Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  “One more thing,” said Harry, “before you go. If and when you do apprehend the perpetrators of these evil deeds, which I expect you will as that is what a detective does, and if you find that such person or persons are living in the United States of America, then I am expecting that you will inform me and my colleagues of same. We will, most likely, make an exception to what I have said as to how we deal with such a guy or guys. Are you understanding me, sir?”

  “I am,” said Holmes.

  We hailed a cab and returned to Baker Street. As we approached Holmes’s abode, he observed, “This man made rather good logical sense. I believe I am safe for the time being in removing Americans from the list and concentrating on our home-grown villains. It appears that I also should learn more about horse racing.”

  “I would say that you are right on both counts. And shall I see you back here first thing in the morning?”

  “It would be more efficient use of our time if we met at Paddington. Kindly consult your Bradshaw’s and meet me in time for the first train towards Salisbury.”

  First thing the next morning I bade my dear wife goodbye for the day and walked smartly over to the train station. The LSWR ran trains regularly from Paddington to the south and west and I booked a cabin for the two-hour run. Holmes was waiting for me on the platform.

  We had a corner in a Pullman and ensconced ourselves comfortably. Holmes had obtained, as he often did, several newspapers from the newsagents at the station. I spotted a copy of Sporting News in the bundle but resisted the temptation to make any comment. He delved into his reading materials, pencil and notebook in hand until we had passed Reading and were almost at Newbury, at which time he laid down the papers and asked me an odd question.

  “My dear doctor, I am once again in need of your assistance. This sport of kings, as its subjects insist on referring to it, has a vocabulary all its own. Pray tell, what is the meaning of a nerved horse, a pinhooker, an impost, a blanket finish, an underlay, and a bar-shoe?”

  I explained these and other esoteric terms to him, for which he thanked me. Then he posed another question.

  “Mr. Corrigiano mentioned insurance on racehorses. Is that a common practice?”

  “It is common if you have a good horse. Both Lloyds and Royal and Sun offer policies. By the time a horse wins a cup race it has considerable value not only for future purses but more so for stud fees. I am quite certain that every horse in the Century Race was well-insured.”

  “Interesting. Thank you, doctor.” He returned to his papers and notes and said no more until we arrived at the station in Westbury.

  “I presume,” I inquired, “that Colonel Ross is expecting us at King’s Pyland?”

  “No. On the contrary, he is expecting that he will not be seeing me again. I had a note from him advising me that since his horse had now been found, he would no longer require my services in locating the beast, and that payment of my fees and expenses would be issued promptly.”

  “Very well then, Holmes. On what grounds are you now going to demand an audience with him?”

  “That my services have now been engaged by Scotland Yard and that he must submit himself to my questioning him if he wishes his name to be removed from the list of suspects in the murder of his trainer and groom, and possibly the earlier death of the jockey.”

  “Does he know that foul play is suspected?”

  “Of course not. That would never do.”

  Chapter Seven

  Around Tattenham Corner

  FROM THE STATION AT WESTBURY, we took a landau through the village and a short distance north along the Trowbridge Road toward Heyworth. On the side of a hill in the distance, I could clearly see the Great White Horse of Westbury, the massive figure created in chalk stones that was said to have been there for a thousand years and put in place to commemorate some victory of King Alfred. Scholars were not too sure on that part, but the townsfolks were quite proud of it and had planned to have it illuminated on New Year’s Day to mark the beginning of the twentieth century. The local Gypsies had long considered it to have connections to the spirit world and had, as I have noted earlier, ascribed to it the siring of the now-departed Mr. Silver.

  We turned into the King’s Pyland Estate and I noted that, while neat and well kept, the gate, roads, bridges, and fencing were not extravagant. To the left, there was a large stable barn and adjacent to it a full racecourse, where I observed at least a dozen horses being trained. On the right, where the grounds were more rugged, dotted with junipers and furse-bushes, I spotted several jumpers and their riders running what must have been a steeplechase course. It was not surprising that a champion racehorse had emerged from this establishment.

