The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (66 page)

“I can assure you that I have no reason whatsoever to believe that my client’s motives are in any wise dishonourable. He simply seeks the truth.”

“So you admit that Dowling is your client! He has engaged your services behind my back to spy on me! By God, sir, this is intolerable!”

He took a step forward and for a moment I believed that he was about to strike my friend. I tensed and so did Holmes, but then Abergavenny paused and uttered a hollow laugh.

“You will have to forgive me, gentlemen. For a moment I was about to cast legal caution to the wind.” He gave Holmes a hard look. “I remembered in the nick of time my professional training – and also the fact that you once fought with McMurdo. Besides, fisticuffs will solve nothing. I would simply say this to you – a few errors at work, even an instance of professional negligence, none of these matters justifies the campaign of persecution to which I am currently being subjected. There is nothing worthy of your talents here, Mr Holmes. Good day, gentlemen.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. For a little while the two of us sat there in silence, Holmes stroking his jaw reflectively.

“What do you make of that?” I demanded at last.

“I recognize the symptoms of over-work,” my friend said softly. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

The door opened again, this time to admit Matthew Dowling. His face had crumpled in dismay.

“Mr Holmes, I think I may have achieved the worst of all worlds. John Abergavenny has just given me verbal notice to terminate our partnership with immediate effect. He said that since I preferred to believe gossip to his word of honour, the bond of trust between us had been irreparably damaged. He said he would finish the relationship between us himself rather than wait for me to do so on spurious grounds.”

“Did he tell you where he was bound?”

Dowling shook his head. “He has rooms above the tailor in Lamb’s Conduit Street, but I suspect that his first recourse may be to a den of infamy. I dread the thought that he might take some precipitate action at a time when he is clearly very disturbed.”

He took a deep breath and made a visible effort to collect his thoughts. “Thank you for your time, Mr Holmes. This unfortunate outcome is not your fault. You will, of course, let me have a note of your fees in early course.”

“You regard my investigation as concluded?”

“With respect, I do not see what else you can do.”

“Does it not intrigue you that, for no obvious reason, your partner’s behaviour should have changed so suddenly and in such a deleterious fashion?”

“It dismays me, but I do not know what else I can do. I cannot see rhyme or reason in it.”

“Precisely. I still have the distinct impression that in this case, all the cards are yet to be put on the table. I would like to speak to the court usher you mentioned and also to your partner’s brother, Hugh. Would you be willing to write me a note of introduction to the man Stewart?”

Dowling readily agreed to Holmes’s request, although he was plainly unconvinced that any good would come of further enquiries. We walked directly to the Law Courts in the Strand and were able after a short wait to see Stewart and hear about his encounter with Abergavenny at Blackfriars Bridge.

“Do you believe he meant to kill himself?” Holmes asked bluntly.

“I hesitate to say as much,” said Stewart with care. He was a desiccated fellow, as dry and dusty as a tome of Blackstone’s law reports. “I can add nothing more to the conversation I had with Mr Dowling, save to make the obvious point that I would not have troubled him with an account of the incident had I not thought it a matter which needed to be drawn to his attention as senior partner of an eminently respectable firm.”

We could glean nothing more from him and made our way at once to the Temple. Holmes had expressed surprise when Dowling said we might be likeliest to find Hugh Abergavenny at his old chambers in King’s Bench Walk. “I understood that he had long since ceased to practise at the Bar?”

“That is correct, but he told me he has continued to haunt the place where he first made his reputation. ‘The legal world is a source of the best stories in the world,’ he said, ‘If one knows where to look. I found many of my neatest plots within the four walls of my old pupil master’s room’.”

The clerk’s office was awash with papers and pink ribbon and I wondered how many of the briefs to counsel spread casually upon the floor contained material suitable for adaptation into tales of villainy and derring-do. Dowling’s guess proved to be accurate and within a couple of minutes a boy was directing us in to a small room at the back of the building.

