by David Marcum
“Weighty, Holmes, very weighty and cumbersome! No wonder he had to hide it if he were pursued.”
“Indeed. Oh - listen, Watson! ‘A man has been arrested’. Well, that might explain the five years.”
“It might, Holmes, except for this later account,” and I waved the Thursday edition at him. “‘Inspector Lestrade, of the Metropolitan detective force, said that the charges against the suspect had been dropped for lack of evidence, and that further enquiries would be pursued to find the criminal, and the gold.’ Well, Holmes?”
“Well, we are but a short step from Scotland Yard, so let us consult Lestrade in person.” And Holmes led me out into the street.
Lestrade had nobody in his office, and was glad enough to see us, for it meant that he could set aside the heap of papers which bestrewed his desk. “Always glad to see you,” said he, “for there’s usually something good at the end of it! Well, Mr. Holmes, am I right?”
“I am in hopes that you are. That is, if you consider a solution to the Colchester bank robbery of five years ago to be a good thing.”
Lestrade frowned, as if trying to remember the case. Then he smiled, then frowned again. “I do indeed. But do you tell me you have some clue, sir?”
Holmes nodded. “But I wanted you to tell me what you know of the matter. You did, I understand, make an arrest, but then had to let him go?”
Lestrade nodded. “But he did it, Mr. Holmes, I’m sure of it. Yes, indeed. ‘The Turk’, that’s who it was.”
Holmes leaned forward. “Was he of eastern origin?”
Lestrade laughed. “English as I am. Guess again.”
“A racing man?” I suggested.
The other two stared at me. “You know. The Byerley Turk,” said I, and had to add, lamely, “Famous race-horse. Well, then, Lestrade?”
“His name, Doctor. Sullivan. Bert Sullivan.”
It was my turn to stare. Then, “Oh! Sullivan’s Turkish cigarettes!”
“You have it.” Lestrade offered his own cigarette case. “Virginia’s good enough for me. Yes, someone called him that, the name stuck. But he did it.”
“Yet you couldn’t bring it home,” said Holmes.
Lestrade shook his head. “No witnesses, no evidence.”
“Then how do you know?” I asked.
“Now, Mr. Holmes here can tell you. Every crook has his own way of doing things. Little touches that tell you, once you’ve seen his handiwork a time or two. Why, Doctor, you yourself could probably tell which surgeon has done a bit of work on a patient, am I right? An art critic can tell who painted some picture without looking at the signature. And I can tell a Bert Sullivan from how it’s done.”
Holmes nodded. “You are right, Lestrade. So, you had to let him go.”
Lestrade grinned. “I did. And I didn’t.” He raised a hand as Holmes started to speak. “I was called in - the Yard was - by the local police. They’d chased the robber, but then lost him. They did pick up three fellows, all of them acting suspiciously, and they had them in the cells, in Colchester. Now, when I heard the details, I thought right away of the Turk, but didn’t think it was his country, if you know what I mean, for I knew him as a London lad. Turned out his parents were from those parts, though, little place called - let me think - Hanger-something?”
“Hengebury,” said Holmes and I together.
Lestrade nodded. “That’s it, though it beats me how you know. Anyway, I got to Colchester, took a look at the three they’d arrested, and bless me if one of them isn’t the Turk! ‘How now, Turk?’ says I, ‘Got you this time, my lad.’ And he says, cool as a cucumber - he was - is - a cool one - ‘Think so?’ Just that way.”
“Well?”
“Well, he was right, I was wrong. But it was him.” Lestrade smiled. “Now, I knew he couldn’t have got to London before they nabbed him, and that would have been enough for most men.”
“But not for Inspector Lestrade?” suggested Holmes.