  The manor house was old and simple in design, with pleasant gardens and plantings but no statuary, fountains or such as was common in estates closer to London. All of the staff wore matching uniforms and when moving from place to place they were all either walking quickly or running. From what I knew of Colonel Ross, none of this was surprising.

  Holmes gave his card to the chap at the door and then we stood and waited for upwards of ten minutes before Colonel Ross appeared. He did not seem at all pleased to see us.

  “Did you not receive my note, Mr. Holmes?” he snapped. “Payment of your full fee and expenses and then some has been passed on to my accountant. There is no reason for you to have come here. I am frightfully busy and this intrusion is neither necessary nor welcome.”

  He might have said more and told us to be off, but Holmes raised his hand and interrupted him.

  “It matters not how busy you are, Colonel. I am fully aware that I am no longer under contract to you, but I am now performing services for Scotland Yard and you will please accommodate this intrusion and provide me with the information I request.”

  Colonel Ross visibly stiffened. The words “Scotland Yard” had their expected impact. It was no doubt obvious to him that criminal activity was suspected. He looked straight at Holmes and spoke brusquely.

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes. Get on with your questions, Scotland Yard or not, I do not have all day.”

  He did not invite us into the house nor even to be seated and was not conveying any sense of good humor. Holmes proceeded to carry out a thorough howbeit respectful inquisition concerning the Colonel’s actions, and that of his staff during the time leading up to the fire. Colonel Ross answered the questions precisely, with an economy of words. Holmes even asked some quite pointed questions concerning the Colonel’s leadership during wartime. I did not see the purpose of these and neither, it was apparent, did the Colonel.

  “Kindly inform me, Colonel Ross,” said Holmes. “How many men died while under your command?”

  Ross glowered back. “Three hundred and thirty-seven. And it is a matter of public record, Mr. Holmes. You could look it up and do not need me to inform you.”

  Holmes continued impassively. “And how many were seriously wounded and to this day are not capable of gainful employment? I suppose that it is also a matter of public record.”

  “It is. And the answer is six hundred and forty-two.”

  I noticed a reddish glow appearing in the Colonel’s cheeks.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes, with feigned incredulity. “That is quite a number, but then, of course, they were mostly men in the lower ranks and expendable in the service of Her Majesty.”

  I was stunned. That was an inexcusable insult to the honor of an exemplary officer. It occurred to me that Holmes was deliberately trying to provoke the Colonel, knowing that when men are angry they are likely to say more than they should.

  Holmes continued. “Is it true that your horse was heavily insured, Colonel? I do believe it was. What was the amount of the policy?”

  Colonel Ross was not, as they say, born yesterday, and he relaxed his face and body, leading me to believe that he knew exactly what Holmes was doing and why, and had no plan whatsoever of losing his temper and composure.

  “Ten thousand pounds. And in case
you forget to ask, I will further inform you that it was to be increased by an additional ten thousand if Mr. Silver were to win the Century Race.”

  “That is an enormous sum, is it not, Colonel?”

  “It is. The horse was recognized to be an exceptionally valuable property.”

  At this point, the Colonel lost his patience with Holmes’s thinly veiled accusations.

  “Your time is up, Mr. Holmes. If you wish to lodge an accusation against me, then stop this pretense and do so, and I will move vigorously to have it squashed. Now, either get to your point or leave.”

  Holmes nodded respectfully. “Allow me, Colonel Ross to inform you of the reasons for my having concluded that the tragic events were not an accident but a heinous criminal act.”

  “Very well. Speak.”

  Holmes succinctly explained the evidence and his deductions. Colonel Ross listened, with an occasional nod, but no other sign of emotion. When Holmes reached the end of his account, he made a plea to the Colonel.

  “I would hope, Colonel, that you would be eager to assist Scotland Yard and me in apprehending whoever committed these foul deeds.”

