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

by Craig Stephen Copland

  Mr. Holder raised his head out of his hands. His face was fixed with a look of grief and despair. “We are dealing, sir, with monsters. Evil, depraved monsters, without heart or conscience. The child was murdered. She was …” He could say no more. He choked on his words and his face contorted in pain. He dropped his head back into his hands and his whole body shook with spasms of grief. Lestrade picked up the conversation.

  “About ninety minutes ago the Atherley house received a phone call. Mrs. Atherley answered it. A man’s voice said, ‘Look on your front step’ and immediately hung up. She did so and came upon the decapitated head of her child looking up at her. The dismembered arms were reaching toward her and in the hands was a copy of the notice that had been placed in the afternoon edition. A few minutes later Mr. Holder also received a phone call with similar instructions. On his front steps was the torso of the child. It was naked and had signs of having been tortured. One of the legs had been cut off. We have not yet had any report of its being found.”

  I gasped. “What sort of depraved monster … good lord, who could have done this?”

  Lestrade nodded. “We do not know, but everything we do know about horrors like this tells us that it will not stop here. He, or maybe they, will strike again.” He then looked directly at Sherlock Holmes. “Holmes, you know that many times in the past you have infuriated me by using methods that Scotland Yard is not allowed to touch. So, let me be quite blunt. I will deny that I ever said this to you but anything you can do, using whatever methods you want, are desperately needed. Do not tell me how you did it, just help us stop this evil and do it quickly. Is that understood, Holmes?”

  Holmes nodded in response. “Precisely.”

  “I know,” said Lestrade, “that it is late, but I am on my way to the morgue. I suggest you come with me.”

  Holmes rose but before departing opened his satchel and extracted the stack of files we had collected earlier in the evening. He handed them to Mr. Holder. “At this point, I know these will be cold comfort to you. But nevertheless, they are what you hired me to find and return to you.”

  Holder looked at them, amazed. “I do thank you. I had thought when these were stolen that nothing worse could ever happen in my life. I was wrong.”

  “And just how,” said Lestrade, “did you find those and get them back?”

  Holmes made no reply and only looked back at Lestrade impassively.

  “Right,” said Lestrade. “I just told you not to tell me how you did it.”

  “Right,” agreed Holmes. The three of them then departed down the stairs and left me alone to contemplate the depths of evil and depravity that could take over the souls of men.

  Chapter Eight

  The Northumberland

  Fusiliers

  I SLEPT POORLY THAT NIGHT and the following day had to consume several cups of coffee in order to be sufficiently alert to attend to my patients. The hot spell of weather still had not broken and I trudged slowly back to Baker Street, with my jacket draped over my arm and my collar loosened. The news of the terrible crime of the previous evening was in the press and all over the news posters. Even the Times carried it on the front page. The more sensationalist papers had printed sketches of how they imagined, in the most twisted and perverted manner, the kidnapping, torture and dismemberment of the poor young girl might have taken place. By the time I arrived at our door, I was weary, with a lethargy in both body and soul.

  Our dear Mrs. Hudson greeted me and went off immediately to the icebox to get me a glass of cold water. Holmes was sitting in his chair reviewing some files that looked as if they had been sent over from Scotland Yard.

  “How are you getting on? Any news?” I asked as I collapsed into my familiar armchair.

  “A significant alteration in the tactics of our enemy, or enemies.”

  “In what way?”

  “Their attempt to use embarrassing confidential information to blackmail a wealthy family came to naught. It now appears that they have switched to extortion and are using the murder of the Atherley girl to threaten the rest of the families with similar horrors to their children if they do not pay over all of the cash sitting in their accounts at Holder and Stevenson. It is possible that these criminals may have made copies of the information in the files before we removed them, though I think it more likely that they hatched this plot earlier in the day and used the Atherley family as an example to prove how cruel they could be.”

  “Have all of those families been threatened?” I asked.

  “No. Only those who have children who are ever likely to be moving outside of the home and more easily trapped and kidnapped.”

  “Are they taking measures to protect them?”

  “Yes, with Scotland Yard’s help they have all hired private security. There are some quite capable retired Royal Marines now busy watching over schoolboys and girls. However, a number of the lads, about a dozen of them, are members of the May-Bel Boy Scout troop and they are all away camping for the fortnight up in the Peak District, so a small group of former marines has been dispatched to join them at their campsite. The marines are formidable chaps, and very diligent. They know what sort of monster or monsters they are up against and will, I am sure, provide a strong line of defense.”

  I reflected for a moment. “The Peak District, you say? Is that not where your motorcycle club is having their outing? Is that just a coincidence?”

  “On more occasions that either you or I can count, Watson, I have repeated my old maxim, that when all other possibilities have been eliminated the only one remaining, however, improbable must be the truth.”

  “You have said that, indeed, Holmes. And yes, many times.”

  “The great frustration with this case,” he continued, “is that it has been, so far, impossible to eliminate the possibilities. All of our suspects are, to one extent or other, still in play. It may be entirely a coincidence that the Beryl Bikers, including the criminals amongst them, the self-appointed Anarchists, are off to the Peak District, but there is no conclusive data that yet allows me to reach that conclusion.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I am going camping.”

