Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  “That is true,” the young woman replied.

  “Holmes,” I said in disbelief. “You cannot possibly be saying that you brought one of the King’s horses to be part of your masquerade.”

  “He has rather a lot of them. He shan’t miss one mare for the day.”

  Sorrowful drove the tractor and the remaining five of us walked along beside it down Half Moon Lane and over to the North Dulwich Station. We arrived at the rendezvous location at ten minutes before ten and waited for someone to come and meet us. At ten minutes past the hour, a large four-wheeler approached from the south. It was a fine looking vehicle, drawn by two mares, also fine looking. On the driver’s seat were two young men, both in a military type of uniform, but one that I did not recognize. They stepped down and came over to us. A third chap emerged from inside the carriage. All were tall and quite athletic and by their walk, I guessed that they had seen time in the service.

  The chap in the blue suit extended his hand toward them. “A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce …”

  He got no further and no hand was given to his in response. One of the young men bluntly interrupted him and said, “Introductions are neither necessary nor wanted. Your identity will remain unknown to us as will ours to you. It is better that way. Please confirm that you have the funds required.”

  Lestrade reached into his pocket and produced a large wad of hundred pound notes. One of the fellows took it, counted it, nodded, and handed the money back.

  I had not expected quite this type of chilly reception, and what came next was even more off-putting. The fellow who had been in the carriage reached into a satchel and pulled out an armful of black velvet cloth. I could see that there were several individual items in the bundle. He extracted a cloth bag, with a drawstring attached to the top and handed it to me. Then he gave one to each of the others.

  “Please enter the carriage and then place these over your heads and draw the cords tight. I will check them once you are in your seats. Do not ask any questions.”

  We all glanced over to Holmes, who gave a small nod, and we did as instructed. We entered the carriage. It was large enough for all of us to have a seat. The third chap made sure all of the cloth bags were securely over our heads and tied before he sat down on the floor.

  We could hear one of our captors climb up onto the driver’s seat and the other one starting the tractor.

  For the next half hour, we clattered along at a slow pace, no faster than a tractor pulling a horse trailer could do safely. We came to a stop and I heard the driver jump down and then heard a gate swing open. The carriage drove through the gate and then it was closed. About two minutes later we came to a halt.

  “Gentlemen and lady,” said the chap inside the carriage, “Please remove your masks and leave the carriage.”

  Again we did as instructed and I could see that we were on the grounds of a small stable operation. It had one barn and three paddocks. The open fields could not have been much more than ten acres. A neat little red-brick villa with overhanging eaves stood on the far side of the lane.

  “Lead your mare into the paddock,” ordered the fellow who had been driving the tractor. Sorrowful and the chap in the blue suit opened the side door of the trailer, dropped the ramp and led the gleaming raven-black mare toward the paddock. On seeing her the fellow who had given the order let out a low whistle of admiration.

  “Crikey, she is a beauty. And you brought her all the way from New York? Her colts will be the fastest things on this planet.”

  “Quiet!” shouted the fellow who had been in the carriage. It was clear that they were under orders not to speak beyond the absolute minimum.

  “Wait here,” the same fellow ordered. “We will bring the stallion.”

  He walked toward the barn, leaving our little troop alone to chat privately for the first time.

  “Well now, welcome to merry old England,” said the chap in the blue suit. “Anybody have any idea where we are?”

  “Not the foggiest,” said Lestrade.

  I had an inkling that Holmes would not give the same answer.

  “Where are we, Holmes?” I asked.

  “We turned into a lane off of Croxted Road, one and a quarter miles south of the village square.”

  “And just how is it, Mr. Sherlock the Detective, that you know that seeing as how you are not seeing all the way here?”

  “Elementary. The carriage wheels have a diameter of four feet, giving them a circumference of close to twelve and a half feet. The right rear wheel has a dent in it that creates a very small bump with every rotation. All you have to do is count the humps, multiply by the circumference and you know your distance.”

  “And you are doing this all the way from there to here? Counting every bump?”