“No, sir. Just on the off-chance, I searched his little gaff here in Town, whilst he was safe in the Colchester Gaol. And though there nothing to link him to the Essex job, there was something to link him to a job in Hatton Garden! A nice little jewellery job, just a couple of hundred, but enough. Back I go to Colchester, and down to the cells. ‘Nothing to hold you on that bank job, Turk,’ I tell him. Up he gets, very cocky, reaches for his coat. ‘But I can arrest you for that diamond job,’ I say. And I did. Got him back on the next train, in front of the beak right away.”
“And he got five years.”
“He got five years. But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?”
“I did not know. I deduced it. And I think he has but recently been released?”
“Has he?” Lestrade frowned. “Now you mention it, yes, he’ll be at large now. What is this about, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes told what we knew in a very few words, and we arranged that Lestrade, with one of his men, should accompany us to the place on the following day. “And why not today?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes smiled. “Trust me, Inspector,” and he rose to his feet. “And now, Watson and I must have a word with the brothers Carter.”
In a short time, we were at the club mentioned by Theophilus Carter, where we found the brothers at their midday meal. When they had done, Holmes gave them his instructions. Namely, that they were to return that afternoon, as they had already planned to do, that they were to arrange for a close watch to be kept on the graveyard that night, and that they were to announce that both of them, with their respective families, were to return to London on the morrow, and stay in town overnight and return the day after.
“And make that information as public as you can,” added Holmes. “And one last thing you are to do, sir. Announce that, since nothing untoward had happened last night - and will not, I assure you, happen tonight - announce that the watchmen are to be removed in your absence.”
“That should please them,” said Theophilus, “but why is that important?”
“I am convinced that our mysterious prowler has some local informant,” replied Holmes. “If he learns that the coast is clear, the two houses empty, and the watch abandoned, then he will surely feel impelled to take advantage of that one night’s peace and quiet. And then, gentlemen, we shall have him!”
On the following day, Holmes, Lestrade, a young detective sergeant named Booth, and I caught a train to Colchester, then a trap to Hengebury. The town was small, but not so small that our arrival aroused any particular interest. We then walked the few miles to Roundham, arriving just as darkness was closing in.
We avoided the village itself on Holmes’s instructions, and after crossing a few outlying fields, we arrived at the old stone circle - an unimpressive thing, to my eye, just a few boulders here and there - from whence we could get a view of the wall of the churchyard.
We had a long wait. And as we waited, I seemed to feel the atmosphere of the place change slightly. Unimpressive, I called it, but after darkness fell in earnest I was grateful for the company of the others.
I shivered, and pulled the collar of my coat more closely round my neck. And just then Holmes grasped my arm.
I strained my eyes to see what my friend had seen, and could just about make out a shadow that seemed, so to speak, more shadowy than the rest. There was a scrape and a rattle, then a beam of light showed a figure clambering over the wall, and making the devil of a noise as he did so.
By my side, Lestrade seemed to be about to rise, but Holmes hissed, “Not yet! Let him do the spadework,” and Lestrade subsided.
The mysterious intruder was evidently unused to spadework, for we had to wait over an hour, listening all the while to his grunts and little muttered complaints.
At last, however, there was a clink of metal upon metal, and a last grunt, but this time of satisfaction.
“Now then, Turk!” said Lestrade, a good deal of satisfaction in his voice. “Got you this time! Just take a look, gentlemen, and see what he’s been up to.”
Holmes and I clambered aver the wall, to see evidence enough of that night’s grim work. The earth was piled up to one side of the grave, and a rusted iron box lay atop the heap.
Holmes motioned to a shovel that lay nearby. “Would you, Watson? I shall try the box.”
I did what was needed, and halfway through my task I heard Holmes give a little “Ah!” as he got the box open. “The managers of the Colchester bank will be happy, I fancy, just as Lestrade is happy.”
“Happy and grateful?” I suggested.
“I fancy there may be a small reward.” Holmes assisted me over the wall, and we pulled the cash box after us. “And now, Inspector, I think your part in this affair really begins.”
