The Rediscovered Annals of Sherlock Holmes, page 11
“You said he is dead. Is that true?”
He nodded and she dropped back into her chair. Burying her face in her hands, she began sobbing loudly.
Holmes watched her bleakly until she regained control and looked up with reddened eyes.
“Tell me what you believe to be the truth, Mr. Holmes, but spare me your views on my personal conduct. That is between me and my conscience.”
My companion began in a cold and detached tone as Lady Fawkus listened with a look of ever-increasing horror as the sordid tale unfolded. When all was told she sat rigidly in her chair, her lovely face ravaged by the conflicting emotions that passed over it. When she at last spoke, it was in a low humble voice.
“I cannot believe that these terrible events are a figment of your imagination, Mr. Holmes, and I presume there is evidence to substantiate it?”
“Indeed. Three scoundrels are in custody, and will be quick to confess and mitigate their own part, but Sir Peter and Mr. Hebden are alive, and will tell as much of their own story as the authorities deem necessary, so there can be no doubt of the facts.”
“Oh, God!” she cried piteously. “What have I bought about? Will I ever be able to face that good man again?”
“That, Madam, is out of my hands,” replied Holmes as he prepared to leave. “However, I don’t think Sir Peter is a vindictive man, so there may yet be hope for you both. Good night.”
We set off to walk briskly in the direction of Baker Street, Holmes now recovering his spirits. He paused under a lamp-post to light a cigarette.
“For your records, I think it will transpire that Clarke’s accident, and the dismissal of the valet, were engineered to leave the gang a clear run when the time came to put Braddock’s scheme into effect. Watson, is something amusing you?” he said sharply.
“I hope we don’t meet a zealous policeman,” I chuckled.
“Good Lord, why should that concern us?” he asked in a puzzled tone.
“Do you not realise, my dear Holmes, that apart from that outrageous moustache that was lost in the struggle, you are still attired as a Thames bargee? Hardly the type of person to be seen after midnight in this part of town.”
He looked down at himself, and then joined in my merriment.
“Should that arise, old chap, we could always ask Gregson to vouch for us, and that would give great satisfaction to his sense of humour.”
Still laughing immoderately, we resumed our homeward progress.
The Merton Fiends
As the reputation of my friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, grew, so did the number of cases in which he was consulted. Many were so mundane that he either provided the solution without stirring from his favourite chair, or the applicant was dismissed with the icy contempt he reserved for obvious time-wasters. Nevertheless, his work-load was prodigious, and as one case followed on the heels of the last I found little opportunity to flesh out the skeletons from my notes and diaries.
However, there is one case that will forever remain vividly in my memory – not so much for its complexity as for the sheer callousness and inhumanity displayed by the perpetrators, and also for the sense of remorse engendered in my companion.
“If only I had foreseen the course of events and taken up the case at once,” he said later, and no words of mine could lift his burden of guilt.
It was a fine morning in early summer, and we hadn’t long returned from Hampshire where we had extricated Miss Violet Hunter from the peril of the Copper Beeches, The lady was both courageous and beautiful, and her sweet face lingers yet in my memory. Mrs. Hudson had removed the remains of our breakfast, casting an exasperated eye on the tangle of newspapers at my friend’s feet. I could never fathom how a mind so orderly as his was incapable of keeping a newspaper together. We had filled and lit our post-breakfast pipes when the muted jangle of the doorbell was shortly followed by the reappearance of our good landlady to announce that a Mr. Marcus Perry waited below.
“Will you see him, sir?”
“Why not?” replied Holmes carelessly. “Nothing else presses.”
The caller, somewhat less than thirty years of age, was of medium height and build, with a frank, open face. His brown, curly hair was unruly above eyes of the same hue, and a fine moustache adorned his upper lip. His expression would have been pleasant but for the lines of worry and anxiety that now shadowed it, and his whole bearing had the signs of suppressed agitation. “Come in, sir!” cried Holmes, unfolding his long limbs to greet our visitor with a vigorous handshake. “You are most welcome. Be seated, I beg you.”
Perry lowered himself into the chair so placed that the light from the window fell directly on to his face. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. It is very good of you to see me so promptly, for I know you must be a busy man.”
“Nonsense, Anything you have to say may be said in the presence of my friend and confidant, Dr. Watson. Pray feel free to fill your pipe with the Fantail Mixture which you favour, and then tell me what brings you from Bromley so urgently.”
Our caller’s jaw fell in amazement, “I have read of your powers of deduction, sir, but it is beyond belief that you could have read so much within minutes of my entry.”
My companion shrugged. “It was no great feat. The distinctive aroma of your tobacco clings to your garments. That particular blend of burley, latakia, and fire-cured leaf is peculiar to John Myers, who has a small shop in the Market Square of Bromley, and isn’t widely known farther afield.” He smiled. “I venture to suggest that while your eyesight is reasonably good, you occasionally wear pince-nez, denoting an acquaintance with books. You are a bachelor, and your hurried breakfast included a soft-boiled egg. Beyond that I know nothing of you.”
“You are correct in every detail, but how – ?”