  The Colonel said nothing, looking up to the hills in the direction of the great White Horse as if invoking some sort of divine equine guidance.

  “You have raised some very serious concerns, Mr. Holmes, and I will grant that the evidence you have provided is persuasive. However, I will not offer any further cooperation. It is up to you to sort this entire affair out and apprehend any criminals who bring them to stand in a courtroom.”

  Holmes looked honestly perplexed by this reply. “I fail to understand your position, sir.”

  “Already my local Gypsies are reporting glimpses of a ghostly silver horse galloping in the moonlight on the plains beneath his sire. I am told that a song has been composed. I do not object to the honor and glory this brings to the memory of such a magnificent horse. Already, Ned Hunter and John Straker are being hailed as men of courage beyond all imagining, who paid the supreme sacrifice, laying down their lives for one of God’s beautiful creatures. I do not object to their being so honored. If it is now rumored about that they were merely drugged or banged on the head and murdered, their stories would be sadly diminished. When you have proof of what you have told me, that is the time that those tales of bravery and courage can be dismissed. Until that time, they were my men who died on my watch and I am happy that they are being thought of by one and all as heroes. I doubt that makes any sense to you, Mr. Holmes, and quite frankly, I do not care. I bid you wisdom from the good Lord, and wish you a pleasant day.”

  He turned to go back inside his home.

  We rode in silence back to Paddington. Before parting Holmes said, “I hesitate to ask you to accompany me on a visit to another one of the suspects on my list. All I can promise is that the next fellow is more convivial even is less honorable. Might you be available on Friday to come with me to the Cotswolds?”

  “I shall always be pleased to accompany you, Holmes. I must warn you that I am developing some theories of my own.”

  I smiled, as did he in return.

  On the Friday, having assigned my patients to my neighboring doctor, I was up and off to meet Holmes again at Paddington. This time, we boarded a train for Moreton-in-Marsh by way of Oxford.

  “The estate and farms of Lord Biggleswade,” explained Holmes, “are just north of Stow-on-the-Wold. We should be there by eleven o’clock. I notified the younger Biggleswade of our visit suggesting that we could arrive at nine o’clock, but he wrote back agreeing only to meet at a later hour.”

  “Like a diligent member of the landed gentry,” I suggested, “he is most likely up early and having to look after the affairs of the estate first thing each morning.”

  “Although it may be mean-spirited on me,” countered Holmes, “I am inclined to think that he is not up at all in the morning and only fit for company at the hour he suggested. Ah, but we shall leave that thought to be confirmed.”

  There are many parts of our green and pleasant land that are irenic to pass through, but none, in my opinion, to match the Cotswolds. The neat and prosperous small farms, the gentle hills interspersed with woodlots, fields bronze-colored from the fading ferns, and lovely homes still roofed with thatch that was laid two centuries ago, all conspire to bring a sense of peace to the soul. How very incongruous, I thought, that we should be traversing the district while on the hunt for a hideous and vile murderer.

  Lord Biggleswade’s son, Julian, had something of a reputation in London for his sense of style, compared invariably, though not always favorably, to Beau Brummell. He was a member of Boodle’s on St. James, where he was reputed to engage in outrageous bets for no other reason than to demonstrate the inconsequence of his considerable riches. He appeared regularly in the back pages of the gossip press, having been seen with first one and then another socialite, most of whom were not married.

  The gates of his estate were newly constructed and bounded by two massive lions that I thought were somewhat larger than those at the foot of Lord Nelson. A gleaming brass plate on the south pedestal bore the name of Mapleton. The gates were closed but a young woman, dressed in a smart riding jacket, was waiting for us and opened the gate, giving us a gleaming smile of perfect white teeth as she did so. Her face said that she was no more than twenty years old and, while not particularly aristocratic in its features, was highly attractive. As she walked in front of us, I could not refrain from noting that her jodhpurs could have been painted on with a whitewash brush and left very little to the imagination.

