The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (25 page)

I nodded, listening intently, absorbing the facts of the story.

Holmes continued, “However, while I was in the Wilfrey home I am sorry to say that I bore witness to such horrendous brutality that I can only call it by its true name. Evil.”

“What was it, Holmes?”

“You know my feelings about the dark secrets that go on in all those pretty country houses, Watson? How I have said quite often that I believe the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”

I nodded.

“Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on year in, year out in such places, and none the wiser,” Holmes added.

“Yes, you have spoken upon it at times, quite detailed I remember, during the case I chronicled a few years ago in the
Strand
as ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.’ ”

“Well, keep those thoughts in mind as I tell you that as soon as Morrow was brought into the library to confront Wilfrey and myself about the theft, I recognized him as John Maulin Morrow, a young roustabout and violent felon.”

“Now I see, Holmes!” I blurted, aware of a criminal connection.

“Not quite, good fellow, and certainly not the entire story. Allow me to explain. I recognized Morrow forthwith, and he me. You see, we have a history. He is a brute and a violent fellow, and yet not all that he seems. I know something of the man, his family life. To be fair, as a youth he was the victim of a vicious, homicidal mother. The woman murdered her husband, got away with it, then she systematically tortured the boy. He was eventually taken away from her and put into an orphanage. She died soon after, and the boy descended into brutality and crime.”

Holmes continued, “Young Morrow assaulted a man. Morrow saw him beating a woman. The man was a pimp and the woman a lady of the evening in his employ. But it made no difference, the assault was violent and bloody, it cried out for a remedy. Prison for Morrow was the result. I watched his career over the years, noted his struggle and his progress. Morrow reformed during his time in prison, so much so, that the warden himself gave him a recommendation and he was able to find an honest job. There he met Lord Wilfrey who offered him the position of kitchen porter in his home. A decision that ended up costing Wilfrey his life.”

“The brute! And after Wilfrey had shown him such kindness and taken him into his own home.”

“Hah! Not quite, Watson. You see, Wilfrey’s son and Morrow struck up an immediate friendship—it seems Morrow saw in the boy something of himself at that young age—and more so, he easily noticed the abuse.…”

“Abuse, you say?”

“Beatings of the most violent sort, done to the boy by his own father. It seems the wife died in childbirth but the child Ronald lived. The father forever blamed the son for the death of his wife. He took it out on the boy with terrible results. I tell you, John, as a medical man, were you to examine this child you would discover the marks of horrendous acts perpetrated upon his person. I believe the boy has, at one time of another, had almost every bone in his body broken by this abuse. The beatings were so severe, young Ronald should have died a dozen times. Such is the power of his steadfast character and heroic will to survive that he has lived this long. It is pure evil, Watson. What has been done to this boy by his own father is nothing less than evil.”

Holmes was quiet for a moment, I sighed and digested these facts solemnly. As a medical man I was well aware of such atrocities and had sadly seen my share of them when distraught mothers brought children with “accidents” into St Barts. Accidents that were clearly the results of beatings, or worse.

Holmes continued, “Of course I had made up my mind to report the matter to the authorities when the situation was suddenly wrenched out of my hands forever.”

“My God, was it Morrow?”

“Once I confronted the boy and he admitted the theft, Wilfrey flew into a diabolical rage and attacked the child like a madman. The brute grabbed his son and began to pummel him with his fists. It was tragic, shocking, and so sudden and unexpected. Wilfrey is a big man, six feet in height and over 200 pounds; the boy is but three stone soaking wet. This was not normal parental anger, nor the justifiable punishment of an errant child, it was excessive brutality of the most violent form. I truly feared for the boy’s life.

“So did John Morrow. As he was nearer to Wilfrey than I, he reached the man first. Morrow let go with a massive fist to Wilfrey’s chin that hit him with such power it caused the peer to release his hold upon his son and fall backwards. That is when his head hit the lintel of the fireplace. Wilfrey was dead immediately and my examination of the body confirmed it.”

