Consulting Detective Vol 3, page 1
Airship 27 Productions
Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective Volume 3
An Airship 27 Production
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“The Lucky Leprechaun” © 2011 I. A. Watson
“The Adventure of the Mummy’s Rib” © 2011 by Aaron Smith
“The Singular Affair of the Sultan’s Tiger” © 2011 by Joshua Reynolds
“The Adventure of the Injured Inspector” © 2011 by Aaron Smith
“The Adventure of the Towne Manor Haunting” © 2011 by Andrew Salmon
Editor: Ron Fortier
Associate Editor: Charles Saunders
Production and design and interior illustrations ©2011 Rob Davis
Cover © 2011 Brian McCulloch
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without
permission in writing from the copyright holder, except by a reviewer, who
may quote brief passages in a review.
eBook Edition
Sherlock Holmes
Consulting Detective
Volume Three
Sherlock Holmes
Consulting Detective
“The Lucky Leprechaun”
by
I. A. Watson
I was accustomed to urgent telegrams from Holmes and a hasty departure to join him on some intriguing case. None was more rushed than my hurried cab ride to King’s Cross station and my chase up the platform to catch the 11:21 on that bright summer day in 1890.
“Well done, Watson!” Holmes called as I hurled my bags into the compartment, just as the guard’s whistle sounded and the engine filled the platform with thick steam. “I was beginning to fear that you would have to take a later train and miss out on this fascinating little problem!”
From my old friend’s demeanour, from the animation of his movements and the jocularity of his voice, I concluded that some new mystery had piqued the great detective’s interest. Rather belatedly I realised that there was a third person in the carriage with us.
“My apologies,” I said to the legal gentleman sitting beside the window with his back to the engine. Holmes’ methods were ingrained into me by now so I took in the stranger’s neat attire, the wire-rimmed half-spectacles, the brief-case laid beside him on the seat and concluded that he must be a solicitor.
“Dr Watson, may I present Mr Adley?” Holmes introduced us. “Mr Adley is from Adley and Shennister’s law firm of Gainsborough, Lincolnshire. It is to him we owe our debt of gratitude for drawing our attention to this fascinating case.”
Adley made the usual responses to an introduction but I could see that he was agitated. He shared none of Holmes’ professional enthusiasm for whatever matter had brought him to our Baker Street consulting room.
“Adley represents Mr Leonard Manchard,” Holmes went on, “of Manchard’s Temperance Tonics. Mr Manchard has gone missing.”
Adley nodded urgently. His fingers sought the reassuring feel of his brief-case handle. “Missing these two days now, Dr Watson,” the solicitor warned me. “The family is frantic. Mrs Manchard is distraught. And Mr Manchard’s young nieces…”
Holmes could not restrain himself any longer. “Mr Manchard’s young nieces,” he interrupted, “claim that their uncle has been stolen away by the fairies.”
***
On the journey north I learned the details of the case set before Holmes. Leonard Manchard was a self-made Lincolnshire businessman who had made his fortune in the bottling and sale of health-improving non-alcoholic beverages. He lived an abstemious life befitting a strict Methodist temperancer, maintaining a small household that usually consisted only of his wife and he, attended by butler, footman, and maid. This summer that number was swelled by the addition of Arabella and Abigail Bolton, daughters of Mrs Manchard’s sister. The eleven and nine year olds were being put up over summer since their parents had business in Hong Kong. Two lively children of a less-than-strict upbringing had been something of a trial for the Manchards.
Yesterday morning Mr Manchard had not appeared for breakfast. When he was sought it became apparent that his bed had not been used. A subsequent search discovered his walking stick in a clearing in the woods behind his house but there was no other sign of the missing man. Disturbingly, Manchard had previously ordered his man of business Adley to withdraw a large amount of money from his savings with no explanation.
“Had Manchard ever withdrawn substantial sums from his accounts before?” I wondered.
“Mr Manchard was a man of very simple habits,” the solicitor replied. “He made regular donations to his chapel and to certain charities but otherwise made no substantial payments. It is unprecedented for him to liquidate his investments and withdraw four thousand pounds in cash.”
“And where is this money now?” Holmes asked.
“Gone, sir,” replied Adley. “Vanished with Mr Manchard.”
The absence of such a huge wad of banknotes was not the most extraordinary aspect of this case, though. “The fairies,” I prompted. “Where do they come into this?”
“The young Misses Bolton claim to have encountered mythical creatures in the woods,” Adley explained, “at the very spot where Mr Manchard’s cane was found yesterday morning. Indeed that site was searched at their insistence.”
“A leprechaun, I believe you said,” Holmes repeated with satisfaction. “A diminutive spirit in green speaking with an Irish brogue.”
“Quite so,” Adley admitted. “The girls insist that they met this creature – and other fairies – on a number of occasions in the woods. They claim that he led them to fairy gold and…” The solicitor stopped short.