“That it does,” said Lestrade, with a good deal of complacency. “Right ho, Turk, let’s get back to London, and a nice hot cup of tea?”
The criminal, a nondescript sort of fellow, somewhat pallid and subdued, a far cry from that cocky individual noted by Lestrade, shrugged resignedly. “Hang on, though,” he said as he stood up, “isn’t the other copper - policeman - coming with us?”
Lestrade stared at him evidently suspecting some jest, or some trick. “What other copper?” he asked.
“You know, the old chap who first scared me. Looked up and there he was. Old chap, doesn’t look entirely fit and well, and his clothes a bit mouldy. Scared the life out of me, he did. Thought I’d seen a ghost.”
The Adventure of the Mortal Combat
by Jayantika Ganguly
In the aftermath of my first meeting with Mycroft Holmes, the older brother of my friend Sherlock Holmes, during the affair with the Greek Interpreter, I learnt more about the environment in which the two brothers had grown up. Much to my consternation, Holmes and I came from drastically different families, and there were times when I envied him for his distant yet reliable relationship with his older brother. As is often the case for younger siblings that admire their older one, I understood that Holmes oscillated between his desire to outdo his brother and his pride in his brother’s superiority.
However, nothing had prepared me to be awakened to the sight of the two Holmes brothers glaring at each other at the ungodly hour of five in the morning in our sitting room. I had been startled out of my peaceful slumber by a loud crash, and I had hastily thrown on my dressing gown and rushed downstairs, only to find Holmes and his brother locked in a battle of wills. The tea tray, along with its contents, lay shattered at their feet, though it was unclear which sibling had vented their rage on the crockery.
“Sherlock, I absolutely forbid you from accepting this foolish challenge!” Mycroft declared, his quiet voice resonating with fury. He noticed me in the doorway and his expression changed immediately. “Ah, good morning, Dr. Watson,” he greeted me with a smile. “I humbly apologise for the commotion we have caused at this early hour.”
I murmured a barely comprehensible response. Mrs. Hudson, who had come upstairs as well, cried out at the sight of the broken remnants of her tea-set.
Mycroft immediately apologised to our landlady and assured her that he would replace everything within a day. Gallantly, he even assisted her in cleaning up and she accepted his help embarrassedly. By the time she left, Mrs. Hudson’s distress had been washed away.
“Your girth clearly does not affect your charms,” Holmes said to Mycroft. I was surprised at the insult, for I had learnt by then that Holmes truly held his brother in high regard.
Mycroft ignored the jibe and regarded me thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could be of assistance, Dr. Watson. I am presently attempting to dissuade my imbecilic brother from responding to a death call.”
“I am glad that you hold my fencing skills in such high regard,” Holmes snapped at his brother. He turned to me. “You may return to your bed, Watson. I shall ensure my brother does not disturb the peace of our home again.”
Mycroft Holmes sighed exhaustedly. “I do not mean to disparage your skills, Sherlock. Talented as you are, though, you are still no match for Lord Rochester.”
“The decision is mine to make,” Holmes replied. His pale cheeks were awash with red anger.
The brothers resumed glaring at each other, leaving me at a loss. I wondered if I ought to return to my bedroom after all. I must have made an involuntary movement as I gathered my thoughts - for suddenly, I found myself pinned by two identical sets of piercing grey eyes.
“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” I muttered. “If I was made aware of the facts, that is.”
Mycroft’s massive face broke into a smile and Holmes chuckled, as if my words magically dissipated their fury. I shook my head to clear it, and took a seat. Holmes sat down next to me.
“I have been challenged to a fencing duel,” Holmes told me. “My brother deems me unworthy to accept the same.”
“It cannot be that simple, Holmes. Your brother is clearly agitated over your well-being,” I replied. Considering my experience on battlefields and Holmes’s reckless disregard for his own safety, I was quite sure I possessed a keener sense of danger than the detective when it was his own life at risk.
“Bravo, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft boomed.
