The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part VII

by David Marcum

  Excusing herself while I joined Holmes, the lady fetched a key ring from one of the servant’s quarters. “Malcolm keeps this room locked these days. He apparently forgets that Tseng has a spare key.” As she set to work finding the correct key, Holmes inquired, “You told me before that everything your butler owns is still in his room. I just looked at it. It’s quite barren. Nothing really in the way of personal belongings except his clothes and some Chinese books.”

  “Yes, Tseng lived very simply.” Unlocking the study, her expression, restrained to this point, became anxious. “I pray you will find some sort of clue to explain why my husband doubts me.”

  “Dr. Watson and I shall make every endeavor to do so. Now if you will excuse us.” With that, Holmes ushered me into the study and followed, shutting the door behind us. I began to reprimand Holmes for being impolite before being mesmerized for the second time since entering the grand house. “My word,” I said, at last. “This is like a private museum.”

  “As you can see, Mr. Angus-Burton owns an outstanding collection of ancient Chinese furniture, curios, and art.”

  “Now it makes sense why he wanted his butler to guard the house whenever he and his wife were away. You knew this was in here?”

  “I did. According to Mrs. Angus-Burton, her father-in-law collected these treasures during his tenure in China, and they are her husband’s prize possessions.”

  Without forethought, I found myself bemoaning the injustice of one man being blessed with such beautiful objects and an equally beautiful wife.

  This delighted Holmes. “Ah! So you agree with my observation of the lady?”

  There was no point denying it. “You know I do. As does she, I’m embarrassed to say.”

  Thus appeased, Holmes took some pity on me. “Think nothing of it, Watson. You were the model of politesse. Now, as I mentioned, Angus-Burton believes his wife has incorporated his study into her curse. Before he left in March, Angus-Burton would work in this sanctorum for hours, but since returning, he finds that spending more than a few moments in here arouses an uneasiness whose persistence drives him out of the room.”

  “If the curse were true, I suppose that would make a bizarre sense. The wife lost her mother, so in vengeance she bars her husband from the objects he cherishes most. But surely there must be a logical explanation. Perhaps Angus-Burton’s anxiety about Tseng manifests itself in a subconscious way through the uneasiness he feels when in this room.”

  “You may be on to something, Watson,” Holmes permitted. “My search of the rest of the house found nothing untoward, so-” Without another word, Holmes set about poking, prodding, and crawling throughout the study. I had seen him perform this bloodhound style of investigation a number of times, and, as on those occasions, he rummaged mostly in quiet, permitting himself only an occasional grunt or hum. As time passed, Holmes grew frustrated and may have been about to forsake this tactic when his attention fixated on a small cabinet.

  He craned his neck to stare at the study’s only window, which had its curtains drawn shut, then looked back at the cabinet. He rubbed the side of the cabinet, rubbed his fingers together, leaned his hawk-billed nose close to the cabinet, sniffed, then smiled. Then Holmes dropped flat on the floor to examine the carpet underneath the cabinet before standing to reexamine many of the surrounding pieces. He seemed to be seeing the collection from a totally fresh perspective, though I had no idea what that might be. Finally, Holmes paced the room to make what I assumed were a series of mental measurements in relation to the study’s treasures, the room’s dimensions, and the window. When he was finished he looked at nothing in particular and said more to himself than me, “Remarkable.”

  “Remarkable?”

  “Yes. Elegantly remarkable, and yet there is the suggestion of bitterness. Resentment, I think.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “Patience, Watson.” Opening the door, Holmes called Mrs. Angus-Burton into the study to ask if anything in the room had been disturbed since their return two weeks earlier. After looking about, she said, “No. Everything is in its normal place.”

  “Can you recall when your husband last changed the location of anything in this room?”

  “Never. As far as I know, this study is arranged as it was on the day Malcolm’s father moved into it.”

  “I see. That window? Are those curtains ever drawn back to permit sunlight into the study?”