“And what?” Holmes prompted him. “Any detail could be of importance.”
“And it is true that these last three weeks Mr Manchard banked sums of money that I cannot trace to incomes from his usual business.”
“What kind of sums?” I wondered.
“Seven guineas, then fifty-five, then four hundred.”
I raised my brows. “That’s quite a deal of fairy gold, Mr Adley.”
“I make no claim as to where the money originated, Dr Watson. It was paid into my client’s account in notes and coin in the usual way.”
“What do the children say of these windfalls?” wondered Holmes.
“The children will not speak of it,” the solicitor replied. “They say that Mr Manchard has been kidnapped because he upset the fairies, and that if they speak of it to anyone then he will not be returned for a hundred years.”
***
The small Lincolnshire town of Gainsborough was quite charming, an old-fashioned place basking on the River Trent; but Holmes allowed me little time to enjoy the sights of England’s most inland port, a place that was once the capital of our nation for six weeks under the ancient tyranny of Sweyn Forkbeard. Instead he and Adley whisked me into Manchard’s coach-and-four and we vanished out into the lush meadowland beyond the town.
Through Scampton, Bole, and West Burton Mr Adley tried to make conversation, indicating points of local interest. By the time we passed through Sturton le Steeple into the light woods fringing the Manchard estate he had realised that his commentary was unwelcome to Holmes and had fallen silent.
Holmes’ mood had changed from his King’s Cross ebullience. How well I recognised that intense concentration, so tight as to preclude even courtesy. My old friend was now focussing the whole of his immense intellect on the disappearance of Leonard Manchard. Nothing else could intrude.
“Stop the carriage, Mr Adley!” Holmes called suddenly. “This is, I believe, the woodland wherein Mr Manchard’s cane was discovered the evening before yesterday?”
“It is, sir,” agreed the solicitor. “A little over that way, away from the road and down the slope.”
“Then that is where I shall begin my investigations.”
“But Mrs Manchard will be awaiting us, sir.”
“Then Mrs Manchard must have patience. I wish to see the primary evidence without prejudice of other’s interpolation.”
“Holmes has his methods,” I soothed Adley. “They have proven efficacious in many a complex situation.”
Adley reluctantly bade the driver stop. The solicitor accompanied us into the undergrowth, Holmes striding forward to clear the way with his cane. Adley picked his path carefully and unhappily through the dry foliage between the oaks and ashes. Holmes and I had adopted comfortable country tweeds; Adley still wore his best town attire.
“Did Manchard walk these woods regularly?” Holmes asked suddenly. He dropped to his knees with no regard for the condition of his trousers and inspected some clod of soil that seemed significant to him.
“He came here very rarely in recent years,” Adley replied. “When he was younger he owned a spaniel which he would walk twice daily. Mr Manchard is now past fifty and enjoys good health for a man of advancing years but does not take regular exercise.”
“Others enjoy these woods,” Holmes noted.
“They are private land but there is no fence on this side of the estate between these woods and the bridle path to the common.”
“When Mr Manchard was found to be missing yesterday morning the police were summoned, of course.” The solicitor paused to unhook his jacket from some ambitious briar then continued. “A search of the grounds was organised and it was his nieces’ suggestion to investigate this place. And so Mr Manchard’s walking stick was found.”
“The fairy glade,” Holmes mused. “That would be the clearing we are now entering? I perceive that the forces of the law have been quite diligent in their hunt for the little people.”
We dropped down into a natural hollow five yards across. The indentation was ringed with gnarled oaks that leaned over to make a green canopy. The long grass around the edges had been trampled down by many searchers. A pile of old stones had been dismantled and cast aside.
Holmes indicated the squashed remains of a mushroom ring. “That was where the walking stick was discovered?”
“It was,” agreed Mr Adley. “We found no other trace of the missing man. The police brought in dogs but the animals seemed unhappy in the area, unwilling to cast about for a scent.”
“You’re certain the cane was Manchard’s?” I checked. After all, one stick can look much like another.
“It was an old companion of his,” Adley replied. “Mrs Manchard identified it by the carving on the handle and by ancient teeth-marks from the dog I mentioned.”
Holmes was casting around the area in frustration. “Half of Gainsborough has danced over this spot!” he growled. “This site should have been sealed off. Trained constables should have examined each blade of grass carefully for vital evidence!”
“Nobody knew that you would be inspecting the scene, Holmes,” I mollified my friend.
“That might account for the heavy-booted prints marring the site, Watson. The newly-dug holes around the glade must be attributed to the activities of enthusiastic and hopeful treasure hunters.”
