Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  I did not sleep well, nor did Holmes. At seven o’clock the next morning, we met in our suite and descended to the breakfast room together. It was almost empty, except that in the corner, with his hands clasped together on the table in front of him, was Colonel Ross, neatly dressed and with trim side-whiskers and an eyeglass. He was looking directly at us as we entered and took our seats, whereupon he rose and walked over to our table.

  “God morning, Mr. Holmes; Doctor Watson,” he said as he lowered his long, lean frame into a chair at our table. “I have been waiting for you.”

  “That much,” said Holmes, “is quite apparent. As I am quite certain that it was not so that we could heap yet more congratulations upon you for your wonderful win yesterday, I have to assume that you have some reason to seek my services. Pray sir, allow me to pour you a cup of coffee while you state your case.” He offered a cup of coffee to the Colonel as he spoke.

  Colonel Ross gave a shallow nod in return. “My horse, my trainer, and one of my grooms have all disappeared.”

  He paused as the meaning of his words sunk in.

  “I have sent word to the police, but they are entirely occupied with the events of last night. Therefore, I wish to engage your services – the price is of no matter – and I wish you to commence immediately. Please enjoy you breakfast quickly. I have already eaten.”

  He took a sip of his coffee, put down the cup, sat back and folded his arms across his chest. He did not take his eyes off Holmes’s face at any time.

  “I accept your request,” said Holmes. I was fairly certain that none but I, who have come to know him better than any other man, could detect the faint widening of his eyes and smallest trace of a smile as he spoke. “And, if you will forgive my bad manners by eating in front of you, I shall begin at once by asking you some necessary questions.”

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes. Proceed.”

  “A chronology of events would be useful. Please begin with your time in the winner’s circle with your splendid horse, Mr. Silver, and your jockey, and end with your entry into this room. Please, sir, proceed.”

  The Colonel took another sip of coffee and then refolded his arms, leaned back, stretched his long legs under the table and began.

  “My jockey, Donny Cotter, dismounted and departed to the jockeys’ quarters. My trainer, John Straker, led the horse back to the stables. I walked with him, accompanied by my sister and her husband, who had been my guests at the race. We …”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Holmes. “why were you not accompanied by your wife?”

  “For the simple reason, Mr. Holmes that I do not have one. And, therefore, neither do I have any children. I spent the first forty years of my adult life married to Her Majesty’s Forces, and since then to my horses. Your life, I have observed, is following a similar trajectory.”

  “It is indeed. Please, sir, continue.”

  “At the stable the saddle and blanket and bridle were removed and Mr. Silver was given to the grooms to hotwalk and then rub down and inspect. Nothing different from what is done after any strenuous race. I could see that all was being done decently and in order, and so I departed from Epsom on the next train and returned to London.”

  “You did not stay to enjoy the celebrations?”

  “If you mean that I did not wish to be suffocated by the sycophantic press and a host of unknowns claiming to be my dear friends, then that is correct. I engage in horse racing for the thrill of the win, sir, not for the adulation of the masses. Besides which, the glory should be given to the rider, the trainer, and the horse. I am only an old soldier who happens to be the fortunate owner.”

  ‘Yes. I suspect that some other owners do not share your modesty, but that is another matter. Where in London did you go?”

  “I bid good-bye to my sister and brother-in-law at Victoria and took a cab to my club, the United Service Club on Pall Mall. I took my supper there, read for an hour and went to bed. The other members gave me many friendly smiles and nods, as they had heard the results of the race, but none attempted to engage me in conversation, knowing such is my disposition.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “After retiring to your room, something must have happened.”

  “It did. The night porter knocked on my door just after midnight. News of the fire had come in with some of the late-arriving members, and a telegram had arrived for me. He thought I should see it even if it meant waking me. It was sent by my jockey. You may read it.”

  He handed it to Holmes who handed it on to me. It ran:

  Terrible fire in Epsom stable. All horses said to be safe. Will check on Mr. Silver. Will contact you in the morning. Cotter.

  “And upon receiving this? What then?” queried Holmes.

  “I returned to my bed.”

  Holmes stared in disbelief, as did I. Colonel Ross observed our disbelief and continued.

  “Gentlemen, I have been in command of other men for five decades. If you recruit excellent men, then you know that the best strategy is to leave them in charge of their duties and not interfere. I knew that I had fine men working for me and that they would do the right thing. I returned to my bed and went back to sleep.”

  “But you are here now. What changed?” asked Holmes.

  “At four o’clock in the morning, the night porter again woke me up. When I opened the door, I saw that he was accompanied by my jockey, Donny Cotter, and …”

  “Please, sir,” snapped Holmes. “How in the world did your jockey get to London? At four in the morning, there are no trains running back to London, and no cabs.”

  “The celebrations ended with the fire. Donny had gone up to the stables to make sure that Mr. Silver was taken care of. Jockeys do seem to develop a rather emotional attachment to their mounts. He could not find the horse, nor my trainer. After an hour of frantic searching and asking around, he felt he had no choice but to inform me. The telegraph office was closed so he came to London and to my club.”

