking at once. “You’re saying Yancy was alive, only pretending to be shot, when Sam here and Waters carried him out?”

  “Exactly. He was killed later.”

  “But why?”

  “A falling-out among thieves, I suppose. What safer time to kill Yancy than when everyone thought he was already dead?”

  “All right,” Baxter agreed. “You’ve convinced me. If Pete Waters killed Yancy, your friend should go free. Yancy obviously incited Johnson to shoot him as part of the plot.”

  “Exactly,” Ben said. “But I didn’t say Waters killed Yancy.”

  “What? Then who did?”

  “Someone had to tamper with the bullets in Race’s gun so they wouldn’t fire a full charge. Not only that, but whoever it was had to do the same with my gun. I was Race’s bodyguard. When Yancy drew his gun, this person couldn’t know whether Race or I would shoot first.”

  “You’re saying Waters couldn’t have tampered with your gun?”

  “Yes. Only you could have done that, Sergeant, when you checked the serial number. You pretended to check the cartridges, too, but with a little sleight of hand you were actually substituting half loaded bullets that wouldn’t penetrate the metal pan under Yancy’s shirt. You were there when he took it off, and you’re the one who killed him, just as you killed Pete Waters later so he wouldn’t talk.”

  Baxter was smiling as he drew his pistol. “I’ve heard enough from you. Want to try drawing against me?”

  “Not with these bullets,” Ben said.

  The rest were frozen in position, watching the gun in the Mountie’s hand. It was Tess who moved first. She picked up a whiskey bottle and brought it down on Baxter’s head.

  The next day, when Race Johnson had been released from jail, Ben suggested it was time for them to move on. “We’ve given our sworn statement and that should be enough. But if you stay around Dawson, someone’s going to decide you should testify at Baxter’s trial.”

  “What about the gold? There’s lots more around.”

  “Maybe we should head over to the Alaska Territory,” Ben said. “I’d just as soon stay clear of Baxter’s Mountie friends. They might not like our giving them a bad name.”

  Race still had some questions about the set-up. “But with Yancy really dead, how could Baxter hope to shake me down for my gold?”

  “Probably by offering you a chance to escape. He’d have shot you, of course, after he got your gold. I guess he figured he couldn’t resurrect Yancy twice in the same town, but by killing him and then shooting Pete Waters he figured he’d removed all the potential evidence against himself. I should have suspected him sooner than I did. Naturally, he would have examined the body and seen the metal pan under Yancy’s shirt. He had to be part of the scheme.”

  Race glanced sadly down the main street of Dawson. “I was getting to like this place. How soon do we have to leave?”

  “Maybe we can stay over a day or two,” Ben decided. “I did promise the girls I’d try to help them repair their bridge.”

  PART IV

  Holmes and Beyond

  THE CASE OF THE DEPTFORD HORROR

  Adrian Conan Doyle

  It wasn’t possible to put together a volume such as this and exclude the most famous fictional detective of all time, Sherlock Holmes. The Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle are not historical detective stories in their own right, even though some of them are set several decades before their date of publication. But since Doyle’s death scores of writers have turned their hand to keeping the great detective alive.

  For this volume, I wanted to include something special, and also saw the appeal of keeping it in the family. Despite the world-wide popularity of the Holmes stories, many fans seem to have forgotten that Conan Doyle’s son, Adrian, turned his hand to several sequels. Adrian Conan Doyle (1910–1970) was Doyle’s youngest son. He frequently travelled with his father and became dedicated to his memory. After the Second World War Adrian arranged for John Dickson Carr to work on his father’s biography. Carr and Adrian became friends and in 1952 the two determined to write up some of the missing cases, those that Watson refers to in his narratives but never published. Although they began plotting the stories together Carr fell ill and Adrian completed the series. The twelve stories were published as The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (1954).

  The following story “The Adventure of the Deptford Horror,” picks up the tantalizing reference in “The Adventure of Black Peter” (1904) to the case of “Wilson the notorious canary-trainer”. I also feel the story owes a little to one of the most famous Holmes adventures, “The Speckled Band”.

  I have remarked elsewhere that my friend, Sherlock Holmes, like all great artists, lived for his art’s sake and, save in the case of the Duke of Holderness, I have seldom known him claim any substantial reward.

  However powerful or wealthy the client, he would refuse to undertake any problem that lacked appeal to his sympathies, while he would devote his most intense energies to the affairs of some humble person whose case contained those singular and remarkable qualities which struck a responsive chord in his imagination.

  On glancing through my notes for that memorable year ’95, I find recorded the details of a case which may be taken as a typical instance of this disinterested and even altruistic attitude of mind which placed the rendering of a kindly service above that of material reward. I refer, of course, to the dreadful affair of the canaries and the soot-marks on the ceiling.

  It was early June that my friend completed his investigations into the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca, an inquiry which he had undertaken at the special request of the Pope. The case had demanded the most exacting work on Holmes’s part and, as I had feared at the time, the aftermath had left him in a highly nervous and restless state that caused me some concern both as his friend and his medical adviser.

