Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  It was Cedric who then interjected. “Why do you say that?”

  “I believe there is a more logical explanation for what has occurred, and the intentions that Callum Ford now has,” reasoned Holmes. “Let us suppose that his primary reason for intercepting and responding to the letter from Mr. Hughes was to stop the engagement happening. He pens his response and then tells Miss Buttenshaw what he has done, revealing his own affections for her.”

  I choked at the suggestion, trying to stifle my anger. “Sophia would hear none of it! She would not be swayed by such a man. It is unthinkable, Mr. Holmes!”

  “Not if he then threatened to ruin the business by taking his services and ownership of the patent with him. After her meeting with the patent lawyers, she would be fully aware of the position that Ford now occupied, news that she may well have kept from her father in trying to protect him. At the very least, I believe that Ford forced her to write to you, ending the courtship – a task she appears to have done with a very heavy heart. But he may still entertain the notion that he can win her affections and take over the business. A convenient marriage would enable him to achieve both.”

  Cedric could see my obvious distress and intervened. “How much of this is likely to be known by Kenneth Buttenshaw?” he asked.

  “I would say that he knows nothing of what has occurred,” came the reply. “If he is as direct and resourceful as you have suggested, Mr. Hughes, I imagine he would not take too kindly to anyone trying to blackmail one of his children.”

  I regained my composure on hearing this. “I will not give up on this matter. How do you think I should now proceed?”

  As with all of the revelations he had imparted that afternoon, his response was not what I had expected. “You must leave this affair in my capable hands. I cannot promise to resolve it overnight, but would hope to bring you some news within a few days.” And with that, he would speak no more of the matter. Some twenty minutes later he thanked us for our hospitality, and with a broad smile and swift wave of the hand left the fair to head back to London.

  Two days passed, and on the morning of the third day he was as good as his word. I received a knock on the door of my private study just before ten o’clock. A young pupil handed me a telegram which had just been delivered. The message was short and blunt. Holmes would be visiting the school that afternoon with news – I was to expect him at three o’clock.

  The arrival of the Clarence carriage that afternoon created quite a stir, the clatter of the growler’s wheels, and clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves on the fan-laid cobbles along the approach to the school turning many a head. I raced from the refectory to greet the carriage and was taken aback to see that Holmes was not alone. Accompanying him were Kenneth Buttenshaw and my dear Sophia. Kenneth was effusive in his greeting, removing his Derby, shaking my hand vigorously, and announcing how good it was to see me. Sophia held my gaze – just as she had the first time we met – and then stepped down from the carriage as I steadied her left arm. She too removed her hat and then moved forward to kiss me lightly on the cheek. I knew instantly that Holmes had managed to bring some resolution to the case and beamed at my beloved, forgetting momentarily that the scene was being played out under the gaze of a hundred or more schoolboys.

  When we reached my study, I promptly despatched one of the prefects to arrange for Simon to be brought to the room to see his father and sister, and then ordered some extra tea cups, scones, and jam to accompany those that I had already laid out for Holmes. The man himself was immaculately turned out in a top hat, blue-black morning jacket and waistcoat, sharply-pressed trousers, keenly-starched dress shirt, and green silk bow tie. When we were all seated, he began to explain all that had been achieved.

  “Mr. Hughes, you will forgive my somewhat furtive approach in asking the Buttenshaws to accompany me here this afternoon. This morning, we attended a meeting at the offices of Dennington and Fanshawe, where we successfully negotiated a deal with Callum Ford for the continued use of his patented dyeing process at the Darlington factory. In return for a twenty-five percent share of all future net profits, Mr. Ford has agreed to return to his home city of San Antonio in Texas and to cease to have any further involvement in the business. He has already instructed another young chemist to take over his duties. I am sure that Mr. Buttenshaw can speak for himself, but I believe this outcome to be the best for all parties concerned.”

  Buttenshaw seemed pleased to echo Holmes’s words. “When Sophia returned from her trip to London a month ago and told me all about the patent situation, I thought that we were done for. But Callum said not a word to me. I had no idea that he had falsified the letter to you, Mr. Hughes, and certainly had no inkling that he had any intentions towards my dear daughter. I need hardly say that I would have risked bankruptcy, imprisonment, or even death rather than allow him to take my daughter’s hand without her consent, and I would have seen myself destitute before I would have agreed to his takeover of my business. I will be forever grateful to you for inviting Mr. Holmes to assist us – he has been an invaluable ally in bringing all of this to my attention and steering us down the path of reconciliation. Now, having said my piece, I believe that Sophia also has something to tell you . . . .”

  Sophia looked momentarily forlorn before a thin smile lit up her delicate features. “I fear I have treated you despicably, Geraint, despite all of the warmth and affection you have shown to me and my family. Callum told me how he had intercepted your letter to my father and contrived a response. I did not know how to counter his threats and intimidation in protecting myself, my father, and the business. I reluctantly agreed to write to you, in the way that I did, on the basis that Callum allow me six months to think about his proposal of marriage. I could see no other recourse at the time, but realise now that I should have trusted my instincts and confided in both you and my father in exposing Callum for the scoundrel he really is.”