  “Of course not. It was only necessary to count for the first few estimated minutes, which I believe you could also judge quite accurately, given your years of watching them pass at a racetrack. Then you time the bumps per minute. As soon as our masks came off I looked at my watch and knew how many minutes we had been traveling. I believe it is called doing arithmetic.”

  Given her penchant for numbers I was sure that Miss Martha was about to interrogate Holmes further, but any conversation was cut short by the emergence of the stallion, Sir Galahad, from the barn. He was led by a fierce-looking and gnarly older man, and a strikingly handsome young groom. And, my goodness but Sir Galahad was an enormous horse; I guessed at least eighteen hands tall, with a large, powerful chest and massive legs. His coloring was piebald, with alternating large blotches of black and white, something akin to a Holstein cow.

  “Oh my,” gasped Miss Martha. “He is a big fellow. Sir Galahad indeed.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Claiming

  THE OLDER FELLOW AND THE GROOM led him into the paddock where Black Beauty was prancing around in apparent eager expectation. Sir Galahad had picked up the scent and the men moved quickly to open the paddock gate and let him inside before he kicked it down. While we were moving toward the fence of the paddock Holmes made a small detour to the door of the stable, where he bent down and picked up a pail, and then carried it back to our vantage point. Odd, I thought.

  We stood and watched a scene that is familiar to all people who have lived on farms and foreign to city folk. For a few minutes, both horses galloped around the paddock, seeming to ignore each other. Then Black Beauty stood still and Sir Galahad approached her slowly. He lowered his great head and neck and brought his muzzle alongside hers and gently rubbed. Twice she jumped back and feigned a nip at him. He startled and backed off and then approached again, this time running his muzzle along her spine as if grooming her. After a few minutes of that, he was sniffing at her haunches and then, in a quick movement mounted her. She just stood still and appeared indifferent to the entire event. In less than half a minute, he was off of her and back alongside, his large face rubbing up against hers, the equine equivalent of afterglow. Then the big fellow trotted around the paddock for a minute or two before the elderly chap and the groom brought him back to the gate.

  “Well now,” came a voice from behind us. “Did you enjoy watching that? No doubt, little girl, it made you even randier than you already were.”

  I turned around and recognized Baron Julian. I assume that he had been waiting in the small cottage behind us.

  “How delightful,” he continued, “that the little trollop who took my money is now paying me back, one breeding session at a time.”

  Miss Martha smiled. “Nice stallion. Oh … I was speaking about the horse, not you, short stuff.”

  I could see the anger flash in his eyes, but he controlled himself and smiled. “It is always a pleasure to serve a pretty young customer, even if she has poor manners. I look forward to your next visit with another mare. And because I am sure that my horse likes you even less than I do, the fee will have to go up to £12,000.” He smiled again, smugly.

  “I dare say,” said Holmes,
ignoring the exchange that was taking place. “This big fellow looks a bit overheated after such strenuous exertion. Mr. Sorrowful, would you mind holding him here for just a moment while I help him to cool down?”

  Sorrowful looked perplexed but came up and held the tether rope while Holmes reached into the pail and lifted out a washing sponge, dripping with water. He walked up to the side of Sir Galahad and began to rub his flank with the sponge.

  “Get your hands off of my horse!” shouted Lord Biggleswade. “Stop that. Stop it now!” He began to walk quickly toward Holmes and the horse.

  Holmes looked over at the chap in the blue suit and me and said, “Gentlemen, please restrain the young lord. This poor fellow needs a bath.”

  I had no idea what in the world Holmes was up to, but I immediately put my body in front of the angry young lord. The fellow in the blue suit did the same, except he put his face less than two inches from the baron’s and said, “Mr. Lordy Dordy I am not a man of violence. Therefore, I request that you abide by the instructions or else we shall have to settle our difference somewhat less than amiably.”

  “Stop this instant!” came the reply. He was now screaming at Holmes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Holmes, smiling from ear to ear. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Silver.”

