Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine 11

by Jack Grochot

  “Holmes, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “Nor I myself, old boy.”

  “So, what are we onto today?”

  “Come, Watson. I’ll tell you all I know in the cab.”

  In the carriage, Holmes explained what he knew of the case.

  “Do you know the name Countess Virginia Thorgood Willoughby?”

  “As a matter of fact I do. I read an account of Lady Willoughby recently in the society pages of The Strand Magazine. If memory serves, she’s a widow who lives alone with her seventeen year old daughter. She lost her husband during a visit to America last year, although the particulars of the event elude me.”

  “Very good, Watson. What else do you recall?”

  “She returned with her daughter to London six months ago to leave the incident behind and raise her daughter with a sense of proper British morality, something which, according to the article, she found lacking in America.”

  “Precisely. She did not wish her young, impressionable daughter, Lady Alexandra, to succumb to the improper influences that she said the Americans seemed to thrive on. Apparently she was a bit too late, as her daughter was already enamored of American ways and was, by all accounts, unhappy with the sudden move back to England. She caused her mother a good deal of embarrassment by making her feelings known at every opportunity, not least of all in public.”

  “But what does this have to do with us?”

  “It seems, Watson old man, that upon arriving home from the opera late last night, Lady Willoughby found her home a shambles and her daughter missing. She has not been seen since approximately five hours before the discovery of the transgression, which is why our destination is their Kensington residence. Lady Willoughby immediately sent word to Scotland Yard, who investigated with their usual fervor but aside from finding a concise ransom note, were unable to fathom the meaning of any of the available clues. As has happened more than once, as well you know, Inspector Lestrade sent for my aid, which he will gladly employ and thereafter forget to acknowledge. But no matter, my dear Watson. I have been hungry for a new mystery to occupy my time. I was, of course, dismayed to be called so long after the crime had been discovered, but Lestrade assures me that the scene, and any evidence which might be present, will be left undisturbed until our arrival. So now you know as much as I about this case, save that we are presently going to meet the Countess in the company of her legal advisor and recent social companion, Kent Osgood, whose role in these proceedings has yet to be determined.”

  “Surely, Holmes, this is a simple case of kidnapping, not worthy of your extraordinary talents.”

  “Perhaps, Watson,” Holmes replied. “Perhaps.”

  Holmes then fell silent and gazed out the window, his fingers pressed together in a steepled attitude, as was his custom during moments of deep thought. As I looked upon my friend, bedecked in his customary deerstalker cap, cape-backed overcoat and pipe, all of which had become, I daresay largely due to my accounts of his adventures, his trade marks, I pondered my own good fortune not only to be in the presence of greatness, but to be his personal friend and longtime companion as well.

  * * * *

  We arrived at the address in Kensington shortly afterwards and were ushered into the house with all due haste by a maid who appeared utterly distraught. She took us directly to the sitting room where Inspector Lestrade, the Countess and Mr Osgood were waiting. At once we could see the disarray caused by the perpetrators. Furniture had been knocked askew or overturned. Drawers were opened and rummaged through, and all manner of things were strewn about the room.

  “Mr Holmes,” cried the Countess, “I am at my wits’ end. You are the only man in all of London that can save my little girl. Please say that you will help me.”

  “I shall do what I can, Lady Willoughby. Please try to calm yourself so that you may answer some questions for me.”

  “I will do my best,” said the Countess as she grasped the hand of her companion. After some brief introductions, Holmes began his questioning.

  “Lady Willoughby, I am told you discovered your daughter missing when you returned from the opera last night…”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes, that is so. I blame myself. Had I not been out of the house last night for so frivolous a reason perhaps my little girl would still be here with me now…” She began to weep, and Mr Osgood embraced her.

  “Now we’ve been all through that, Virginia. You are not to blame,” said Osgood in a comforting tone.

  “Mr Osgood is quite right. You cannot be held accountable for actions about which you had no prior knowledge. If I may continue? Is it your custom to frequent the opera, or was last evening a special event?”

  “If I may, Mr Holmes,” Osgood interjected. “Since Lady Willoughby and I have been keeping company these last several months we have made it a weekly ritual to visit the opera, or perhaps a concert. We generally do so on a Friday evening, but this past Friday Lady Willoughby was feeling a bit under the weather, so we postponed our weekly entertainment until last night, Tuesday.”

  “Was anyone else aware of this change of plans?”

  “Not to my knowledge. It was the maid’s day off. We had invited Alexandra, as we usually do, but she unfortunately declined, as she usually does.”

  “And at exactly what time did you leave the premises?”

  “The opera we saw was The Magic Flute, at the Royal Albert Hall, which was to begin at eight o’clock. As you are no doubt aware, Albert Hall is not far, so we left here at a quarter past seven, I would say.”

  “And you returned…?”

  “They returned,” piped Lestrade, obviously feeling left out, “at exactly seventeen past midnight, according to my report.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. Your assistance, as always, has been invaluable. Now if you will permit me to inspect the premises I shall see what clues I can unearth. If you please, Watson.”

