The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (15 page)

“Let's find Holmes, shall we?” I suggested.

“Yes,” Lord Garnett agreed, leading the way out of the room. I caught a glimpse of Cambers and his remaining constables through the windows as we passed.

Apparently Lord Garnett saw them as well. “Your friend tricked them. He saw Cambers was spoiling for a fight so he had you point out the footprint in the garden. He only did it to keep them out of his way, didn't he?”

“I believe so,” I admitted, following Lord Garnett up the stairs. “When I first noticed the footprint in the garden, Holmes told me it meant nothing. He seems to be in a dreadful hurry, but I don't understand why.”

“Well,” Lord Garnett said, “I suppose that's a hopeful sign.”

We found the butler on the uppermost floor of the house, standing on a small balcony and clutching a precariously perched ladder which Holmes climbed down with a fearlessness that bordered on the reckless.

“Watson! I trust Cambers is occupied in the garden?”

“He is,” I agreed. “But Holmes, why - “

“Sorry Watson, time is short,” Holmes forestalled my question. “Lord Garnett, could you show me to your son's room?”

“Of course,” Lord Garnett nodded. “This way.”

“Lord Garnett,” Holmes asked as he followed his Lordship out to the stairs. “Your son came to see you late last night.”

“How on Earth did you know that?” Lord Garnett asked.

“He must have had some complaint,” Holmes observed. “What did he say?”

Lord Garnett led the way down the flight of stairs. “It sounded so childish at the time, but it chills me to think of it now. He claimed he'd heard a ghost Mr. Holmes, a ghost moaning in agony.”

“You did not believe him?” Holmes asked with perfect sincerity.

“No, I didn't,” Lord Garnett admitted.

“That is your son's room there?” Holmes asked, not waiting for Lord Garnett's direction.

“It is,” Lord Garnett confirmed, again startled by Holmes seemingly supernatural abilities.

Holmes turned and addressed Lord Garnett and the butler, who had followed us downstairs.

“Go to the garden shed.” Holmes instructed them. “Bring me a pick, a pry bar, a lantern, some rope, whatever you can lay hands on. Quickly! Bring them to me here!”

To my surprise, both the butler and Lord Garnett hurried away to fulfil Holmes's command. Holmes turned and looked at me with weary eyes. “I will say this for the headhunters of Borneo, they are honest enough to display their sins in plain view. It is an example we could learn from.”

“Holmes, whatever do you mean?” I asked.

“Bones, Watson,” Holmes admitted, walking into the missing child's room and pulling out a pocketknife. “My knowledge of the subject is not as extensive as Lord Garnett's, but it is enough to confirm my observation. Headhunters display the fruits of their savagery proudly, rather than hiding them inside walls. You didn't, by any chance, bring your stethoscope with you?”

“No.” Holmes had stopped me on the street, between home and my Paddington practice, before I'd reached the tools of my profession.

“Pity,” Holmes observed as he unfolded his pocketknife and inserted the blade into the wall.

“Holmes?” I asked, watching in mute horror as Holmes dragged the blade through the wall. He was making a dreadful mess but, after carving a gouge more than two feet long in the wall, he seemed to find what he was searching for. He withdrew the blade, folded it and put it back in his pocket.

From outside came the sounds of men running up the stairs. Lord Garnett rushed into the room, a large pick in his hand. The butler had found a pry-bar, a hammer and a lantern, which he dropped onto the child's unmade bed with obvious relief.

“Some water would not go amiss,” Holmes observed as he took hold of the pick Lord Garnett had brought. The butler, his refinement stretched somewhat thin, observed Holmes with a cool look but left to fulfil the detective's request.

“This must be done with some care,” Holmes told me as I picked up the pry bar. “The trick is to pull the bricks outward, not to let them fall inside.”

“Bricks?” I asked.

In answer, Holmes swung his pick into the wall and, in a shower of lath and plaster, uncovered a section of chimney. Such destruction caused me a measure of surprise, but Lord Garnett, sitting on the edge of his son's bed, simply watched without expression.

“Hurry, Watson,” Holmes swung the axe again, knocking one of the chimney bricks inward at an angle. Hurrying to help, though not at all certain the purpose behind this extravagant destruction, I reached in with my pry bar and attempted to pull the brick outwards.

“Back in the hallway, you were going to ask about Cambers and the footprint in the garden,” Holmes explained as I worked. When the brick fell out, he swung the pick once more, loosening more bricks. “No doubt by now you've reached the obvious conclusion. The footprint and remnant of cloth were left by one of the police constables as they searched the grounds this morning.”