I looked at Holmes closely and saw the tragedy played in his features.

“What happened next?” I asked.

“Well, of course the ruckus attracted the entire staff. James the butler, Gloria the maid, even Ricardo the groom were all witnesses to the event.”

“What a tragic story. And the boy? How is he?”

“Badly done up, I’m afraid. I had the staff whisk him away, after I made them promise not to utter one word to the police.”

“So you took the blame. But why?”

“To keep the boy out of it, allow him some solace, but also to give John Morrow the time he needed to escape the country. He deserved that much, I believe. You see, he had truly reformed his life, lived honourably for many years, but after what he and I were forced to witness that day I can not blame him for the action he took. As God is my judge, Watson, were I to have reached Wilfrey before Morrow, I would surely have preformed the exact same action—probably with the exact same results.”

There wasn’t much I could say after that. I looked at Sherlock Holmes, at the cold iron bars of his jail cell. “So what do we do now?”

“You do nothing. Say nothing of what you have learned. Tomorrow morning, as planned, James the butler will visit Scotland Yard and lay it all before Inspector Lestrade. He will tell what he and the staff witnessed, and then the search will begin in earnest for John Morrow—who will by then be well out of the country, perhaps in America or Australia or God alone knows where. And I wish him well.”

“Shall I come back for you tomorrow morning then?”

“Will you? I would be most pleased to see you when this affair is over and done with,” Holmes said with a smile. “But mind you, not too early, John. I want to sleep late, as I plan to finish reading
Crime and Punishment
this evening.”

THE DAY AFTER

Lestrade led me down into the basement where the jail cells were located and we found Holmes already up and dressed waiting for us.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade said testily, disappointment written upon his face. “There have come forward some witnesses with new evidence to clear you of all charges. You are to be set free.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Holmes said, ready to leave, his copy of Dostoyevsky’s classic novel under his arm. “And good morning to you, Watson.”

“Good morning, Holmes.” I said softly.

“Yes, good morning all around, I’m sure,” Lestrade said stiffly. Something was eating at his craw and he was in earnest to speak up. “I am releasing you, Mr Holmes, but once again you have interfered in official police work. Your admitting to this crime covered up Morrow’s killing and allowed him the time he needed to escape. I am not sure we will ever bring him to ground now.”

Holmes nodded, “I can not say I am sorry, Lestrade. I know you are angry with me and you may rightly want to prosecute me for my interference.…”

Lestrade softened and gently placed his hand upon the shoulder of Sherlock Holmes. It was an almost loving gesture, so much so that I was taken aback and barely knew what to make of it.

“I have seen the boy, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said simply. Did I see a tear welling in the tough policeman’s eye? “I imagine sometimes a crime may be acceptable in order to defeat a greater evil.”

My companion nodded. Nothing else need be said.

“Well, now Watson, let us leave this place. Will you accompany me back to 221B, and perhaps we will have a well-deserved luncheon together?”

“Absolutely, Holmes.”

“Then good day to you, Lestrade,” Holmes piped on his way out.

“And to you, Mr Sherlock Holmes…” Lestrade laughed now,
“until the next time.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE AMATEUR MENDICANT SOCIETY, by John Gregory Betancourt

As I have written previously, my first years sharing lodgings with Mr Sherlock Holmes were among the most interesting of my life. Of all his cases—both public and private—which took place during this period, there remains one in particular of which I have hesitated to write until this time. Despite an ingenious resolution—and to my mind a wholeheartedly satisfactory one—contrived by my friend, the bizarre nature of this affair has made me reluctant to place it before a general readership. However, I feel the time has come to lay forth the facts concerning Mr Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and the most unusual organisation to which he belonged.

My notebook places our first meeting with Mr Pendleton-Smythe, if meeting it can be called, at Tuesday the 24th of April, 1887. We had just concluded a rather sensitive investigation (of which I am still not at liberty to write), and Holmes’s great mind had begun to turn inexorably inward. I feared he might once more take up experimentation with opiates to satiate his need for constant mental stimulation.

