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

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “It was very foolish of you to come here,” he growled at us. “Now put your guns on the floor and walk back out of the house or momsy gets a bullet through her head.”

  I looked at Holmes and Lestrade. They nodded and we lowered our guns. As we did the man holding the gun, let out a scream of pain and an oath. Gertrude Ring had sunk her teeth firmly into one of his fingers. But while keeping the barrel of the revolver pointed directly at her he drew the gun back a few inches and then jammed it violently into her jaw, forcing her to release his bleeding finger.

  “Don’t be a bunch of pussy cats,” came a shout from Miss Ring, whose mouth was now uncovered. “For goodness sake shoot this blighter.”

  The villain adjusted his hold on Miss Ring and slid his head until it was almost completely hidden behind hers. We could not risk a shot without fear of her being killed.

  “I will give you just three seconds to put the guns on the floor or the lady will die. One …two …”

  The three of us did as he had demanded and tossed the guns onto the floor.

  “Right, now move away from the door …”

  That was as far as he got before he let out another scream of pain and I could see that Miss Ring’s hand had attached itself to his nether region and was inflicting excruciating pain in that part of the anatomy that all men are wise not to allow to be squashed.

  He let out another curse and moved to strike her hand away. As he did, the distinct sound of Webley Bulldog exploded in the hall behind me. A bullet screamed past my ear and the villain who was more concerned for his manhood than his life fell back away from Miss Ring and onto the floor. Lestrade was on him in a second with another gun, a Bulldog, that he had pulled from his pocket.

  “Bloody well time you got here,” said Miss Ring. “And hello there, Victor. Nice shot. Well done, son. Did they get the other two blighters? Splendid. Then I suggest that we get out of this place. I loathe being kept in the same room for days on end. There’s a pub in the village. I am on my way. You may as well join me.”

  She strolled past the three of us and directly into the arms of her son. They gave each other a quick squeeze and walked out of the house.

  “I could go for that,” said Lestrade. “But first I have to get to the telegraph office and tell the boys up in Cambridge to arrest the Germans before they hear about what has happened and make a run for it.”

  “No Inspector,” said Holmes, “you really mustn’t do that.”

  Lestrade gave a hard look to Holmes. “Listen here, Holmes. I will give you credit for finding the lady, but you do not tell me whether or not I can make an arrest.”

  “Oh, my dear Inspector. I am not telling you not to make an arrest. I am only telling you not to arrest the wrong criminal. Please have someone go quickly and arrest the accountant.”

  One of the police wagons took off back to Falmouth with the prisoners and the wounded bloke who had killed Jerry. Holmes and Lestrade headed off to the telegraph office and the remaining constables, Inspector Jones, Victor, his mom, and I all settled in at the Top House, which claimed to the be most southerly public house in all of England.

  After a few pleasantries, Peter Jones turned to Victor. “That was quite that shot you took there, lad. What with a short barrel, nipping in between the heads of the inspector and the doctor and popping one into the blackguard’s shoulder. You’ve had a bit of practice I’ll wager.”

  Victor looked a bit embarrassed. “My mom made me learn how. Shooting practice fell every week in between Latin and math. I’ve been a pretty good shot since I was twelve.”

  At this point, Holmes and Lestrade returned and joined us. I borrowed Lestrade’s customary command to Holmes.

  “Out with it, Holmes,” I said. “No playing games. I would have bet my last farthing on the Germans. Tell me where we all went wrong.”

  Holmes slowly lit his pipe and took a sustained draft. He followed that with a slow pull on his ale. Then he smiled and spoke.

  “I did not for one minute believe the Germans were not spies. After all, we spy on them. So, it is to be expected. I asked Mycroft for his file on the Professors Stark and Carpenter. He informed me that not only did the Foreign Office know that they were secretly married to each other but he confirmed that they were also known to be agents of the Kaiser. They were suspected of sending all sorts of sensitive information back to Berlin. However, they were not for one second suspected of trying to steal the plans for using steam turbines to drive warships.”

  “That makes no sense, sir,” said Victor. “I can assure you that once we put those machines into our battleships, every other boat on the ocean will be outclassed. We will have a tremendous advantage.”

  “Right you are,” said Holmes. “I did not say that they will not copy our designs, only that they would not steal them. For reasons that are beyond all common sense, our splendid British industries, with the help of our banks and the full support of the Exchequer, look forward to selling them everything they need. Our very own fools believe that England will make wondrous profits from our inventions, and that by telling all the other nations of the world not to be nasty and copy us they will all do as they are told. Ha. Within a few months, the Germans will make some superficial changes, perhaps even improvements, and put our turbines into their battleships. England’s advantage will then be lost. Professor Stark is already working hand in glove with Parsons and Company to sell turbines for warships all over the world. They will make a fortune. They would have been complete fools to engage in kidnapping and murder when a bill of sale would do the same thing.”

  “But really, Holmes,” I said. “How could you have reasoned that it was the accountant. There was nothing to suggest that he was part of it.”

  “No, my friend,” replied Holmes, “there were, in fact, many things. What was the inscription on the clock on his desk?”

