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

by Craig Stephen Copland

  “If I were free, Holmes, I most certainly would. But I fear it would make me late for my appointments with my patients.”

  “Oh, good heavens, Watson. You are a doctor. Your profession is the master at making people wait. None of your devoted patients will be kept for more than an hour and they will all be thinking that you must be doing something frightfully important, as all doctors are always doing in similar circumstances.”

  “Holmes, I object. Even if some members of my profession are not the most considerate of the time of others I, however, try my very best to be so.”

  He smiled. “I know you do, my friend. But if I were to suggest that we ride Norton, and that I would speed you back as soon as our young athlete’s race is over, might I tempt you? Norton and I will do everything in our power to have you back no more than fifteen minutes late. And look, you still have your splendid new boots on. See you on the bike, old boy. And do bring your binoculars.”

  Chapter Six

  Run For Your Life

  THE EVENT WAS BEING HELD just around the corner in Regent’s Park, and Holmes did an extra loop around the Outer Circle Road at high speed just to compensate me for my being manipulated one more time. We parked the bike and found a shady spot under a tree on the far side of the track.

  “I think it best,” said Holmes, “that we not be seen and recognized. So please just use your binoculars and look across the way. Do you see three motorcycles approaching?”

  “I do. There appear to be three chaps driving and a woman holding on behind one of them. Is that who I think they are?”

  Holmes was peering at them as well. “The two on their own are the Holder lads. The tall one is Arthur, and the shorter one Eric. The third must be that George Burnwell chap, and that is Miss Mary Holder behind him.”

  I continued watching. “I have no expertise on motorcycles,” I said. “However, they appear to have three different types. Is that so?”

  “An excellent observation, Watson. Yes, Mr. Burnwell is on a Trusty Triumph, Eric Holder on the more expensive bike, a Norton, like ours, and Arthur is riding his thoroughbred, his custom designed Brough.”

  I saw the three of them arrive and dismount. Miss Holder walked quickly over to the small tent where, I assumed, she would change into her athletic costume. The man Holmes had identified as Eric Holder walked toward the bleachers. George, at first, followed him and then halted, turned back and entered the same changing tent that the young lady had. I dropped my binoculars and stared with my eyes to make sure I had not been deceived.

  “A bit of a risqué cad,” observed Holmes.

  “Extremely inappropriate,” I added.

  The tall lad, Arthur, had not moved away toward the stands and was still standing by his motorcycle. A small crowd of admirers had gathered around him and were ogling the Brough. He appeared to be enjoying the attention.

  Fortunately, the women’s events were first on the schedule, and it was no more than twenty minutes before the five-mile race was called. Holmes confirmed that this was Miss Holder’s event. I watched as a dozen young women walked toward the starting line. All of them were wearing athletic shorts and singlets and all were lithe with, I could not help but notice, well-defined calf and hamstring muscles.

  “Which one is she?” I asked Holmes.

  “The tallest blonde,” he answered while looking at them through his field glasses. “She is wearing a number five on her back. The girl from Kenya is the one to beat.”

  The group of young women spread out along the starting line. I counted ten of them. We were too far away to hear the vocal instructions called, but the starter’s pistol was unmistakable. Off they went. They had a full twenty laps to run and they were pacing themselves accordingly, but none was dawdling. I did not have a stopwatch with me, but I estimated that the first lap was covered in about seventy seconds. They would do well if they could keep up that pace.

  With each passing lap, the runners spread out a little more. After ten laps there were three who were quite clearly in front of the rest. One was a tall, dark-skinned young woman, the runner from Kenya. The second was a red-haired lass who looked as Irish as the day is long. And the third was our long-legged blonde, Miss Holder. The three of them kept exchanging places as each tried but could not stay in front of the other two. By lap number seventeen the pace had picked up and I could see the pain on their faces. The cool of the early morning had passed and all of the runners were sweating profusely. As they turned and entered the eighteenth lap, they were giving it all they had. They were no longer just running, they were beginning to sprint.

