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

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “Well golly gee Mr. Holmes, I hope it won’t be too upsetting to your uppity sensibilities but it so happens that I was not there alone and the room was not in my name. So, mister attorney says all we have to do is send a subpoena to the feller I was with and he’ll have to come and testify. Like I said, piece of cake.”

  “Are you saying that for the past two weeks or more you have been living at the Savoy?”

  “No, not exactly. For the first week I was holed up in a real nice house in Grosvenor Mansions with a real cute young aristocrat boy, but he got to be a real bore so I found me a real nice rich American feller, and he was staying at the Savoy so I moved out and moved on.”

  I found myself speechless, but Holmes persevered. “Before you leave, Miss Harriot, please tell me what you know about Lady Flora Miller.”

  “You mean Bob’s number one mistress, Florie? His little secret of his own before the marriage? Why she’s a real fine gal. I first heard all about her from the maids. She put up with Bob promising to get hitched with her for near on a decade, and she got a burr under her saddle when he arrives with me, and frankly I can’t blame her. So, after the baby is born, I go and see her and we have a real good gal to gal chat. See, my Pa made real sure I got raised in the Code of the West and it tells a feller, or a gal for that matter, that you got to be fair and honest and decent in all your dealings, and don’t you dare rustle someone else’s cattle, especially a prize bull. So Florie and I talk and we agree that it’s fair that half of Bob’s money has to go to the children, and that she and I split the other half fifty-fifty. And we shake on it. And then we go to Bob and hold his feet to the fire and force him to acquiesce and make him change his will and all. And if he don’t I will divorce him and take my share, and Florie will sue him for breaking his promise and take her share, and we’ll tell the courts that being a lecher he’s unfit to be a father, and I’ll take the boys and he’ll be left with nothing but his smelly old house and forests until he dies, and then we’ll split up everything he ever had, all fair and square. So, he agrees.

  “And now it’s time to hit the trail. I’m off to Paris next week. Real nice getting to know you, two boys. Got to go. Happy trails.”

  She strutted out the door and quickly down the stairs. I looked over at Holmes and said, “Has America really come to his? That young woman is unfettered by any sort of decent traditions. She has no better morals than an alley cat. I thought that Boston and beyond was entirely a congregation of Puritans. What in the world happened?”

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes, musing, “life changes once you travel west of the Mississippi. Or perhaps west of the Appalachians. I cannot say, but she certainly is a most unusual client with a truly interesting case. It will prove curious and demanding, and that is all that matters. So, my dear Watson, can you be ready on Friday morning?”

  “For what?”

  “A journey to Buckinghamshire, as requested by our new and notable, if not particularly noble, client.”

  Chapter Six

  A Scene in Buckinghamshire

  TWO DAYS LATER, FIRST THING in the next morning, Holmes and I were up and off to Aylesbury. It was a mid-autumnal morning and still dark as we walked the few blocks from 221B Baker Street over to Marylebone Station. Two hours later we were in the midst of Buckinghamshire, where we hired a local chap with a dog-cart to take us up the road to the St. Simon estate.

  When I sought to ascertain that the driver knew the way he replied, “Oh most surely, sir. Had quite a few of you gents from London come to His Lordship over the past year or two. All said they had business dealing with him, they did. I would have said the same about you two gents excepting, of course, that we heard that His Lordship got himself shot a couple of days back. So, I would be supposing that you gents have business dealings with his estate, right? I heard when having me pint last night at the pub that the younger brother has returned to look after all the affairs. It would be nice to see that lad again. We were all rather fond of him even if he were a bit straight-laced for most of us. But he was always real proper and respectful he was.”

  He chatted on about the St. Simon family and the new neighbors, the Rothschilds. He suggested a detour so we could have a viewing of the massive new Wallesdon mansion. Holmes declined, and we continued through a section of the shire that was surprisingly rocky and forested before turning into the long laneway of the St. Simon estate. We drove up the gravel driveway into the courtyard. I had expected that a groom from the stable would come to meet us, but none appeared, so we descended the cart and walked toward the main door. The house was indeed one of the oldest of the old stately homes of England and did not look particularly well cared for. The gardens had been left to run amuck and some of the brickwork looked as if it had not been repointed in a decade.

