The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (27 page)

“How did it go?” I asked.

“There were a few tense moments,” he said, “but I handled things sufficiently well, I believe.”

“Tell me everything,” I said.

“For your journals, perhaps?”

“Exactly so.”

“Very well. As you headed down the street looking quite purposeful, an elderly gentleman out for a mid-day stroll suddenly altered his course after you. He was well-dressed, not a beggar by appearance or demeanour, so I took this to mean
he
was now watching us. I overtook him, grasped him firmly by the arm, and identified myself to him.

“At once he cried out for assistance. Two elderly men—these dressed for business, not begging—rushed toward me from the sides. I had seen them, but not suspected them of being involved because of their advanced age.

“We tussled for a moment, and then I knocked the first man down, threw off one of my opponents, and seized the other by his collar. I might have done him some injury had he not shouted that I was under arrest.”

Holmes smiled faintly at my surprise.

“Arrest!” I cried, unable to contain myself. “How was this possible?”

“It made me pause, too,” Holmes went on. “He might have been bluffing, but I knew I lacked a few key pieces of the puzzle, and this one seemed to fit. I told him, ‘Very well, sir, if you will call off your men and explain yourselves to my satisfaction, I shall gladly accompany you to police headquarters.’

“When he nodded, I released him. He straightened his coat as his two fellows collected themselves. Frowning at me, he seemed to be thinking ahead. He had to be sixty-five or seventy years old, I decided.

“‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Holmes,’ he finally said. “I believe we may have business to discuss. But not at the police station.’

“‘Exactly so,’ I told him. ‘Are you at liberty to speak for the whole Society, or must we report to your superiors?’

“‘Come with me.’ He dismissed the other two with a nod, turned, and led me to a quiet building on Harley Street. I had been there once before on business with the Foreign Office, but I showed no sign of surprise; indeed, this piece of the puzzle seemed to fit admirably well.

“He took me upstairs to see a rear admiral whose name I agreed not to divulge, and there the whole truth of the Secret Mendicant Society became apparent to me.”

I said, “They no longer work for Rome. They work for us.”

“Quite right, Watson,” Holmes said. “This rear admiral took me into their confidence—as they have a file on me and know I can be trusted. The organization of the Secret Mendicant Society was once quite remarkable, though it seems near its end. Their membership is small and, as far as I can tell, consists largely of septuagenarians or older. The times have changed so much that beggary is dying out; modern spies have much more efficient means of political espionage…for that is the current goal of the Secret Mendicant Society.”

“But what about the murders!” I exclaimed. “Surely not even the Foreign Office would—”

“Not only would they, they did. Politics is becoming less and less and gentleman’s game, my dear Watson. For the security of our great country, nothing is above the law for them—laws that must govern the common man, such as you or I—or even poor Pendleton-Smythe.”

“So there is nothing you can do to help the colonel,” I said bitterly.

“The admiral and I rapidly reached an arrangement,” Holmes said, “when I explained what I had done with you and Lestrade. With Scotland Yard about to close in on the headquarters of the Amateur Mendicant Society, there was nothing he could do but agree with me that the Amateurs must be exposed. The publicity surrounding them will camouflage the activities of the real Secret Mendicant Society and allow Pendleton-Smythe the luxury of living out the rest of his days in peace. He, for one, never for an instant suspected the Secret Mendicant Society actually existed. That is his salvation.”

“But what of the new Amateur Mendicant Society? Surely they did not agree to surrender so blithely!”

“Indeed, they offered no objection, since with the exception of our client, they are all dead.” Holmes paused a second. “After I left Harley Street, I proceeded at once to the warehouse. There I found the proper building, knocked twice sharply, and pushed my way inside when the door opened a crack by a man dressed as a beggar.

“‘Here now—’ he began. He pulled out a knife and pointed it at me. In earlier days he might have hurt or even killed me, but his reflexes had dulled with age. I caught his wrist, bent it back until he gave a moan of pain, and the knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

“‘We have no time for that,” I told him. ‘The police have been summoned. You have ten minutes to gather your organisation’s papers and vacate the building, or you will be captured and implicated in murder.’

“‘Who are you?’ he demanded, rubbing his arm.

“‘A friend. Now hurry!’

“He hesitated, looking to the two other men in the room: both were elderly, and both were dressed as gentlemen. They had been going over papers spread out on a table halfway across the room.

“‘This must be Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ one of them said.

“‘True,’ I said. ‘You now have nine minutes.’

‘Without another word, he began to gather up papers and stuff them into a case. His assistant did likewise.

“‘Where are Attenborough’s files?” I demanded.

“‘In the back room,’ he said. ‘They were useless to us. Most deal with murder and blackmail.’

“‘Do you object to the police obtaining them?’