Hugh Abergavenny had the same beaky nose and build as his brother, but his hair was darker and thinning. I estimated that he was perhaps ten years older than John. He stood up behind a small roll-top desk on which lay a manuscript and came forward to greet us. It was clear from his expression that he was startled by our arrival, but there was no denying the handsomeness of his greeting as he stretched out his hand in welcome. I noticed that his cuffs were frayed, confirmation if it were needed that these days he regarded himself as a writer rather than an advocate.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes! This is a rare honour. I have long devoured your exploits and admired the facility with which Dr Watson here writes them up for publication.”

“With some embellishment, I should make clear,” Holmes said amiably. “I cannot deny that at times my colleague exaggerates my achievements in the interest of telling a good story.”

“As a novelist, I cannot imagine a worthier aim or a better fault.”

Holmes indicated the papers on the desk. “Your current work-in-progress?”

Abergavenny hesitated for a moment before a slow grin spread across his face. “Your legendary powers do not let you down, Mr Holmes. Yes, this is my latest novel. I put it into the hands of my literary agent this very week.”

“Splendid!” I cried. “I am one of your most faithful readers and it is far too long since you published
The Hangman’s Cellar.
I must confess that I have been hoping that your next book would continue the adventures of your character Alec Salisbury.”

The author smiled but shook his head. “I am afraid that Alec was getting a little long in the tooth, which is why I felt the need to try something different. You are too polite to say that my last novel did not set your pulse racing, but the critics were not so diplomatic. The reason for my silence since then is that I have been endeavouring to come up with a story that would keep them, as well as my publishers, happy. It is difficult for a man to judge his own work, but I think I can promise that neither they nor you will be disappointed by
The Accusing Skeleton.
”

“I am delighted to hear it,” I said, unable to resist a covetous look at the sheets on the desk. “May I say also, that if by some chance you were willing to let me have an early opportunity to satisfy my hunger for your work, I would be forever in your debt.”

He laughed rather nervously and said, “Well, like most authors I am rather superstitious and it is not my normal practice to show my work to third parties until it has finally been accepted for publication. Your words are very kind, though, and I am not immune to compliments, especially from such a quarter. I would be willing to loan you the first chapter for, say, twenty four hours if you wish to see whether it whets your appetite.”

“You are most generous!” I said as he gathered a dozen sheets together and passed them to me.

“It is a pleasure to have such a celebrated reader. I await your verdict with bated breath. In the meantime, gentlemen, to what do I owe the privilege of this visit?”

As Holmes outlined the sequence of events that had brought us to the chambers, the smile faded from Hugh Abergavenny’s face. He kept shaking his head and when he heard of the incident on Blackfriars Bridge he muttered, “Oh no.” By the time Holmes had recounted our brief meeting with John at the office in Essex Street, it was clear that Hugh was deeply moved.

“It is as I feared,” he said. “His mental state is severely disturbed.”

“I wondered,” I said, “about the part that drink may have played in your brother’s apparent breakdown.”

“You are an acute observer, Dr Watson. I have often suspected that modesty has prevented you from revealing in your narratives the extent to which you have yourself developed a detective’s flair.” Hugh cast his eyes down for a moment. “John has always had a weakness for alcohol. It can change him into a different person, aggressive, irrational and despondent by turns. His appalling behaviour whilst drunk was the main cause of the estrangement between us, a breach which I have lately been striving to repair. I had heard good reports of him in recent times and they led me to hope that he had turned the corner after accepting the offer of partnership in a sound practice. Sadly, it seems that my optimism was premature.”

He shook his head. “Gentlemen, on any other day I would value the chance to spend a few hours in your company and perhaps to persuade you to discuss some of your unrecorded cases. Who knows? Possibly I could seek to dress them up in the guise of fiction. However, my immediate priorities lie elsewhere. I must try to find John, even if it means trawling through every drinking den in London, and see if I can make him see reason. I owe our late mother nothing less. When I have more news, I shall let Maxwell Dowling and your good selves know. Perhaps I could call at Baker Street tomorrow and see for myself the famous consulting room.”

“You will be most welcome,” I said warmly. “By then, I shall have read your manuscript. It really is good of you to afford me the opportunity in advance of publication.”

