“There are only a hundred or so of us, Mr. Holmes. I refer to those of us who are fortunate to own stables of sufficient merit to breed and train horses that can rise through their conditions to the stakes level. We are all terribly competitive with each other, which we must be otherwise what would be the point of a horse race? But when threatened we are rather like those muskoxen in the Arctic. You have seen pictures of them, no doubt. When attacked they bring their backsides together and form a phalanx of horns against their attackers. When we heard that there was some talk about cheating and foul play, well, we were all very upset. None of us raise and race our horses for the money. Any that do are idiots. It is a ridiculously expensive hobby and we all compete only for pride of place. For the glory. There is nothing quite like the thrill of standing in the winner’s circle with your horse and jockey and being handed a plate or a cup and cheered on. If there is cheating involved, then it all falls apart. What pride can a man have if his horse wins by cheating? It ruins the whole sport. That is why the Jockey’s Club was set up a century back and we use it to make sure that everything is always on the up and up. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Holmes?”
“I do understand, but I fail to see the point that you are making.”
The old fellow sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “The point, Mr. Holmes is precisely that there is no point. Several of us have talked it over and we simply cannot make any sense of it. What possible reason could there be for anyone to murder the best jockey in the land, on a strongly favored horse just before the race, and then to kill that magnificent white horse and its trainer and groom after the race? None of us can see any possible way that anyone would gain by doing so. It makes no sense, sir. That is the point.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “Then if you have chatted about these matters with your friends, I am fairly certain that you have also identified any possible suspects, remote or otherwise. Will you kindly tell me what you have concluded?”
Lord Atherstone looked decidedly uncomfortable. “It is very poor form to say anything unproven about a man behind his back. Not an honorable way to act, Mr. Holmes. However, since you have asked I will tell you that we suspected that no one in England could possibly have done the crime. And, having eliminated all other possibilities, as you have instructed us to do, the only remaining one must be the culprit. And the only ones left are the Americans. You must have noticed that they were all over the place; a few of the owners and an unholy gaggle of their agents. I cannot begin to speculate as to their motives, but it is possible that they may have had their reasons that are completely unknown to us. That was all we could come up with.”
“That is useful, sir,” said Holmes. “Now permit me another pointed question. I was disturbed to find that someone in Scotland Yard had informed you of the true nature of our investigation. If there is a traitor in the Yard then he has to be exposed and stopped immediately, otherwise, the integrity of justice is irreparably compromised. I need to know the source of your information.”
On hearing this, his lordship looked bewildered. “Scotland Yard? Nonsense. It wasn’t them at all. You paid a visit to Colonel Ross a few days back and he immediately sent telegrams to the rest of us who had horses in the race telling us about your visit. We, in turn, passed the information along to the rest of our coterie. By now every stable owner in England is aware of it. Terribly sorry to disappoint you, my dear boy, but there are no spies and no traitors hiding under the carpet.”
Holmes took a slow sip from his glass of port, placed it on the table and brought his hands together in front of his chest, his fingertips pressed against each other. “You are aware, I am sure, that I also paid a visit to Baron Julian, the son of Lord Biggleswade.”
“Of course,” replied his lordship. “And did he show off all his magnificent horses and stables and pretty young boys and girls? Ah, I see the answer on your face. And treat you to an exquisite lunch and a bottle of rare old wine? Oh, yes, I see he did. He does the gracious host thing rather well, does he not? He does it to all of us, especially to those we know he positively cannot stand. Welcome to the club Mr. Holmes. So, yes, what about your visit to Julian?”
“The man explicitly told me that the information concerning my visit was provided to him by his contacts inside Scotland Yard. You have now informed me that it came from an entirely different source. Now, sir, I must know which of you is telling me the truth – and I suspect it is you – and why young Biggleswade would lie to me?”