  One rainy night towards the end of the same month I persuaded him to dine with me at Frascatti’s, and thereafter we had gone on to the Café Royal for our coffee and liqueurs. As I had hoped, the bustle of the great room with its red plush seats and stately palms bathed in the glow of numerous crystal chandeliers drew him out of his introspective mood, and as he leaned back on our sofa, his fingers playing with the stem of his glass, I noted with satisfaction a gleam of interest in those keen grey eyes as he studied the somewhat bohemian clientele that thronged the tables and alcoves.

  I was in the act of replying to some remark when Holmes nodded suddenly in the direction of the door.

  “Lestrade,” said he. “What can he be doing here?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the lean, rat-faced figure of the Scotland Yard man standing in the entrance, his dark eyes roving slowly around the room.

  “He may be seeking you,” I remarked. “Probably on some urgent case.”

  “Hardly, Watson. His wet boots show that he has walked. If there was urgency he would have taken a cab. But here he comes.”

  The police agent had caught sight of us and, at Holmes’s gesture, he pushed his way through the throng and drew up a chair to the table.

  “Only a routine check,” said he, in reply to my friend’s query. “But duty’s duty, Mr. Holmes, and I can tell you that I’ve netted some strange fish before now in these res
pectable places. While you are comfortably dreaming up your theories in Baker Street, we poor devils at Scotland Yard are doing the practical work. No thanks to us from popes and kings but a bad hour on the Superintendent’s carpet if we fail.”

  “Tut,” smiled Holmes good-humouredly. “Your superiors must surely hold you in some esteem since I solved the Ronald Adair murder, the Bruce-Partington theft, the – ”

  “Quite so, quite so,” interrupted Lestrade hurriedly. “And now,” he added, with a heavy wink at me, “I have something for you.”

  “Of course, a young woman who starts at shadows may be more in Dr. Watson’s line.”

  “Really, Lestrade,” I protested warmly, “I cannot approve your – ”

  “One moment, Watson. Let us hear the facts.”

  “Well, Mr. Holmes, they are absurd enough,” continued Lestrade, “and I would not waste your time were it not that I have known you to do a kindness or two before now and your word of advice may in this instance prevent a young woman from acting foolishly. Now, here’s the position.

  “Down Deptford way, along the edge of the river, there are some of the worst slums in the East End of London but, right in the middle of them, you can still find some fine old houses which were once the homes of wealthy merchants centuries ago. One of these tumbledown mansions has been occupied by a family named Wilson for the past hundred years and more. I understand that they were originally in the china trade and when that went to the dogs a generation back, they got out in time and remained on in the old home. The recent household consisted of Horatio Wilson and his wife, with one son and a daughter, and Horatio’s younger brother Theobold who had gone to live with them on his return from foreign parts.

  “Some three years ago, the body of Horatio Wilson was hooked out of the river. He had been drowned and, as he was known to have been a hard-drinking man, it was generally accepted that he had missed his step in the fog and fallen into the water. A year later his wife, who suffered from a weak heart, died from a heart attack. We know this to be the case, because the doctor made a very careful examination following the statements of a police constable and a night watchman employed on a Thames barge.”

  “Statements to what effect?” interposed Holmes.

  “Well, there was talk of some noise rising apparently from the old Wilson house. But the nights are often foggy along Thames-side and the men were probably misled. The constable described the sound as a dreadful yell that froze the blood in his veins. If I had him in my division, I’d teach him that such words should never pass the lips of an officer of the law.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Ten o’clock at night, the hour of the old lady’s death. It’s merely a coincidence, for there is no doubt that she died of heart.”

  “Go on.”

  Lestrade consulted his notebook for a moment. “I’ve been digging up the facts,” he continued. “On the night of May 17 last the daughter went to a magic-lantern entertainment accompanied by a woman servant. On her return she found her brother, Phineas Wilson, dead in his arm-chair. He had inherited a bad heart and insomnia from his mother. This time there were no rumours of shrieks and yells, but owing to the expression on the dead man’s face the local doctor called in the police surgeon to assist in the examination. It was heart all right, and our man confirmed that this can sometimes cause a distortion of the features that will convey an impression of stark terror.”

  “That is perfectly true,” I remarked.

  “Now, it seems that the daughter Janet has become so overwrought that, according to her uncle, she proposes to sell up the property and go abroad,” went on Lestrade. “Her feelings are, I suppose, natural. Death has been busy with the Wilson family.”

  “And what of this uncle? Theobold, I think you said his name was.”

  “Well, I fancy that you will find him on your doorstep to-morrow morning. He came to me at the Yard in the hope that the official police could put his niece’s fears at rest and persuade her to take a more reasonable view. As we are engaged on more important affairs than calming hysterical young women I advised him to call on you.”

  “Indeed! Well, it is natural enough that he should resent the unnecessary loss of what is probably a snug corner.”

