Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “I was very vexed with him and I demanded that he explain himself. He said, ‘It wasn’t all that hard to track down the old girl. Just a bit of detective work by yours truly. Of course, I have a fee for my services, which I am sure you will be happy to pay.’

  “I demanded to know what he was asking and how he expected me to believe him. He replied by saying that he would defer payment until my mother was found, and that he would accept my word as an Englishman that I would pay up upon finding her. I said …”

  Holmes interrupted him at this point. “And what was his fee? Something connected to all the notes you have written concerning the engineering behind this project of yours? Is that correct?”

  “Well, yes sir. That is exactly what he demanded. How could you have known that?”

  “There is not time to explain. Please continue with your account.”

  “First I responded in anger and called him some rather vile names and he just laughed and mocked me in return and again insulted my appearance. Then I caught hold of my emotions and tried to cool my blood and told him that of course I would part with all my documentation as it was a trifle to me and I would find other things to investigate and submit next year. So, could he please deliver on his boast. Then I told him I would meet with him tomorrow afternoon and hand over my research notes in return for his information on the whereabouts of my mother.”

  “Ah well done, Victor,” said Holmes. “Let us take this matter from here on. Instead of you meeting with him it shall be Watson and I and we shall be able, I am sure, to rescue your mother and protect your diligent research all at the same time.”

  After some exchange of plans for the morrow, Victor departed.

  “How,” I asked, “did you know that it would be that arrogant young blue-blood?”

  “Oh my goodness, Watson. How could it not have been? His story about living on tobacco and coffee for seventy-two hours was utter rubbish. For twenty years I have steeled my constitution so that I can focus my mind and concentrate on a case and even I cannot possibly keep it up for more than sixty. His claim was an obvious lie. Furthermore, I said that there had been several accusations against him. He responded to only one. There have been, in truth, at least a half dozen people come forward and made claims against him, yet every one of them has been withdrawn and apologies issued shortly afterward. When that pattern is repeated so often, then it is a sure sign that someone who has access to significant sums of money is paying it out on a regular basis and believes that he can buy his way to whatever he wants. Young Jerry has spent all of his time sculling up and down the river and has nothing to present this fall to certify the research he is supposed to have done. He knew that Victor Hatherley’s integrity could never be bought and so he took advantage of his Achilles’s heel and kidnapped his mother. A bit of a desperate ploy but it might have worked.”

  “Had not,” I said in triumph, “Victor managed to run away and come to Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Ah, my friend. You do not give yourself credit. This case was one that you brought to me else I would not have been asked to assist and thus could not have solved it so readily.”

  “And will you fully expose the blighter and have him shamed and sent down?”

  Holmes closed his eyes for a minute before responding. “No. I think not. Master Jerry is still a young man with a very brht mind and has the potential to do good if he can be turned, forcibly if necessary, back onto the right track.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “Why blackmail, of course. I will terrify him into getting out of his silly rowboat and into the library and completing his work properly, and I shall keep up the threat of exposing him until he graduates and is no longer tempted to stray. Yes. That is the course I believe I will pursue. I rather suspect that the indomitable Miss Ring would go along with it.”

  “I would not be surprised if she does. And when shall we accost young Mr. Hayling-Kynynmound? Do you know his place of residence?”

  “No, but we do know where he will be at the start of the midday lunch break, and we shall be waiting for him there tomorrow.”

  The following morning, I again met Holmes at King’s Cross Station and we boarded the train to Cambridge. I complimented him again on his solving the case and I began to make some notes toward writing it up as a story.

  “Really, Watson, must you? It has turned out to be one of the more trivial cases presented to me. I confess I had secretly hoped that the villains had turned out to be German spies and not just an obnoxious young aristocrat who cheats. Nevertheless, justice will be served, and our client shall have his beloved mother returned to him.”

  He then opened a book and began to read. The book was not related to hydraulic engineering and I was quite sure I would never again see such a book in his hands.

  By late morning, we had arrived in Cambridge and walked all the way past through the grounds, across Parker’s Piece and Jesus Green to the far side of the River Cam where the University boathouse is situated. As we were approaching, we saw a young man wearing athletic short pants and shirt lifting a single scull shell out of the boathouse and placing it gingerly into the water.

  “That’s him,” I said. “Should we run to catch him before he sets out?”

  “No need,” said Holmes. “He is a diligent oarsman even if not a student. He will set his blades carefully into the gates and his feet into the shoes and make all the necessary adjustments before pushing off. There is more than enough time.”

  As Jerry was kneeling on the dock and setting his oars into place, another man in full street dress came out of the boathouse and knelt down beside him. They appeared to exchange a few words and then the second fellow drew a revolver out of his pocket. We heard the loud, sharp retort of a shot being fired. Jerry’s hands went up in the air. His body toppled backward, first on to the shell and then off into the water. The assailant stood and ran back around the far end of the boathouse.