With this Lord Atherstone burst out laughing. “Oh really, Holmes. You mustn’t take Julian so seriously. He has done a brilliant job with his stables and horses, but he is a silly boy who imagines himself a dashing spy, a womanizer, a Lord Byron, Nathan Hale, and Casanova all rolled into one. We tolerate his vain imaginings. His father was much the same in his day. It will only be a matter of a few more years before age and gravity take their toll and he becomes portly and balding like the rest of us. He is a brilliant breeder and a pathetic braggadocio. A silly short, rich boy who wants to be a hero. Please, Holmes, take no count of him.”
He laughed again and gulped back the rest of his port. We thanked him for his time and hospitality and departed into the still beastly weather that was besetting London.
Over a period of twenty years I have reported on many cases presented to and solved by Sherlock Holmes. Some were of monumental importance to the state, others were significant only because they demonstrated the ingenuity of evil men in plotting their crimes and the brilliance and tenacity of Sherlock Holmes in solving their crimes and bringing justice down upon the heads.
It would be appropriate if at this juncture in my account of the murders associated with the Century Race I were to show you how Sherlock Holmes synthesized so many diverse strands of evidence, deduced from the data the connections which his creative mind and tireless imagination saw in them – so unapparent to the rest of us – and how he triumphed, identified the villains and dragged them into court, possibly with some minor assistance from Scotland Yard.
I would like to be able to write about that, but I cannot.
Sherlock Holmes failed.
After our interview with Lord Atherstone, Holmes diligently spoke with many other racehorse owners, track officials, tic tac men, bookies, punters, and anyone else associated with horseracing that he thought might have some insight into the horrible events of the autumn of 1899.
It was all for naught. By Christmas, he was no nearer to a solution than he had been the day after the race. There were many characters who were part of the racing populace. More than a few of them might have been willing to bend a few of the rules in order to improve their odds of winning but none had sufficient motive to do murder.
Holmes readily agreed that the American contingent would be more than somewhat happy to put a fix into a race, but the killing of such a magnificent animal as Mr. Silver was anathema to them. A bookie or two might get “bumped off” but doing serious harm to horses was definitely off limits.
Toward the end of the Michaelmas term, a letter came from Scotland Yard officially dismissing Holmes from the case, and suggesting that he should not consider submitting his usual fee since he had not brought forward a scrap of new evidence.
Early in the new year, when England and all of the world was celebrating the beginning of the twentieth century, a note arrived from Robert Blinden. He was crushed by the ignominy heaped upon him for his role in the terrible fire at Epsom and had decamped for America. He had found work in a very fine stables in the State of Kentucky, where, he informed us, everyone was quite mad about racehorses. He was, he assured us, for the first time in his life, being treated with respect regardless of his appearance but he thought it was a result less of the enlightenment of the owners than the presence of a surprising number of chaps who looked much like he did.
A year passed and still nothing. Holmes was hired for several other cases in which he performed brilliantly, and I was honored to have assisted him to a
trifling degree and to enjoy the celebration that each success brought. The celebrations did not last long and all too often I saw Holmes sitting and again reviewing the files concerning the Derby fire and murders. On many occasions, I caught him reading the Sporting News and I was certain that he was being eaten up inside by his memory of that case.
Once, in early 1901, I tried to make light of the case, now two years in the past. Holmes snapped at me for doing so.
“Watson,” he barked, “three men were murdered. They all had wives and families and years of life to look forward to. I fail to see how you can make it a matter of jest.”
That was the last time I tried that tact.
Later that year our dear Queen Victoria passed away after serving for longer than any monarch in the history of England. We all knew she could not go on living forever, and there was a universal sentiment that time was passing and things in the world were, with a few exceptions, going the way they should. A new king, Edward VII, ascended the throne in the summer of 1902 and a wonderfully optimistic era was upon us.
Holmes had traveled extensively in the early years of the twentieth century. One voyage took him first to Odessa at the request of Czar Nicholas, and then to Ceylon to sort out the tragedy of the Atkinson brothers, and as far as Sumatra, to deal with a rodent of unusual size. He made several trips over to the Continent and received numerous honors for his exceptional service to the heads of at least three states.
