“No. No. Can’t say as she was. I guess I would have to say that she looked as fresh as a daisy.”
“You could add to that a daisy that had bathed in the past hour and was giving off the pleasant odor of lavender.”
“Very well, Holmes, it is possible that she took some bath supplies and her evening clothes with her to the club and freshened up after her running. I would guess that she uses the ladies club in Kensington, and I am sure they have excellent facilities for those purposes. That way their patrons can put soaps and fragrances into their satchel along with their athletic clothing. Why else would she be carrying a Gladstone?”
“Are you referring, Watson, to the empty satchel she was toting around as if it were as light as a feather?”
I did not want to confess that indeed I had fallen short of competent observation yet again. So, I asked the obvious question. “It’s all dark to me, Holmes. Why should she want to do that? Why would she try to deceive us?”
Now Holmes smiled warmly. “Precisely, my friend. Precisely. And that is the perplexity. This case is becoming like the proverbial onion. I cannot yet imagine how many more layers there are to discover.” He folded his arms across his chest and smiled and nodded several more times before we reached Baker Street.
Once we were ensconced in our familiar chairs in our room, and sipping alternately on ice water and brandy, I ventured to ask the other question that had been plaguing me.
“Holmes, what did you think of the maid? I could not tell if you were ready to walk away having concluded that she was as dumb as a post, or if you thought otherwise.”
Holmes took a slow sip on his brandy and responded. “My first response was to write her off as being terminally stupid. Yet I have this nagging suspicion that while we sit here talking about her, she is having a jolly good laugh at our expanse, telling Mr. Wednesday about our conversation. I will have to leave her on the list – another layer in the onion.”
Chapter Five
Norton Rules
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I rose at my regular hour only to catch Holmes for a fleeting moment before he raced out the door.
“My best to you, my good doctor,” said he as he stood, sipping on the remaining coffee in his cup. “I have been going over the list that Holder gave me and I really must find a way to get much more data about his sons and their friend. I do not expect to be back until late this evening. I trust that your patients will not collapse from the heat while on their way to your office.”
He departed and I made my way through breakfast and over to my office. It was located between Marylebone Station and Little Venice and was not much of a walk, but it was already getting hot and the dust, so multiplied by the lack of rain, made the short journey quite unpleasant. My examinations of my few patients were desultory and I returned to Baker Street part way through the afternoon. The newsboys were on the streets hawking their papers and I could not resist buying several to see what was being reported about Lord and Lady Hairfield.
As expected, whoever had stolen Mr. Holder’s files, and subsequently been laughed at by Lord Bully and Lady and Honey-Pot, had done as threatened and disclosed the names and the amounts paid to the long list of those who provided personal services to the noble couple. The Evening Star ran the story on their front page and continued it on the second page. On page three, in the place of the usual photo of a young lass with excessive cleavage, they had one labeled Her Ladyship’s Latest Conquests. It was a collage of pictures of two handsome young actors, and two actresses, noting their names and the current West End theater productions in which they currently had minor roles.
Lady Hairfield’s book publisher had purchased a large ad on the same page, as had the theaters in which the young paramours were performing. I recalled the proverb first stated by Oscar Wilde — the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. I was quite certain that sales of both the book and theater tickets would be enhanced.
The Times placed the story on page four and only devoted a few column inches to it. Their story ran as follows:
Nobles Being Naughty Again (Ho-Hum)
Ho-hum. Lord and Lady Hairfield, keeping up their hard-earned reputation for immoral behavior (ho-hum), have been paying several hundred pounds every month to over forty men and women who, it is claimed, were in a position to blackmail the nobles based on their well-known acts of sexual deviance. Ho-hum. The Times will begin a search throughout all of London to see if we can discover any citizen who is surprised by this (ho-hum) information. In the meantime, we will continue to report on events that are actually news.
