Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  “We really mustn’t be boastful…” Howard was saying as we stopped at yet another still that was festooned with ribbons, “but this season our thoroughbreds placed in the money in over one hundred stakes and cup races. And over half of our maidens, mostly from the Sonomy stock, passed their conditions by winning on their first race. Of course, the Baron will not let us race a maiden horse unless we are quite certain he is going to do well.”

  We kept up the very knowledgeable tour until we had completed strolling through all of the three large barns, giving friendly greetings to numerous young staff as we did so. As we returned to the carriage, I looked over to another much smaller stable barn. Howard noticed my glance and explained. “Oh that sir, is where we keep our stallions. For the safety of our guests, and most of our staff I have to add, we do not include it on our tours. Stallions, as I am sure you know, can be unpredictable and very likely to become agitated when visitors appear. But I assure you, gentlemen, they are the stiff backbone of our breeding program. They look after all of our breeding mares. They certainly earn their keep, sir.”

  Holmes nodded sagely and made yet another meaningless pleasantry.

  It was close to noon when the tour ended and we were returned to the manor house. It was a splendid warm fall day and a lunch had been laid out on the covered porch. The silverware was glistening in the sun and four staff, all dressed in the Mapleton uniform, were standing at ease, their backs up against the wall of the house. One of them, a good-looking young blond-haired chap came forward and gestured for us to be seated. Again, Holmes nodded with an approving smile. He leaned toward my ear and whispered, “Our host will now appear on the count of three with apologies and a bottle of champagne. A very fine one, I assure you.”

  Holmes was wrong. I counted off seven full seconds before Baron Julian emerged, walking quickly, followed by a beautiful dark-skinned young woman, attired like the others in a fitted black riding jacket and tight jodhpurs. She was bearing a silver tray, upon which was a bottle of Champagne and several tall flutes.

  “Gentlemen, please, a round to celebrate the morning. Splendid day is it not? I do hope you have enjoyed your brief tour. Did my wonderful young help show off my stable of past and future cup winners? I do try to get them to be a bit more modest, but what can one do? They are all so awfully proud of our champions. Ah, but enough about me and Mapleton. I must try to be a gracious host and hear from my guests. Tell me about yourselves. What did you think about your tour and our magnificent herd? Please do tell.”

  He paused for a moment, but not long enough for either Holmes or I to collect our thoughts and offer something to the conversation.

  “No reflections?” he asked. “No deductions. Ah, well, then. A toast. To the sport of kings and to the youth of the Empire who are carrying on its great racing traditions.”

  “He raised his glass and then took a significant gulp.

  “And, I must not be remiss,” he continued. “To the Queen. Wasn’t it wonderful that the old girl herself came to the race. Indeed, it was. To the Queen.”

  He rose as he proposed the toast, leaving Holmes and I no alternative but to rise as well.

  “Now, my friends,” he said, smiling broadly. “Best we get down to business. My time is terribly short, as I am sure yours is as well. Your wire to me, Mr. Holmes, said that you had been hired by the Jockey Club to review all of the stables that had horses in the Century Race and make sure that we had abided by every one of their nitpicking rules. Now, sir, that was nothing but balderdash. Other than providing a smokescreen for your intentions, you have nothing whatsoever to do with the lords of Newmarket. My contacts in Scotland Yard have let me know that you are investigating the suspicious deaths of Nester Leggatt, and the two of Colonel Ross’s men who died in the fire …”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Holmes,” he continued. “Do not be surprised. I am not in the least bit offended. You are a private consulting detective and being deceitful is a necessary part of your modus operandi. And you have my respect and admiration. So, please, sir, let us dispense with the pretense and just get straight to the point, shall we? Begin your interrogation, please, sir. The floor is yours.”

  If Holmes was taken aback, he did not show it. He nodded slowly in agreement and with characteristic cleanness did as requested.

  “Very well, sir,” he responded. “Let us assume that I am accusing you of directly or indirectly murdering those three men. Please give to me whatever evidence there is that would persuade me to conclude otherwise. The floor is yours, sir.”