“Merely logical observation. The faint but definite marks on the bridge of your nose, and the black ribbon leading from your lapel to your breast pocket suggest the pince-nez. A trace of egg on your moustache points to a hastily eaten breakfast, and no caring spouse would allow you to leave home thus adorned.” He raised a hand to stop further comment. “Now, sir, to the purpose of your visit, if you please. You have my full attention.”
Perry began to charge his pipe from a soft leather pouch. “I own a small bookshop in Bromley, but my concern is for my sister Charlotte,” he began. “Some two-and-a-half years ago, at the age of twenty-four, she formed an attachment for a Mr. Julius Swan, much against the wishes of my mother and myself. On her twenty-fifth birthday, she announced her intention of marrying him, and as she was of age we were helpless.”
“You disapproved of her choice?”
Our visitor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We didn’t like the man, and we found him most unpleasant in an oily way. Also he was reticent regarding his antecedents. But then we had never envisaged marriage for her at all.”
“Come, sir, I don’t think you are being completely frank with us,” said my companion sharply. “What are you concealing?”
Marcus Perry showed signs of agitation as my colleague eyed him severely, then he went on in a low voice. “Charlotte is a good, sweet girl, and I love her dearly, but she isn’t as other women. She has never matured, and although it pains me to say so, she is physically unattractive and of limited mental capacity.” He leaned forward and spoke with a fierce intensity. “Do not mistake me, Mr. Holmes. She isn’t an imbecile, but she needs constant care and supervision in the most simple of tasks. And,” he added, “a great deal of love and affection.”
“Which no ordinary husband could be expected to provide?”
“Least of all Julius Swan!”
“Yet he took her as his wife. Was there an ulterior motive? Did she take a sum of money to the marriage?”
“A tolerable amount. When our grandfather died soon after Charlotte was born, she and I had eight-hundred pounds apiece placed in trust until we were of age. That appreciated over the years, but I have never touched mine.” His face saddened. “As I grew older I came to believe that my poor sister would always need caring for.”
“And she took her portion to her marriage?” said Holmes keenly. “But what is your problem?”
“I am her only living relative. Father has been dead several years, and Mother died soon after Charlotte left us. I am convinced that it contributed to her death. After she married Julius Swan, she went to live at Morris Drive, Dulwich, in a household that included Julius Swan’s brother Patrick and his wife Caroline. Since then I have been barred from any contact with her, even by letter, and she wasn’t even at Mother’s funeral! I have called at the house on several occasions, but have always been rebuffed in the rudest fashion – in most cases by Patrick Swan, who went so far as to offer me physical violence. I was told that my opposition to her marriage had embittered her, and she wasn’t in a fit state to see me. Two weeks ago I made one last effort to see her, but I found The Walnuts closed and empty, and no one could tell me to where they had moved.”
“So you wish me to trace her for you.” My colleague shook his head. “No, Mr. Perry, I need more than that to tangle in a family dispute. Have you evidence to suggest your sister may be in danger?”
The other shook his head. “Not directly, but since I last spoke to Patrick Swan, almost a month ago, I am convinced that I am being watched and followed. I know he trailed me from Dulwich on my last encounter with him, and this very morning I saw him in the crowd at Charing Cross.”
“Has he followed you here?” Holmes sounded dubious. “What would be his object in acting thus?”
“If I knew that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I wouldn’t need your advice,” Perry said with some asperity.
At a sign from my companion, I got to my feet and looked down on the busy street, but saw no furtive figure lurking below, I gave an imperceptible shake of my head and returned to my seat.
“Listen, Mr. Perry,” said Holmes. “I believe you are overwrought and seeing danger where none exists.”
“You don’t believe me?” He seemed on the verge of tears. “You refuse to help me?”
“I did not say that. Let me have twenty-four hours to consider the matter, and I promise you shall have my answer by this time tomorrow. More than that I cannot say.”
Perry stood up to leave. “Very well, sir. I cannot force you to take my worries on yourself, but you will give it due thought?”
“I have promised to do so. Good day to you, sir. Watson,” he said with a lift of his eyebrows, “be so good as to see Mr. Perry to the street door and summon a cab for him.” When I returned Holmes was turning from where he had been looking down from the window, his brow furrowed with thought. He raised an interrogative eyebrow at me.
“No obvious followers. I watched the cab out of sight, so perhaps the gentleman has an overactive imagination.”
“And the bicyclist on the corner who pedalled off so energetically in the same direction?” he asked drily.
“I saw no cyclist,” I protested.
“Perhaps I had a better vantage point at this window.” He lowered himself into his chair and for more than an hour-and-a-half he remained lost in reverie, sucking furiously on the unsavoury old pipe which accompanied his deepest meditations. It wasn’t until the shrill cry of a paperboy drifted up from the street that he sprang to life.
“‘Orrible accident at Charing Cross! Man falls under train! All the latest!”
“What was that?” he cried. Then he was on his feet and clattering down the stairs. He came back with the paper clutched in his fist, and a grim look on his face.
“Confound it!” he said savagely, “I have been a fool! A blind, culpable fool!”
