The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (46 page)

III - A Visit to Bairstow's

That afternoon, we dressed formally and made our way down the stairs to Baker Street. Holmes quickly hailed a hansom and gave the cabby an address in Westminster. Once on our way, I was curious about how these wagers were made, and asked Holmes to enlighten me.

Holmes sat forwards slightly in the cab, saying, “In my experience of these things, a group of fellows will wager on the winner of a race and perhaps also take bets on the minor placings. It is commonplace not to consider the bookmakers odds, but merely place or accept a bet on the horse's position at the finish.”

I nodded... but in truth, I was still a little unsure.

Holmes saw my confusion, sighed, and then continued. “Suppose, then, that I think horse number three will win and I announce a wager of five hundred guineas. You may accept the wager and if it wins, you must pay me five hundred guineas. If it loses, then I must pay you five hundred guineas. Of course, these fellows will know the previous form of the horse and so they will place or accept bets accordingly.”

Again I nodded, confident that I now, at least, knew the rudiments of placing a wager.

In but a few minutes, our cab slowed to a stop at the kerb outside the rather grand
façade
of a fine Victorian building, having one side facing the river. A discreet brass plaque to one side of the arched and fluted stone doorway said simply “Bairstow's,” and beneath that, “Members Only.” On our approach, a liveried doorman touched the brim of his top hat with his gloved hand and opened the heavy, half-glazed, oak front door.

Once inside, I was immediately aware of the fine crystal chandelier that lit the elegant atrium. Sparkling brightly, it sent out shards of coloured light that highlighted the moulded plaster ceiling and the half panelled walls. We were clearly strangers and were straightaway approached by one of the staff who took the card proffered by Holmes. Almost immediately, we were whisked away to a smoking room where the familiar figure of Mycroft Holmes could be seen, seated in a deep-buttoned leather Chesterfield chair, drawing contentedly on a fine Havana cigar.

Upon our arrival, Mycroft rose from his Chesterfield and beckoned us to sit in the two empty chairs beside him. “Ah, Sherlock, may I offer you a little refreshment? I am told that they serve a very passable glass of sherry.”

Holmes held up his hand, saying, “Thank you, no, but I would like one of your fine Havana's, Mycroft. A little sherry for you, Watson?” he questioned.

I nodded, replying, “Err... yes, a ‘fino' would be most pleasant.” I smiled and nodded at Mycroft.

With barely a raised finger, Mycroft summoned one of the ever alert waiters, ordering a glass of ‘fino' sherry for me and a Havana for Holmes. Within moments, the waiter returned with a small silver tray which bore my sherry in a lead crystal glass, and beside it a fine Havana cigar. I carefully took the glass of straw-coloured sherry and sniffed at it before taking a sip. It was indeed very pleasant, like a mouthful of Spanish sunshine.

Holmes had taken the cigar from the tray and had used the cigar cutter proffered by the waiter to slice the very tip from the rounded end of his cigar. He now took a Vesta from his silver case, struck it, and then carefully toasted the end of the cigar before drawing contentedly upon it.

It was as we sat there that Mycroft reached over and touched the sleeve of Holmes's jacket. Inclining his cigar slightly, he used it to discreetly point towards a gentleman who was standing some ten feet away at the entrance to the room and now framed by the doorway, saying quietly, “That is Major Cooke, Sherlock.”

I looked towards the doorway and there stood an impressive figure, every inch a military man, well-dressed and finely groomed. He stood some six feet in height, with hair that was iron grey. His slightly ruddy face was lined and bore fine almost mutton chop, whiskers. Looking around him, he gestured to three seated gentlemen who rose and left the room. With a sweep of his gaze, he left, seeming to have ensured that no-one else remained whose presence he required. As we watched, another member joined the group and the five now disappeared from our view into a side room.

Holmes turned slightly, saying, “An interesting fellow. The polo injury must be quite painful in the damper months.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, those thirty-guinea, hand-lasted shoes, undoubtedly from Harrison and Ball of Old Bond Street, must give his ankle some vestige of support, I would imagine.”