  “Good morning Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, and welcome to Mapleton. We are all looking forward to your visit. You have many fans and devoted readers of your stories. I do hope that you will have a few minutes to chat with some of the staff before leaving.” She added an adoring and imploring look as she uttered her kind words.

  Holmes merely smiled and exchanged a meaningless pleasantry.

  The long drive from the gate to the manor house was a curious experience. The drive itself, wending its way up a long hill, was fully paved with smooth brickwork. The verges were lined with magnificent gardens and at least a dozen statues on each side, all of some Greek or Roman god or goddess, and all in various stages of undress. I observed three long stable barns, all newly constructed and gleaming with a recent coat of white paint. The staff, from the gardeners through the grooms and the doorman, were all dressed in well-tailored black uniforms, accented with gold buttons and trim, and all rather physically attractive. The view from the front of the house was magnificent, such as one might have found a century ago, designed by Capability Brown.

  “Quite the place, I must say,” I whispered to Holmes.

  “Quite the expense,” he muttered back, “and with not a soul in sight over twenty-five years of age.”

  As we arrived at the door Baron Julian, Lord Biggleswade the younger, bounded out of the door and cantered up to our carriage before we could descend from it. He was very stylishly dressed in a gray morning coat, with freshly pressed trousers, a royal blue cravat, accented with a large pearl stickpin. He was quite a handsome man, around his mid-thirties I would have said, with an excellent head of curly black hair, bright blue eyes, and an athletic figure, although on the short side in stature.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, such a delight to have you to visit us. I do hope your journey has not been tiring. May I offer you some refreshment? No? Very well. Forgive me for being a bit on the proud side of what we have done here at Mapleton, but before we get down to anything as boring as business, I insist on giving you a tour. My excellent staff have done wonders and it would be a treat for them, beyond anything I could ever give them, to know that their efforts were seen and admired by England’s most famous detective.”

  I was quite sure that Holmes was waiting only for the fellow to pause for breath to respond with a polite declining of the offer. He did not get the chance. The Baron did not stop his monolog.


  “I have asked our lovely Edith here to give you a guided tour and answer any of your questions. Please indulge yourselves. I will be eagerly waiting to speak to you when you return. Now off you go, and enjoy.” He gave us a short wave, turned his back, and went into the house.

  Miss Edith was a beautiful dark-skinned young woman, a Tamil I guessed, with beautiful features and a stunning white smile. She was also dressed in a shapely riding jacket and white jodhpurs.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I am honored to be assigned this very important task. How pleasant …”

  She gave instructions to the driver to start down on of the lanes toward the large pond and for the next hour did not let up with her perfectly delivered explanation of things historical, botanical, geological, topographical, artistic, and spiritual. We stopped at the barns, beside which was a full training course for the thoroughbreds, and she called to a young man who appeared to be waiting for us.

  “Oh, do let me introduce you, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. This is Howard, our assistant trainer. Our senior trainer, Mr. Silas Brown, is not available this morning and so Howard is going to lead you through our barns. Of course, I must warn you, he is somewhat inclined to be proud if indeed a little boastful since he knows he has the finest stable of thoroughbreds in all of England. Is that not right, Howard?”

  The fellow gave a laugh that fell short of spontaneous and, not allowing for a word from Holmes or me, picked up the patter and began the tour of the stables. I was feeling quite annoyed with what was clearly a staged plot to distract us from our mission, and I was sure that Holmes would be similarly displeased. To my surprise, he appeared to be quite enjoying the exercise, with a contented smile on his face. I was momentarily perplexed until I placed that same smile in my memory. I had seen it recently when we attended a performance of Macbeth at the Lyceum with Henry Irving strutting and fretting his hour upon the stage. There was never a moment when the audience did not know what was going to happen next, and the joy came in admiring the brilliance of the production and the excellent quality of the acting. His smile while admiring the play was the same as I now observed.