  Sorrowful pulled the stallion around so that we could see his flank. Half of the large black patch that had been there had vanished. I was thunderstruck. We all stood and stared in disbelief. The black and white piebald coloring was dripping away before our eyes.

  “If we keep giving this big boy a good scrubbing he will come out white as snow all over. It appears he was never in a fire at all. And there, my friends,” he said pointing at the baron, “is the horse thief and the man who murdered Colonel Ross’s trainer and groom and most likely his own jockey.”

  The young lord issued a string of cursing at Holmes, of which I can interpret as his denying everything and telling us to go to the devil.

  “Lies! Infernal lies.You have not a shred of evidence for that slander,” he shouted. “I will have you sued until you are bankrupt and unfit for decent society.”

  The stooped over elderly trainer stepped forward. “You won’t need evidence. I will testify. He killed them and I helped him.”

  “Ah, Mr. Silas Brown, I presume,” said Holmes.

  “I am,” said the old man.

  “Brown!” shouted the Baron. “You will keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you!”

  “I know,” Brown said to Holmes, “what is good for me. I know I have cancer and it will not be long before I stand before God and have to account for myself. And I am not going to die with this on my conscience. His lordship and I stole Mr. Silver and replaced him with a big old white stallion from his stable. Then we knocked the two fellows out with a blackjack and put them in the stall. I will confess to that. But I swear I did not know he was going to burn the place down. I swear I did not.”

  The look on the baron’s face had turned to wide-eyed panic. In a quick few steps, he rushed up to Miss Martha and grabbed her around the neck with his forearm. Out of his pocket, he pulled a small revolver and placed its barrel against her temple.

  “Get this straight!” he commanded. “Every one of you get back into the carriage and off of this property. And then get out of England. This little …” He used a term more properly applied to a female dog. “… is going to stay here with me until you are gone. Gone! Forever! GET OUT!”

  At this point Lestrade removed his Bowler hat, peeled off his mustache and doffed his ridiculous suit jacket, exposing a vest emblazoned with the crest of the Scotland Yard.

  “Your lordship,” he said calmly, “you are already in enough trouble and it would be best if you stopped now and came with me and we can have a bit of a chat back in London. You might wish to call your barrister. That is quite acceptable.”

  “I don’t believe you!” came the angered reply. “Now get out of here or I will kill her. Do you understand? I will kill her!”

  Miss Martha gave a wink that the baron could not see. She held her hand closely in front of her stomach and exposed three fingers. She closed her fist and then extended first one finger, then two. An instant later she kicked both her legs forward and her body dropped like a stone onto the ground. She had not even hit the gravel before a gun beside me exploded and I saw the baron twist violently. His revolver flew from his hand and he fell to the ground clutching his shoulder.

  “We used to practice that,” said Sorrowful, “when she was a kid. Never knew it would come in handy.” He put his revolver back into his pocket.

  Lestrade was bending over the baron. “Dr. Watson, please help me get this fellow back into the cottage and bandaged up. I cannot tell from here, but the wound does not look overly serious. There is a wire coming out of the cottage and I will wager he has a telephone service … Come now, your lordship. Up you get. Come along now.”

  The baron struggled to his feet, cursing while doing so. As Lestrade led him away, he turned back and shouted at us, “I have the best barrister in the country. I will be back in two days and I am coming after you. And you,” he said looking at Martha, “when I get back I am going to do exactly what that stallion did.”

  “Lovely,” she shouted back. “I can’t wait. I’ll have the mare waiting for you.”

  It was not long before a police wagon and two constables arrived from the village. The baron’s wound was minor and I had bandaged it up adequately until he could be taken under police guard to the local hospital. Lestrade left the baron in the constables’ care and we commandeered the large carriage that had brought us. Holmes and I found the three chaps who had met us at the station, sitting in their guardhouse playing cards, laughing loudly and oblivious to what had occurred in the stable area.

  Holmes had removed his hat, wig, eyebrows, side-whiskers, mustache and silly jacket. He approached the startled guards.