  “Quite frequently.”

  Holmes appeared more than satisfied and thanked the lady, adding, “If you would give the Doctor and I another minute alone, we will be on our way.”

  Concern broke through Mrs. Angus-Burton’s resolve once more. “I don’t understand. You’ve found nothing?”

  “Quite the contrary, but it is merely a thread. A thin, frail thread we will follow as best we can to see where it leads.”

  “So there is an explanation?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “But there is hope?”

  “There is always hope, madam. Never lose faith in hope.”

  Once alone again, I asked, “What thread did you find, Holmes?”

  My friend ushered me to the cabinet he had been examining. “Come look at this. Specifically this faded elm wood along the side. Does it look natural to you?”

  It did at first, but then something struck my eye as being amiss.

  “You see it, don’t you, Watson? Go ahead and touch it.”

  I did. It wasn’t faded wood but paint. “Someone’s painted the wood to appear faded.”

  “Faded from the sunlight shining through that window, as any wood in that location would be after years of exposure. I discovered similar camouflaging on that vase and this marble statue.”

  “These three pieces are frauds?”

  “Expert copies of the genuine pieces that were here before the Angus-Burtons left for the New Territories.” Holmes’s eyes kindled with the thrill of this discovery. “The other cabinets in this room are either lacquered or are covered with decorative paint, so we were fortunate that the elm wood on the sides of this one cabinet were left to patina.”

  “Then there’s been a robbery! Why didn’t you tell Mrs. Angus-Burton?”

  “Because this is not an answer. It is a clue. There is still much to discover. These forgeries and the disappearance of the butler make up the thread we must follow. If we can trace it back to its skein, then I believe we can confirm what happened to Tseng and the explanation for Angus-Burton’s uneasiness whenever in this study.”

  “Surely you have some idea.”

  The spark in Holmes’s eyes dampened, replaced by what appeared to be apprehension, but for who or what I had no idea. “What I have is an errand that I must attend to while you return to Paddington.”

  “Why should I return home? Don’t you need my help?”

  “As always when the hour of action arrives,” Holmes assured me. “However, unless I’m mistaken, we will have to make a dark descent into a perilous place this night, and so we best prepare ourselves. We’ll meet at Baker Street at ten o’clock, and be sure to bring along your revolver.”

  Doing as Holmes instructed, I returned to our old rooms in Baker Street as the familiar clock above the mantel struck ten. Through a miasma of blue smoke, I spotted Holmes sitting on the floor wearing his dressing-gown, legs crossed, a pouch of tobacco and a telegram in his lap as he puffed on his briar pipe. Taking my familiar seat by the fireplace, I felt most at home. Perhaps too much so, as I said, “Something is weighing on your mind.”

  “And how exactly do you deduce that?” he asked in a subdued voice.

  “A few little things. For instance, you always smoke your black clay pipe unless your mood is blue, then you smoke your old briar pipe. You have also kept the windows closed despite the heat, most likely for the sense of confinem
ent, which you insist aids your concentration.”

  “Excellent, Watson.” His voice suddenly turned grim. “Of course, it all seems so simple after you explain it.”

  My friend’s tone prodded me to acquiesce. “Touché, Holmes. Does that telegram have anything to do with where we are going tonight?”

  “It does. It is from the Wapping headquarters of the Thames River Police, to inform us that safe passage has been arranged for you and I tonight to enter a certain shop in the Dockland.”

  “Why go there? And why should we need any sort of safe passage?”

  Holmes inhaled deeply upon his pipe. “I fear I am asking you to risk a great deal by accompanying me tonight. That is what weighs on my mind. We must go to this shop because it is only there that the confirmations I spoke of earlier can be established.” He pointed to the telegraph. “The necessity of the safe passage is because this shop is under the protection of the city’s most notorious Oriental society, the Triad, who guard it as vigilantly as the Crown Jewels are guarded in the Tower of London. Without this safe passage, it would take the assistance of a regiment for us to reach this shop, and if for any reason the Triad decides to rescind it during our visit, the chances of us escaping are perilously slim.”