  Then, in a blur of bodies, I watch as the dark-skinned girl and the Irish lass simultaneously altered their positions, one moving to the outside and the other to the inside. As they did this, there was a collision of bodies. The Irish girl and the Kenyan both staggered but kept their balance and regained their stride. No so for Miss Holder. She went for a tumble and fell face first into the grass beside the track. Six other runners who had been behind her, passed her. I gasped and was about to express my shock and sadness for her, assuming that her chance of qualifying had just been destroyed when she sprung back to her feet and re-entered the race. She was no longer merely running. She was pumping her arms and legs as if she were in the hundred-yard dash. Through my binoculars, I could see her face. Her eyes were wide, her mouth was open.

  “Good Lord, Holmes, she’s running like a wild animal. She does not want to lose this race.”

  Holmes nodded and kept his gaze fixed on the runners. Mary Holder soon caught up to the runner who was trailing in eighth place, then she passed the one in seventh. By part way into the final lap, she was running third, a full twenty yards behind the front two. They had turned their heads and had seen her catching up to them and had also begun to sprint toward the finish line.

  “Would I be inexcusably misogynist, Watson, if I said that they run like young men and not like girls?” said Holmes.

  “Yes.”

  The three front runners were now within fifty yards of the finish line. The Irish lass was giving it all she had but was beginning to fade. Mary Holder passed her and closed in on the Kenyan girl. It looked as if they passed the finish line together, after which both of them staggered and collapsed on the grass. Miss Holder’s three motorcycle-riding friends dashed across the track and helped her to her feet. She fell into the arms of George, and then put one arm each around the shoulders of her brothers and walked over to the judges’ table. She was having trouble walking and I could see the look on her face. She had an immense capacity for self-discipline. I thought she would have been all smiles and beaming with pride. Her face, even at a distance seen through the field glasses said, “I should have won.”

  Miss Holder did not win. That honor went to the Kenyan. Miss Holder came a very respectable second; enough to qualify for the national team. The small crowd gave all the runners a warm round of applause.

  “I promised,” said Holmes, “to get you back to your patients promptly. So, let us be on our way.” He was walking back toward the motorbike.

  I agreed and then asked what to me was an obvious question. “So, pray tell, Holmes. What was the purpose of watching Miss Holder run a race? You already knew that she was a capable and determined athlete.”

  Yet again he looked at me with the inevitable smile of friendly condescension. “We did not come to watch Miss Holder run a race.”

  “Ah,” I said. “We came to watch something else. Miss Holder and the two brothers, and Mr. Burnwell?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And what we saw was that she has an appropriate friendly connection to her step-brothers and a very close romantic connection to Mr. Burnwell. Is that correct, Holmes?”

  “Precisely.”

  Holmes deposited me at my medical office and once again I struggled to give my patients my undivided attention and to keep my mind from wandering off to the most recent and puzzling set of events.

  I returned to Baker Street at
the end of the day, had supper alone, and decided to wait up until Holmes returned.

  I had just finished my tea when the clock marked the eleventh hour of the evening and I heard Holmes ascending the stairs. He entered, acknowledged me with a nod, and proceeded straight to his room. I was temporarily fit to be tied and more than a little put out by his ignoring me. However, he returned in less than five minutes minus his borrowed wig, mustache, and sideburns. He walked over to the mantle, opened the decanter of brandy and poured us both one.

  “Well then,” I asked. “How was the meeting of Beryl Bikers? Fascinating conversations about carburetors, and suspensions, and valves, and torque and mudguards, no doubt.”