“When Mr Manchard was found to be missing yesterday morning the first thought was that he might have met with some kind of accident,” Adley explained. “When he did not appear for breakfast Mrs Manchard sent the footman to knock upon his door. Since there was no answer the butler entered his room and found the bed unslept in. The house was searched to no avail. At the suggestion of Misses Arabella and Abigail the grounds were also examined. Some of the common searchers took the opportunity to seek the buried horde to which the girls had alluded.”
“Who found the cane?” demanded Holmes.
“Help was recruited from the neighbouring estate. It was one of the stable lads from there who happened upon the stick.” Adley pointed down to the sad remains of the crushed mushroom ring. “It was laid in the centre of that circle.”
“In a fairy ring,” I mused.
Holmes stood up suddenly. “There is nothing more to be seen here for now,” he announced. “To the house.”
***
Manchard’s manor was hardly what I would have expected for a man of such immense wealth. What revealed itself to us as we broke from the treeline onto a semicircular driveway was a modest winged home of two stories, constructed of stone in a simple old-fashioned manner and covered with trailing ivy.
Holmes jumped down from the carriage before it had even halted and strode away from the front door where butler and maid awaited us. He focussed his attention on the French windows to the east of the property and then to a particular flowerbed around the corner.
The young servant who had driven the coach-and-four looked back to Mr Adley to check if he could stable the horses. “Yes. I’ll return to town in the gig, Stanley,” the solicitor confirmed. To me Adley said, “Mrs Manchard will be waiting in the house.”
I called Holmes and reminded him that a lady was waiting.
Holmes showed no evidence of having heard my promptings. “See these imprints, Watson! The French windows have not been opened for many months but someone has been making use of this clinging ivy as hand and footholds to climb up and down to the window yonder.”
I looked up at the window he indicated. On this hot summer afternoon the sash was raised and the curtain fluttered slightly.
“The children’s room,” Adley told us. “So Arabella and Abigail were speaking the truth when they confessed to sneaking out at night.” He seemed alarmed that their testimony was accurate even as he seemed relieved by this minor demonstration of Holmes’ powers.
My friend swivelled suddenly and stalked back towards the front door. “Inside,” he called.
We followed him inside.
***
Mrs. Manchard was a thin, stern woman in her early fifties. I was surprised at first to see her in mourning garb, swathed from head to foot in black bombazine. Later I discovered that this was customary dress for the lady of the house who had strict religious convictions.
Holmes swept aside her tart welcome (which centred more on how late we were than on any actual greeting) and insisted on examining the missing man’s bedroom. That at least was relatively untouched.
“The bed has not been made since?” he checked with Carrow, the butler.
“Indeed not, sir,” the old man replied. He’d been in service with the Manchards for over twenty years, since the house had been built. “This is exactly as I found it when I entered the room at seven fifty a.m. yesterday.”
Holmes circled the room, examining everything. “Your master’s nightgown was still untouched, wrapped around this warming-pan?”
“Yes sir.”
“And Mr Manchard had exchanged these indoor shoes I see discarded here for some outdoor footwear?”
“Yes sir. His regular boots are missing, sir. And his outdoor coat.”
“His cane we found,” noted Adley.
Mrs Manchard had trailed behind us into her husband’s chamber. Her own bedroom was across the hall. “There was no reason for Leonard to leave the house the night before last,” she insisted. “No reason at all.”
Holmes ignored her. He paused to examine the contents of Manchard’s writing desk.
“Leonard was a man of regular habits,” Mrs Manchard persisted. “I see no reason why he should break the routine of a lifetime and depart the house after dark without so much as a word.” She glanced coldly at Mr Adley. “I can conceive of no reason for him to withdraw as large a sum as could be quickly liquidated either.”
The solicitor stiffened at the implied accusation. “I knew nothing of that, Mrs Manchard, until I checked Mr Manchard’s accounts yesterday afternoon at the request of the constabulary.”
“Perhaps we could clarify a few details,” I suggested, seeking to divert the household so Holmes could continue without interruption. “Who was last to see Mr Manchard before his disappearance?”
“Leonard was at dinner,” replied Mrs Manchard severely. “He dined with myself and our two nieces. They were allowed to join us for the meal although their behaviour had been far from exemplary. My sister has very lax ideas on how to bring up two impressionable young girls.”
I was eager to avoid a catalogue of Abigail and Arabella’s faults from their dour guardian just now. “The meal ended when?” I asked,
The lady of the house glanced at Callow. “A little after eight, sir,” supplied the butler. “Sarah came in to clear the plates just after the big clock had chimed. I served the hot milk and normally the family would then retire after prayer but…” His voice trailed off uncertainly and he glanced at his mistress.
“But my milk was served in a dish that I would not describe as clean,” noted Mrs Manchard critically. “I have never seen such laxity. There was a great greasy fingerprint on the interior of my bowl. I called Callow in to explain himself – except of course there is no explanation save for appalling sloppiness and lazy housekeeping.”