Hearing this, Lord Garnett was unable to contain a bleak chuckle.

“Can you be certain of that?” I asked.

“Of course,” Holmes said as he swung the pick again. “You saw the footprint, the distinctive pattern of a hobnail boot. And the colour of the threads match the police constable's uniform precisely. While I do not wish to mention the constable's name, I have matched the evidence to the subject. If his name was mentioned, I fear the poor man would suffer Cambers' displeasure. It is a peculiar conceit of Scotland Yard investigators, they seem convinced all the footprints in the world belong to someone else.”

“And the skulls?” I asked. “What makes you believe you know where they are?”

“Believe?” Holmes swung the pick again. “Watson, your lack of confidence is astounding. The man whose address the butler found is the chimneysweep who finished tending to Lord Garnett's chimneys the morning of the party.”

“A chimneysweep?” I shook my head. “Holmes, there's no possible way a grown man could fit down that chimney.”

“No?” Holmes asked. “It would, of course, depend upon the man, but you are most likely correct. Unfortunately, and to our nation's great shame, chimneysweeps discovered a method of overcoming such obstacles centuries ago. There are laws against the practise now, a system of certification designed specifically to bring an end to the dreadful practise. Surely you see it now, Watson? Lord Garnett?”

At that moment I was prying out bricks, enlarging the hole Holmes had knocked in the chimney.

“Lord Garnett, if you would be so kind as to light that lamp,” Holmes asked. “The boy's complaint of spirits moaning in the night, that must clarify matters? This is, after all, the same chimney we saw in the drawing room, one floor beneath us.”

“Are you suggesting something is trapped in the chimney?” I asked.

“Something?” Holmes shook his head. “No, Watson, someone. The evidence is clear, although the crime itself is obviously based on a series of misunderstandings and random chance. Start with the assumption the chimneysweep is a villain. He comes to Lord Garnett's to practise his trade and hears the servants talking about their Master's return, and the strange trunk he has taken such care to bring back with him. Surely, the servants gossip, it must contain a great treasure! The chimneysweep, being a villain, listens carefully and constructs a plan. He apologises for not being able to complete his work that day, but promises to return early the next morning to finish.”

The hole in the chimney was now large enough I could insert my head through it but Holmes urged me to continue widening it. “Early next morning, the sweep returns, carrying the brushes of his trade with him. Hidden in among his tools is the means by which he hopes to accomplish his theft. A climbing boy.”

“A climbing boy?” I stopped my task.

“Not so long ago the city was teeming with them,” Holmes explained as he gestured for me to continue my efforts. “It is entirely likely this sweep was once a wretched boy earning his living as a sweep's apprentice. The legislation forbidding the use of climbing boys is quite recent, but the sweep, having survived his apprenticeship, feels the law unjust. After all, what is his crime? Teaching children a trade? And if nine of his ten young apprentices perish, well, London is filled with orphans, after all. A child trapped within a chimney brings no harm to anyone, even saving his master the cost of a burial. And those that fall to the fumes or the diseases arising from breathing smoke and eating soot can easily and inexpensively be disposed of.”

“Holmes?” I asked.

“Slightly wider, Watson,” Holmes said, taking the lit lantern from Lord Garnett. “My fears were first stirred in the drawing room when I discovered a smudge of soot on the lid of the empty chest. They were confirmed when I saw the sweep's name and occupation on the list of visitors the butler prepared. You recall my next action?”

“You fetched water to put out the fire in the grate,” Lord Garnett recalled.

“Then proceeded to the roof, hoping to find the boys up near the opening of the chimney,” Holmes explained. “Unfortunately, all I found there was a trail of blood.”

“Boys?” Lord Garnett asked. “How does my son's disappearance figure into this?”

“The role of the climbing boy was quite straightforward,” Holmes explained. “He was to wait in the chimney, enduring the smoke and fumes of the fire below, until nightfall. Then, putting out the fire with water brought for that purpose, he was to climb down, remove the exotic treasure from its case, and bring it to the roof where the sweep waited. Unfortunately for the boy, the sweep betrayed him. Rather than take the child and the treasure, the sweep opted to take only the treasure. He struck the boy, leaving a trail of blood inside of the chimney. The climbing boy fell, becoming entangled in the flue. Whatever his injuries, he still had the water he'd brought to douse the fire. Somehow he clung to life until your return.”

“The ghost Lord Garnett's son complained of?” I asked.

“The climbing boy,” Holmes agreed. “Finding no one willing to believe his night-time tale, your son acted on his own. Quite bravely too, if I may be permitted to observe. He crawled up the chimney himself. Unfortunately, it appears he also became entangled in the dark. There, Watson, that should be large enough.”