  Holmes and I exchanged a startled glance and then ran toward the dock. We could see Jerry making slow flailing movements in the water. I sprinted as best I could and tossed off my jacket and jumped into the water. I was no champion swimmer, but the BEF had forced all recruits, even those who only served in the deserts of Afghanistan, to learn to swim and so I was able to pull the lad to the dock where Holmes hoisted him out. I lifted myself up from the water and immediately pulled up the thin shirt, now soaked in blood, and saw a wound in the chest, issuing fearful amounts of blood. I applied direct pressure to the hole in the taut young body and feared the worst. “Hold on, Jerry!” I shouted. “Force yourself to keep breathing.”

  He was looking up into my eyes and I could see the terror in his. I felt his chest expand and contract as he desperately attempted to keep air flowing into his lungs. Then I saw his gaze wander away from my face. His eyes began to quiver and roll in their sockets. His breathing became irregular and then, first quietly and with increasing volume I heard that horrifying sound that I so clearly remembered from my days caring for dying soldiers – the rattle of death. It continued for some ten seconds and then ceased. His breathing stopped. I checked his pulse and it had vanished. He was dead.

  Several students had gathered around the dock and the now deceased body. There was a quiet and fearful murmur coming from them. One took off his coat and laid it over the body. I was now shivering in my wet clothes and one of the boys handed me the jacket I had tossed off a few minutes ago. He removed his dry sweater and gave that to me as well. A constable appeared, and then another one. Sherlock Holmes spoke to them.

  “My name, gentlemen, is Sherlock Holmes. This young man has been murdered and the crime is related to a kidnaping in Reading and possible treason. Please contact Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard and ask him to come to Cambridge immediately.”

  One of the policemen hurried off. The other repeatedly told the swelling crowd to back away. We waited for some ten minutes until the police wagon appeared, during which time Sherlock Holmes said nothi
ng. He stood, fixed in place, looking down on the body of Jeremiah Hayling-Kynynmound.

  Several constables emerged from the wagon and lifted the lifeless body and placed it inside. Once they had departed the remaining constable told the crowd to disburse and then spoke to Holmes and me.

  “You two appear to be the only witnesses. If Scotland Yard is on their way, I think it best that you give your statements directly to them. They should be here within two hours. We will need you to come to the Parkside Constabulary Station at that time.”

  I assured him we would. Holmes nodded but did not speak. Once the constable had walked away, he turned to me. He could not mask an intense feeling of pain and sadness.

  “My dear friend,” he said. “Please get yourself to a hotel and some dry clothes. I need some time to be with my thoughts. Could you please come and fetch me when Lestrade appears? I will be somewhere on the Jesus Green.” He turned and walked away from me.

  I walked to the closest hotel, booked a room and arranged for some dry clothes. I restored my body with some tea and nourishment and then walked over to the Constabulary Office. I was told that Lestrade would be arriving shortly and so went looking for my friend. I found him sitting on a bench at the north side of the Jesus Green, close to the edge of the River Cam. I had expected to find him puffing on his beloved pipe and deep in thought. Instead, I saw him bent over with his head in his hands. I approached him and laid my hand on his shoulder and gave a bit of a squeeze.

  “Come, my friend,” I said. “Lestrade is on his way.”

  He did not reply and did not stand. He placed his hand on top of mine and held it tightly.

  “My dear friend,” he said quietly, “before today I have looked upon several score of corpses, some recently deceased. However, I have never watched a man die. It is not an easy thing to do. You must have endured it many times during the war. Does it get easier?”

  “No. Every time is terrible and terrifying. I have been utterly helpless many times and could do nothing but hold a young man in my arms as he quietly and fearfully bled to death.”

  “I could have prevented this,” Holmes said.” Had I not been so cocksure and dismissed the case as nothing more than a despicable instance of cheating by a schoolboy. I failed to see that I was dealing with something much more sinister. I failed this young lad, and his family, and myself.”

  “As did I,” I said, “every time a soldier died that I might have saved had I only arrived ten minutes earlier. There is only one solution to the pain that accompanies those memories, and that is to try not to think about them. With the passing of time the feelings fade, but they never die.”

  Holmes nodded and slowly rose and we walked past Christ’s Pieces and on to the Constabulary Office.

  Lestrade and two of his assistant inspectors were waiting for us by the time we arrived. One I recognized as Inspector Peter Jones. Holmes considered him a dimwit but had respect for his legendary courage and toughness. The other chap, a newer recruit I assumed, was introduced to us as Inspector Bainbridge. Also, at the table was Victor Hatherley, who had obviously been summoned by Lestrade for this meeting, and a police stenographer.

  “So Holmes,” began Lestrade, “what’s this I hear about you showing up in time to watch a lad get shot, pull him out of the river and watch him die? Fat lot of use you’ve been today.”

  Holmes did not respond to the taunt but just nodded and said nothing.

  Lestrade continued. “Of course, if you did real police work instead of amateur detective-for-hire you would know it happens all the time. I’ve lost count of the men I’ve had to watch die over the past twenty-five years. The only good thing is that most of them were blackguards who were trying to kill me so I shot them. Far too many were victims of murderers, and two were my own men. And that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is the worst thing that can ever happen to a police inspector. So, if you are going to be fighting criminals you jolly well better get used to it.”