  I don’t know if I had ever heard Holmes sound so worried, but there was never any question that he could depend upon me and I told him so.

  “Good old Watson. Our safe passage begins at midnight, so until then I’m afraid all we can do is smoke a quiet pipe and wait.” He said not another word until it was time for to depart.

  From Baker Street we traveled to the East End and descended into that other London. Whitechapel. Aldgate. Spitalfields. Mile End. Ratcliffe Highway. Even at that hour, those mazes of alleys and wharves were brimming with the bawdy music from pubs, the luring aromas of food from around the world drifting from restaurants, the crude voices from various sailor boarding houses, and everywhere the children, those “street arabs” who were “pale and always ailing”. The temperature had precipitately cooled when Holmes stopped to fix his bearings and then look at the sky again. “By the look of that lightning, Watson, it appears this storm is finally going to break. Thank goodness we’ve about reached our destination.”

  “Which is where? You haven’t even told me the name of the place.”

  Instead of answering, Holmes pressed on. “Down this direction.”

  “This way is even bleaker,” I said, convinced after a few steps we must be lost. “Where’s everyone gone? All I see are courtyards, backyard slaughter houses-”

  “And our destination. That rather exotic shop.”

  Through a brick archway that I failed to notice before, I dimly perceived the bland green painted façade of a waterfront shop. From this angle, the shop appeared to be tucked away by itself, with the exception of a large warehouse it abutted. Above the door was a sign, “‘The Way to Heaven’. Scarcely an apt name, I would wager.”

  “Let’s pray it is not a prophetic one for us.” At that second, the skies opened. “Here’s the rain! Inside, Watson, before we’re drenched!”

  Upon entering the shop, I realized that Holmes had been right to call it exotic. Walking through its rooms was, I imagine, like walking through the Great Yarmark, the famous summer fair at Nijni-Novogrod. Among the collectibles I saw were Javanese pottery, cow-tail coats, jeweled idols, and bizarre arms and armors. In the back rooms was a zoo stocked with animals from the four corners of the globe, including a black swan, a Sumatra civet cat, a black panther, even a pair of petulant crocodiles. We spotted no other human beings until we reached the rear of the shop, where an ancient-looking Chinese man waited for us beside a large ornate drapery.

  “Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson. Welcome to The Way to Heaven. I am Hip Yee. This is my shop.”

  “Good evening,” said Holmes. “I believe we’re expected.”

  “Yes, sirs. Tseng is waiting. Through this passage, please. The way is dark, but not too dark. I will take you.” The proprietor drew back the drapery to reveal a red-brick groined tunnel. We followed Hip Yee in, and, as we descended, I asked Holmes, “Tseng is here? How did you find him?”

  “We have the Thames River Police to thank for that. I deduced that Tseng is involved with the Triad, so it seemed likely that they would be hiding him somewhere in the Dockland, where the Triad is strongest in London. I presented what details I had to the River Police, who used that information and their expertise of the Dockland to locate Tseng and contact him. We are here because the Triad agreed to give us safe passage after Tseng consented to speak with us.”

  “And here you are, gentlemen.” Hip Yee stopped before a great oxidized iron door, which he opened with far less effort than I would have supposed. “Inside, please, gentlemen. Please wait here for Tseng.” We passed through, the door closed behind us, and we found ourselves in a large chamber. What I saw was beyond belief.

  “Holmes. This room. It’s - it’s-”

  “Remarkable?”

  “It’s Angus-Burton’s collection! Every piece of it! But this... this is incredible. No, it’s impossible! Tseng could never have stolen it all and replaced it by himself.”

  “You are correct. He couldn’t. And he didn’t.”