  “Brilliant, and well done, Mr. Holmes,” the baron replied. “No shilly-shallying around. But permit me a moment to begin on this excellent wine my steward has brought us. Ah, yes. A fine Margaux Bordeaux from 1875. Splendid. You will join me, sir? Wonderful. Now then, you want me to tell you why I would commit financial suicide. That is what you requested, is it not? Very well then sir, it runs like this. It cost me nearly £5000 to secure the services of Nester Leggatt. He was the finest jockey in the country and was in demand by all of the owners. I offered him the top price and he devoted six months to training and riding my horse, Lord Commodore. With his death, I had to move very quickly to find another jockey, which I did. The chap I found, Nat Archer, is perhaps a bit past his prime but an excellent man. He did his best, but a horse and rider take some time to get used to each other and he had only a few days.

  “I would like to believe that my horse, Lord Commodore, would have done much better with his familiar jockey. Now Colonel Ross’s ghost horse ran a magnificent race but I would wager that Lord Commodore could have given him a run for the money and allowed me to claim the Blue Riband. The loss hurt me in that place where I do hate to be injured, which is not the pocketbook, but my reputation. If you can provide any reason why I would have acted so foolishly, sir, do tell. I am all ears.”

  Holmes ignored the challenge and moved on. “The destruction of Mr. Silver and the murder of the two men. That would be in your financial interest, would it not?”

  “Of course, it would. Lord Commodore is now the number one horse in the country for breeding fees. I will likely gain at least another £5000 a year because the white horse is out of the running. Not wishing to be pompous, sir, but in this business, such an amount is sweating. Rank sweating. Any man who is moved to risk the gallows for such a paltry amount has no business owning a first-class stable that aims to produce Cup winners. Forgive me, sir, if I say that my reaction to any such accusation is that I would be merely miffed that you assumed that Mapleton Stables was no more than just another set of barns delivering a herd of also-rans. I have become, I dare say with some pride, not only the leading stable in the nation for winning thoroughbreds, but also the only one with a reputation for being an enlightened employer of staff from throughout the Empire, regardless of age, race or gender. I would be a fool to risk that hard-earned reputation for a measly £5000 a year. Now sir, is there anything else you wish to know? No? Very well then. I have given instructions to all of my employees that they must speak freely to you and give full and candid replies to whatever you wish to ask them.”

  At this point, he took another large swallow of his wine and turned to me. “My good doctor, I see you are enjoying your Bordeaux. Please, allow me to top up your glass.” He snapped his fingers and one of his attentive staff, a handsome young lad in the same uniform as the rest of his colleagues, moved immediately to put more wine into my glass. As he was doing so another one of the help, a beautiful young woman who I assumed had been recruited somewhere in the Orient, appeared bearing two plates of perfectly presented canard confit. These were laid in front of Holmes and me, but nothing appeared for our host.

  Baron Julian then stood up and gave a shallow bow to us. “I really must ask you to excuse my terrible manners as a host, but I must now leave you to enjoy your lunch. I have some awfully pressing business related to some of our properties in the Cape. So kindly, as my guests, enjoy your lunch and dessert and a glass of excellent brandy. The
re is no rush for your departure. My man will take you to the train station whenever you wish to depart. And now let me excuse myself and wish you a splendid visit to the Cotswolds and Mapleton. Good day, gentlemen.”

  He smiled at us one more time, turned and retreated into his manor house.

  Holmes hastily finished his lunch and, declining the kind offerings of the help, thanked them and called for the driver. He said nothing to me during the drive back to train station and only once inside our cabin did he stop chewing harshly on his pipe and settle back into his seat.

  “I do not,” he said, “begrudge young Biggleswade his arrogant manipulation of charm and cavalier manners. Such skills are bred into our aristocrats from the moment they are born. What has deeply angered me is the egregious lack of secrecy at Scotland Yard. Gregson and Lestrade gave me this assignment and they have been so absurdly careless as to let it become known. I will have to have a word with them on that.”