So it was that I felt great relief when Mrs Hudson announced that a man—a very insistent man who refused to give his name—was at the door to see Mr Holmes.

“Dark overcoat, hat pulled low across his forehead, and carrying a black walking stick?” Holmes asked without looking up from his chair.

“Why, yes!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson. “How ever did you know?”

Holmes made a deprecating gesture. “He has been standing across the street staring up at our windows for more than an hour. Of course I noticed when I went to light my pipe, and I marked him again when I stood to get a book just a moment ago.”

“What else do you know about him?” I asked, lowering my copy of the
Morning Post.

“Merely that he is an army colonel recently retired from service in Africa. He is a man of no small means, although without formal title or estates.”

“His stance,” I mused, “would surely tell you that he a military man, and the wood of his walking stick might well indicate that he has seen service in Africa, as well might his clothes. But how could you deduce his rank when he’s not in uniform?”

“The same way I know his name is Colonel Oliver Pendleton-Smythe,” Holmes said.

I threw down the
Morning Post
with a snort of disgust. “Dash it all, you know the fellow!”

“Not true.” Holmes nodded toward the newspaper. “You should pay more attention to the matters before you.”

I glanced down at the
Morning Post
, which had fallen open to reveal a line drawing of a man in uniform. MISSING: COLONEL OLIVER PENDLETON-SMYTHE, said the headline. I stared at the picture, then up at Holmes’s face.

“Will you see him, sir?” asked Mrs Hudson.

“Not tonight,” said Holmes. “Tell Colonel Pendleton-Smythe—and do use his full name, although he will doubtlessly bluster and deny it—that I will see him at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Not one second sooner and not one second later. If he asks, tell him I am concluding another important case and cannot be disturbed.” He returned his gaze to his book.

“Very good, sir,” she said, and shaking her head she closed the door.

The second the latch clicked, Holmes leaped to his feet. Gathering up his coat and hat, he motioned for me to do likewise. “Make haste, Watson,” he said. “We must follow the colonel back to his den!”

“Den?” I demanded. I threw on my own coat and accompanied him down the back stairs at breakneck pace. “What do you mean by ‘den?’ Is he another Moriarty?”

“Please!” Holmes put up one hand for silence and eased open the door. Pendleton-Smythe was striding briskly up Baker Street, swinging his walking stick angrily, as though it were a machete. We both slipped out, and Holmes closed the door behind us. Then together we crossed the street and proceeded surreptitiously after the colonel. He seemed to be heading toward the river.

“What is this affair about?” I asked as I hurried after Holmes.

“Mr Pendleton-Smythe, had you bothered to read that article in the
Morning Post
, disappeared two days ago. Foul play was suspected. In the fireplace of his London home police inspectors found several scraps of paper, but little could be made out except one phrase: ‘Amateur Mendicant Society.’ What do you make of it?”

“A mendicant is a beggar, I believe—”

“True!”

“But a whole society of amateur beggars? And for a retired army colonel to be involved in them! It boggles the mind.”

“I suspect,” said Holmes, “that modern views of beggary have coloured your thoughts on this matter. Mendicants have been, at various times and in various cultures, both revered and despised. I suspect this is another name for the Secret Mendicant Society, a network of spies which is—or was, at any rate—quite real and much older than you realize. Its roots stretched back to the Roman Empire and as far abroad as Russia, India, and Egypt.”

“You think it still exists, then?” I asked.

“I thought it had died out a generation ago in Europe, but it seems to have surfaced once more. I have heard hints in the last few years, Watson, that lead me to suspect it has become an instrument of evil.”

“And Pendleton-Smythe—”

“Another Professor Moriarty, pulling the strings of this society for his own personal gain? Fortunately, no. He is, I believe, a pawn in a much larger game, although only a few squares on the board are yet visible to me. More than that I cannot say until I have questioned Pendleton-Smythe.”

“What do these ‘amateur mendicants’ do? Are they beggars or not?”