  Holmes laughed and shook his head. “Nothing of the kind. The entire group were all dressed as common loafers, deliberately no doubt, pretending to be perfect examples of the working class. They were merely a gaggle of veterans who chatted and swore and told vulgar stories before the meeting was called to order. And then they spent the next two hours arguing about the details of their upcoming outing this weekend. And, my word, they were worse than a group of nattering old ladies. They argued about whether we should stop at this pub or that pub, because this pub had a better ale but that pub was a tuppence cheaper; and should we have hard boiled eggs for lunch, or should they be pickled; and should we have bully beef from cans, or should it be fresh; and if it was to be fresh should it be kept on ice, and if so who would get the ice and which butcher should we buy from. I must say, Watson, I thought I had wandered into a meeting of the Ladies’ Auxiliary of the local village Methodist Church. I was ready to jump to my feet and tell these silly blokes that what every one of them really needed was a wife, who would just pack them a lunch and kick them out of the house.

  “Other than all that nonsense I was pleased to learn that we are going on an overnight to the Peak District, staying at a campsite as if we were a bunch of Boy Scouts, and we could go bathing in the cool waters of the little lake, and sit around a campfire swapping stories. Because the dryness of the fields and woods we would have to be exceptionally careful with our tobacco but, if very careful, we could enjoy it together as we sat under the moon and the stars. I wish you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that won’t do.”

  “It is quite all right, Holmes. You may recall that I went camping in the past – lived in a tent and ate my food while sitting on the ground outdoors. It lasted for over two years and we called it the Afghan Campaign. Had enough of it to last a lifetime. You go and have a good time and tell me all about it. But I assume that you learned some more useful information that the merits of canned bully beef.”

  “I did indeed. When the meeting was over I sat at the bar and, feigning neediness as a new recruit, I asked the chatty chap behind the bar for his advice. Bartenders always love to give advice and he was full of it.”

  “And what did you learn?”

  “Oh, many things, most of which were meaningless. But I did ask him if there were any of the members that I should try not to cross. Not wanting to get in trouble or on the bad side of anyone. You know the type. There are a few in every group that are a must to avoid. Well then, that brought me a useful earful.”

  “Aha,” I responded. “A few with criminal tendencies? That must have sparked your interest. Right, Holmes?”

  “Quite so. The chap dropped his voice and leaned across the bar and he said told me that there were now some twenty chapters of the Beryl Bikers spread out across England and there were over two thousand members – all of whom were veterans of some sort. While they could be a bit on the unusual side, as is common among veterans, he could safely vouch for one thousand, nine hundred and eighty of them. But there were some twenty of them – no more than one percent of the overall membership – who were doing some things that the law would not approve of.”

  “Indeed?” I queried. “Enlighten me.”

  “He was not overly specific. But he suggested that if I ever wanted to have a very young woman delivered to my door so that I could use her for illicit purposes, they would provide delivery and subsequent retrieval, for a price of course. Or if you wished to avoid paying customs and excise taxes on goods you were importing from the continent, they had the ability to have these goods unloaded at Tilbury and arrive at your doorstep the next day, with no records attached. They had gotten into the very lucrative business of either protecting you from your enemies, or, taking your shilling so to speak, and making life miserable for your enemies; beating them within an inch of their lives, or even murdering them. All for a price. And quite recently they had pulled off several kidnappings. You may remember last fall that the young son of Lord Bebington was taken right off of his school pitch and held for ransom.”

  “Yes. Dreadful story. Didn’t they have to pay over ten thousand pounds to get the boy back?”

  “Twelve thousand, if my memory serves me correctly.”

  “Hmm,” I pondered. “Sounds to me like an excellent group to have nothing whatsoever to do with.”

  “You are entirely correct, Watson. And I am going to do the exact opposite and attempt to find out who they are. Our client has been the victim of a crime and it appears to be closely tied to men on motorcycles, and this group, whoever they are, seem to be the most likely suspects. I have not yet eliminated all other possible alternatives, but other avenues of investigation are fading and this is certainly the most promising.”

  “Very well, Holmes. And just how do you plan to gather data on a secretive group who are individually and severally a nasty piece of work?”