The Guardian, again as might be expected, printed the crude cartoon of the cry-baby, and praised the progressive couple for their courage, wit and brave British pluck. I somehow doubted that a Tory couple would have received similar treatment.
I had hoped to share the papers with Holmes but, as he had predicted, he was not home at supper time and had not returned by the time I retired for the evening.
My years of service in the Afghanistan campaigns were far in my past, but one of the lasting marks they left on me was my habit of sleeping lightly. At first light the following morning, I wakened to the sound of some ungodly roar coming up from Baker Street. It was not constant but rose quickly through a loud crescendo, continued for several seconds, and then died and went silent, only to be repeated a few moments later.
I quickly pulled on some informal clothes and my shoes and hustled over to the window, anxious to find out the origin of the disturbance and to end it if I possibly could. My friend, Sherlock Holmes, had most likely not been able retire to his bed until very late, and our dear Mrs. Hudson was no longer of an age that easily endured unplanned early morning awakenings.
On the street below, I saw a man straddling a large motorcycle. His head was covered in a leather aviator’s helmet, and he was dressed mostly in leather and corduroy, with high boots reaching above his calves and goggles over his eyes. Repeatedly he was turning the handlebar grip causing the throttle to increase and the blasted roar to be emitted.
Enough of this inconsiderate nonsense, I thought, and descended the stairs and marched out onto Baker Street.
Another mark left over from my time in the military service was my unhesitant confidence in giving a good dressing down to younger men who were acting foolishly.
“Stop that this instant!” I ordered. “This is a respectable neighborhood. Decent people, some of them elderly, are still sleeping. Not take yourself and your blasted machine and get out of here … Now … Go!” I pointed north.
The impudent rider did not even turn to look at me. Instead, he slowly and deliberately rotated the throttle until the sound of the engine was near deafening.
I was enraged. I reached over and grabbed the key out of the ignition and removed it, turning the engine off. I then started walking north on Baker Street toward Regent’s Park. I shouted back over my shoulder. “If you want your key back, then turn that thing around and walk it to the edge of the park and then leave. Otherwise, your key will be tossed down the sewer!”
The voice that replied stopped me in my tracks.
“Ahhh, Watson. You are spoiling all my fun. How shall I enjoy my new toy if you won’t let me play with it?”
I turned on my heel and marched back. The rider had a silly handlebar mustache and bushy black sideburns, but the eyes behind the goggles were unmistakable.
“Sherlock Holmes!” I thundered. “Have you lost your mind? What, in heaven’s name, do you think you are doing?”
He was positively grinning. “My dear doctor, it is a necessary part of my investigation.”
“Investigation? Nonsense! You are fifty-seven years old, not twenty-seven. If you fall off this thing, you will break every bone in your body. Have you lost your senses!?”
“Not at all, my dear doctor,” he replied, still grinning from ear to ear. “It has been impossible to secure any time with the Holder boys or their friend. So, I joined their club, and
will now have copious opportunity to watch and interrogate them. The game is in play, my friend, and it is tied somehow to this motorcycle business. Ergo, I am now an avid motorcyclist. Elementary, Watson. You must agree.”
“No, Holmes!” I snapped back. “I do not have to agree. These noisy contraptions are the bane of the English countryside. No respectable gentleman would be caught dead on one.”
“Only a gentleman,” he replied, “who has never tried one. They really are quite wonderful. Positively thrilling. The wind in your face, the speed, the sensation of power … are irresistible. Oh, but before you take any more strips off of me, do take a look in the box beside you.”
I was still infuriated but was at a loss for words. I looked down to the pavement and saw a box about a foot and a half square with the distinctive green markings of Harrods.
“Open it,” said Holmes. “It is for you.”
Now I was quite puzzled, but it is not every day that I am presented with a box from Harrods so I stooped down and opened it. I removed the protective tissue paper and extracted a gleaming pair of riding boots, followed by a leather aviator’s helmet and a set of goggles.