“‘No. You may do with them as you see fit. And thank you for the warning. It might have been embarrassing to be found here.’

“When they had gone, I checked the back room and found Attenborough’s files. They seemed a complete record of his blackmail schemes. I also found Attenborough’s body, tucked away behind a filing cabinet. He had clearly been dead for some months.

“‘I arranged the body to look as though an accident had occurred—a bookcase had fallen on him—then came out just as you and Lestrade arrived. To the untrained eyes of Lestrade and his men, it will look as though Attenborough suffered an unfortunate accident.’“

“‘What of Attenborough’s files?’ I asked. “Surely they will ruin what remains of Colonel Pendleton-Smythe’s reputation.”

“‘That will be handled by the Foreign Office. Lestrade will uncover the records of the Amateur Mendicant Society, which reveal their wrongdoings in excruciating detail. Their speciality was blackmail and extortion, as we had surmised. The records will be doctored to include, I dare say, the full catalogue of murders by Dr Attenborough, as he desperately tried to maintain control of a crumbling criminal empire.

“The newspapers will, I am certain, find much scandalous material in it—and the colonel will have little choice but to deny his participation and suppress that part of his memoirs, should he still choose to write them. All the Foreign Office wants, at this point, is to maintain the Secret Mendicant Society’s anonymity while contributing whatever small gains it can to the war effort.”

“It would seem, then,” I said, “that everything has sorted itself out remarkably well. You’re fortunate they didn’t try to kill you,” I commented.

“I believe the admiral considered it. However, I do make my own small contributions to the Foreign Office, as you well know. You might say we have friends in common.”

“Your brother for one,” I said.

“Just so,” he said.

“Then we gave reached a successful resolution to the case—after a fashion.”

“After a fashion,” Holmes agreed with a half smile. “After a fashion.”

THE ADVENTURE OF THE HAUNTED BAGPIPES, by Carla Coupe

“Ah, Watson, there you are!”

Sherlock Holmes stood at the table that held chemical apparatus. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, baring muscular forearms, his fingers stained and sooty. He tipped a small amount of a vile green liquid into a retort and quickly capped it. As he held the retort over a gas flame, the solution turned brown and filled the glass with curling smoke.

“You look pleased, Holmes,” I said. “What are you working on?”

“Oh, nothing much.” He gently tilted the vessel, coating the sides with the brown liquid. “Merely a method to preserve burnt paper so that it may be subject to further analysis without disintegrating.”

“Very useful, I am sure.”

I consulted my pocket watch. It was almost four o’clock, the hour at which Holmes had requested my presence. I had quit my surgery in response to his note, although in truth it was no hardship to abandon my quiet rooms.

“What is this about?” I settled into a chair by the fire. The day was chill and grey, one of a long procession during the cold, wet weeks late in 1889. The warmth of the coals eased the ache from my old war wound.

Holmes carefully placed the retort on the table and turned toward the door, his eyes bright. “Let us await explanations, for I believe our visitor has arrived.”

Only then did I hear the front door close and Mrs Hudson’s gentle murmur. Holmes snuffed out the flame of the burner and wiped his smudged hands upon his equally filthy handkerchief. He rolled down his sleeves and donned his jacket before moving to stand beside the fire.

After a soft knock, Mrs Hudson entered, ushering in a tall, broad-shouldered young man. The young man paused inside the door and thrust the fingers of his left hand through his black hair. It had been pomaded and now erupted into a halo of curls. His gaze moved between Holmes and me for a moment, then settled on my friend.

“Mr Holmes?” His voice was a light baritone.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.”

“Gentlemen.” The young man sketched a bow before taking the chair Holmes indicated. “My name is Albert McMahon, and I have a most curious problem.”

Holmes settled on the settee, crossed his legs, and drew out his pipe. “You intimated as much in your letter, Mr McMahon. Before you explain your difficulty, however, please tell us how a man who worked in the timber industry in Canada came to reside in Edinburgh for the past six months?”

Although familiar with Holmes’s deductive powers, I was still surprised at the quickness of his observations. McMahon’s brows rose comically, and his mouth hung open for a moment before he let loose a piercing whistle.

“I must admit I had my doubts about you, Mr Holmes.” He smiled. “But if this is an example of your abilities, I know I am consulting the right man for the job.”

“This is hardly a taxing matter.” Holmes waved a negligent hand. “When a man retains his distinctive Canadian accent and sports a Canadian penny on his watch fob, the location of his origin is clear. Your hands show the callusing peculiar to those who wield axe and saw on a daily basis, and you are missing the very tip of your left forefinger, another injury common to the trade. Your clothing, although recently purchased, is not unworn, and the cut of your coat is popular among the Scots these days. In addition, the slight burr and intonation atop your native accent are those of Edinburgh … Old Town, I believe?”