  “How?”

  “He is a top-ranked jockey and has learned to use his imagination. He rode a horse.”

  “To London?” asked Holmes, incredulously.

  “Where else would he go?”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “That, sir, is how the hours between midnight and four o’clock in the morning are usually described.”

  “He must have been galloping quickly, all the way.”

  “That, Mr. Holmes, is what jockeys do.”

  “Quite so. Yes, of course. I assume that you then took the early morning train back here. Correct?”

  “Correct. I went first to the site of the fire and spoke to an Inspector Gregory of Scotland Yard, and some of the other men who were standing around the area. Many had remained there since the fire. I interrogated them and they all confirmed that there had been enormous confusion and chaos as the horses were being rescued, and the grooms and trainers were running in and out of the burning building. None could positively confirm that Mr. Silver had been led out, but neither could any say for certain that he was not.”

  “Really, sir,” said Holmes. “How can that be? A large white horse cannot be mistaken.”

  “I was informed that on the first group of horses, the lads were able to throw one or two blankets over their backs to protect them from the embers. My horse was not the only one with a white face or some white coloring on his legs or haunches. It is quite possible, in the heat of the struggle, that he was led out and away unnoticed. It is also possible that he was stolen away before the fire.”

  “The place was guarded like the Tower of London,” I offered. “How could anyone get past the sentries and remove a horse?”

  “The marines,” explained the Colonel, “were all dismissed once the horses had been taken out to begin the Cup race. It had been reasoned, quite logically, that any harm anyone wished to do would be done before the race, not after. Guards were no longer needed.”

  I said no more. Holmes sat in silence for several moments and then spo
ke. “I make it a practice, sir, not to reach conclusions before having as much data in front of me as I can possibly assemble. However, in your case, all fingers would appear to be pointing to your trainer and the groom, who are missing along with your horse, and who, by now could be almost anywhere in the south of the country. By tonight, they could be in Scotland or on the Continent. You appear, sir, to have trusted the wrong men and to have been robbed of a tremendously valuable asset.”

  Now it was the Colonel’s turn to sit in silence before speaking.

  “Mr. Holmes, I have been in command of hundreds of men over the course of my life. I believe I have developed a very reliable sense of which man is to be loyal and trusted, and which is not. John Straker has worked for me for at least a decade, ever since I was retired from the BEF. I can think of no occasion when his loyalty and integrity were ever in doubt. Not one. The groom, Ned Hunter, was a young lad who had been with me for only a year, but reported to Straker. It is unlikely that he acted on his own, having somehow removed Straker, and it is impossible that he convinced Straker to be disloyal. In my line of work, Mr. Holmes, you learn quickly to discern who is on the up and up and who is not.”

  “I am sure you do, sir,” returned Holmes. “In my line of work I have learned to assume that no one is to be trusted and that every man has his price. I intend no offense in saying so, but I would not last long as a detective if I were ever to think otherwise.”

  “I take no offense, Mr. Holmes. However, I have no additional information to give you. Kindly take whatever actions you need to straightaway, and find my horse. Let me know what needs you may have. Leave no stone unturned. You know where to find me.”

  He rose, nodded stiffly, turned, and departed.

  After he was gone, Holmes turned to me. “Any thoughts, my good doctor?”

  “I suppose that we should start looking for two men who have run off with a large white horse.”

  Holmes lit his pipe. “I suspect that your supposition is precisely where we should not start looking.”

  Chapter Five

  Into the Backstretch

  “COME, WATSON,” SAID HOLMES with decision, getting up from the table. “Time is passing. Our sources of data and information will be departing Epsom over the next few hours if they have not already gone. Come. We must speak to them while time still permits.”

  He was right to have been worried. For the rest of the morning, Holmes chatted with as many chaps as he could but preparations were well underway to transport the English horses back to their home farms and stables. The American ones were all scheduled to be taken down to Portsmouth the following morning and boarded a ship back across the ocean.

  Donny Cotter, the jockey who had ridden Mr. Silver to such an exceptional victory, had organized some of the jockeys and grooms to do a complete search of all of the barns and other buildings in and around the racecourse, looking for any sign of the missing horse. It was already the end of the racing season and most of the facilities had been closed up for the winter. There was no sign of the horse, or of the two missing men.

  Such additional information as we were able to obtain only confirmed and added to what we already knew. The last anyone could definitely remember seeing Mr. Silver was when his trainer, John Straker led him back into his stall in the stable closest to the race track, the one that was now no more than a charred heap of smoldering rubble. It was being soaked with water and then lifted into trash wagons and hauled away by some local lads who had been hired for the unpleasant job.

  Sadly, a pall had descended on the grounds. Few were interested in stopping their tasks and trying to remember the details of the previous night. They just wanted to finish up what needed to be done and be on their way. John Straker and Ned Hunter, the missing men, were well-known and well-liked within the tight circles of the racing fraternity. Not a man would say a word against them and when pressed by Holmes the men of the track just shook their heads and said, “I don’t know. I just do not know.”