  I leaned across and squeezed her hand. “Nothing further needs to be said, but there is still one outstanding matter which has yet to be determined.”

  She looked up anxiously as a tear rolled down her cheek. “And what is that?” she queried, her hand reaching for a small pocket handkerchief within her sleeve.

  “Why, the date of our wedding, my dear. With your father’s blessing, we have still to arrange the time and place of our marriage!”

  There was considerable humour and much banter in the moments that followed, and it was with some reluctance that my soon-to-be father-in-law announced a short time thereafter that they must return to the carriage for the ride back to King’s Cross and the train journey home to County Durham. Having arranged for Kenneth and Sophia to be escorted back to their waiting carriage after saying farewell to Simon, I took the opportunity to speak directly to Holmes before he too headed off to town. “Mr. Holmes, I stand in awe of your remarkable talents and will always be in your debt for the way that you have assisted me. And yet, I feel certain that there is something in this case that you have been reluctant to reveal. I fail to see why Callum Ford, with all of the cards stacked in his favour, should have agreed to your proposals so readily.”

  There was a look of uneasiness, and perhaps a hint of frustration, in the way that he met my gaze and then responded to the challenge. “There is no point in misleading you, Mr. Hughes. I would not want this to become common knowledge, but – to continue with your own analogy – I did indeed have a trump card to play. My older brother, Mycroft, occupies a position of some seniority within the British Civil Service and works hard to maintain a close cohort of personal contacts within the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. A word in his ear was sufficient to prompt a visit to Darlington by a high-ranking official from the American Embassy in London. Ford was told to accept the offer that was put to him, a deal that will, in all likelihood, make him an extremely rich man. He understood that any failure to acquiesce would result in his immediate detention and eventual expulsion from this country on a charge of espionage – high-ha
nded perhaps, but the only way to secure his silence and compliance in this delicate matter.”

  “I see,” was all that I could think to say, feeling somewhat unnerved by the disclosure, and realising clearly that Holmes operated in a frighteningly different world to that I enjoyed at Harrow. I shook his hand a final time and walked him out to the waiting carriage.

  It was at that moment that I realised I had forgotten to ask him about his fees on the case. Rather indelicately, I put the question to him as the door to the carriage was swung open by a beaming Kenneth Buttenshaw. To my astonishment, the industrialist took it upon himself to answer for Holmes. “There is no need to worry about that, young man. Mr. Holmes and I have reached a very satisfactory settlement, and I have indicated that if he is ever in any financial need, he has only to approach me. You have a lot to learn about business that this fine school can never teach you.” He winked at Sophia. “Luckily, you are marrying a woman who can find her way around a balance sheet and knows all about profit and loss.”

  The four of us laughed and Holmes turned to me a final time before climbing into the carriage. “Farewell, Mr. Hughes. I wish all of my cases had such satisfying conclusions. At this stage, I have to be honest in saying that I am not sure whether my chosen career will continue to be such a success.”

  I was cheered by his frank admission and responded without hesitation. “You need have no doubts on that score. You have a rare combination of talents and abilities that clearly set you apart from other men. The world awaits your arrival.”

  I waved them off and lingered awhile as the carriage disappeared from view. I knew then that it would not be the last time that I would hear of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

  The Strange Case of the Necropolis Railway

  by Geri Schear

  There was nothing he could do at that time of night, so Dr. M.J. Stamford, FRCS, ordered the body be brought to St. Bartholomew’s Mortuary. They were just on the point of lifting the corpse onto the stretcher when some instinct caused him to reconsider. He stalled the attendants and said, “One moment, if you please. I think I should like a second opinion.”

  “A second opinion?” the policeman scoffed. “What, to tell you he’s dead?”

  The doctor did not immediately answer, but wrote a hasty note on the back of a prescription and dispatched it to 24 Montague Street. That done, he said, “You do not have to stay, Inspector.”

  “I’ve not yet finished my investigation,” the other replied.

  The policeman made theatre of his examination. This seemed to involve much tutting and desultory wandering around. After twenty minutes, he seemed to have exhausted his repertoire and was on the point of leaving when a young man stepped out of a hansom.

  “Good morning, Dr. Stamford,” the newcomer said, blowing into his gloved hands. The winter sleet had ceased for the moment, but frost glittered in the air. “If three o’clock can be considered morning. Something odd, you said?”

  “Thank you for coming. Yes, I think you’ll find this worth the loss of some sleep. It’s exactly your sort of thing. This way, if you please.”

  He led the newcomer deep under the railway bridge and stopped before the corpse. This was a man, had been a man, who lay face down on the pavement. Even in the weak lantern light, the blood spray on his face, neck, and chest was obvious. He wore neither shirt nor jacket, and he was barefoot.

  “What’s this then?” the policeman demanded. “What did you want to call him for?”

  “For his expertise,” Stamford said, mildly. “Doctors do consult specialists.”