Holmes hurried in, sticking his arm with the lantern and his head into the opening we had made. He quickly pulled his head out again. I couldn't help but notice the soot staining his cheek.

“They are there!” Holmes announced. Holmes took off his coat and tied a large loop in the thin rope from the garden shed. Lord Garnett was up and running to the stairs, yelling in commanding tones for assistance.

“Are they-” I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence.

“They're not moving,” Holmes observed. “And they are black as night. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

Lord Garnett returned with Cambers and the constables in tow. The butler reappeared, bearing a full glass of water in each hand. It was a tight fit, but Holmes was able to reach into the darkness and loop the rope around the trapped boys. He pulled out the first blackened form, then the other. The two small children were indistinguishable under the soot they wore.

One of the boys coughed and gratefully accepted water from the butler. As the child's face was cleaned I witnessed the joyful reunion of Lord Garnett and his son. The climbing boy was, I am saddened to say, already dead when we pulled his small, broken form from the darkness.

“He'll hang for this,” Detective Constable Cambers vowed as Holmes explained the nature of the crime. When the two constables returned from their errand, they reported finding everything as Holmes predicted. A sealskin bag containing the darkened skulls, its lock broken, was found in the sweeps' home, as was evidence of several orphans. The sweep had no certificate and had been practising his trade with no license.

As we took a cab from Lord Garnett's, his Lordship's profuse thanks still ringing in our ears, Holmes expounded on the point he'd been trying to make when we arrived at the manor. “As a rule, the crimes of the countryside are crimes of honest malice, acts of base motive, and Cambers is well-suited to such offences. London, on the other hand, offers its denizens crimes of opportunity. Misdeeds requiring little or no planning, acts of indifference, and Cambers is ill-prepared for such random villainy. I would also point out that it is not enough for a detective to simply ask the correct question. After all, Cambers did ask Lord Garnett for a list of everyone who visited the manor the day of the theft. Yet how was his Lordship to know which trades-people had visited? No, a detective must match the right question to the right person, a lesson young Cambers has yet to learn.”

Larceny in the Sky with Diamonds

by Robert V. Stapleton

I collected a glass of champagne from the waiter's tray, and looked around the room. A string-quartet was playing, elegant young couples were dancing, and I was in search of a victim.

It was the early spring of 1891, and I'd been invited to this society gathering a few miles outside London. For some reason, the hostess regarded me as a philanthropist, and I didn't like to disillusion her on that matter. Organised crime was flourishing, and my greatest adversary was on the run, but I was bored. I needed something to lift the gloom. Sherlock Holmes might resort to cocaine, but I needed a fresh hands-on criminal project to engage my attention. I knew the sort of person I was looking for. He or she would be alone, vulnerable, and brooding. I've discovered that there's always at least one such person to be found at every social event.

I spotted her at the far side of the room. The young woman was standing on her own, not touching her drink, and with her eyes fixed on the unfocused distance. Her mind was clearly on matters far away from this place.

“Her name is Lady Jacinta Pulmorton,” the waiter told me. He was one of our men, and he'd noticed my interest in the woman.

“Of Oakenby Hall?”

“The same.”

We retreated to an alcove where we could talk freely without being overheard.

“Ah, yes,” I told him. “I remember we blackmailed her last year over some personal matter.”

“We had some letters she wanted kept hidden from her husband.”

“Indeed, a most unfortunate business, but we gave most of those letters back to her in the end.”

“That's how I remember it, Professor.”

“And my name never came into the affair.”

“I believe not.”

“Good. That's just as it should be. So, out of a sense of guilt, this lady will now be even more devoted to her husband than ever before. She can't still be worried about those letters. I wonder what's troubling her now.”

Through the crowd of guests, I noticed Grimdale's mop of chestnut hair. He was lurking quietly beside the fireplace. He's a good man to have around: a first-rate dodger. He had also seen the young woman, and was watching her like a predacious cat eyeing a doomed mouse. Grimdale turned his hooded eyes towards me. I nodded, and we converged on her from our different directions.

“Good evening,” I began. “It's Lady Pulmorton, isn't it?”

She looked up, startled by my interruption to her thoughts. “That's right.” Her periwinkle blue eyes were enchanting, but they were clouded by sadness.

“We haven't been introduced,” I told her, “but my name is Moriarty. Most people just know me as The Professor.”

“Good evening, Professor,” she replied. She'd obviously never heard of me before.