  Again, Holmes did not respond. Lestrade changed his tone and got down to business. “You and your pal were the only witnesses, Holmes, so why don’t we start with you giving me your statement. And none of your theories. Just the facts.”

  Holmes again nodded and in an impassive voice gave a complete history of the case to date, beginning with my bringing Victor Hatherley to his office and ending with the death of Jeremiah Hayling-Kynynmound. I was not surprised at his orderly account. His memory was superhuman and his capacity for ordering data was unparalleled. What I did find amazing was his description of the murderer. He told the details of his height and weight, his hair color, his side-whiskers and mustache, the shape of his nose and his clothing, right down to his boots. When he finished and before Lestrade could comment young Hatherley spoke up.

  “Gentlemen, if I may, that is exactly one of the men that I came upon in my mother’s house. That is the one who came after me with a gun.”

  “Is that so?” said Lestrade. “Then it would seem that I should not have laughed you out of my office when you came in with your story of your crazy mother’s latest adventure. I will keep that in mind for the next time you show up.”

  He then turned to me. “Right, anything to add to Mr. Holmes account Dr. Watson, or is your job only to write up this story and make Holmes look like a hero again?”

  Following Holmes’s example, I ignored the jibe and said, “I can add nothing to the facts of the case or to my friend’s description of the murderer. The only information I can offer is that the gun he used today was a Webley British Bulldog. It has a distinct retort to it and I heard it save many soldiers’ lives when in close fighting.”

  Peter Jones followed my comment, saying, “Aye. I know the sound. If you’ve heard it fired enough times, there is no mistaking it. A favorite of both soldiers and criminals it is, aye.”

  Lestrade then turned to Victor. “Very well then, your turn. You, the brilliant young engineer with a face only a mother could love. Holmes says that Momsy is only the bait and that you are the real prize. What do you have to add?”

  Victor reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew an envelope and placed it on the table.

  “I did as Mr. Holmes had instructed and sent the letter that Dr. Watson and I had prepared. As I left the laboratory this afternoon to come here, this envelope was in my box. I have no idea who put it there, but I assume that you will want to read it. The note signed by my mother is unquestionably from her hand.”

  Lestrade snatched it off of the table, opened it and held it up so both he and Jones could read the contents. When they had finished, they both just looked at each other, smirked and tossed the pages back onto the table. I retrieved them and made to hand them to Holmes, but he gestured that I should read them first. There was a sloppily written note on the top and much neater one below it. The top note ran:

  Now you know what happens to those who try to thwart us. If you do not want your mother to die in the water as well, you will now do as you were told.

  The second note was in a feminine hand and ran:

  My dear son:

  In response to the demand that I write something in my hand that proves that I am alive I have selected, and my captors have agreed, a description of my early morning routine as you are the only person on earth who has an intimate knowledge of that subject, having shared the same home with your mother for a decade.

  I will describe yesterday morning, the seventh of August. I had, as I often do, slept poorly even though the night was completely silent and no noise disturbed me. I woke, as I do every day to the sound of the dawn chorus. I looked out of my window over the lawns and copses of trees and after the sunrise at two minutes past six o’clock, I observed many of the birds that you know are your mother’s favorites. These included three different types of Shearwaters – the Cory’s, Sooty and Balearic – both the Spotted and Pied Fly-Catcher, the Buff-breasted Sandpiper, and a few of those obnoxious crows with the red beaks and legs.

  Having completed my morning quiet t
ime with the birds, I read for the rest of the day in the continuous and undimmed sunlight.

  It is my hope and prayer that these words will assure you that I am alive and well as no one else could have possibly written them.

  Your loving Gerty-mommy.

  Chapter Seven

  Mom Sends Us West

  MY REACTION WAS, I ADMIT, much the same as that of Lestrade and Jones. The note was a chatty piece from mother to son. It proved that she was alive and well on the previous day but gave no other information that was in any way helpful to us.

  I looked over at Holmes as he was reading the same notes. What I saw caused me to stop and catch my breath. The look of desperate despondency and despair that had been on his face had vanished. His eyes had brightened and I could tell he was biting his lower lip to constrain his facial expression. The forefinger of the hand not holding the notes had been pressed against his thumb hard enough for the flesh under his fingernails to turn white. He finished reading and calmly put the papers back on the table and rose from his seat.

  “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, please. It has been a deeply troublesome day and I require time to make sense of it all as well as to look into some matters in the library. It is imperative, however, that we meet again tomorrow morning. May I beseech you to join me at The Eagle for a good English breakfast at half-past seven o’clock? I assure you it is of great importance.”

  He did not wait for an answer but quickly made his way out of the station.

  Lestrade looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders. He then turned to Jones and said, “Holmes is a queer bird if ever there was one but I’ve seen him like this before and I know he is on to something. We will see you, Watson, and you, Hatherley at The Eagle bright and early tomorrow.”

  Young Victor tackled me on the sidewalk. “What in the world was that all about?” he demanded.

  “I am blind as a mole,” I replied. “But Lestrade is totally right. Sherlock Holmes is on to something and we will find out when he chooses to reveal it to us. All I can tell you is to be there tomorrow morning. And I might ask that if you own a firearm, you should bring it along. Do you have one?”