“You are correct on all counts,” McMahon said, his smile broadening. “My father and mother emigrated to Canada before I was born. My great-uncle Fergus McMahon was a man of considerable wealth, and unfortunately he could not forgive my father for leaving Scotland. He informed my father that neither my father nor his heirs would ever benefit from his fortune.”

“Not an uncommon attitude,” Holmes said, puffing slowly on his pipe. “Although regrettable for the innocent heirs.”

McMahon nodded. “Imagine my surprise, therefore, when, eight months ago, I was in receipt of a communication from my great-uncle’s solicitors, informing me I was to receive half his fortune, including a town house in Edinburgh. My cousin, James Knox, benefitted from the remainder. Following the solicitors’s instructions, I wound up my affairs in Vancouver and arrived in Edinburgh a little over six months ago.”

“All this is very interesting,” said Holmes. “But what of your problem?”

“I’m working my way up to that, sir.” McMahon rubbed his hands together—a nervous gesture—and I could see the calluses that Holmes had remarked upon, as well as the missing tip of his finger. An old injury, by the colouration.

“I took up residence in my great-uncle’s home, which is situated in Hangman’s Lane, behind St Giles, in the shadow of the Castle. It is a tall, narrow stone building, several centuries old. I now own the tenements in the lane, as well.”

McMahon assayed a smile, but it more resembled a grimace.

“I must be honest, Mr Holmes. From the first night I spent there, I have never rested easily. The chimneys howl and the floors creak, and if I were the type of man who believed in ghosts … well, it would be all too easy to do so after living in that house.”

“If it is so uncomfortable, why do you stay?” I asked.

“A provision in my great-uncle’s will requires me to reside in the house for one full year before claiming the rest of my inheritance. He was a leading light in the campaign to provide decent accommodations for the deserving poor, and he insisted that I continue his work by not becoming an absentee landlord. As a consequence, if I fail to sleep there for more than two nights in a row, I will forfeit the money.” McMahon sighed. “Believe me, gentlemen, I could use that fortune.”

Holmes leaned forward, eyes sharp and attentive. “And what would you use that fortune for, Mr McMahon?”

McMahon coloured and repeated his nervous hand-wringing. “Miss Caroline Fraser and I have loved each other for many years. Although we did not make any promises when I left Vancouver, we would have married before if I could have afforded to maintain a wife. Sadly, she has a brother who is simple, and who also needs support. This money would provide amply for our happiness, as well as for the care of her brother.”

“Most commendable,” I murmured.

“I see.” Holmes leaned back, his voice cool, as always when the subject of matrimony arose. “And if you do not fulfill the terms of the will, who then benefits? Your cousin?”

“No. My portion will be given to a charity my great-uncle supported: the Society for the Betterment of the Working Poor.”

“I see. Do similar restrictions apply to your cousin’s inheritance?”

“I do not believe so. He received my great-uncle’s cottage in Kirkcudbright as well as half his fortune, but he resides in Edinburgh.”

“Are you acquainted with this cousin?”

“We have dined together a number of times,” McMahon said with a shrug. “He seems a pleasant enough fellow, although rather absent-minded. At least half of the times he was engaged to dine with me he became so engrossed in his medical research that he completely forgot our appointment.”

I nodded. I knew several such types, for whom the intellectual challenge of research proved far more engrossing than the allure of society, and even of family ties. Edinburgh, as a seat of medical learning, was undoubtedly filled with hosts and hostesses confronted with empty places at dinner parties while their expected guests laboured in their laboratories far into the night.

“Medical research?” I asked, my professional curiosity piqued.

“Yes. Something to do with improving the vigour of the indigent population.”

“Your situation appears straightforward,” said Holmes, clearly impatient with my digression. “And now, please explain your problem.”

McMahon hesitated, a frown forming. “It began about a fortnight ago, and it would not be too strong to say that the events of that night will haunt me forever.”

Holmes spared me a glance before turning back to our guest. “Describe that night, if you will.”

“I doubt I can, Mr Holmes. It was … horrible.” He took a deep breath, as if to steady his nerves. “My housekeeper fled from the house that night, and now she refuses to stay after dark. I, myself, find it difficult to remain inside after the sun sets. My tenants have fled, leaving those once-bustling buildings empty.” McMahon gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his fingers paled. “Tell me, Mr Holmes, have you ever heard the legend of the Old Town’s haunted bagpipes?”

“I have,” said Holmes, his expression one of tolerant amusement. “Residents have regaled visitors with the story for many years.”

“Apparently I inhabit the wrong social circles,” I said. “Although I have visited Edinburgh, I have never heard the tale.”