“And this is my colleague, Harold Grimdale,” I said, indicating my companion.

She gave us each a melancholy smile.

“The evening's going well,” I said, trying to break the ice with small-talk.

“Is it?” she said, looking down at her still-full glass of wine. “I hadn't noticed.”

I decided to jump straight in. “Forgive me for approaching you like this, your ladyship,” I said, “but I was concerned. You appear to be rather unhappy.”

She looked up at me. “Is it that obvious?”

“I'm afraid so.” I gave her a smile that I hoped would convey deep sympathy. It didn't matter if it was sincere or not, just so long as she thought it was. There was a mystery here that needed to be investigated.

Lady Pulmorton looked as if she was holding back from saying something important. I needed to gain her confidence.

“I can assure you, your ladyship,” I told her, “we are both completely trustworthy.” I can lie most convincingly when I want to. I gave her another warm smile.

She began to thaw. “It's about my husband,” she began.

Grimdale and I exchanged glances. The signs of a profit here were already looking good.

“Is he making you unhappy?”

“Oh, we've had our ups and downs,” she admitted, “but we have been extremely happy together. Until recently.”

“Recently?”

“You see, Professor, over the last three years, my husband has developed an absurd interest in flying.”

“Indeed? Flying?”

“It's become an obsession. He began by building a glider, and then testing it himself.”

“That sounds a dangerous pastime.”

“So it turned out. He crashed the thing on its very first flight. He was lucky to escape with nothing worse than a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder.”

“All part and parcel of the adventure, I believe.”

“Then he became obsessed with building a powered flying machine.”

“People all over the world are experimenting with powered flight,” I told her. “But to build a machine capable of taking a man into the air and then keeping him aloft, now that really is the aeronautical Holy Grail.”

“Well, my husband has done just that,” she said. There was a hint of pride in her voice. “He's built one.”

“Really? You mean to say he's actually got the thing to fly?” I began to imagine the enormous income we might gain from this business.

“Oh, yes. It took off all right. Then it crashed, just like last time. He's been injured yet again.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“That was nearly two months ago now.”

“And has it put your husband off flying?”

“Not a bit of it. He can't wait to have another go.”

“And how's his recovery going?”

“He's up and about again, but he still walks with a limp.”

Tears welled up in Lady Pulmorton's eyes that would have melted any other man's heart. Pah! I almost felt sorry for the woman.

“I can see how that would upset you,” I told her.

“That's not the only problem, Professor,” she continued.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed our hostess bearing down on us. I was afraid she might make Lady Pulmorton clam up altogether. I needed to hear what more she had to tell me, so I sent Grimdale to occupy our hostess in some engrossing conversation. As a cockney born and bred, that's where his real talents lie.

Meanwhile, I put down my glass and took Lady Pulmorton out onto the terrace. We stood together, looking out over the greening fields of the Thames valley. The cool air was still, loaded with the sweet aroma of new life and fresh growth. The evening was delightful: if you like that sort of thing.

“You see, Professor,” she continued, “the engineer who was working with my husband has gone missing. What's even worse is that he seems to have taken my husband's design blueprints with him.”

I hesitated for a moment. Then I asked, “Have you informed the police?”

“No. My husband believes it's much more serious than that. He thinks the man might try to sell those papers to some foreign power, possibly to be used against this country. He is extremely upset.”

“Naturally. So, it's becoming a matter of national security?”

She nodded. “With my husband confined to the house and grounds, I decided to consult Mr. Sherlock Holmes myself. But they tell me he's away from London at the moment.”

“Yes, I believe he's somewhere on the Continent.” I tried to keep the bitterness I felt for the man out of my voice. Holmes had been making life very difficult for me recently, and I was glad he was making himself scarce.

“I don't know who else to turn to.” Her face clouded over again.

“As it happens,” I told her, “I, too, am interested in crime and the criminal classes. Perhaps I could find this scoundrel for you.” A criminal operating outside my sphere of influence was a personal matter for me. The man had to be dealt with.

A look of hope filled her ladyship's charming eyes. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “Thank you, Professor.”

“As time is clearly of the essence,” I told her, “we'll come down to Oakenby Hall by the first train tomorrow.”

“Moriarty?” said Sir Henry Pulmorton when we arrived at Oakenby Hall on the following morning. “I don't think I know the name.”

“I am well known for my academic and charitable work,” I told him. Well, at least that was half true.

“In that case, welcome to my home, Professor.”

Sir Henry was in the Morning Room, sitting beside a window that looked out over the parkland in front of the house. He was a man of medium height, with dark hair, a pointed nose, and piercing brown eyes.