And yet … as soon as a case was over and put into the filing case he once again returned to this elusive puzzle, and its ghost horse, and murders devoid of any conceivable motive.
Chapter Nine
Neck and Neck
A FULL FIVE YEARS HAD PASSED when on a miserable November evening I chanced to find myself sitting by a crackling fire and enjoying a brandy with Holmes. Our idle chit-chat about some of the cases I had written up led me to ask about the events that had taken place in Epsom.
“Any leads at all on that one, Holmes?” I queried.
“Nothing. It keeps coming back to haunt me, but I am still where I was in my deductions five years back.”
“And where was that?”
“The only person with any motive at all was the colonel, for the insurance. He certainly did not seem the type to commit such a monstrous crime, but I have learned that the type men seem and the deeds they do are often far removed from each other, and when that fellow was on the battlefield he did not flinch at sending men into firefights where they were certain to die. So I cannot entirely rule him out.”
I do not, as a rule, contradict Sherlock Holmes as I have learned time and time again that his logic is invariably brilliant, but, this time, I felt there was something I simply had to say to him.
“Holmes, there is something you should know about Ross.”
“Indeed, and pray tell what is that?”
“You are aware that in my medical practice I have quite a few veterans of the BEF.”
“Yes Watson, I am aware of that. It is common among veterans to seek a doctor who shared their experience. Not at all surprising that they found you.”
“You are aware as well that we veterans are honor bound that we do not tell tales out of school, but that among ourselves there are no secrets and we are rather terrible gossips.”
“Yes Watson, and I presume that this is leading somewhere. Kindly get to the point.”
“Many of the chaps I see served under Ross in India and Afghanistan. I did not, as he was not connected to the Northumberland Fusiliers. He took over command of the 51st, the Yorkshire Lights when General Browne was wounded. Within six months he had whipped them into an elite brigade that was fearless, moved at lightning speed, and absolutely brilliant in their strategies.”
“And was he loved and admired by his men?”
“No. Not at all. But feared and respected. He was one of the hardest men in the entire BEF. As flexible as an iron ramrod. His discipline was demanding and brooked not even the most minuscule infraction. In the first few months, men in his unit were flogged regularly. One was even put before a firing squad for cowardice. But they became the toughest and most disciplined unit in the campaign. His men did not like him in the least, but they admired and feared him no end. Within a year, they had become one of the proudest group of soldiers I had ever met.”
“So, are you confirming my statement,” said Holmes, “that he did hesitate to send men into battle, knowing that some would not return? Or even have his own men shot. What, pray tell, is it you are trying to say?”
“Many of his men were so badly wounded that they will spend the rest of their days in hospital. Ross spends every Sunday visiting them in Royal Chelsea, or St. Tom’s or wherever they may be confined.”
“That is lovely, Watson. Are you saying that he missed his calling and should have been a parson instead of an officer in the BEF?”
“No, those chaps are all looked after by their veterans’ pensions, but there are twenty or so soldiers who will never find work because their minds are gone. Shell shock, you know. But they receive no pension because the fools in Whitehall have concluded that all those chaps have to do is snap out of it and stop malingering.”
“That is very sad indeed, Watson. Although not surprising.”
“What is surprising is that Colonel Ross supports every one of those fellows out of his own pocket. Every month their families receive a stipend directly from him. He does not let on, being one of those men who believes that the left hand should not know what the right is doing. You know the type.”
“Yes, all the more likely to result in his needing money from the insurance on his horse.”
“Oh yes, I was getting to that. All that money from Lloyds, do you know what he did with it?”
“No Watson, although it appears you are about to tell me if you ever get to that point in your story.”
“He put it all into two trusts. One for the family of the trainer and one for the family of the groom. The income from those trusts goes to them. He has not drawn a farthing from it. I thought you might like to know about that.”
