The Rediscovered Annals of Sherlock Holmes, page 19
“As I surmised, the idea was to prevent any communication between you. But now that the truth is out, we can bait the trap to catch our rat. Time is of the essence. Your sister cannot tolerate the strain much longer, and there are others in like situation.”
“What can I do, Mr. Holmes? I place myself at your disposal and will follow your instructions to the letter.” Holmes studied the man before giving a nod of agreement. “Your aid would be invaluable, but do nothing on your own initiative or the consequences may be dire. Be at my chambers at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Do you know where this man Burton has his quarters?”
“Not the actual address, but although he was very close about himself, he did make a rather bad joke about having a fine view of Smithfield, Barts, and Newgate from his window.”
“That narrows the field. Now we must go, and we shall see you in the morning.”
“I’ll send the boy for a cab to take you to Blackheath or Maze Hill – whichever station is your choice.” Smithers rang the bell and gave the necessary orders, and ten minutes later we were on our way. At London Bridge, Holmes made straight for the all-night telegraph office, then mystified me by taking a cab to the General Post Office in St. Martin’s-le-Grand, where he disappeared for twenty minutes. He returned humming tunelessly to himself and spoke not a word for the rest of the journey. At Baker Street he jumped from the cab, leaving me to pay, and by the time I reached our sitting room he had gone into his own room, closing the door firmly behind him, and that was the last I saw of him that night.
Over an early breakfast he was more forthcoming. “Mr. Marcus Smithers will be on our doorstep shortly, as will our client, whom I telegraphed last night. I rely on your down-to-earth common sense, Watson, to see that the two get along together, for I hope that some part of the family feud may be settled out of this sordid affair.”
“That sounds like one of them now,” I said as a cab stopped outside.
The doorbell pealed faintly and my friend looked at me with a roguish smile.
“Would you venture to say which?”
I shrugged. “As I cannot see through walls it could be either, but no doubt you know differently.”
“It is certainly Smithers. If it was Pritchard arriving in his hansom, he would take time to settle his horse before leaving it. The gentleman whose tread is now on the stairs paused only long enough to pay the driver, who immediately drove away. Come in!” he called as a knock came on our door.
Smithers entered. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What’s afoot?”
“Pull up a chair, my dear sir,” said Holmes, “Allow me to pour you some coffee while we await another guest. In fact, I believe he is even now below.
A few minutes elapsed before Pritchard appeared, pausing on the threshold at the sight of our other visitor, but Holmes waved him to a chair and supplied him with coffee. He raised an eyebrow in my direction before taking a seat for himself and stuffing tobacco into his pipe.
I cleared my throat. “I think, gentlemen, this meeting is long overdue. Mr. Marcus Smithers, this is your brother-in-law, Mr. Lewis Pritchard.” I sat back to watch the conflicting emotions chase across the faces of the pair.
Smithers recovered first, getting to his feet to thrust out his hand. “My dear Pritchard!” he cried. “As Dr. Watson says, this is a long overdue meeting, and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance at last!”
For the merest fraction of a second our client hesitated, then he rose to clasp the proffered hand. “You are right, sir. This is a long-delayed meeting, but through no wish of mine. Your sister would have welcomed a sign from you, but alas, it never came.” He turned to me. “However, I fail to see how this concerns the matter in the forefront of my mind.”
“I think I do,” said Smithers, turning to look at Holmes and myself.
“It does indeed,” I said in my role of mediator. “You both have Mrs. Pritchard’s welfare at heart, and neither of you has the slightest cause to feel antipathy towards the other.”
Holmes intervened brusquely. “Please, gentlemen, let us proceed to the matter in hand, and explanations can come later. You will make your way to Deptford, where Mrs. Pritchard may have comfort from the knowledge that her conflict of loyalties is over. You, Mr. Smithers, know how all this came about and can lay the whole story before Mr. Pritchard and your sister. I enjoin all three of you to remain at Deptford until I telegraph, you, and above all you must convince the lady that she has nothing to fear. Now away with you. Watson and I have our own furrow to plough.”
As soon as our visitors had left, Holmes sprang to his feet and, ignoring the coffee cup he overset in his sudden access of energy, threw off his dressing-gown.
“Come. Mr. Lester Burton is due a visit from us. I think we can be certain of finding him at home at this hour.”
“I may be obtuse, Holmes, but do we know where to find him? The casual description he gave Smithers of the view from his window is vague enough and there must be a goodly number of locations with such a view.”
Holmes chuckled. “What do you imagine I was doing at Post Office headquarters as we came home last night?”
A light dawned on me and I could have kicked myself for not deducing the reason for my prolonged wait, but his tone piqued me.
“I didn’t think you to be bribing Crown servants to betray their trust and duty,” I snapped.
“Neither was I,” he snapped back. “It so happens that the authorities have cause to be grateful to me for a service I rendered them some months back, and they aren’t averse to aiding in the downfall of any miscreants if it’s in their power to do so.”
He chattered inconsequentially as we trotted along Oxford Street in a growler, but said nothing of the matter in hand until I asked who would be paying his fee in this messy case.