  Before Holmes could explicate, the great door opened and we were joined by a Chinese man of proud bearing wearing a long loose white garment. Like many middle-aged men of Asiatic heritage, it was difficult to decipher his exact age. The newcomer could just as easily been in his early forties as his early sixties. His hair was black, his green eyes were bright and perceptive, and I appraised that he had likely been quite handsome in his youth. Speaking with a voice tinged by an accent, the man said, “I am Tseng. Welcome to my home.”

  Forgetting our circumstances, I retorted, “Your home? Everything in this room, sir, has been taken from the study of Malcolm Angus-Burton!”

  “What you say is true, Doctor.”

  “Then you admit you’re a thief!”

  “I admit I have committed a crime, but I have no qualms about how other men shall judge me. I am content in my heart.” Having dismissed me, Tseng turned towards my companion. “I am curious, Mr. Holmes. How did you know to have the River Police search for me here? Pains were taken to leave no trail.”

  With the respectful voice of a patient schoolteacher, Holmes told Tseng, “A man leaves trails throughout his life that can be followed by someone who knows how. In your case, when you were an orphan you lived for a time in Macao.”

  “I fail to see anything revealing in that.”

  “No, but I am a student of crime. Not only in England but across the world. So I know that for the past several years a Triad branch has operated in Macao, and that they often attempt to recruit orphans into their society.”

  Tseng pondered this, perhaps recollecting moments from his past, then nodded. “Lost souls can make dedicated if mindless soldiers. However, I never joined the Triad as a child. Instead, I fled to Canton.”

  “I must confess I was uncertain if you joined them then, although it seemed logical that you did not. If you had, there would have been no need for you to be taken in by the Angus-Burtons.”

  “Living with them was indeed a better option than joining the Triad. The Angus-Burtons cared for me well and saw to my education. No one could have been more grateful to his benefactors than I.”

  “Mrs. Angus-Burton sings your praises as a handyman. I see from the calluses on your palms and fingers that you are more than that. You are a sculptor as well as a carpenter.”

  “And he would have to be to make all the forgeries in Angus-Burton’s study,” I said.

  “But he didn’t make them all,” Holmes told me, then returned to Tseng. “That is how I knew you had joined the Triad. The number of forgeries involved with this grand substitution was too great for one person to create, even if he had a
lifetime to complete them, much less three years.”

  This piqued Tseng. “Why do you say three years?”

  “That is how long both of Malcolm Angus-Burton’s parents have been dead. That is when your former master inherited the family’s estate and all its possessions, including these treasures taken from your homeland.”

  “So you think that was my motive for wanting to possess this collection? Because these treasures were taken from China?” Tseng appeared to be almost disappointed with Holmes.

  “No. You lived in the Angus-Burton household ten years longer than their only son, but you received nothing in their will. Your motive was that you were not remembered.”

  This stunned Tseng, who remained silent for several moments. When he found his voice, he stammered, “How could you know that?”

  “Mrs. Angus-Burton told me you left all your belongings behind when you disappeared, which is a most telling act in and of itself. To stay on point, however, when I searched the Angus-Burton home earlier this evening, I found nothing in your room that could be construed as an heirloom.”

  “It is a plain and mostly empty room. Tell me, why was leaving my belongings behind so telling?”

  “To borrow a gambling phrase, you overplayed your hand. If you had taken your belongings and left a letter of resignation, then your disappearance would have been dismissed as unexpected but not unusual. Logically, that would have been the preferable effect if your substitution of the collection were successful. This would mean, though, that your former master would not suffer as you suffered when his parents forgot about you. Mrs. Angus-Burton told us her husband loves you like an uncle, so if you vanished inexplicably, then Angus-Burton would always wonder and worry what happened to you.”

  What Holmes was describing struck me as reprehensible. “If that’s true, it’s more malicious then the robbery!”

  Instead of refuting, Tseng queried Holmes, “What evidence do you have to suggest that I could be so vindictive?”