  “It read,” I said, ‘“For twenty-five years of loyal service.’ He has been working for Charles Parsons for his entire career.”

  “He has been doing nothing of the sort,” Holmes shot back. “Parsons and Company only came into existence a year ago. And next tell me what was inscribed on his cufflinks.”

  I racked my brain on that one. “A bit foggy, but I believe they have the initials ‘V’ and ‘M’.”

  “And you assumed, all of you, that the ‘M’ stood for his name, Malcolm, and the ‘V’ must have been his wife or former sweetheart or some such person.”

  I nodded my agreement. I had glanced at the cufflinks briefly and had only a vague memory of them. Victor was asked for his response, but he was back on Planet Dreamland.

  “Men,” said Holmes, “do not inscribe initials of themselves and their wives or sweethearts with their Christian name in the second position. We always, for reasons that do not need to be belabored, put our initial in first place, followed by the woman’s. Is that not correct, Miss Ring?”

  “Always.”

  “The ‘V’ and ‘M’ stood for Venner & Matheson. The firm for whom he worked for twenty-five years and to whom alone he was loyal. That firm has been building steam engines driven by pistons for a hundred years. The move to turbines would leave them so far behind they would soon be bankrupt. Mr. Ferguson was their spy. He regularly sent them all the notes and accounts he could copy but the actual design, the complex engineering behind the new turbines, the part of the project that truly was secret, was held inside the heads of only a few people, Victor being one of them. He knew of Victor’s devotion to his mother and he hatched the idea of the kidnapping. Whether he expected that the thugs hired by Venner and Matheson would go so far as to commit murder, I cannot say. That is now in Lestrade’s hands.

  “When I made my visit to the Town’s Administrative Office this afternoon, I not only asked where the manor houses were located, I also asked who owned them. Housel House is owned by a Mr. Wallace Matheson. That was all I needed. It had to be where Miss Ring was being held.”

  Holmes had completed his explanation a
nd took another long draft on his pipe and another pull on his ale.

  Inspector Jones and the constables all voiced their congratulations to Holmes and then rose along with Lestrade and excused themselves, leaving just Holmes, Victor, his mom, and me. Victor turned to his mom and said, “Mom, Mr. Holmes here says that Philippa is in love with me. I just can’t believe that. Is it really true?”

  Gertrude Ring looked directly into the face of her son. “Of course, it’s true. She has been smitten with you since the day you began working together. It is written all over her. She loves you for the same reason I do and it is certainly not for your face. It’s for what’s behind it.”

  Did you enjoy this story? Are there ways it could have been improved? Please help the author and future readers of future New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries by posting a review on the site from which you purchased this book. Thanks, and happy sleuthing and deducing.

  Historical Notes

  Charles Parsons invented the steam turbine in the 1880s and adapted it to drive naval vessels. Two decades later several of his powerful steam turbines were installed into the largest, fastest and most heavily gunned battleship that had ever been built. It was named The Dreadnaught.

  The Germans copied it, and the Dreadnaught Race was underway. Naval warfare was changed forever.

  The character of Gertrude Ring is based on and a tribute to the exceptional Gertrude Margaret Bell. Her real-life exploits and adventures surpass anything that could be imagined in a work of fiction.

  Dr. Thomas Bernardo opened many homes for orphans and destitute children during the late Victorian era and although some of his practices are now no longer acceptable, he is considered one of England’s great humanitarians.

  Philippa Fawcett was a historical person. She was one of the first women to attend classes at Cambridge University. In 1890, she wrote the Third Mathematical Tripos and scored higher than any man by a wide margin. She was denied the title of Senior Wrangler, however, since that could only be given to a male student.

  The Cavendish Laboratory in the New Museum Site of Cambridge University was the site of many incredible scientific discoveries including the structure of the atom and the splitting of it under the direction of Ernest Rutherford. In 1953, Francis Crick and James Watson (no relation) and a team of other scientists working at Cavendish Laboratory discovered the “double helix” structure of the DNA molecule. According to local legend, they announced this breakthrough to their colleagues in The Eagle Pub.

  Nightingales are found throughout England, except in Cornwall. The Cornwall Chough is only seen, and rarely, at The Lizard.

  The screening of employees to work in top secret projects of the British government merely by the phrase “we know his people” will be recognized by many of you as the only security measure applied by MI6 to its most famous recruit from Cambridge – Kim Philby.

  And some of you might also have recognized the location in King’s Cross Station where Holmes was waiting for Watson.

  The Notable Bachelorette

  Chapter One

  Enter His Ignoble Lordship

  I WAS NOT AT ALL FOND OF LORD ST. SIMON. To be frank, Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, eldest son of the Duke of Balmoral, was one of those bluest of bluebloods whose exalted opinion of himself was entirely without foundation or merit, his very existence on this earth having been the result of no more than a five-minute conjugal interlude between his mother and his father some forty-one years ago. If he suspected that you might not be sufficiently enlightened as to his pedigree, he was sure to let you know that through his veins flowed Plantagenet blood by direct descent and Tudor on the distaff side. Although he moved in exalted circles, he had made no contribution to English society, and the only occupation he ever held was some sort of Under-Under Secretary in the Home Office, where he would show up for work at eleven o’clock and be gone by half-past four, having taken a full hour for lunch, followed by a nap. By five o’clock he could be found in White’s Club on St. James, swilling brandy and muttering complaints that the coveted bay window table was occupied by the Prince of Wales, whom he considered to have been unfairly privileged by birth. His stately home amongst the rocky rolling hills and forests of Buckinghamshire was one of the oldest in England and situated not too far distant from the newly erected Wallesdon Manor of the Rothschilds. The two monstrous houses had been compared to each other; the former being old and hideous and the latter new, but likewise hideous.