  I said nothing. The very thought of Sherlock Holmes, now fifty-seven years of age, on bivouac, crawling into a tent and rolling out his blanket, deprived of his Persian slipper of tobacco, his brandy, and his finely poached salmon, struck me as ludicrous. Unfortunately, Holmes read my thoughts.

  “Enough, Watson. Enough. It is only for a weekend. I shall survive. And the weather in the Peaks will be blessedly cooler. I might even enjoy the experience.”

  I could not resist giving him a sidewards look.

  “Or I might not,” he admitted. “While I am away there is a task that I must ask you to undertake.”

  “Please ask, I am not likely to refuse.”

  “Several strands of data from this case all appear to be connected back to the war in South Africa. Some days back I noted that your connection to the same regiment as the Holder boys might prove useful. Could I ask of you the favor of heading off on Saturday morning – if you leave early it will not be unbearably hot – to your regimental club and attempting to glean whatever information you can about the Holders and their time in the Cape?”

  My old regiment, the Fifth Regiment of Foot, known now as the Northumberland Fusiliers, was garrisoned in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. I had no intention of traveling all that distance in the miserable hot weather, but over half a century ago some of the retired officers had set up a club in London. It was not in the poshest neighborhood, mind you, but a pleasant place all the same, just north of Oxford Street in Fitzrovia.

  Holmes departed for his camping expedition on Friday evening. I helped him bundle up whatever kit I thought useful, as he had no idea about these things. For good measure, I added a torch, a set of binoculars, and a flask of coffee. I cut a slice of beef from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and thrust this rude meal into
his pocket before he started upon his journey.

  As the next day was a Saturday, I expected that the club would be active with all those chaps whose wives had shooed them out of the house, and these old boys were always a reliable source of historical data and priceless gossip. I rose early and in the cool of the morning walked over to the club, arriving in time for breakfast. I did not frequent the club often. I had no interest in keeping fresh my memories of my time in the Second Anglo-Afghan Campaign. I would have preferred to forget those days completely. I feared that some of the veterans might take umbrage with my having ignored them but, to my surprise, I was welcomed as a prodigal son. While the regiment had been awarded many military honors, those who graduated from it and went on to become successful and somewhat famous authors, as I had done, were few. Thus, I was greeted warmly.

  I had learned from Sherlock Holmes that patience and cheerfulness is a sure, even if slow way of extracting information, even of the most sensitive variety. So, for the next few hours, over warm beer, cold lemonade, pickled eggs and sausages I made jovial conversation, recounted a few of my war stories and laughed and marveled at those I listened to. When appropriate I steered the conversation toward the events of the Boer War and, in as offhand a way as I could, asked about Messrs. Holder and Holder. I was not learning much and feared that I would bring a brief and disappointing report back to Holmes, when a chap came and sat down beside me. He was in his forties and I assumed that he had likely served in South Africa. He placed a fresh beer in front of me, smiled and said some pleasant things about my stories in The Strand. Then he looked me straight in the eye and quietly spoke. “We have not met, Dr. Watson. My name is Greenhalgh. At one time it was Major Greenhalgh. I served in the war but have been a barrister ever since returning. Would you mind terribly if I asked you some impertinent questions?”

  “You outrank me, Major, so you can be as impertinent as you wish. Charge ahead.”

  “I have been watching you, doctor, for the past two hours. You chat, and ask questions, and then you excuse yourself saying that you have to use the loo and as you do you remove your notepad from your pocket. I see you returning it to your pocket on your way back to your table. Would I be close to the truth if I were to think that you did not come here at all to renew old friendships and listen to worn out stories, but that you are gathering information for your colleague, Sherlock Holmes? Hmmm? And that you have a specific interest in the Holder boys? And that there is some reason for your doing so, and that it is not a particularly happy one? Otherwise, why would our most famous detective be interested? Might I be on the right track, doctor, if I were thinking that way?”

  I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment as he spoke. “I fear you have discovered me, sir. Mr. Holmes did indeed send me on a reconnaissance mission. I guess you might have to call me a spy. And yes, Major, you are on exactly the right track.”

  He smiled and leaned closer to me. “There is a quiet place back behind the billiard table. What say we go there and chat? I may be able to help you … and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  He rose and I followed him to a place where we could talk without being overheard.

  “My purpose,” I said, “in coming here is to learn as much as I can about the young men you just identified. I gather that you knew Arthur and Eric Holder during the war?”

  “And after the war as well. Lieutenants Holder and Holder and their friend, George Burnwell, fought in the siege of Ladysmith in the early days and did quite well. Brave lads, or, at least, that is what my friend and fellow major – John was his name – says about them. He was their commanding officer at that time. Then after Kitchener arrived several units of the regiment were transferred to looking after the refugee camps. Major John was put in command of camp number 42. I was given the supply side and looked after getting food, and necessities to all the inmates. Officially we called them refugees but in truth they were prisoners. Thousands of women, children, and elderly men were rounded up and interred. It was not a pleasant two years. When I returned home, I left the service. I had come into a bit of money, and I sought out Mr. Alexander Holder. He already had a name as the most capable and trusted of private bankers, and as I knew his sons and was from the same regiment, he took me on as a client. I have kept contact with him since that time, so have also learned a bit about what has happened to his sons.”