  “Rightly so,” I added. “But what of his defense? I thought he did a rather good job of showing how absurd it would be for him to kill his own jockey or anybody else for that matter. Would you agree?”

  Holmes took another slow draft on his pipe before answering. “Although I find his type of young nobleman to be repulsive, I must agree that I cannot possibly ascribe a reasonable motive to him. However, someone, somewhere must have had a reason for these crimes, and it must have been a very powerful one to risk swinging by your neck if found out. As of this moment, I regret to say, I have no clear insight into what that might have been.”

  That was all he said until we returned to Paddington. He sat in silence with his chin upon his chest and his brows knitted. The lovely late fall day had vanished and storm clouds had moved in. By the time we arrived at the station the rain was falling and the wind coming in gusts. The clock had not yet passed five and Holmes insisted that I join him for tea and a chat by the fire in Baker Street. The dear Mrs. Hudson welcomed me warmly as she always did and hastened to put on the kettle and organize some light fare.

  We were in the middle of the repast when a knock came to the door on Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson appeared a few moments later bearing a telegram. She handed it to Holmes and made a comment about the poor lad who had to bring it through the storm. Holmes read it and scowled, his face clearly indicating his anger.

  “This is an outrage,” he said. “Lestrade’s office is leaking like a sieve. Here, read this.”

  He tossed the telegram in my direction. It ran:

  If you have returned from the Cotswolds by the time this arrives, please join me at Brooks’s for a round of Port. I am quite certain that I am next on your list of suspects.

  Atherstone

  “A bit of a surprise,” I observed. “I assume that you are now on your way to St. James, storm or no. If I can be of assistance, I shall be happy to tag along.”

  “Of course, you must come. I would be lost without my Boswell.”

  “Are you sure,” I asked, “that they will allow entry to the likes of us. We commoners are not quite up to snuff for that place.”

  Holmes smiled. “I expect that we shall be paraded as curiosities, much as if we were an exotic species from Africa. Come now. Let us be off.”

  Chapter Eight

  Down the Hill

  BROOKS’S CLUB ON ST. JAMES is one of the oldest and most exclusive of gentlemen’s redoubts in London. Unlike White’s, which was home to the bluest of blueblood Tories, whose positions in society and inherited wealth were a result only of their accident of birth, Brooks was the domain of progressive enlightened liberals and Whigs, whose who positions in society and inherited wealth were also a result only of their accident of birth. Among its members were the two wealthiest men in England, Hugh Grosvenor, Duke of Westminster, and Lionel de Rothschild, the lord of just about everything that involved money. Sir Robert Peel, who had organized the police force was an active member, as was Lord Earl Grey, who some years later was exiled to Canada. In a previous generation, Beau Brummell had been one of its most dashing members.

  After taking a cab from Baker Street and through Mayfair we arrived at the unmarked black door. We had neither umbrellas nor mackintoshes and we waited in the cab hoping that the rain would abate for a few minutes and allow us to dash inside. We admitted defeat and scrambled across the pavement, taking on a gallon of water before rushing through the door. We were greeted by a smiling doorman, who in turn handed us off to a smiling porter.

  “Ah, the one and only Mr. Sherlock Holmes, accompanied as always by Dr. Watson. We were rather pleased to get the note from Lord Atherstone saying that you might be making a visit. Thank you, gentlemen, for gracing our establishment on such a miserable evening. The old boys are frightfully fond of your stories. Before I call for His Lordship, do allow me to introduce you to some of our members.”

  Before he could do so one of the members who had been sitting near to the door, leaped to his feet and accosted us. He was holding in his outstretched hand a new copy of The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes, a collection of some of my past stories that my agent had recently arranged to have printed. I recognized the member as one of England’s most popular novelists.

  “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” he said enthusiastically. “Wonderful to have you here. Please, I must have you sign a copy of your book for me. It will have a treasured place on my bookshelf, I assure you.”