“Quickly!” Holmes said, pulling me behind a stopped Hansom cab. “He’s turning!”

Pendleton-Smythe had stopped before a small rooming house. As we peered out at him, he paused on the steps to look left then right, but did not see us. He entered the building and shut the door behind himself.

“Interesting,” Holmes said. “But it confirms my theory.”

“That he’s a beggar?” I asked, feeling a little annoyed for all the rushing about. “If so, he is surely a well-lodged one.”

“Pendleton-Smythe has gone into hiding out of fear for his life. Why else would a man who owns a house choose to rent a room in such shabby surroundings as these?”

“Are we to question him here, then?” I asked.

He paused, lips pursed, deep in thought. After a minute I cleared my throat.

“No, Watson,” he said, turning back toward Baker Street. “I think that can wait until tomorrow. I have much to do first.”

* * * *

The next morning Holmes knocked loudly on my door until, bleary eyed, I called, “What is it, Holmes?”

“It’s half past six,” he said. “Mrs Hudson has the kettle on and breakfast will be ready at seven sharp.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I said, sitting up. “Tell me, why have you awakened me so early?”

“We have an appointment!”

“Appointment?” I asked, still cloudy. I rose and opened the door. “Ah. Pendleton-Smythe and his amateur beggars, I assume. But that’s not until nine o’clock sharp—you said so yourself!”

“Exactly!” He had a fevered look to his eye and I knew he’d been up most of the night working on the mysterious colonel’s case—although what the actual nature of the case was, I still hadn’t a clue. Yet Holmes seemed to place singular importance on it.

When I had shaved and dressed, I emerged to find an excellent repast set out for us by Mrs Hudson. Holmes had barely touched his plate. He was rummaging through stacks of old newspapers strewn across the floor and every flat surface of the room.

“Here it is!” he cried.

“What?” I asked, helping myself to tea, toast, and orange marmalade.

“A pattern is emerging,” he said softly. “I believe I have all the pieces now. But how do they fit?”

“Explain it to me,” I said.

He held up one hand. “Precisely what I intend to do, Watson. Your clarity of thought may be what I need right now.” He cleared his throat. “In 1852, Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and six of his schoolmates were sent down from King’s College. They were involved in some scandal, the nature of which I have yet to ascertain—official reports tend to be vague on that sort of matter.”

“Rightfully so,” I murmured.

“Young Pendleton-Smythe found himself shipped off to South Africa after six months of knocking about London, and there his career proved unexceptional. When at last he retired and returned to London, taking charge of his family’s house, things seemed to go well for him. He announced his betrothal to Lady Edith Stuart, which you may also remember from the society pages.”

“A step up for an army colonel,” I commented.

“I suspect she may have been involved in the King’s College scandal, but that is mere conjecture at this point,” Holmes said. “Yes, to all appearances it is a step up for him. However, two weeks later he broke off the engagement, and the next day—three days ago, in fact—he disappeared.”

“Until he showed up on our doorstep.”

“Just so.”

“Where does this Amateur Beggar Society fit in?” I asked.

“The Secret Mendicant Society, as it is more properly called, was part of a network of spies set up by the Emperor Constantine. The Roman Empire had more than its share of beggars, and Constantine realized they heard and saw more than anyone gave them credit for. Originally, noble-born members of the Society would dress as beggars and go forth to collect news and information, which then made its way back through the network to Constantine himself.

“The next few emperors made little use of Constantine’s beggars, but oddly enough the Society seems to have established itself more strongly rather than collapsing, as one might have expected. It developed its own set of rites and rituals. One faction in India splintered off and became affiliated with the Thuggee, of whom you may be familiar.”

“Indeed,” I said, “I have heard of those devils.”

Holmes nodded. “Sometime in the Middle Ages they seemed to disappear. However, in 1821 a condemned man mentioned them in his last statement. Since then I’ve found two other mentions of the Secret Mendicant Society, the first being a satirical cartoon from
Punch
dated 1832, which refers to them as a rival to the Free Masons as if everyone had heard of them, and the second being the scrap of paper found in Colonel Pendleton-Smythe’s house.”