Holmes gave me a less than friendly look for several seconds. “Thank you, Watson. You have successfully removed my only suspect from my list and now I am left with none. Yes, thank you indeed.”
From time to time, Holmes could be sarcastic.
Several months later, on a pleasant day in the spring of 1905, I caught up again with Holmes for lunch in St. John’s Wood, and he invited me back to 221B Baker Street for an afternoon round of brandy. While climbing the familiar seventeen stairs up to the room in which he and I had passed so many fine evenings before I moved out to live with my lovely wife, we were met a few steps from the top by the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson. She raised her hand, bidding us pause our ascent.
“You have some visitors, Mr. Holmes. Passing strange ones they are. Americans. They’ve been waiting for an hour and say that they must see you. I brought them cups of tea and didn’t they go and pull flasks from their pockets and fill the cup to the brim with whiskey. At least, the two men did. There’s a young woman with them too, who seems a bit more refined. But they are an odd lot, I must say.”
I followed Holmes into the room and was, I must admit, somewhat pleasantly surprised by who I saw standing to greet us. Two of the three Americans we had met in Epsom five years ago were waiting. Along with them was an exceptionally attractive, tall, young woman. She was dressed in a very American style with a tight gray skirt that only reached a little past her knees, a matching gray suit jacket, a brilliant starched white shirt, the arms of which extended past the cuffs of her jacket and bore a brilliant set of silver cufflinks. Around her neck, she had a delicate gold chain to which a gold cross was attached, and which bobbed back and forth just beyond the tops of a bosom that would fill a Greek goddess with envy.
The fellow who had worn the yellow suit during our earlier encounter, and whose name I could not recall, was now dressed in a far more somber dark blue suit, a modest white s
hirt and a striped blue long necktie. The third member, who I could only remember by the nickname of “Sorrowful” was also dressed in business-like attire, with a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. The chap, formerly the bearer of the yellow suit, crossed the floor and greeted us.
“Hey, a big hello to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and hello to you too, Doc. It is an honor for us to be back here in this here London and to reacquaint ourselves with you. You, I am sure, remember my esteemed colleague, Mr. Archibald Jones although he is much better known by the appellation of Sorrowful. And he is the honorary father to this gorgeous young doll, who is his honorary daughter, which is a more than somewhat fascinating story all in itself which perhaps we can tell you over a round of ale at your local watering place. Allow me briefly to say that she is known to us as Little Miss Marker except that she is no longer little so we have reverted to calling her Markie, which you may wish to as well. If my memory serves me correctly, I believe that this time the drinks are on us.”
The young lady laughed pleasantly and walked toward us, giving a smart smack to the backside of the chap in the blue suit.
“Oh you. You are incorrigible.” Then she stepped up to Sherlock Holmes and extended her hand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I am Martha O’Connor. And Dr. Watson, a pleasure to meet you. I know you as if you were my next-door neighbors after reading all those stories. And please excuse my companions, they are really diamonds in the rough and I love them dearly. And if you are wondering what a nice girl like me is doing in their company I promise to explain it to you over a beer at your local pub. Shall we go, gentlemen?”
Holmes looked perplexed for a minute but then smiled and nodded. We turned and descended the stairs and sauntered along Baker Street in the direction of Marylebone. The chap in the blue suit chatted on about the weather in London, recalling that his last night here five years ago was one of the darkest and stormiest he could remember, and how he was thankful that at the moment it was not raining. Holmes was, I knew, not listening but most likely was overwhelmed with memories and thoughts about the case of the murders at Epsom. Sorrowful said nothing, and I had the pleasure of walking beside Miss Markie, or Martha, or whatever she wished to be called. She had put her hat on her head, a wide brimmed one with a small net that partially covered her face, and she looked positively splendid. It occurred to me that had I been so fortunate as to have been the father to a daughter, I would have been thrilled to have one so attractive and pleasant as the one who was walking by my side.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 10