  All in all, I could not, even when diligently trying to be charitable, conceive of any reason why he deserved to continue to exist on God’s good earth. Unfortunately for Lord St. Simon, I was not alone in my convictions.

  Some years have passed since the events related to the noble poseur took place. I have reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the general public and, as the entire plot took several years to unfold, the press soon lost interest and moved on to fresh scandals with more piquant details which eclipsed it. Therefore, I believe that it is now appropriate to set the truth upon the record, and to reveal to the public the unique role of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, in this notable and tragic episode.

  It was on one afternoon during my early years of sharing rooms with Sherlock Holmes that I came in from an afternoon stroll. I had returned early from my fledgling medical practice; the roster of patients being less than I had hoped for. While Holmes was deep into some journal of forensic chemistry I, who had nothing more demanding to occupy my time, was standing at our bay window looking vacantly down on the humdrum quotidian life of Baker Street.

  I gave into my mischievous nature and interrupted my friend’s concentration. “I say, Holmes, what do you think of all those reports in the press of the vanishing of Lady St. Simon? She has not been seen now for nearly two weeks.”

  Holmes looked up and scowled at me. “Honestly Watson, I do not think about it at all. Once it passed from the front pages and into the salacious idiocy of the gossip columns, I paid no attention.”

  I persisted. “Ah, but have there not been suggestions of foul play? Or of extortions? Or of illicit love affairs? Surely those rumors must have piqued your interest.”

  “Really Watson,” he said with annoyed exasperation, “what in heaven’s name makes you think I would be attracted to yet another pathetic marital disaster among our parasitical nobility, and why on earth are you bothering me about it?”

  “Oh, no reason.” I paused and then continued. “Very well, I admit, Holmes, there is a rather important reason, and I do think you should hear it out.”

  Holmes tossed down his journal and glared at me. “Fine then. Out with it. Please speak your piece and let me return to a profitable use of my time.”

  “The reason, my dear Holmes, is that Lord St. Simon is standing beside his carriage on the pavement in front of our door. I fully suspect that he is about to knock on it and will appear in this room within the next two minutes.”

  Holmes did not pick up his journal but stood and came to the window. “Indeed, it is the charlatan himself. Let us listen to his tale of self-aggrandized and self-inflicted woe and send him on his way.”

  I began to scurry around the room and tidy up the huge bundle of newspapers that had accumulated during the past hour. Holmes rebuked me sharply. “Doctor Watson, there is no need for that. I will not have anyone think that I am about to prostrate myself before some titled twit.”

  “And I,” I snapped back, “would tidy a room before a fishmonger or a tide-waiter entered as a mark of decent respect that is owed to any visitor.”

  The exchange between us went no further as Billy the pageboy announced our visitor and presented his card. It was over-sized and printed in full color. A huge crest and monogram adorned the top half of it.

  Lord Robert St. Simon was announced. A gentleman entered. He had a pleasant and cultured face, high-nosed, pale, and a mouth that was somewhat diminished by his biting on both upper and lower lips. He had removed his foppish, curly-brimm
ed hat and exposed a full head of wavy blond hair. He stared silently first at me and then at Holmes, and then spoke is a strong voice, like one who pretends to the rank of a general.

  “Which of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I am he,” replied Holmes. “And please enter and be seated and tell me about the disastrous mess you have made of your personal life. If I am in a position to take on your case, I will inform you promptly.”

  He strode purposefully across the room and sat in the basket chair. He crossed his arms, extended his long legs, patent leather shoes, and light-colored gaiters, and sloped toward the floor. “Not one to waste time I see. Terse and to the point. Good. So am I. I am in a difficult position and my distant cousin and friend, Lord Backwater of Crosshaltwhistle, has recommended you.”

  “Please pass on my thanks for his reference when you see him tomorrow at White’s.”

  “You know him?”

  “I have not performed any services for that gentleman,” said Holmes. “but I have been informed that he reads everything that enters your esteemed Club, including The Strand.”

  “Yes, well, there is no accounting for taste in any matter, including one’s reading materials. However, I trust his judgment, although I must assume that you have had no experience in dealing with my class of society.”

  “On the contrary,” parried Holmes. “Just last month a gentleman sat where you are who was like you in every respect, except one minor one.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He was very wealthy.”

  St. Simon’s eyebrows shot up but more I suspected from curiosity that being affronted. “Oh, you must mean Hughie Grosvenor. Was he here to get help for his brat of a second son? Quite that handful that queer little blighter is.”