  A very young maid, whose age I would not have put beyond sixteen years, greeted us at the door and took our cards. I quietly gave a sniff or two to determine whether Miss Harriot’s description had been accurate and decided in her favor.

  A gentleman, who bore a distinct familial resemblance to our recently departed client, appeared and approached us with a friendly smile, howbeit on a weary face.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, welcome to St. Simon Manor. I am Eustace St. Simon; Eusty to all the staff. I heard that Robert had hired you, Mr. Holmes to find Hattie, and even if that task is no longer required, I am glad to see you. I am hoping and praying that you can do something to clear up the evil mess that has beset our family. Will you join me for a cup of tea? You could use some refreshment after your journey.”

  He had spoken without affectation and he ushered us into the front sitting room, which to my mind was a little on the musty and dusty side. We began with a little idle chit-chat about the old house. It was built over two hundred years ago, and the family was not only descended from the Plantagenets and Tudors but claimed some lineage all the way back to William the Conqueror. I fully expected that Holmes would dispense with the banter and was not surprised when he did so.

  “I must disclose to you, sir,” he said to St. Simon the younger, “That my current client is now Lady St. Simon, and I have been hired by her to confirm her innocence and, if possible, determine who the true killer was of her husband.”

  “Splendid. Lord willing you will be successful.”

  “Please do not be offended, sir, if I bring to your attention the fact that anyone who had a pecuniary interest in the untimely death of Lord St. Simon must, of necessity, be considered a suspect.”

  “Yes. Of course. Makes jolly good sense. Why in the world might I be offended?”

  “Because sir, that list, of necessity, must include you.”

  For a moment a look of total confusion took over the face of St. Simon the younger and then he burst into gales of laughter. He slapped his hand on his knee several times before he managed to get himself under control.

  “Oh, my. Oh dear. Oh, my. Oh my goodness, I cannot wait to tell that one to Clara. Oh, so sorry Mr. Holmes, I know that the murder of one’s older brother should never be a matter to make merry over, but that one was hilarious. If only you knew, sir. If only you knew. All I can say is that it was a good thing I was not drinking my tea when you came out with that one.” He started laughing again and then took a slow deep breath and smiled back at Holmes.

  Holmes said, “I fear I missed the joke, sir.”

  “My brother’s demise is the biggest pain, financial and otherwise, that has happened to me. Honestly, Mr. Holmes. Cannot you see? Just look around you at this mangy old relic of a house. The estate is broke. There was not much to it when Father died and Robert ran it into the ground. It’s mortgaged to the hilt. It will cost at least ten thousand pounds to restore this hideous monstrosity. My only hope is that some radical group who hates old blue blood families would come with a load of dynamite and blow it up. I’ve been tempted to say a prayer that the good Lord would strike it with lightning ten times over so we could watch it burn to the ground. What with Ro
bert dead and gone I am now stuck with it, and it is going to cost me a fortune to do anything.”

  “Sir,” I said, “your estate is enormous. At one time you must have owned a third of Buckinghamshire. Surely the rents must provide a strong and reliable stream of income.”

  “The rents?” he sputtered. “Oh my, yes, indeed. The rents. A century ago they might have been worth something. But all of the decent farming land was sold off years ago with Robert getting rid of the last piece to the Rothschilds a decade back. Did you not look around as you were coming here? What do we own?”

  “Ah yes,” said Holmes. “Nothing but forests and rocks. So the rents are gone.”

  “Gone the way of all flesh, sir,” said St. Simon. “Robert had a few thousand pounds from the Rothschilds, but heaven knows what he did with that. Spent it on harlots and riotous women and gambling I suspect. No one knows.”

  “Then may I ask,” said Holmes. “How do you now support your wife and family. I understand you have quite a large one.”