He thrust the paper at me, a bony forefinger jabbing at the smudged print of the stop press. I read it through in stunned silence:
A terrible accident occurred at Charing Cross Station when a man fell in front of an incoming train and was killed instantly. The platform was crowded at the time, but no one could tell the cause of the man’s fall. The contents of his pockets showed him to be a Mr. Marcus Perry, a bookseller from Bromley in Kent.
“Good Heavens above!” I gasped as I looked up at his set features. “Do you think – ?
“What am I to think?” he replied bitterly. “How far can coincidence stretch? That man came to me for help and left to meet his death. I owe Marcus Perry a life, a debt which I shall repay.”
Seldom had I seen my friend so consumed by angry remorse, and twenty minutes later we had brushed by an outraged Mrs. Hudson, who was about to convey a succulent steak-and-kidney pudding up to our rooms. A cab took us to London Bridge Station, and not until we were on our way to Dulwich did he utter a word.
“I misread the urgency of this matter,” he said glumly as we passed through Bermondsey. “Had I but heeded Mr. Perry, I may have saved his life, and perhaps delayed the peril to his unfortunate sister.”
“His sister? She too is in danger?”
“Of course she is!” he said impatiently. “You took notes this morning. Marcus Perry told us he and his sister each inherited eight-hundred pounds. The lady’s naturally went with her on her marriage, while his was invested against the time when he was unable to care for her, and must have appreciated considerably over the years.”
“And she being his next of kin, that sum will now go to her,” I said as I followed his reasoning. “You believe that her brother was murdered, and Mrs. Swan is now in considerable danger of meeting a like fate?” I shook my head. “Two deaths for less than two-thousand pounds?”
“Murders have been committed for as few pence, and it is an assumption I dare not ignore. If I err, nothing is lost.”
Two other passengers alighted at East Dulwich, and the short journey to Morris Drive took less than ten minutes in the ancient station fly. The Walnuts was a square, yellow-brick pile with its windows shuttered and bearing obvious signs of neglect. It was screened from view by a high wall, with the nearest dwelling set fifty yards away.
“What now?” I asked. “Shall you enter?”
He shook his head. “No, I think not. If these people are as cunning as I think, they will have left no clue behind them.” He looked along the road. “Perhaps this honest fellow can give us some information.”
He pointed with his stick to the figure of a postman heading towards us.
“Good day to you, Postman,” he said as the man drew near. “I wonder if you can help me.” He jingled some coins in his pocket.
“What’s your problem, sir?” The postman seemed prepared to talk.
“It’s Mr. Swan at The Walnuts. He seems to have left in some haste.”
“Them?” The man laughed scornfully. “The Lord alone knows where they went. D’ye know, in two whole years I never took above a dozen letters up there.”
“Did you ever see the people?”
“I’ve seen them come out when I’ve been passing, Two blokes and a young woman – nice looker, too.”
“No one else?”
“Not to say seen, but a couple of times I caught sight of a woman’s face at that attic window.” He nodded towards the house. “Kind of scary, it was, with a dead white face sand her hair all tangled.”
“Do you know when they left?”
The postman tugged at his beard. “Now, today’s Tuesday, and it wasn’t last week. That’s it!” he cried. “Two weeks last Saturday. I always walk through here on my way in, and I was on early turn so it must’ve been about five in the morning. There was a plain black van at the door, and the two blokes were loading up. They were gone by the time I’d sorted and started my walk, and that’s all I know.”
“No name on the van?” Holmes asked sharply. “No driver with it?”
“No, sir. Like I said, that’s all I saw.”
My colleague pressed a florin into the postman’s hand. “What do we do now?” he said when the man was out of earshot. “It is evident they intended to slip away leaving no easy trail. Think, man, think.”
I thought, but no bright flash of inspiration came. “I have only one idea,” I said tentatively. “What about the cabbie at the station? Could he have picked up anything?”
“A forlorn hope, but it is more than I have come up with, so I suppose it’s worth a try.” He lengthened his stride, his lips set in a thin line, and we were back at the station almost as quickly as the hackney had brought us away.
The driver of the decrepit old cab was dozing in his seat, opening his eyes reluctantly when Holmes called to attract his attention.
“The house in Morris Drive you took us to. Do you remember it?” The man nodded. “Have you been there before?” Holmes flipped him a coin.
“Time or two,” the driver said taciturnly.
“Do you know the folk who lived there?”
“Not to say ‘know’. There was two gents and a young lady I took out there now and then, but they’ve been gone a couple of weeks or more, I reckon. Old Tom in the booking office might know a bit more.”
We entered, and my companion put his question to the booking clerk, who scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Queer lot, them,” he ruminated. “One gent used to go up to town regular, but later it was the other. Could be brothers.” He frowned.
“Funny thing is he had a return ticket until he started buying a single just before they stopped coming a couple of weeks back. Charlie out there – ” He jerked his thumb. “He reckons they just upped and went.”
“Were there ever any women with them?”
“One young’un, but I don’t know which one she was with. Tell you what, though. The taller one did ask me to look up the best way to get to Merton. About a month ago, that’d be.”
“Not much to go on, but it’s all we have,” Holmes mused when we were on the train back to London.