  “The barman says that they are not as secretive as one might think. As is common among the criminal class they have a twisted sense of pride and want to be feared, if not respected. They have gone so far as to form their own inner circle of members and are calling themselves the Beryl Anarchists. Their badge of membership is a small human skull, cast in brass, with a real emerald beryl mounted on the forehead. While they wear their Beryl Biker badge pinned to the outside of their riding jackets, the skull is attached to the inside. They open their jackets to expose it when they speak to each other. All of which says to me that while they may be criminal, they are not the brightest lot I have ever locked horns with.”

  “Very well, Holmes. So, what happens now?”

  “Now, my friend, we get a good night’s sleep.”

  And that we did.

  Until three o’clock in the morning, that is, when the phone rang. Being, as I have noted before, a light sleeper, I heard it and was awake and moving after the first ring.

  “Hello, Watson,” said the voice on the other end. “Lestrade here. I need to speak to Holmes.”

  I fetched Holmes and watched as he listened to Inspector Lestrade. I could tell from his usually impassive face that the news was not good. In response to his gesture, I handed him a pencil and a pad of paper. He jotted down a name – Atherley. That name was familiar to my ears. I knew several but none that I could ever say anything against. I waited for Holmes to hang up.

  “Lestrade is sending a car around in about fifteen minutes to take me over to Belgravia. You are welcome to join me.”

  He knew I would, but I made a point of asking all the same. “Anybody I know?”

  “One of our client’s clients. Earlier this evening a young woman, only a girl, was abducted on her way home from a Girl Guides meeting. The family received a ransom note along with very strict instructions not to contact Scotland Yard. The father, a rather tough sort, immediately called Mr. Holder, as he had been warned by Holder that his file had been stolen. Holder called the police and he himself came over immediately – they are neighbors – and suggested that I be called.”

  A police car pulled up on Baker Street. The officer kindly ignored the bell and knocked quietly. Holmes and I descended the stairs in silence and climbed inside. The streets were empty, but the sky was cloudless, as it had been for weeks now and the bright half-moon combined with the streetlights to make the deserted city eerily luminescent. We
made our way over to Park Lane and south into Belgravia, where the house, like many in that elegant neighborhood, was a three-story white row building. With two police cars parked outside, it was easy to spot as we drove up.

  We followed the police officer who was driving us to the door and we were welcomed quietly by Inspector Lestrade. Sitting in the parlor were a man and woman, whom I gathered were the parents of the abducted girl. The woman’s eyes were swollen and red and her face drawn and bloodless. I do not think I have seen such a deadly paleness in a woman’s face. The husband stood as we entered. Mr. Holder was also present, and likewise stood. There were two younger police officers and a middle-aged woman, who I took to be a police stenographer.

  The room was large for a row house, and expensively furnished. On the wall were several paintings, all of scenes from places in the tropics, except for a print of a popular portrait of Queen Victoria. Mounted on the wall above them were several hunting trophies. A quick glance established that the Big Five – the lion, leopard, elephant, rhino and Cape buffalo – were all accounted for, along with several ungulates.

  Lestrade spoke to Holmes. “After all these years, Holmes, I should not be surprised to find your fingers all over this case. Since you are already up to your eyeballs in it, I thought we may as well get you over here.”

  The inspector informed us of the events of the recent past. Miss Agatha Atherley, a “well-behaved but independent-minded” thirteen-year-old young lady, spent the early evening attending a meeting of her local Girl Guide troop, held at the St. Peter’s Church in Eaton Square, just three blocks from her home. Two of her friends told the police that, following the dismissal of the meeting, they saw her standing on the pavement beside Eaton Square, speaking to a man on a motorcycle. To their surprise, she climbed onto the back of the motorcycle and rode off with him. She failed to return to her home by 9:30 pm, and at 11:00 pm her mother called the police. Officers from Scotland Yard arrived at the home just before midnight and several police officers began to walk through the streets of Belgravia looking for her. At one o’clock in the morning, a knock was heard at the front door. When a maid opened the door, she found an envelope on the doormat and a motorcycle was seen turning at the street corner, some thirty yards away.