He smiled thinly. “I’m hopeful that Lester Burton will be persuaded to make a significant contribution once I have him in my grasp. I see by the set of your coat that you aren’t armed, but no doubt our sticks will serve if it comes to it. Ah, I think we may alight here.”
The sight of Barts Hospital revived memories of my first meeting with the man with whom my life was to be so involved, and divining my thoughts he clapped me affectionately on the shoulder. “Much has happened since that January day long ago, old friend. I shall never cease to be grateful to young Stamford for bringing us together. But come, the weather is about to break and we have no waterproofs with us.”
The sky had assumed a leaden hue presaging the imminence of heavy rain. Holmes hurried us down Old Bailey and into a doorway, the entrance to a block of service flats. He approached the porter ensconced in his cubbyhole and, after a few quiet words, a coin changed hands before the man resumed his perusal of the racing pages in his newspaper. We then made our way up the stairs to stop before a door on the second floor. Holmes pulled at the bell, then leant on his stick until the door partially opened and a plump face surrounded by side-whiskers peered out at us.
“Mr. Lester Burton?” said my friend ingratiatingly.
A wary look came over the suety face and the man licked his lips nervously. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I wish to have a few words regarding The Crown of Light Mission. Ah, no you don’t!” Holmes thrust his stick into the gap in time to prevent the door slamming on us, then applying his shoulder to it burst into the apartment, forcing its occupant back several paces. I followed Holmes inside and shut the door behind me, leaning my back against it to preclude any escape.
“This is an outrage!” spluttered Burton, for I was sure it was he. “Leave at once or I shall call the police!” He retreated as Holmes advanced on him menacingly.
“Yes, by all means call the police, and a pretty story there will be to tell them. They take a very poor view of blackmail.”
“I have no idea of what you are talking about,” the man blustered, but his eyes were filled with fear as he edged back, followed inexorably by Holmes.
“Don’t trifle with me,” said Holmes, “At this very moment, a lady is on her way to lay information against you, but her husband and her brother, suitably equipped with horsewhips, will precede the minions of the law.”
Sweat beaded the plump features and Burton began to speak, but his words were drowned by a violent clap of thunder following the lashing of rain on the window. He began again and the pause had given him back some confidence.
“I refuse to bandy words with you, sir. I have heard of you as an interfering busy-body, and I can only conjecture that what little notoriety you have achieved has gone to your head. Withdraw at once, or I shall call the porter to eject you.”
Holmes glared at him with loathing and contempt. “How dare you attempt to outface me, you despicable cur!” he almost snarled. “I’m here to break you and ensure your evil trade is brought to an end. I’m not bound by any rules that may prevent the police treating you as you deserve.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Burton sneered.
“That is your choice: Either surrender all the material that gives you power over your unhappy victims and sufficient funds to make at least some restitution, or be prepared to have me beat it out of you.”
“You wouldn’t dare. Even were your wild accusations true, what proof can you have?”
“All that I require.” Holmes loomed menacingly over the cowering figure. “Come, accept that the game is lost and you may yet take flight before the police arrive.”
The blackmailer put on a show of bravado. “Threaten all you will. You will find nothing here that you want. Get out!”
Taking a pace forward, Holmes grasped Burton by the shirt-front and shook him until his teeth rattled. Rarely had I seen my friend in such a cold rage and I feared that he would lose control entirely, but at last he flung the wretch into a chair where he huddled, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Holmes took a grip on himself and cast an eye around the room.
“Watson, do you go through that coat that hangs behind the door and see what you may find.”
My search produced a bunch of keys, a small diary, and a pocket book containing a number of bank-notes. I passed it all to Holmes who made a cursory assessment of the money then threw the keys back to me.
“See if you can match one of these to the safe that stands in the corner. I suspect its contents will prove illuminating.”
Burton made to protest, but a threatening gesture from Holmes made him subside fearfully in the chair.
The safe was an early model by Chubb, and the second key I tried allowed me to swing the door open. I was faced by two large ledgers, a bundle of papers, and a leather bag which on being opened revealed a considerable sum in sovereigns and half-sovereigns. Holmes pounced on the ledgers and swiftly turned the pages for several minutes before slamming them shut with a grunt of satisfaction.
“This is what we need,” he said grimly. “The bank-notes and gold will provide some recompense for such victims as can be traced and furnish my fee into the bargain. As for the papers – well – ”
“You can’t do that!” Burton screeched. “That’s theft!”
“Then tell the police,” Holmes replied contemptuously, turning away in disgust.
With a speed born of desperation Burton sprang from the chair and snatched at the pocket-book which Holmes had laid on the table. I leapt to stop him and he aimed a blow that caught me on the shoulder that sent me cannoning into Holmes. By the time we had recovered, our blackmailer had grabbed his coat and was halfway through the door. With a frantic lunge I tried to hold on to his arm, but he slipped through my grasp and ran for the stairs, leaving me staring at the pocket-book which was all that I retained of him.
“Let him go,” said my colleague. “We’ve drawn his teeth, and you did well to hang on to the money. If Mrs. Pritchard can be induced to lay information against him, he will not get far.”