Holmes was quiet throughout our journey home and once we had arrived, he sank into a meditative trance. I sensed that he was disturbed by the day’s events, but knew better than to trouble him with questions or idle conversation. After dealing with certain correspondence, I decided to amuse myself by turning to the first chapter of Hugh Abergavenny’s novel and devoured it within minutes.

“By Jove, Holmes, this is splendid stuff!” Such was my pleasure in the tale that I could not help disturbing his reverie. “It is almost unbearable that I cannot continue reading. The description of the hero’s visit to a warehouse in the East End and what he finds there – but no, I must not spoil the story. You must read it for yourself.”

Holmes opened his eyes and said languidly, “I am afraid I do not count myself amongst Hugh Abergavenny’s devoted admirers. His early books were lively enough, but compared to Collins or even Conway, he seems to favour contrivance ahead of the creation of plausible characters. The later stories are so dependent upon coincidence as to make it impossible to suspend disbelief. As for his hero, I fear that Alec Salisbury makes even Lecoq appear to be a master detective.”

“You need not worry,” I said, rather stiffly. “As we were told, Salisbury does not appear in this book. It really is rather fine, Holmes. Don’t allow your prejudices to cause you to ignore it.”

“You are the one who should have taken up the law,” my friend remarked. “You are a persuasive spokesman. Very well, pass me the chapter.”

He read the first pages of the book in silence and then, before I could ask his reaction, lapsed back into his dream-like state. Suddenly he sat bolt upright.

“I have been obtuse, Watson! Quick, we need to call on the younger Abergavenny at once!”

“But Holmes, what can we hope to achieve that his brother cannot?”

His strong-set features were twisted with pain. “We must strive to prevent a terrible crime. Yet I fear that already we may be too late.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What crime are you talking about?”

“The murder”, he said bitterly, “of John Abergavenny.”

We hailed a cab and asked the driver to take us to the tailor’s shop in Lamb’s Conduit Street. When we reached our destination, I saw that a small crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the door beside the entrance to the shop. As we dismounted, two familiar figures emerged from the doorway.

“As I feared,” my friend muttered under his breath. “We have been out-foxed.”

“Mr Holmes!” cried Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. “Were your ears burning? We have just been talking about you.”

He indicated Matthew Dowling, who stood by his side. The old solicitor’s face was grey and drawn.

“How is John Abergavenny?” demanded my friend.

“He was taken to hospital less than a quarter of an hour ago. He is in a coma.”

“Not dead, then?” A flame of hope flickered in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

“Not expected to live, though,” said Lestrade. “Seems that after marching out of his office, he came home and took a massive overdose of chloral hydrate. There’s a half-empty jar of the stuff on his sideboard.”

Holmes’s shoulders sagged and so did mine. We both knew the power of the notorious sedative. Many East End publicans, to my knowledge, still kept a jar of chloral hydrate underneath their counter so that they could slip one or two knock-out drops into the drink of any customer who started spoiling for a fight. A highly effective remedy for trouble-makers, perhaps, but if administered in excess it was lethal.

“Apparently the fellow’s been behaving oddly,” Lestrade continued. “Mr Dowling here and his brother have explained to me his peculiar actions of the last few days.”

“Hugh Abergavenny is present also?”

“Not now,” said Dowling. “He arrived here a few minutes after I did. I had become increasingly concerned about John’s safety after he left Essex Street. Finally I plucked up the courage to come out here. I wanted to talk to John, to make him see sense. I could see a light in John’s room, but my knocking was not answered. Ultimately I prevailed upon the tailor, who lives in the back basement, to let me use the spare key. I rushed upstairs and found John in a dreadful state. It was clear that he was very sick. I immediately made arrangements for him to be taken to hospital and contacted the police. No sooner had I done that than Hugh turned up. He explained that he’d been searching for John, going round the drinking dens in which he might be found. When he had no luck, he came here. Like me, he was hoping that reason might prevail. The pity is that we were too late. I suggested to Hugh that his place was by John’s side at the hospital, but we both fear that the omens are bleak.”