  “We do, sir. The good Lord has blessed us with five beautiful children and we are assuming that as next of kin we will have to take in Robert’s two boys, at least until Hattie gets out of prison. But to answer your question sir, even when I was a student I could see that there would not be a farthing coming my way, so I undertook to learn all I could about stocks and bonds and insurance and the like and, with the help of the good Lord and my determined wife, I have been blessed to have become a senior partner at Cazenove’s Brokerage House and to have acquired more than sufficient funds to look after myself and my family.”

  “Were you compelled,” asked Holmes, “to do that because your father had cut you out of his will?”

  “Ah ha. Been doing your homework like a good detective, have you, Mr. Holmes? Before my father passed on to his eternal reward, such as it might be, I sat him down and told him … very well, I demanded that I be removed from his will. I told him that there was no way under heaven that I deserved to be stuck as the part-owner of a monstrosity whose value would be a seriously negative number. He could either leave it all to Robert or give it to the church. I would have no part of it.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Forgive me then for asking, but I assume that you could account fully for yourself during the evening and morning when your brother was murdered?”

  “Yes, of course, I can. During the evening, Clara, my wife, and I were at the prayer and Bible reading meeting at the Wesley Chapel on City Road, and we came back to our home in Knightsbridge afterward, and went to sleep. In the morning while Robert was doing heaven knows what and getting murdered, I was having breakfast with my children before heading off into the City. Is there anything else you wish to ask Mr. Holmes?”

  “Had you gotten to know your sister-in-law very well?”

  “Hattie? Not terribly. Robert and I had little in common, and Clara did not like coming here. But on occasion Hattie would come and visit, uninvited and unannounced, to our home. She said, and I believe these were her exact words, ‘My Pa always said that you can choose your friends but your family you’re stuck with. So, you may as well get along.’ So, we did spend some time together, sir.”

  “Do you believe that she was capable of killing her husband?”

  “Was she capable? Why, of course, she was capable. She could pull out a Colt 45 and drill a man between the eyes in a flash at twenty paces. And if she thought that some ‘feller’ had violated the Law of the West, I am sure she would do that. But was she that enraged by Robert that she would kill him? We did not see any of that in her, sir. She knew all about his philandering and had made herself her own life and was usually full of laughter. We really did not know what to make of Hattie, Mr. Holmes. She is young and beautiful and spirited and smart as a whip. Before we even met her, we insisted that Robert marry her, as we did not want the family name dragged through a scandalous court case. After we got to know her a little we felt badly that she was stuck with Robert when she could have had any young and decent lord in London who had the gumption to put up with her free spirit. So forgive me, sir, that’s not much of an answer. Was she capable? Yes. Do we believe she did it? No. Anything else, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Nothing sir. You have been very generous with your time and forthcoming with your answers, and I thank you, sir. However, I had a request from Lady St. Simon to retrieve from her room some articles, and as you are now, for better or worse, the master of the house, I would request your permission to do so.”

  “What does she want? Not that there is anything of any value.”

  “Her recent personal letters and diary are hidden in her closet. She has asked me to remove them.”

  “Oh, good heavens. By all means get them out of here. I cannot begin to imagine what vile filth they contain. Clara would have fifty fits if one of the children were to come upon them. By all means, sir. Get them out of here.”

  Before heading upstairs to Lady St. Simon’s quarters, I asked if Mrs. Wilhelmina Kelly was on the property. I thought it would be decent if we, at least, said hello to her.

  “No, doctor. She gave her notice and left yesterday. She could see that we were dismissing staff as fast as we could and was able to secure a position down the road at Wallesdon. I had to let the grooms and the gardeners and the butler all go. We’re down to a couple of maids whose pay is minimal since they are no more than children. As I said, doctor, the place is impoverished.”

  The hatbox was easily found and we were soon back in the cart and on our way to the station. Holmes sat with his chin buried in his chest and his hat pulled down so that it rested at a precarious angle. I feared that a good bump in the road would send it toppling forward.

  Once we were in a cabin on the train, I noticed that Holmes had opened his eyes and was looking out the window. I ventured to inquire concerning his thoughts.