“So where does the colonel fit in?”

“I was just getting to that,” Holmes said. “Of the six chums sent down from King’s College, I have been able to trace the movements of three. All three died in recent weeks under mysterious circumstances. What does this tell you?”

“That the colonel is next on the list to be killed?”

“Precisely, Watson. Or so it would seem.”

“You have reason to believe otherwise?”

“Ha! You see right through me, Watson. It seems distinctly odd to me that this rash of murders should coincide with Pendleton-Smythe’s return from Africa.”

“Indeed, it does seem odd,” I agreed. “But perhaps there are other circumstances at work here. You won’t know that until you speak with the colonel himself.” I looked at my watch. “It’s only half an hour until our appointment.”

“Time,” said Holmes, “for us to be on our way.”

I stared at him in bewildered consternation. “You’ll have Pendleton-Smythe convinced you don’t want to see him if you keep to this course!”

“Rather,” he said, “I am endeavouring to make sure the meeting does take place. Your coat, Watson! We’ll either meet him on the street on his way here—or if, as I suspect, he intends to skip our meeting since he was recognized yesterday, we will meet him at his rooming house!”

I grabbed my coat and hat and followed him once more out to the street.

* * * *

We did not, of course, meet Pendleton-Smythe in the street; Holmes always did have a knack for second-guessing other people’s actions. When we arrived at the rooming house, we found a stout grey-haired woman whom I took to be the landlady sweeping the steps.

“Excuse me,” Holmes said briskly, “I wish to ask after one of your tenants—a military man with a slight limp, dark coat, dark hat. I have a letter he dropped last night and I wish to return it to him.”

“You’d mean Mr Smith,” she said. “Give it here, I’ll hand it to him when he’s up.” She held out her hand.

“Is he in, then?” Holmes asked.

“Here now, who are you?” she said, regarding us both suspiciously and hefting her broom to bar our way.

I hastened to add, “This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and we must speak to your Mr Smith. It’s very urgent.”

“Mr Holmes? Why didn’t you say so, gents? ’Course I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes. Who hasn’t, round these parts? Come in, come in, I’m forgetting my manners.” She lowered the broom and moved toward the front door. “I’m Mrs Nellie Coram, sir, and I own this establishment. Mr Smith’s room is on the second floor. I’ll just pop up and see if he’ll come down.”

“If you don’t mind,” Holmes said, “I think we’d better come upstairs with you.”

“Oh, is he a slippery one, then?” she said. “I thought he might be, but he paid me a fortnight’s rent in advance, and I can’t afford to be too nosy, business being what it is these days.”

“He is not a criminal,” Holmes said. “He is a client. But it is urgent that I speak with him immediately.”

She laid a finger alongside her nose and gave him a broad wink, but said no more. She led us in at once, up a broad flight of steps to a well-scrubbed second floor hallway. She turned right, went down a narrow passage to a closed door, and there she knocked twice. A gruff whisper came in answer almost immediately: “Who is it?”

“Nellie Coram,” the landlady said. “I have two visitors for you, Mr Smith.”

The door opened a crack, and I saw a single piercing blue eye regard Holmes and me for a second. “Come in,” said the voice, stronger now, and its owner moved back and opened the door for us.

Holmes and I went in. I looked around and saw a small but tidy room: bed, wash stand, armoire, and a single straight-backed chair by the window. A copy of the
Times
lay open on the bed.

Pendleton-Smythe closed the door before Mrs Coram could join us, and I heard a muffled “Humph” from the other side and the sound of her footsteps as she returned to her tasks downstairs. The colonel himself was a man of medium height and strong build, with iron grey hair, blue eyes, and a small moustache. He wore dark blue pants, a white pinstripe shirt, and a blue waistcoat. But it was the service revolver in the his hand that most drew my attention. Pendleton-Smythe held it pointed straight at Holmes.