  It was even less productive the following morning. The transport wagons had come for the American horses and attention was being given to seeing them off. Their trainers, grooms, and jockeys all bid adieu to their English counterparts, shook hands and shouted about “Next year! See you in New York!”

  At noon we had some lunch, checked out of the hotel and took a cab over to the train station.

  “If we can catch the two o’clock back to Victoria,” observed Holmes, “I should be able to put the Irregulars to work before the end of the afternoon. If a large white horse has been seen in London, they will know about it.”

  At two o’clock we were standing on the platform with our valises as the train pulled up. It was already crowded with those who had enjoyed one last weekend at Brighton before saying a final goodbye to the season. I was stepping into our cabin with Holmes right behind me when I heard a voice shouting. Running at full speed at the far end of the platform was a page boy.

  “Mr. Holmes! Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Wait!”

  He kept running and shouting while doing so. I looked at Holmes, knowing that if we stepped back away from the train we were certain to miss it and it would be another two hours before the next one.

  He gave a look of resignation and turned around.

  The boy was soon up to us. “Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Are you?” he said between gasps for air.

  “I am he,” said Holmes, whereupon the lad handed him a note.

  “It’s from the inspector, sir. He said I had to stop you from getting on the train. He wants you, sir.”

  The note, written hastily, only said:

  Holmes. You must return to the Downs. Come at once. Gregson.

  We turned around, hailed one of the few cabs that was still at the Epsom Station and returned to the racecourse. By this time is was almost devoid of people and it felt a bit ghostly as we walked past the Grandstand and on to the only place where we could see any activity – the burned out shell and ruins of the stable barn. As we neared, I could make out the tall body, lion-like hair, and beard of Inspector Gregson in his familiar trench coat, standing in the midst of the charred remains. He saw us and beckoned us toward him. A path of sorts had been cleared and we made our way over burnt timbers, doors and sides of stalls, charred saddles and blankets, and mounds of the ashes that once had been straw.

  Gregson was standing where the door to one of the stalls would have stood. In front of him, inside what had been a stall, there was a large tarpaulin on the floor. I did not have to ask what was underneath it. I knew the smell immediately. The last time I had near gagged on it was at the disastrous Battle of Maiwand twenty years ago. It was the stench of burnt flesh.

  Gregson said nothing. He nodded to two of the workers and they pulled back the tarpaulin. Lying in the stall was the body of a massive horse. The entire exposed side of the beast was blackened. In many places, the hide had been burned right off and the flesh, burned to a crisp and covered with straw ash, was exposed. In the corner of the stall was a smaller carcass, a dog of the size and shape of a German Shepherd was curled up and likewise burned beyond recognition.

  Lying on each side of the horse was a human body. They were on their backs and their faces were burned beyond all recognition, as was their clothing, their torsos, and the fronts of their legs. They were also covered with ash. There was no need for questions. We were looking at the bodies of Mr. Silver, John Straker, and Ned Turner.

  Gregson spoke to Holmes. “As soon as we saw what was here I told them not to disturb anything. You are much better at this than I am, Holmes. So I sent for you straightaway. Glad the lad caught you in time. I could use your help.”

  For the next hour, Holmes and I examined the burnt carcasses and the remains of the stall. Holmes carefully lifted up one of the legs of the horse, revealing on the protected underside a hide of white, unscorched by the fire. Carefully we carried out the unpleasant but necessary task of examining the bodies of the two men and the dog. The Inspector kept the curious
at bay but called two of them to confirm that the uncharred clothing on the backsides of the bodies was what John Straker and Ned Hunter had been wearing when last seen around the track.

  When we had completed our task Holmes rose, put his glass back in his pocket and spoke to Inspector Gregson.

  “I must assume, Inspector, that you would not have sent for me so urgently if you believed that the deaths of these two men and the horse were only a tragic incident. Am I correct in that assumption, sir?”

  “And I assume, Mr. Holmes,” returned Gregory, “that you would not have spent the past hour on such a nasty business if you thought it was no more than a terrible death in a fire. Am I right, sir?”

  “You are, Inspector.”

  “I have no theory,” carried on the inspector, “about what has taken place. But the death of Leggatt, the fire after the race, and now this. It just does not smell right, if you know what I mean, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I do. What report are you going to give?”

  Gregory said nothing for a moment, and then, “I believe, sir, that I will tell the press of the heroic deaths of two brave men and a courageous dog who gave their lives trying to rescue the greatest racehorse of our time.”

  “An excellent plan,” said Holmes. “And your report to Inspector Lestrade? What of that?”

  “I shall tell him that there appears to have been multiple murders and that I have hired Sherlock Holmes to assist the Yard in the investigation. You know Lestrade, Mr. Holmes. I am quite sure he will agree. And may I assume that you will as well?”

  “You may.”

  We bid farewell to Inspector Gregory and began to walk back to the station. Holmes was walking quickly with a faintly disguised spring in his step. He was rubbing his hands together as we made our way.

  “Good heavens, Holmes. At least try not to act so positively gleeful. And, confound it, stop rubbing your hands together like a giddy schoolboy.”