  As we began to scrutinise the room, Inspector Lestrade commented on the lack of available clues, save a knife thrust through a photograph of Alexandra hanging over the mantle. Holmes nodded. I followed my friend to and fro, carefully noting every item that he examined.

  I spotted something unusual on the floor near the entrance.

  “What do you make of this, Holmes?” I called out. He joined me at the door, stooped and pulled his glass from his pocket.

  “Good show, Watson. Sawdust!”

  “Sawdust? Then perhaps we are looking for someone in the construction trade. Or perhaps woodworking.”

  “Perhaps, Watson. Come look at this photograph. Young Lady Alexandria is quite an attractive lass, is she not?” She was indeed, I agreed. The hand-tinted photograph showed her long golden hair and lovely, delicate features.

  Holmes pulled the knife from the photograph and handed it to me. “What can you tell me about this knife?”

  “Well…” I studied the knife carefully but could not see what he was getting at. “The handle is worn more on the left side than the right, so…our suspect is left handed?”

  “Excellent. Please continue.”

  “The blade is very dull, which means that it is used by someone who is either neglectful of its poor condition or else who does not require a sharp edge.”

  “Bravo, Watson. Very astute. There is more, but time is fleeting. Inspector,” Holmes said, turning to Lestrade, “I would like to see the ransom note, then I want to inspect the girl’s bed chamber.”

  “Here’s the note. No point looking into the bedroom.”

  “Quite,” was all Holmes said. He glanced briefly at the note and then handed it to me. “Please read this aloud, Watson.”

  “If you ever want to see Alexandra alive again, deliver a sum of one thousand British pounds to the Charing Cross train station on April 29th at noon. Put it in a small bag and leave it a
t the signal flag at track 9. Go to ticket window five afterwards and Alexandra will be waiting. Come alone. If we see police, I will kill her.” As I finished reading, the Countess once again burst into tears.

  Holmes asked the maid to direct him to the girl’s bedroom, and went off directly, only to return a few moments later.

  “I told you it was pointless, Holmes.” Inspector Lestrade looked at me with a smug look.

  “I have seen all I need to,” Holmes replied simply. “I shall contact Watson three days hence and he shall relay my instructions. In the mean time feel free to tidy up the damage and go about your business. Lady Willoughby, your daughter is safe so you needn’t fear. Three days, then!” And with that he nodded to the group and was out the door. Both Lestrade and Lady Willoughby were obviously bewildered, and looked to me for clarification, which I cold not provide.

  I quickly followed. “No time to explain, Watson,” Holmes stated, as he hailed a cab. “Be at Baker Street in three days.” As he climbed into the cab, he turned and said, “And bring your lovely wife Mary with you.”

  “Holmes…?”

  “Time is short, Watson. I’ve clues and motives to juggle.” The cab started off.

  Puzzled by Holmes’ behavior. I took advantage of my proximity to Kensington Gardens, and strolled through the park pondering the events of the day. Could Holmes have pieced together the clues and unravelled the mystery so quickly? I had, of course, witnessed his uncanny abilities on numerous occasions before, but it seemed he reached some conclusion in an impossibly brief amount of time. Why did he leave so abruptly? What purpose would his three day absence serve? And to what end was my wife’s presence requested? Think as I might, I could not decipher his reasoning. Winded from my exertions, I sat upon the steps of the Albert Memorial and watched two badgers frolic through some oxeye daisies, Mary’s favorite flower. I knew only one thing for certain. Holmes had been right. I was putting on weight.

  * * * *

  Three days later my wife and I arrived at Baker Street. It had been some little time since Mary had been there, but she remembered it well and felt quite comfortable, although no less curious than I about the circumstances. Shortly after our arrival, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, handed me a wire from Holmes. It instructed me, and Mary, to meet him at, of all places, R.J. Toby Colossal Travelling Circus in Tunbridge Wells. He entreated us to enjoy the three o’clock show, and then wait afterwards at the Torture King tent where he would meet us. Mary was delighted to be included in Holmes’ adventure, but even more now that it appeared she would get to see the circus after all. We departed immediately for Tunbridge Wells.

  * * * *

  The festival was a splendid sight to behold. A great tent, striped in bright red and blue, was the centrepiece to a dizzying display of colour and movement. Wonderful carriages, arranged in a half circle, resplendent in their brilliant reds and whites, were trimmed out with yellows and greens and gaudy rococo gold leaf. Some of the carriages bore cages which held magnificent beasts of all types, while others displayed performers’ names and promises of wonders to come. While looking closely at a caged lion I discovered, curiously enough, that my inclination to sneeze while in the presence of common house cats was also very much a reality in the presence of these larger, rather less amiable cats, a fact which did not please me but apparently amused my wife no end. A carousel hosting painted horses and carriages turned round and round for the amusement of the children, and the sound of calliope music filled the air. Aromas of all types, some pleasant and some not so, assaulted the nose. The fair was quite a sight, sporting tall impressively illustrated banners describing the likes of such oddities as the Incredible Bearded Woman, the Tantalizing Egyptian Snake Charmer, the Amazing Dog-Faced Boy, and the Death Defying Torture King. I noted the location of the latter’s tent for future reference. In our wanderings I saw no sign of Holmes. Having strolled the grounds of the circus, and after having partaken, at Mary’s behest, of some sort of gooey confection made from nuts, bits of dried fruit, chocolate and caramel, much of which I was still trying unobtrusively to pry from my teeth, we headed for the main tent, as it was nearly three. While purchasing our tickets we were met by Lady Willoughby, Mr Osgood and Inspector Lestrade. I introduced my wife to the gathering, and we took seats near the large wooden ring which served as the stage area. The ring was floored with a generous amount of sawdust, and much to my dismay, I began to sneeze once again.