I could not help but preen a little at his approval.
“It would be incorrect to call it a fencing duel,” he continued. “Sherlock has been challenged to a mortal combat by none other than Britain’s foremost fencing champion. He is out for your blood, Sherlock. Please believe me when I say this.”
Holmes rolled his eyes in an uncharacteristically childish gesture.
“Why?” I asked my roommate. “Does he hold a grudge against you?”
Holmes shrugged nonchalantly.
“Of course he does,” Mycroft snapped. “You stole his fiancée away.”
Incredible! Could it be possible that Holmes, the self-proclaimed reasoning machine, was involved in an affaire de cœur and spirited away someone’s betrothed? I must have looked as shocked as I felt, for the Holmes brothers burst out laughing.
“There was no romance involved, I assure you, Watson - at least not from my side. A dear friend of mine and Lord Rochester’s erstwhile fiancée were in love, and I helped them elope. They are happily married and living in India now. I believe there is a child as well,” Holmes told me. “My brother simply likes to use scandalous statements to elicit dramatic responses.”
I frowned. “If there is a child, then does it not mean that these events happened several years ago?”
Holmes smiled. “It has been over half-a-decade.”
“Why would he seek revenge now? It appears strange that someone would hold a grudge for so long. If he wanted to challenge you to a duel, should he not have done that long ago?” I asked. “Moreover, if you were not even the man with whom his fiancée eloped, why would he wish to challenge you to a mortal combat? Does it not make more sense that he would challenge your friend instead?”
“You are absolutely correct, Doctor,” Mycroft said, nodding. “It is for these reasons that I am attempting to curb my brother from accepting the challenge.”
“And it is exactly because it is suspicious that I wish to see for myself what that man is plotting!” Holmes exclaimed.
“It is suicide,” Mycroft snapped.
“I assure you that I shall not get myself killed, brother,” Holmes said coldly.
“He is not above cheating, Sherlock. You know this as well as I.” Mycroft sighed again. “Why do you insist on putting yourself at risk? If
it is merely to satisfy your curiosity, please rest assured that I shall have all the facts submitted to you within a week.”
Holmes narrowed his eyes. “Why are you so determined to prevent my meeting with him? For all you know, I may simply wish to speak to him.”
Mycroft did not respond.
“What are you hiding, brother?”
The older Holmes ignored the question and stood up quietly. “If you are determined to go, I shall accompany you,” he informed his brother. “Be ready by nine. I shall bring your blade.” He turned to me. “If you would be so kind, Dr. Watson, the presence of yourself and your bull pup would be greatly appreciated.”
“Certainly, Mr. Holmes,” I replied.
Holmes regarded his brother silently. “Very well,” he said finally.
Holmes retired to his bedroom as soon as his brother left. I returned to mine as well, but was unable to sleep, so I read a journal for some time and proceeded to have my breakfast. At half-past-eight, Holmes emerged, appropriately dressed for a fencing match. He refused breakfast and helped himself to some coffee.
Mycroft arrived exactly at nine. He had a carriage waiting for us. However, just as we were about to leave, Inspector Lestrade came running up the stairs and burst into the living room.
“Mr. Holmes!” he cried. “We need your assistance urgently!”
“I am afraid I shall have to ask you to wait, Lestrade. I have an appointment with Lord Rochester,” Holmes replied apologetically.
Lestrade’s sallow face lost all colour. “Lord Rochester?” he repeated faintly.
“Does your case involve Lord Rochester, Inspector?” Mycroft asked imperiously.
Lestrade looked up at the portly form of Mycroft Holmes and took a step back, clearly shaken. He glanced at Holmes and myself with terrified eyes.
“Oh, this is my brother,” Holmes said casually. “He works for the government, so you may speak freely before him.”
Lestrade nodded. “Lord Rochester was found murdered in his hotel room in London last evening. He was strangled to death with a lace ribbon belonging to Her Majesty.”