  “Before you get ahead of yourself,” I said, endeavoring to sound him upon a point. “Please, tell me first about their time during the war. Was there ever any indication that they might, in their future lives, not entirely walk the straight and narrow?”

  The major took a slow draft of his beer and then set it back down on the table. “Let us just say that it is not a surprise to me that Sherlock Holmes is looking into something in which these lads are involved.”

  “Pardon me, major,” I replied. “But that just will not do. You cannot lay a card like that on the table and not have another one in your hand to play.”

  He took another slow draft. “The Holder boys pushed the limits of what was permitted but only ever in good sport, never anything that was mean-spirited, and never anything that could have them court-martialed. They were chatty chaps, especially the stouter one. After a few beers or a couple of rounds of whiskey they got a little on the talkative side. You know the type, I’m sure, doctor. Said a few things that they would not have said when they were sober.”

  “I know the type well. So, very well, sir. What did they say?”

  “Some rather unpleasant things about their father. Not a lot of love lost between father and sons.”

  “I thought he was awfully generous with them and spoiled them constantly.”

  “Oh, that he did. But they held him responsible for the death of their mother. They made that right clear. Of course, they only said things when they were well into their cups, so no telling whether or not it was the truth.”

  “It is not without reason,” I said, “that for a thousand years we have known in vino veritas.”

  “Right you are on that one, doctor. But there are many young men who are angry at their fathers and they still do not go doing anything illegal as a result. My sense of the Holder boys is that they would be more of that sort.”

  Here he paused and took another sip. Then another. I sensed he was waiting for me to speak.

  “You have said nothing about this chap Burnwell. George. What about him?”

  Another long slow sip. His posturing was becoming more than a little annoying. “George? Ah yes, George. Never a formal reprimand. Not a single blot on his escutcheon. He was too clever for that. But there was something about him that we did not trust. He was from old money as they say, but so old that it had run out, and George liked having money. The Holder boys were from new money, and so new that it was pouring in faster than dad could spend it. Now, as you know doctor, it is a poor thing in a regiment to flaunt your father’s money. We are all equals and that’s how a regiment builds its spirit. The Holders never let on that dad was a banker and swimming in filthy lucre. But we all knew, and certainly George knew. We watched him and in many subtle and sly ways he ingratiated himself to the brothers, both of them. Soon we never saw them without him alongside. Now, of course, there is nothing wrong with a soldier, or any man for that matter, trying to make friends with those who have long purses and expensive habits. It is as near universal a practice as I can imagine. You would agree, would you not doctor?”

  I wanted to scream “Yes! Now get on with it will you!” but I merely nodded.

  “Well, George is also on the handsome side. A man of great personal beauty; a bloody Adonis he is and keeps himself trim and his uniform spotless and always looks like he’s ready for a full dress inspection. And he is charming, a man of evil reputation among women. Bloody well smooth as silk. We used to say he could charm the knickers off a nun. Or for that matter, off a priest, if he thought he could get something out of it. Whenever I spoke to him, he was always ready with a joke, a compliment, and tha
nk you for whatever I had done. We chatted about all sorts of things, but after doing so for three years, I felt I did not know him at all. You know they type I mean, don’t you doctor?”

  I nodded. Then, since my patience was running out, I added, “and are you going to get around to saying anything about him that would be of interest to a detective whose province is criminal activity? Nothing you have said so far amounts to anything that would even give a bobby cause to give a warning. Just why did you say that you were not surprised that Sherlock Holmes had become involved?”

  Yet another long sip on his beer. “There were hundreds of young women in the prisoner camps. They were all of Dutch stock, so many of them were blonde and very pretty. Now, we all knew that while it was quite acceptable for a British soldier to stand by and do nothing while children starve to death. However, if a private or even an officer dared lay a hand on a woman in an immoral way, well, he would be up before a court martial the next day and likely as not shot by a firing squad and buried, and a box with his medals and ribbons sent off to his parents within a week. The rules about that sort of thing were very strict. But many of these women were desperate for money or extra rations, and the boys, well, boys will be boys, so prostitution took place in almost all of the camps. We could never pin anything on George Burnwell, but we all knew that he was the mastermind behind it. We questioned him, but he always had a ready alibi. We questioned his mates, but a soldier will never inform on another soldier on a matter like that. We questioned some of the women who we knew were selling themselves to the men, but when George’s name came up, they went all silent and fearful and said not a word. My pal, Major John, who as I said was in charge of the camp, knew he had a very bad actor on his hands, and he built up an enormous hatred for George Burnwell. And George returned it in kind. By the time we all came home to England, John was ready to shoot the man. Probably would have if he could have gotten away with it.