I admit yielding to the temptation to keep to myself the fact that my rescue of the pocket-book was less deliberate than he assumed, but no harm was done by that. I went to stand beside my friend at the window to look down at the street. The rain had stopped and people were hurrying to get their business done before the next downpour. Suddenly, Holmes gripped my arm and sucked in his breath.
A running figure dashed into view at the very moment that a brewer’s dray lost a wheel immediately below us. The loaded cart tipped over, shedding its load, and the running man disappeared from sight beneath the heavy casks. The cries of horror from the horrified onlookers reached us through the closed window, and as the crowd congregated Holmes turned away.
“I think we would do well to leave before we are implicated,” he said quietly, and taking the ledgers and papers he pushed me towards the door. Pausing only to collect my stick, I followed him down the stairs and through the entrance hall, where the porter had deserted his post to see what was happening in the street. Crossing into Newgate Street we found a cab, and stopping only at the Strand telegraph office to send a wire to the Pritchards, proceeded back to our rooms.
I stopped suddenly as we entered the sitting room. “Holmes!” I gasped.
“The bag of gold!”
“Really, Doctor, do you think me so careless?” He threw the leather purse on to the table. “We have an hour before lunch, which I shall occupy by going through these books while you count the money.”
We applied ourselves thus, and the total sum staggered me. The pocketbook yielded £2,400 pounds in notes of various denominations, while there was a further £120 and ten shillings in gold coins. When I reported the amount to Holmes, he nodded his satisfaction,
“It seems Mr. Burton had no faith in banks, which is fortunate. At least a hundred-and-fifty of it belongs to Mrs. Pritchard, but it will be the deuce of a job to apportion the remainder. It seems that no sum was too insignificant for that creature to reach for, and his accounts show amounts a small as five shillings from more than one of his victims. I hope that some can be induced to come forward at tonight’s meeting if they can be persuaded they have nothing to fear. I shall enlist Mrs. Pritchard’ aid in that, as they may trust her as one of themselves.”
“But what hold could he have over all these people?”
“Who knows? If a duchess wished to conceal an indiscretion, she would be no more anxious than the wife of a market porter to pay for silence. It is a matter of degree. Where one would find five-hundred pounds, the other would struggle to raise five shillings. I’m not interested in the details. Blackmail is a dirty business whatever the sum involved, and I rank it as more evil than a murder committed in a moment of passion.”
“What of the papers?” I ventured.
“I shall destroy them unread. I’ve no desire to have people’s weaknesses laid before me, and whomever cannot be traced through the ledgers will have no more demands made on them. A prominent advertisement in the newspapers announcing that The Crown of Light Mission has sufficient funds for its needs should be enough to relieve the minds of most contributors.”
We didn’t linger over lunch and, as we hailed a cab, Holmes took a paper from a passing newsboy.
“I say, look at this,” he chuckled, passing the paper to me.”
The headlines shouted at me. “Man Killed by Falling Beer-Barrels”. I read on:
A man identified as Mr. Lester Burton was killed in an accident in Old Bailey when the wheel of a brewer’s dray collapsed and dislodged its load as a man ran by. He was killed instantly. Alfred Huggins, the porter at his residence, said Mr. Burton was a quiet gentleman who gave no trouble. It is believed that the deceased had two callers shortly before he met his death, but no trace of them can be found.
“No more than he deserved,” Holmes said, then leant back with closed eyes until our cab dropped us at the Pritchards’ house. Pritchard himself admitted us, and before he conducted us in, Holmes handed him the newspaper.
“It’s all over, then?” asked our client.
“Apart from some loose ends, but your wife has nothing to fear and never did have, as I expect you now know. However, with your permission I will ask a small service of her.”
“Ask what you will, Mr. Holmes. Anything to repay our debt to you. But come, she is waiting on you.”
With the advent of Holmes and myself, the small parlour seemed very crowded. As well as the Pritchards and Smithers, a thick-set elderly man stood squarely in the middle of the room, his ruddy face glistening with perspiration.
“So you’re the famous Sherlock Holmes,” he said before anyone else could speak. His eyes latched on to my friend’s lean figure, “I’m Joe Smithers, and a confounded old fool I’ve been.”
Holmes inclined his head. “Most of us are at times, even my friend Dr. Watson,” he said urbanely, obviously not including himself in that and ignoring my splutter of indignation.”
We disposed ourselves on the chairs brought in by Pritchard and the assembly looked expectantly at my colleague.
“You had something to ask my wife,” Pritchard said tentatively.
“I have indeed. Now the threat to your happiness is lifted, Mrs. Pritchard, do you have the courage to attend at the Mission tonight and help me do likewise for those others who were in the same situation? I have a number of names, and if you will identify those whom you know, I think they will trust you rather than myself.”
“There is no more danger?” the lady asked fearfully.
“None. Burton is dead and all his records are safe from revelation.”
“Then I will do it gladly. A number of poor wretches will have as much cause for gratitude as I. You understand that none of us knew any of the other’s secrets and we all went in fear of exposure, and also we had been threatened with physical violence if we talked between ourselves or failed to meet that man’s demands.”