“What do you mean, these are for me?” I demanded.
“My dear, dear Watson. It would not be at all sporting of me to fail to share my toy with my friend. Now toss your shoes back in the doorway, pull on your boots and climb on.”
“Sherlock Holmes! I will do no such thing. Just because you have taken leave of your senses it does not mean that I am going to.”
He laughed merrily. “Of course, it does. And I know you, John Watson. I know you want to, and you know you do.”
I glared at him, but I knew I had lost this round. My common sense was wilting quickly.
“D— you, Sherlock Holmes,” I said as I snatched the boots and walked over to the door marked 221B. I sat on the second step, pulled off my shoes and tugged the boots up and over my calves. Holmes was laughing at me as I walked back to him and, admitting defeat, I laughed as well as I swung my leg up over the back wheel, perched on the seat behind him, and grasped onto his coat.
“Fine,” I said. “Just this once. Now get moving and get it over with.”
He did not move. Several seconds later he turned his head back toward me. “I need the key.”
“Fine.” I pulled it out of my pocket and gave it to him. He turned on the machine, gave the throttle a load roar, and engaged the first gear.
I will confess that it was quite a pleasant sensation to move through the empty streets of early morning. The air was still cool and combined with the feeling of vibrations through my body it was mildly exhilarating. We proceeded along Marylebone Road until we reached Edgeware Road, and then turned north and drove into the countryside. By the time we reached Brent Cross the houses had been left behind and we zoomed past fields and woodlots. Then I saw ahead of us a long straight stretch of road and I could not help but shout in Holmes’s ear. “Let it roar, Holmes. Let it roar!”
He turned the throttle until we were racing along at a faster speed than I have ever moved in my life. Even the locomotive on the Great Western Railway would be left in our dust. There was a small rise in the road ahead. We went over it and I felt the strange but wonderful sensation of my body descending while my stomach was still in the air. Two more small rises and dips did the same thing again.
After no more than ten minutes Holmes slowed down at a crossroad and turned the motorcycle around until we were facing back to London. He leaned back to me and said. “Would you mind getting off for just a moment?”
I did as requested and he followed. Then he turned to me, again grinning. “Your turn, Watson. Let’s see what you can do.”
“Holmes, don’t be mad. I have no idea how to drive this thing.”
“Neither did I until yesterday afternoon. But you know how to ride a bicycle, and a horse. It is not much different. You have been watching me closely all the way up here. Just do what I did.”
He gave a friendly clap on my shoulder. “I know you want to, and you know you do too.”
“D— you, Sherlock Holmes,” I sputtered through my laugh. I grasped the handlebars and swung a leg up and over, and Holmes clambered on behind me. With my left foot, I kicked the gear into place and gingerly turned up the throttle. The powerful beast lurched forward beneath me. Off we went back down Edgeware Road, over the bumps that left our stomachs behind, and on toward the last bump in the road, after which I would have to slow down out of respect for the houses from which pedestrians would soon be emerging. I could see the final rise in the road and, instead of slowing for it, I turned the throttle up to full bore. A glance at the speedometer told me that we were now moving at over sixty miles per hour. We hit the rise and for what felt like an eternity but was probably no more than one full second, we were airborne. We defied gravity and floated through the air with a sense of joy and wonder that I swear cannot be matched. Our tires soon reconnected with the macadam and I slowed down to a sensible speed, and carefully drove us back to Baker Street.
When we reached the curb in front of our door, Holmes gave a few blasts on his police whistle and three of his latest generation of Baker Street Irregulars appeared, two looking as if they had just wakened up. Their eyes all went wide when they saw the motorcycle.
“You are to watch this,” said Holmes, gesturing to the machine. “I am not going to pay you a single farthing for doing so, but I will promise to take each one of you for rides on the weekend. Is that acceptable, gentlemen?”