Holmes nodded, saying, “Yes, but it is what he carries in his right-hand jacket pocket that intrigues me, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded sagely in agreement. I sat amazed looking simply from one brother to the other. I, as had they, had only seen the man for, perhaps, barely twenty seconds. I had a brief impression of his face and clothes, whilst they had observed so very much more. As we sat, it became clear to me that Mycroft had chosen his position in the smoking room very wisely. From our chairs, we had a clear view of the atrium, and also the door to the side room where the five club members had gathered to place a wager and await the result of the race.

The rather grand, gilded wall clock in the atrium struck four o'clock. I had finished my sherry whilst Sherlock and Mycroft were still drawing contentedly upon their Havanas. It was a few minutes after four when I noticed that Major Cooke had hurried out of the side room, had turned left, and was now climbing the fine mahogany staircase. Holmes laid aside his cigar in the ashtray beside him and immediately gave chase... at a respectable distance. Perhaps two minutes later, the Major was to be seen hurrying down the stairs and heading towards the side room, followed by a now frowning Holmes.

Holmes approached us, clearly deep in thought. He sat for a moment in silence before turning towards the atrium, clearly impatient for something further to happen. I observed Holmes straighten and his jaw become firm, as a messenger boy crossed the atrium and walked towards the side room, clutching an envelope. Within moments, there could be heard a muted cry and, a minute or so later, the members from the side room emerged from their conclave.

As I watched, the faces of the five men were a testament to their fortunes. One was holding his head and, seemingly, almost in tears; another's face clearly showed anger and was almost scarlet, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. A third looked resigned to his loss, whilst the Major and another fellow were clapping each other on the back and had beaming faces.

Holmes turned slightly and stood with his back to the Major. Leaning forwards towards his brother, he said quietly, “I want to meet this fellow, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded and waved a hand in the direction of the Major and shouted “Cooke! Come and meet my brother.” The Major looked towards Mycroft, raised his hand in greeting, and he and his companion approached. Holmes still had his back to the Major and just as he drew level, Holmes turned abruptly and bumped awkwardly into him.

Holmes cried out, “Oh, I'm so sorry. I was tending to my cigar.” Holmes smiled broadly and proffered his hand, saying “Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, Doctor John Watson.”

The Major looked us both up and down with a somewhat wary eye and shook our hands. Holmes continued, “My brother Mycroft, he is the sensible one, says that you like a flutter on the horses. My friend Watson also has a penchant for such things, don't you, Watson?”

In truth, I was flabbergasted by this sudden change in persona by Holmes. He had become this brash, casual fellow that I certainly did not recognise as my friend. I somehow managed to mutter, “Err... yes, I have been known to wager a few sovereigns.”

“Nonsense, Watson! I have known you to drop a thousand or two at one go,” cried Holmes.

I could only nod and smile, but, as Holmes said this, I could see that the Major had suddenly become interested in my wagering habits. Smiling broadly, the Major said, “Well, Doctor, as it happens, we are having a small wager on the outcome of the half past three race at York tomorrow. Would you like to join us?”

I looked towards Holmes and was about to open my mouth when he cried, “Of course he would. However, we are, of necessity, required to be elsewhere tomorrow, but Watson would be pleased to oblige the day after!”

The Major smiled, saying, “Splendid! We are having another wager
that
day on the result of the half past three race at York.”

“Excellent! Come along, Mycroft, I will treat you to some tea.” Grasping his brother's arm, Holmes hurried from the room with me smiling and nodding a “good bye,” and then hurrying in his wake.

As we left Bairstow's, Mycroft reached out and held Holmes's arm, asking, “What is it, Sherlock? Why this charade? Do you know how he does it?”

Holmes was once more his old self. Nodding, he replied, “I believe so... but I need a day to confirm my suspicion. I would be grateful if you were to meet Watson here in two days' time when he places his wager.” Holmes paused for a moment before asking, “I take it, Mycroft, that you do not mean to ruin the man, but simply to recoup the other members' losses and warn him off?”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite so. The members do not want a scandal.”

Holmes nodded and, after a good bye to his brother, Holmes quickly hailed a cab to take us back to Baker Street.