  He thrust the book at Holmes, who took it grudgingly. The fellow continued chatting to us.

  “Oh, my, your coats are soaked. Has the weather turned bad?”

  “The night has become dark and stormy,” said Holmes as he reached for the pen on the porter’s desk.

  “Indeed,” I added. “The rain is falling in torrents. Not letting up except when checked by violent gusts of wind that are sweeping up the streets. The tops of the houses are rattling and the streetlights are being blown out. Perfectly beastly.”

  I took the book from Holmes, who had deigned only to inscribe S. Holmes. I scribbled To Edward Bulwer-Lytton: a wonderful novelist, signed my name and handed it back to the chap. He beamed a smile, thanked us profusely, and walked back to the sitting room. After a few steps, he stopped, put his finger to his chin, cocked his head, and then walked forward again slowly. We must have given him something to think about.

  Without waiting any longer, the porter now took Holmes by the elbow and led him into the front sitting room where two score or more men were sitting around tables and chatting. The porter called for their attention and introduced us. We were greeted by a warm round of applause and very loud and unpleasant oath from some older chap in the corner. This led to a round of laughter and another round of applause.

  The porter explained. “Lord Cavendish had made a bet that you would never arrive. He just lost 100 guineas to Lord St. Levan.”

  I had read that Brooks’s Club had a reputation for the most esoteric bets. I recalled that a century ago a certain Lord Cholmondeley had wagered Lord Derby that he could not, while in a balloon at least one thousand yards above the Earth, engage in a common human activity known to lead to procreation. The convivial atmosphere rather lifted my mood and I could not resist smiling back at the porter.

  Holmes was having none of it. He had not stopped scowling since reading the telegram.

  “We are here to meet with Lord Atherstone,” he said to the porter. “Kindly let him know of our arrival forthwith.”

  A few minutes later the porter returned, followed by an elderly gentleman. The old fellow was well-dressed, nearly bald, somewhat stooped over and leaning on a walking stick. Upon reaching us, he turned to the porter.

  “Right, Billy, say again who these two chaps are.” The porter repeated our names.

  “Right, yes of course. Did I send a note off to you? Was that yesterday? Or today perhaps? I cannot, for the life of me remember. Yes, yes please come this way.”

  He turned and started unsteadily down a hallway, muttering back to us as he did.

  “There i
s a room down this hall. Or at least, I think it is this hall. If not, then it must be the other one. We only have two. I reserved it for your visit. At least, I think I did but perhaps I only intended to. Oh bother, if I didn’t, we shall just have to meet somewhere. Oh yes, here it is. Do come in and sit down. Now then, which of you is Holmes?”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes,” said Holmes.

  “Oh, good. You’re the detective fellow aren’t you? What do you think of that dreadful business in Sumatra? Giant rats and all sorts of bizarre reports. Frankly, I think the zookeeper did it. What do you think, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes said nothing but sat back and lit a cigarette. “Lord Atherstone, please drop the doddering old fool routine. I have neither the patience nor the time for it. You have one of the finest minds in the country and, I know from very reliable sources, it is as keen as ever.”

  The old fellow gave a look of feigned surprise, but then sat up and smiled broadly at Holmes.

  “Ah, Mr. Holmes. You are such a spoilsport. You have no idea how thrilling it is at seventy-five years of age to have everyone assume that you either cannot hear what they are saying, or if you can then that your brains are so addled that you cannot understand. I recommend it to you when you reach my age. I must assume that your know-it-all older brother spilled the beans about me. He really is an insufferable prig. And yes, I confess that like Moses my eye has not dimmed nor my natural force abated. And I do thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  “Enough of the pleasantries,” said Holmes. “Why did you summon me? Please state your case, sir.”

  The old chap smiled back at Holmes. “My dear boy, you are far too young to be taking life so seriously. Here, have a glass of claret. It will cheer you up and I will tell you my thoughts on this matter.”

  He stood and walked quickly, without his cane, over to the sideboard and returned with wine glasses and a bottle. He began his story while pouring the drinks.