  The tall, thin newcomer chuckled. “That’s certainly one way to describe me, Stamford. A specialist. I like it.” His eyes were already penetrating the darkness with clinical detachment, gleaning details from the squalid scene. He was no less thorough for being speedy. After some moments, he looked at the policeman and chuckled.

  “This is my investigation,” the policeman fumed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Who are you talking about? I’m the officer in charge.”

  “I meant are you sure it’s a crime, Inspector.”

  The policeman seemed incapable of speech. He made an odd strangled noise. “Well, of course it’s a crime,” he finally managed to splutter. “There’s a dead man covered with blood.”

  “Indeed, but he did not die here. Nor, I think, is this blood his.”

  “What! What sort of nonsense is that? Who else’s could it be?”

  “Whose, indeed.”

  The young man pulled on the corpse’s rigid jaw. “You see,” he said, “Rigor has already begun. You will correct me if I’m wrong, Stamford, but rigor usually sets in some two to four hours after death.”

  “Generally, yes,” Stamford said. “I put the time of death around one o’clock this morning, give or take an hour.”

  “So what?” the policeman demanded.

  “You miss the significance, Inspector. Stamford?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following either, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes released a long sigh. “This is a busy area. Even at this time of night, people are passing by. If this man had been lying here for more than a few minutes someone would have found him. I observe your own police patrol tonight is double the norm, I assume because of the convict Pennyfeather’s escape. Your constables have passed this spot every twenty to thirty minutes. Besides, there’s the lividity.”

  As neither of the professionals replied, Holmes continued. “You observe this dark discolouration that runs down the dead man’s back, from his skull to his buttocks? That is livor mortis. The settling of the blood after death follows the gravitational pull. Yes?”

  “I know all that,” the policeman said.

  “Then, pray, explain how a man lying face down should have no blood on the front of his body, but a considerable amount at the back of his neck and his shoulders. The only reasonable explanation is that the body was moved post-mortem.”

  “But the blood . . . .”

  “Yes, a lot of blood. It soaked right through his long johns. It is dry, you observe, and in the pattern of a spray.”

  “So?”

  “So it is evident, surely, that the dead man was facing someone else who met a sudden, violent death, probably by shooting. Our friend here was sprayed with the victim’s blood.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” Stamford said, “But how do you conclude the other man is dead?”

  “By the sheer volume of blood,” Holmes’s replied. “This poor fellow is saturated with it.”

  “But how do you know it isn’t his blood?” the policeman insisted.

  Holmes smiled. “Because he has no wounds.”

  Back at St. Bartholomew’s Mortuary and away from the irascible policeman, Stamford said, “You couldn’t have been sure the fellow had no wounds, Mr. Holmes. Not without removing his clothing.”

  “All the blood was on the upper half of his body and the killer had already removed his shirt and jacket, leaving the poor fellow in just his long johns and trousers. Besides, observe the pattern of blood on the fellow’s face. It has the appearance of a spray, does it not? That spray can only have been the result of the man standing close to someone who suffered a sudden wound to an artery. Most likely a gunshot wound. Do you concur?”

  “I do. But couldn’t he have been sprayed if he himself had been shot?”

  “Observe the angle of the droplets: They fell from slightly above. Either the shooting victim was taller than our undressed friend, or our man here was sitting or squatting when the shot was fired. I doubt that, though. The lividity clearly shows he fell from a standing position.”

  Stamford seemed slightly bewildered by this. He said, “He could have died a few minutes after the other man was shot.”

  “Not so. The blood drops have congealed as they landed. If our victim had remained standing, they would have trickled downwards. No, the two events occurred simultaneously, or near to it.”

  The doctor stared at the body on his b
ench. “Then how did this fellow die?” he said.

  “Ah, that is where I need your expertise, Dr. Stamford.”

  “You must have some ideas.”

  A smile flickered over the detective’s face. “I have five, but I would not like to mislead you. I will say only that this man died suddenly. He fell backwards and lay in that position for some time.”

  “The discolouration is all the way down to the buttocks,” Stamford said, examining the corpse. “But not on the legs. How is that possible?”

  “Presumably, his legs and feet were elevated after death. Observe: There is a sharp line along the ankles suggesting his feet rested on an object some . . .” he did a quick mental calculation, “. . . fifteen to eighteen inches in height.”

  Stamford began his autopsy. It did not take him long to determine that whatever killed the man had left no wound. He had not been stabbed or shot, nor had he been bludgeoned, strangled, or garrotted.

  Holmes examined what was left of the dead man’s clothes. As a cold morning light filtered into the dank room, he set the garments aside and joined Stamford at the table.

  The doctor removed the dead man’s heart and examined it. “Sclerosed,” he said. “Death would have been instantaneous. The fellow died of shock. It wasn’t murder, in any case. I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Why? Someone died a violent death. A most intriguing case. I am much obliged to you.”

  “Did you learn anything from his clothing?”

  “Only that the fellow was a railway man. From the stubs in his trouser pocket, I believe he was employed by the Necropolis Railway. What time is it? I shall go home and change, and then see what I can learn about our unfortunate.”