IV - Surveying the Course

Once more back in our rooms and settled in our respective chairs, I began to reflect on the events at Bairstow's. “Tell me, Holmes, what did you make of our new friend, Major Cooke? I am intrigued to know more of his polo injury.”

Holmes blew out a cloud of blue smoke and laughed heartily. “After seeing him approach, it was clear that he was right-handed and lame in his left leg. From his slightly restricted movement in his right arm, he also suffers from arthritis. Now, a cavalry officer may carry a sword into battle, but as there have been none of late, it is much more likely that the damage to his shoulder is from the repeated use of a polo mallet.”

I nodded, although in truth, I was still unconvinced. Holmes, of course, observed my troubled expression and added, “However, the Major's cufflinks which bore the distinctive crest of the Marylebone Polo Club did, to some extent, support my deduction.”

On hearing this, I burst out laughing and then asked, “And the item in his jacket pocket?”

Holmes now grew more serious. “Now that is an interesting object, Watson. I managed to grasp it briefly when I engineered to collide with the Major. I have an idea as to what it is, but I need to return to Bairstow's early in the morning to confirm my suspicions.”

Upon this, Holmes would say no more. We retired, and early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast of a pair of Scottish kippers, coffee, toast and some rather fine Seville marmalade, we made our way downstairs and out onto Baker Street. Holmes hailed a cab, and I was perplexed when he directed the cabbie to take us to Westminster Bridge. During our ride, Holmes looked straight ahead and purposefully avoided my eye. It was clear that he wished not to be questioned as to what was afoot.

Arriving at the bridge, Holmes directed the cabbie to drive towards the centre span, almost at the point where we had saved Anthony Stewart. Here, he called out, requesting the driver to stop. Getting down from the cab, Holmes moved to the stone balustrade of the bridge and then withdrew from his jacket pocket a pair of field glasses. Raising them to his eyes, he used them to sweep, and then carefully examine, the buildings that abutted the bank of the Thames. As I watched, he paused in his observations. Looking towards one particular building, a thin smile appeared upon his lips. Replacing the field glasses, he leapt back into the cab, calling out to direct the driver to take us once more to Bairstow's.

Our cab ride was but brief, and before long we were once again within the atrium of Bairstow's. As we stood for a moment, we were approached by a tall, grey haired, slim gentleman, dressed very formally. His waistcoat was a delicate shade of dove grey, and it was adorned with a heavy gold Belcher chain and fob. His face was oval and sported a fine moustache. His eyes were bright, almost piercing - no, enquiring - and he spoke in a precise way.

Nodding briefly to us, he extended his hand and began thus, “Good morning, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson. I am Sir Terence Walters, the Chairman of the club. Your brother and I have already had conversations regarding your assistance in this matter, and I am at your complete disposal.”

Holmes and I shook Sir Terence's hand and allowed him to guide us towards a more private area of the atrium. Holmes, I could see, was at complete ease with Sir Terence, and it took me but moments to recall that Sir Terence had, until but a few years past, been a senior figure at the bar.

Gesturing us to be seated, Sir Terence sat forward on his chair, seemingly eager for Holmes to begin.

Holmes paused for a moment and then asked, “What do you know of this Major Cooke, Sir Terence?”

Sir Terence pursed his lips slightly. “Well, I know something of his military career, as all our members are scrutinised before being allowed to join the club. However, the business regarding his retirement from the regiment was obscured from us and only came to light, thanks to your brother. He is from an honourable family that has a country seat in Lancashire. His father bred racehorses, I believe, so I would imagine the Major's penchant for a wager stems from there.”

Holmes nodded and from his expression, he seemed quite satisfied with this new information. “Yesterday afternoon when we were here, Sir Terence, Major Cooke took his leave from his companions and ascended the staircase to the first floor, disappearing into a room with an unmarked door. I was reluctant to follow, you understand, and I would be grateful if you might show me the room.”

Sir Terence nodded and his face bore a slight smile as he led the way. Crossing the atrium, we passed through the lounge, where I could see the fine mahogany staircase with its scarlet Wilton carpet runner and brass stair rods ascending to the next floor. At the top of the stairs, Holmes pointed across the landing to a plain mahogany door. As I watched, Sir Terence's smile broadened, saying, “This way, gentlemen.”