“Your wife has told me something of your problem,” I began. “You think your engineer might have stolen the blueprints to your flying machine.”

“Oh, there's no doubt about it,” he replied. “I discovered yesterday morning that my safe had been opened and that those papers were missing. He's the only person with anything to gain from taking them. Now the rascal himself has disappeared.”

An enterprising fellow, I thought to myself. “What's the man's name?”

“Jeremiah Silt,” he replied, in a tone that implied utter contempt.

“Physical description?”

“He's a short, mousy sort of fellow, with grey hair framing a balding head. His most distinctive feature has to be his long sideburns.”

“Your wife thinks he might try to sell those plans to some foreign power.”

“That is highly likely,” said Pulmorton. “He often talked about how useful flying machines might be in times of war. If he can steal from me, then he might well be capable of betraying his country.”

“Will you allow us to investigate the matter for you, Sir Henry?” I asked.

“I can't do it myself,” he replied, pointing to his ash walking stick, “So yes, please do whatever you can, Professor. Get those documents back for me, and I'll pay you well for your time and effort.”

I bowed graciously. I'd willingly have done the job for nothing.

“But first,” I told him, “I'd like to see your machine.”

“Certainly. Come with me.”

Obviously still in considerable pain, Sir Henry picked up his stick, hobbled out through the front door and led us round to the far side of the house. There we approached a vast wooden tithe-barn. From the front of this building, a pathway of hard-packed earth led off across the garden.

When I stepped inside the barn, I was utterly amazed. The flying machine almost filled the place. It was a monoplane, shaped like some gigantic bat, with a wingspan of over forty feet. The bone-like structure of the wings was covered with a black silk-like fabric. The fuselage consisted of an open carriage on wheels, with a wooden seat at the back.

“The carriage would normally be enclosed,” Sir Henry explained, “but we've been concentrating on repairing the wing mechanisms first.”

“Even so,” I told him, “it's a magnificent machine.”

“It's based on a French design.”

“By Clément Ader?”

“You've heard of him, Professor?”

“Indeed.”

“Silt got the plans for me. The machinery is complicated and expensive to make, so I was glad of his engineering skills and know-how. He even made a few improvements of his own. Flight is controlled by adjusting the wings. You can alter the flow of air over the front edge of the wings, change their total area, or flex the end-sections.”

“And the engine?”

“We're using a steam-powered engine,” said Sir Henry. “It's situated just in front of the aviator, and powers a single propeller at the front. The engine is cooled by a radiator directly above. It's a light-weight apparatus, fuelled by alcohol-spirits. We store the alcohol in barrels at the back of the barn.”

“Amazing!”

“Again, it's based on Ader's own revolutionary design.”

“Did Silt get that for you as well?”

“Yes, but he refused to tell me how.”

“In test-flights last year, Ader's machine proved to be underpowered.”

“Perhaps, but this one isn't.”

“You mean to say it really flies?”

“Oh, yes. It crashes spectacularly as well. While I've been recovering from my injuries, I've been busy putting the machine back together again. As I said, the damage was mostly to the wings. That's now been fixed, so I'm hoping to fly it again very soon.”

“Tell me, Sir Henry,” I said, “how do you operate the engine?”

“Put simply, you open the tap on the fuel-reservoir, light the boiler jets and wait for the water to boil. Then you allow high-pressure steam into the engine. This drives the cylinders, which turn the propeller.”

“Just like boiling a kettle.”

“Pretty much. Then hang on for the ride of your life.”

Before Grimdale and I left for London, Lady Pulmorton stopped us. “We have yet another problem, Professor.”

“Can I help?”

She looked flustered. “In two days' time, an important visitor will be coming to stay with us. A lady from Russia. The Countess of Felixburg.”

My eyes lit up. “Isn't she one of the richest women in Europe?”

“I believe she is,” said Lady Pulmorton. “It means that we're going to need some extra security here.” She turned her heart-melting eyes onto me. “Could I possibly impose on you to take this extra duty on for us, Professor?”

I felt like an alcoholic who's just been asked to take charge of a brewery. “I would be delighted,” I told her. “I have some business to attend to first, but I shall return the day after tomorrow.”

In the train back to Waterloo, I sat alone with Grimdale in a First Class compartment. We had bribed the guard, locked the door, and drawn down the blinds, so there was little danger of anyone interrupting us.

“Are you really going to help this man?” Grimdale asked me.

“I don't see why not,” I told him. “Especially now that the Countess is coming to stay at Oakenby Hall.”

“As you say, she is reputed to be extremely rich.”