  “I must admit, Watson, that I am perplexed. Younger brothers who have been suddenly cut out of wills, and who are estranged from the older sibling, as well as angered by the embarrassment brought to the family name, can usually be counted on as very promising suspects when a nobleman is murdered. Unfortunately for the progress of this case, Eustace St. Simon has disqualified himself from consideration. I will do the sleuthing necessary to confirm his statements about the financial condition of the estate, but I believe that he is not only telling the truth, he also fails to display any degree of animosity toward his late brother or Lady St. Simon. He is a complete failure as a suspect.”

  Chapter Seven

  Drama in the Courtroom

  LADY ST. SIMON HAD WALKED into the headquarters of Scotland Yard and demanded to see the sheriff. She was duly processed and led off to Holloway. To her surprise, she was not immediately released, and told that she would have to remain there until her trial was over, which might be four to six weeks away. Sherlock Holmes visited his client several times each week and asked her as many questions as he could think of, but eventually, he acknowledged that his primary task was to bring her books to read so that she would not, in her words, ‘die of boredom.’ Her tastes in reading material slowly descended, and after plodding through a couple of Mr. Dickens’s tomes she demanded the latest yellow-back novels, and Holmes dutifully complied and furnished her with Venus in Furs, The Nunnery Tales, The Whippingham Papers, and several back copies of The Pearl. He carried them in a cloth bag and attempted, in vain, to keep me from seeing them.

  The trial did not go at all well for Lady St. Simon. Holmes had been quite certain that the evidence which had been clumsily planted would be easily exposed. The Crown Prosecutor clearly knew this as well and made no attempt to introduce it. Instead, he concentrated his attack on Hattie’s character and outrageous lack of proper morals.

  One witness was found, an official at a hunt club, who testified that the Lady had been banned from the hunt for unacceptable conduct. Told to chase the hounds that were chasing the fox, she kicked her horse into a mad gallop, cut in front of the dogs, pulled out her Colt 45 and in
full gallop stood up in the stirrups and shot the fox. Doing so was not considered acceptable sporting behavior, although it seemed to me that the fox was better off that way than being torn to pieces by the crazed hounds.

  Another witness recounted how one evening she had visited a pub in Aylesbury and ended up in a heated argument with a bloke who was a long way into his cups. He lost his temper and came at her, shouting vile and obscene threats about what he was about to do to her. He was met first with a hard kick from a cowboy boot in that area of his body that was most vulnerable. That blow was followed by her left hook to his face, and then a haymaker from her right. He regained consciousness sometime after midnight.

  The coach of the cricket team at her son Georgie’s school testified as to the lad’s broken heart when his mother failed to deliver on the promise of a new cricket bat, and this was used to destroy any sympathetic appeal she might have had as a mother to two young boys.

  Our client’s barrister attempted to grind away at the crown’s case by repeatedly asking every witness if he or she had ever seen our client shoot anyone? Ever hear her threaten to kill anyone? Ever heard of her killing anyone? The man did a decent job of demonstrating that moral decrepitude was not an indication of murder. None of the early witnesses could put Harriot St. Simon at the location of the murder.

  The coup de grace was Lord Danforth Quinsom-Whimby of Aberystwyth-upon-Ystwyth. He was the fresh-faced eldest son of a wealthy Welsh family who, while skipping classes at Oxford, happened to make the acquaintance of Lady St. Simon at the Banbury Racecourse. It would be an understatement to say he was handsome. His stunning sculpted face bordered on divine and his athletic body gave evidence of his devotion to his sport of swimming. With apparent deep humiliation, he testified that he had been introduced to Miss Hattie Doran, a beautiful young American heiress, and had become immediately and hopelessly smitten. Foolishly, he had invited her to lodge at his family’s pied a terre in Belgravia while his parents were on the Continent. With red face and tears running down his cheeks, he testified that they had spent a week together in passionate and carnal pleasure. His parents and older sister were seated, granite-faced, at the back of the courtroom, and from time to time he would look woefully at them and blubber “Oh father, I am so sorry,” and bury his face in his hands. This was alternated with heartfelt appeals to his mother to please forgive him. They stoically nodded and left it to his sister to stare daggers at our client.