The answer came in gasps and whoops of “Yes sir … oh, yes sir … indeed, sir…”
Holmes and I were giggling like schoolboys as we climbed the stairs. He doffed his mustache and other facial hair as he entered the front, room. We were met by a stern looking Mrs. Hudson, glaring at us, her hands firmly on her hips, and shaking her head.
She harrumphed. “There is a play on at the Duke of York’s Theater. It’s called Peter Pan and it’s all about boys who never grew up.”
Holmes and I looked sheepishly at each other and then giggled some more. “My dear, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied. “Doing anything this evening? Fancy going for a ride?”
With this, she began to laugh as well, which was a somewhat dangerous turn of events as she was pouring our coffee at the same time.
“All well and good, Holmes,” I said. “Now, back to business. Catch me up on the past twenty-four hours. Start by telling me where you got that thing.”
“I bought it at Harrods. The tale about having to queue up was stuff and nonsense. I ordered it in the morning and it was there for me by noon. It was a toss-up between the Norton Big Four or the Trusty Triumph, but I settled on the Norton. I must admit that I spent a good part of the day riding around on it. And then, being a proud owner, I went and joined the Beryl Bikers. And here is my membership pin.”
He opened the front of his jacket. Pinned to the inside was a broach. I could see that the metal was cast as a motorcycle, and the two wheels were both small green beryls, what most of us know as emeralds.
“Those cannot be real beryls, are they?” I asked.
“I am sure they are just cut glass, but quite smart looking all the same.”
“Why did they not use diamonds? It would have been a cut above emeralds?”
“The Beryl Bikers are all, it seems, veterans of His Majesty’s BEF. There is another club that has members from the Royal Navy, and they had already claimed the diamond.”
I countered that remark. “Holmes, you were never in the military. How did they let you in?”
“Of course, I was in the service. I am a proud member of the Northumberland Fusiliers and a veteran of the Afghan Campaigns. I served as a medical officer. At the dreadful battle of Maiwand I took one in the leg, or maybe it was the shoulder. I can never remember.”
I stared at him, half in anger and half in disbelief. He had taken my service record and appropriated it for himself.
He laughed. “Oh come, come, Watson. I have heard a
ll of your stories from your time in the service often enough to repeat them by heart. I did not have long to chat, but I could match the others, war story for war story. For which, my dear friend, I most sincerely thank you. Did I ever tell you about my miserable journey on the troop ship? The Orentes, I believe she was called.” He laughed again.
“This evening I shall attend a duly called meeting of the esteemed Club, wherein I shall be welcomed, and then shall participate in the planning of their weekend outing – a joyful armada to the Peak District. What think you, Watson?”
I shook my head in wonder. “Holmes, you never cease to surprise me. Oh well, then, what of your list of suspects and their potential victims? Any progress on that front?”
Now he became serious. “No, my friend. Holder gave me all the names he had in the file and some quite good notes on which points they might be vulnerable to blackmail. But none leapt to the fore the way the noble Hairbrains did. Now, that is not to say they are in any way to be respected. Frankly, they are a rather rum lot and all interconnected, inter-married, hopelessly consanguinized, if that is a word. They all belong to the same clubs, all attend the same churches, although I imagine the Lord God would be happier if they just stayed home. Their children all go to the same schools, and their sons all belong to the same troop of Boy Scouts. They all have more money than you and I could ever ask or imagine. And they are all paying stipends all over the place to make sure that people keep their mouths shut. Oh, I almost forgot – they are all very noble.”
I was tempted to comment that my friend was becoming somewhat cynical, except, of course, that he had been that way since I met him over twenty-five years ago.
“There is,” Holmes continued, “another event taking place, quite soon. This morning, in fact, that I would welcome your accompanying me too.”
“And what might that be?”
“An athletic event. A qualifying track and field event for both men and ladies. I have learned that our duplicitous Miss Holder is participating and I believe that observing her might be useful.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Three: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition (Boxed Sets Book 3) Page 22