  “Mr Watson...” began the Countess.

  “Doctor, my Lady,” I corrected her.

  “Forgive me. Doctor Watson, I do not understand what we are doing here. Perhaps you can shed some light?”

  “I should be delighted to, but I am as much in the dark as you. Sherlock Holmes is the most knowledgeable person I know, but I must confess that I still do not entirely understand all of his methodology. If it is any comfort to you, from what I know of my friend, you shall have your answers, and most likely your daughter, before the day is up.”

  Lestrade complained, “No good will come of building Lady Willoughby’s hopes up. Scotland Yard has been investigating this case for three days as well, and we have drawn no conclusions. Holmes is good, I’ll grant you, but I dare say he’s not so good as to deliver Lady Willoughby’s daughter on a silver platter!”

  Mr Osgood agreed. “Yes, Dr Watson. Suppose you are wrong. I should think that instilling false hope is something you would wish to avoid.”

  “Mr Osgood, Inspector Lestrade,” said my wife, “I was once a client of Sherlock Holmes. I am confident that he will solve this mystery and return Lady Alexandria to you. If anyone can, he can.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” replied the Countess. “You are very kind.”

  * * * *

  At that moment, the crowd fell silent. The show was about to begin. Mary took my hand and we settled down to enjoy the show. Neither of us had been to the circus since we were children. The ringmaster, in his jodhpurs, red frock coat and top hat, introduced the acts each and all, and the band played merrily as the performers took their places in the large circular stage area. A lovely young lady led six stallions of varied colours around the ring, and demonstrated her mastery of horsemanship. The tent fairly vibrated with applause. Next, a colourful clown on stilts juggled three lit torches. He tried to blow them out, one by one, but every time he transferred them from hand to hand they relit, one by one, much to Mary’s delight. Finally dousing the flames, he walked across the ring, but seemingly unaware of the tight rope which blocked his passage, became entangled in it. His stilts shot out from under him, leaving him dangling from the rope. After many precarious antics he gained the top of the rope and proceeded to walk its length to a small platform. He bowed to the thunderous applause of the crowd, and in doing so fell to the net below, and then ran off. Next came the elephants, followed by some acrobats and then it was again time for the clowns, this time several of them dressed in the costume of a fire brigade. The “fire clowns” ran circles around one another in an attempt to “save” a burning building, bumping into each other, falling down, dusting off, and falling down again. One clown jumped into the crowd, tweaked Mary’s nose, pulled my moustache and bolted back into the ring. Mary told me that the clown was very familiar somehow, but I explained that he had been the same stilt-walking clown from earlier in the show. After the clowns had failed to “save” the building, they rapidly retreated from the tent, as the crowd roared with laughter. Several foreign chaps and scantily clad young ladies flew through the air on a trapeze, after which a young man, about twentyish, I would say, led a teenaged boy to a door-sized wooden wall and fastened him to it by the arms and legs. The man then stepped back and displayed a set of dangerous looking knives, which he proceeded to throw directly at the boy. Mary held my hand as I caught my breath, and the crowd was silent with fear. He hurled the knives one by one, impaling them in the wooden wall, each time narrowly missing the boy. Only
when the boy was completely surrounded by knives was he released and able to take his bows with the young man. Several additional acts followed, including trained dogs, more clown antics, a dancing Russian bear, and an additional display of acrobatics. At the end of the show, Mary and I, along with Lady Willoughby, Mr Osgood, and Inspector Lestrade, headed for the Torture King tent, which I took note of previously.

  “How did you enjoy the show?” Mary asked the group as a whole.

  “Very amusing,” Lady Willoughby answered, although it was obvious she was distracted by other concerns. Osgood agreed.

  “Well, since you asked,” Lestrade said unpleasantly, “I think it was rubbish. All just stuff and nonsense.”

  We stood silently as a group in front of the designated meeting area, awaiting Holmes’ arrival. Numerous patrons, and even many of the performers on their way to the changing tent passed by, but there was as yet no sign of Holmes. One clown, the featured performer throughout the show, stopped before us to further display his antics. He pulled three coloured balls from a pocket and juggled them in a number of different patterns before tossing them high into the air and allowing them to fall directly on his head. His body crunched lower to the ground as each ball hit until he was flat on his back. Mary, Osgood, and I applauded. Lady Willoughby then turned to me and said,

  “Dr Watson. While this is all quite amusing, I am finding it hard to keep my spirits light in the face of our purpose here.”