McMahon opened his mouth as if to speak, but Holmes anticipated him. “It concerns a secret underground passage that supposedly existed in the time of Mary, Queen of Scots. The passage is said to link Edinburgh Castle and Holyrood Palace, all the way at the far end of town.” Holmes drew on his pipe. “According to the tale, about a century and a half ago, a bagpiper made a bet that he could walk the length of it. He started at the Castle, piping merrily. The crowds were able to follow him through the streets above by the sound of the skirling.”

I was amused to note the slight burr that had crept into Holmes’s speech. My friend was a consummate actor, and as I have said before, he would have been considered a brilliant artist if he had decided to tread the boards.

“They followed his tune down from the Castle,” Holmes continued, “along the top of the hill. In the vicinity of St Giles, the piping stopped suddenly, in the middle of a note. And that was the last ever heard of the piper.”

McMahon shuddered. “That is precisely the story my great-uncle wrote in a letter he included for me, Mr Holmes. He added that, according to legend, the piping stopped exactly beneath his house.”

“Poor fellow was overcome by some noxious gas, most probably,” I said, not bothering to hide my impatience with such fancied horrors. “The atmosphere in old passages and cellars can be fetid and unwholesome.”

Holmes lifted an eyebrow. “Some say the Devil was so captivated by the man’s playing that he carried the piper off to Hell.”

“Well, what of it?” I laughed. “As long as he and his bagpipes stay there, and he does not go about waking the neighbours.”

Obviously affronted by my levity, McMahon glared. “That is exactly what he has been doing for the last month, Doctor.”

I glanced at Holmes, expecting to find him as dubious about McMahon’s pronouncement as I. Instead, his expression was grave.

“You have heard the piping yourself?” Holmes asked.

“Everyone in the lane has heard it and is terrified. That is why they have all left.”

“Nonsense,” I said, disturbed by Holmes’s apparent acceptance of such a patently ridiculous tale. “There must be another explanation. You said the house’s chimneys are noisy. Or perhaps it is some peculiar trick of the wind carrying the sound of bagpipers playing at the Castle. Why should a ghost who has kept quiet for over a hundred years suddenly decide to return and frighten people?”

Holmes smiled. “That, my dear Watson, is what I am anxious to discover.”

“As am I,” McMahon said. “But the piping has done more than merely frighten, gentlemen. Two of my elderly tenants succumbed to terror after hearing the bagpipes, and a young woman recently miscarried.”

“Tragic,” murmured Holmes, his eyes hooded, smoke wreathing his head as he puffed on his pipe.

“It is not unknown for a shock to carry off the elderly,” I asserted, ignoring Holmes’s sarcastic tone and hoping McMahon did not notice it. “Nor to bring on miscarriages, if indeed these events are connected to the piping.”

Although Holmes and I had encountered the occasional inexplicable incident, most of what credulous individuals deemed otherworldly could be explained by science and logic. I was certain that was the case here, as well.

“What would you have us do, Mr McMahon?” Holmes asked.

“I must return to Edinburgh on the morning train,” he replied. “I would be very grateful if you, at least, would accompany me and investigate the cause of this. In order to claim the money, I must continue to live there for six additional months, and I admit that the prospect of even one more evening alone in that house fills me with dread.”

“There you have it, Watson.” Holmes emptied his pipe into the coal scuttle. “Will you join us? Or do the delights of hearth and home prove too alluring?”

His tone stung, but I set aside my annoyance. “Of course I will come. Tonight I shall arrange to have my practice covered for a few days.” I nodded to McMahon. “I will meet you both at King’s Cross in the morning.”

“Mr Holmes, thank you. And you as well, Doctor.” McMahon rose and shook our hands. “I am exceedingly grateful to you.”

Once we had seen him out the door and into Mrs Hudson’s capable ministrations, Holmes turned to me.

“Sit down, my dear fellow. We shall have an early supper together and then you shall return home to make your arrangements and pack for the morrow, while I carry on a few inquiries regarding the McMahon family.” He rubbed his hands together, perhaps in unconscious emulation of his client. “I have the feeling this is a more complex affair than a howling chimney, Watson.”

* * * *

The following morning at 10.00, we prepared to depart King’s Cross on the Special Scotch Express to travel the four hundred miles to Edinburgh.

McMahon and I had already settled into our compartment when Holmes arrived on the platform. There were only moments to spare before the train departed.

“Mr Holmes!” McMahon called from the window. “Hurry!”

Steam and shouting filled the station as the train pulled from the station and Holmes joined us, flinging his valise onto the overhead rack and collapsing onto his seat.

“You cut that rather fine,” I said.

“My investigations took rather longer than I anticipated.” Holmes refused to say more, and when he proved disinclined toward conversation, staring out the window deep in abstraction, I endeavoured to make up for his lack of sociability.