  “Terribly sorry to bother you chaps, but as your employer is on his way to prison and maybe even the gallows, I wonder if one of you might be willing to drive us back to the Paxton pub. It is just a mile or so up to the right from your gate; about half way to the village square.”

  The guards were bright enough to remember that Holmes and all the rest of us had been hooded on the way here and looked at him in bewilderment.

  “Who in the devil’s name are you?” said the one who had been sitting on the floor.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “And I might add that Chief Inspector Lestrade will be one of your passengers. He was quite impressed with the way you carried out your assignment on the way here. I recommend you ask him about employment opportunities with the police.”

  The look on their faces was rather amusing. One of them was bright enough to jump to his feet, straighten his uniform and respond, “Right away, sir. Happy to oblige. The carriage is this way. Please, sir. Does the lady require any assistance?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Winning the Cup

  AN HOUR LATER OUR MOTLEY CREW was gathered in Paxton’s Pub in West Dulwich, enjoying various libations and some excellent meat pies.

  “What,” asked Miss Martha, “are you going to do with Black Beauty? You can’t just leave her there.”

  Holmes nodded. “I asked Mr. Silas Brown and the groom if they would look after returning her to her home stable and they have agreed to do so. She will be well looked after.”

  “My goodness,” I exclaimed. “You are sending those two up to Sandringham? To the King’s stables? That would give them a bit of a thrill, I’ll warrant.”

  “For a brief moment,” said Holmes, “they thought I was sending them to New York, and so Norfolk came as a bit of a disappointment. And who knows but perhaps they will find employment up there.”

  We chuckled at the thought and at the fleeting prospect of accompanying a mare back across the Atlantic.

  “Very well now, Holmes,” said Lestrade. He was acting a bit on the sour side as alwa
ys, but I was quite sure he was pleased as punch with the prospect of arresting a member of the nobility, booking a triple murder, and returning a prize racehorse to its rightful owner. “Very well, now. Out with it. How in the devil did you sort it all out? I know you are dying to tell me.”

  “Am I now?” replied Holmes coolly. Then he smiled, “Ah, my dear inspector, you have come to know me all too well. I will confess that it was one of the more perplexing cases I have had to solve and a most distressing one as well. I am terribly disappointed that it took five years. But here it goes. The presence of foul play in the deaths of Baron Julian’s jockey, and Colonel Ross’s groom and trainer was obvious. I confess that I first suspected the colonel as he, at least, had the motive of benefitting from the very large insurance settlement. I must thank my dear friend, Dr. Watson, for disabusing me of that notion. The Americans had only a weak and remote motive and I could not ascribe to Mr. Harry the Horse the ability to be so utterly convincing an actor. His emotional, indeed passionate response to the events that had taken place were entirely convincing.

  “As to Lord Atherstone, again there was simply no motive. He already has more money than God and would consign his precious soul to hell should he ever transgress one jot or tittle of the rules of the Jockey Club. That left Baron Julian. I will fully acknowledge that I am of the curmudgeonly opinion that old money should not jingle, and I do not hold in high regard those pretentious young men who seek to make a show of their family wealth. He was clearly spending money like it was water, but there was no report of his ever being short of it.

  “Clearly the most lucrative years of a winning racehorse are the years when he is put out to stud. And I kept looking through the Sporting News for any reference to any of the other horses from that race that ended in the money, or even the also-rans, to see if they were receiving outrageous fees for their siring service. None was, and of course, I was looking for the wrong horse.

  “It was not until Miss Martha mentioned the high ratio of white offspring of the mysterious Sir Galahad that the light dawned upon me. If there were that many offspring that were white then the sire must be white. There was no reference in the Sporting News to any highly exceptional white racehorse in the past ten years that was white, except for Mr. Silver. Added to that was Miss Martha’s information that the normal ratio was about two in a hundred. That meant that, while rare, white horses are still to be found. Given the number of horses bred in a large stable, the possibility of some stables having another massive white stallion could not be eliminated.