  “There is no resentment, Mr. Holmes. Wilson seems to be genuinely attached to his niece and concerned only for her future.” Lestrade paused, while a grin spread over his foxy face. “He is not a very worldly person, is Mr. Theobold, and though I’ve met some queer trades in my time his beats the band. The man trains canaries.”

  “It is an established profession.”

  “Is it?” There was an irrating smugness in Lestrade’s manner as he rose to his feet and reached for his hat. “It is quite evident that you do not suffer from insomnia, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “or you would know that birds trained by Theobold Wilson are different from other canaries. Good night, gentlemen.”

  “What on earth does the fellow mean?” I asked, as the police agent threaded his way towards the door.

  “Merely that he knows something that we do not,” replied Holmes drily. “But, as conjecture is as profitless as it is misleading to the analytical mind, let us wait until to-morrow. I can say, however, that I do not propose to waste my time over a matter that appears to fall more properly within the province of the local vicar.”

  To my friend’s relief, the morning brought no visitor. But when, on my return from an urgent case to which I had been summoned shortly after lunch, I entered our sitting-room, I found that our spare chair was occupied by a bespectacled middle-aged man. As he rose to his feet, I observed that he was of an exceeding thinness and that his face, which was scholarly and even austere in expression, was seamed with countless wrinkles and of that dull parchment-yellow that comes from years under a tropic sun.

  “Ah, Watson, you have arrived just in time,” said Holmes. “This is Mr. Theobold Wilson about whom Lestrade spoke to us last night.”

  Our visitor wrung my hand warmly. “Your name is, of course, well known to me, Dr. Watson,” he cried. “Indeed, if Mr. Sherlock Holmes will pardon me for saying so, it is largely thanks to you that we are aware of his genius. As a medical man doubtless well versed in the handling of nervous cases, your presence should have a most beneficial effect upon my unhappy niece.”

  Holmes caught my eye resignedly. “I have promised Mr. Wilson to accompany him to Deptford, Watson,” said he, “for it would seem that the young lady is determined to leave her home to-morrow. But I must repeat again, Mr. Wilson, that I fail to see in what way my presence can affect the matter.”

  “You are over-modest, Mr. Holmes. When I appealed to the official police, I had hoped that they might convince Janet that, terrible though our family losses have been in the past three years, nevertheless they lay in natural causes and that there is no reason why she should flee from her home. I had the impression,” he added, with a chuckle, “that the inspector was somewhat chagrined at my ready acceptance of his own suggestion that I should invoke your assistance.”

  “I shall certainly remember my small debt to Lestrade,” replied Holmes drily as he rose to his feet. “Perhaps, Watson, you would ask Mrs. Hudson to whistle a four-wheeler and Mr. Wilson can clarify certain points to my mind as we drive to Deptford.”

  It was one of those grey brooding summer days when London is at its worst and, as we rattled over Blackfriars Bridge, I noted that wreaths of mist were rising from the river like the poisonous vapours of some hot jungle swamp. The more spacious streets of the West End had given place to the great commercial thoroughfares, resounding with the stamp and clatter of the drayhorses, and these in turn merged at last into a maze of dingy streets that, following the curve of the river, grew more and more wretched in their squalor the nearer we approached to that labyrinth of tidal basins and dark evil-smelling lanes that were once the ancient cradle of England’s sea-trade and of an empire’s wealth. I could see that Holmes was listless and bored to a point of irritation and I did
my best, therefore, to engage our companion in conversation.

  “I understand that you are an expert on canaries,” I remarked.

  Theobold Wilson’s eyes, behind their powerful spectacles, lit with the glow of the enthusiast. “A mere student, sir, but with thirty years of practical research,” he cried. “Can it be that you too? No? A pity! The study, breeding and training of the Fringilla Canaria is a task worthy of a man’s lifetime. You would not credit the ignorance, Dr. Watson, that prevails on this subject even in the most enlightened circles. When I read my paper on the crossing of the Madeira and the Canary Island strains to the British Ornithological Society I was appalled at the puerility of the ensuing questions.”

  “Inspector Lestrade hinted at some special characteristic in your training of these little songsters.”

  “Songsters, sir! A thrush is a songster. The Fringilla is the supreme ear of nature, possessing a unique power of imitation which can be trained for the benefit and edification of the human race. But the inspector was correct,” he went on more calmly, “in that I have put my birds to a special effect. They are trained to sing by night in artificial light.”

  “Surely a somewhat singular pursuit.”

  “I like to think that it is a kindly one. My birds are trained for the benefit of those who suffer from insomnia and I have clients in all parts of the country. Their tuneful song helps to while away the long night hours and the dowsing of the lamplight terminates the concert.”

  “It seems to me that Lestrade was right,” I observed. “Yours is indeed an unique profession.”

  During our conversation Holmes, who had idly picked up our companion’s heavy stick, had been examining it with some attention.

  “I understand that you returned to England some three years ago,” he observed.

  “I did.”

  “From Cuba, I perceive.”

  Theobold Wilson started and for an instant I seemed to catch a gleam of something like wariness in the swift glance that he shot at Holmes.