The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (35 page)

Holmes changed into his more dignified clothes and we ate pasta with shrimp and scallops at Carbone’s Italian Restaurant on Miles Street, sharing a carafe of Chianti while Holmes plotted his next move. “I shall make inquiries at the two banks and develop a better picture of this complicated puzzle,” he postulated, then turned the conversation to the repercussions of the phylloxera plague, the performance of Genevieve Masters in a drama we attended at the Lyceum Theatre, and the effects on society in the future with the advent of electric lights.

No sooner than Holmes had left Thursday morning, Bascomb McHugh and Heathcliff Vamberry arrived to bring him an urgent request. They refused to wait for Holmes to get back, saying only that they wanted him to cease his investigation immediately. They asked me to convey the message because it was a matter of life and death for Mrs Vamberry. I told them I would relay the information but that Holmes would want to know why they were so intent upon removing him from the case.

“We shall return this afternoon with the explanation, but by all means do not allow Mr Holmes to proceed,” McHugh demanded before he abruptly turned and marched down the stairs in a rush, Vamberry following briskly to keep up.

I was perplexed by the sudden change of attitude, and I expressed my misgivings to Holmes when he came through the door about an hour after lunchtime.

“Curious,” he said, “although it is consistent with what I have determined thus far.” He didn’t go into detail; rather, he mumbled something about Mrs Hudson’s kindness and made a sandwich with the leftover slices of roast beef and horseradish she had brought up for us earlier.

It was nearly three-thirty before McHugh and Vamberry passed through our doorway to confront Holmes standing at the sitting-room window, looking out at the endless parade of pedestrians and horse-drawn traffic.

“I understand you gentlemen wish me to disengage myself from your service,” he offered as a greeting, with his straight and narrow back still toward them.

“It is imperative that you do so,” McHugh affirmed. “You see, Mr Holmes, we have been alerted by the kidnappers that if you persist, our Phoebe will be destroyed.” He shoved a sheet of paper under Holmes’s hawk-like nose as Holmes turned to face them.

The note contained more pasted words and letters cut out from a newspaper.

“We told you no coppers, and that includes Holmes,” the first line read.

“I found this today attached to my front door with a dagger,” Vamberry interjected, pointing a quivering finger at the sheet of paper.

“Unless you were followed to my address, there is no way anyone could have known of my entanglement in your concern,” Holmes insisted.

“That is immaterial, Mr Holmes,” Bascomb McHugh continued, “because the fact is they do know, and we must obey their instructions for Phoebe’s sake.”

Holmes took the note from McHugh and scanned the entire contents. It ordered Vamberry to place another fifty thousand pounds on the walkway of the bridge at ten o’clock that night. “And come alone this time,” it warned.

“I am going to take it myself and catch whoever comes to retrieve it,” McHugh advised. “I’ll make him tell where they’ve hidden my sister, by God.”

“You are making a foolish mistake,” said Holmes, objecting, “but you are my client, and I cannot go contrary to your desires.”

“Bascomb and I disagree on most issues,” Vamberry said boldly, to conclude the conversation, “but not on this. He will accomplish what you and the police were unable to.”

After they were gone, Holmes sank into one of his reveries, stretching out on the sofa and plunking the strings of his violin with melancholy refrains. He declined my invitation to buy his dinner at Simpson’s, saying he had no appetite, so I walked to the establishment alone and found him still on the sofa in the doldrums when I returned.

“Look here, Holmes,” I scolded, “it is not a failure of your professional status to be dismissed from the employment of a fool and his relative.”

“No, but it is a setback, especially since I was on the verge of a breakthrough,” he responded.

Holmes’s depression continued into the next afternoon until a development shook us to the core. I hastily entered our rooms, huffing and puffing from a trip to the newsstand for a copy of
The Daily Gazette
. The headline on the front page of the Friday evening edition screamed out about the violent death of McHugh.

“A Singular Tragedy,” it read, and below it: “Prominent Lawyer Slain on Bridge in Hampshire.”

The accompanying story revealed that Bascomb McHugh had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest and throat, his body having been discovered slouched on the seat of his carriage by a brother-in-law, Heathcliff Vamberry, late the night before. The article did not specify why McHugh was crossing the river at such an hour, or why he was in Hampshire instead of at home in London. Special Constable Isaac Thornburgh was quoted as saying the police were following up undisclosed leads and suspected a gangster was responsible for the murder. Constable Thornburgh mentioned nothing of the kidnapping of Phoebe Vamberry or the fifty thousand pounds McHugh was carrying. The special constable merely told the reporter that robbery appeared to be the motive for the vicious attack.

“Such is the consequence when an amateur takes matters into his own hands,” Holmes commented with coolness after reading the account. “I have an obligation to my client now to find a solution to this grisly mystery. If the killing of Mr McHugh is solved, so will be the case of his sister.”

Holmes was still in his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, so he quickly changed to his travelling clothes and soon we were on an Underground train to Oxford Circus Station on the far western edge of London, connecting there to a rented surrey at a livery stable, then into picturesque and affluent Hampshire County. Holmes rode with his tight-fitting cloth cap pulled down over his bushy eyebrows as we went past one stately stone house after another, with well-manicured lawns and impeccable flower gardens, then a polo field with players and ponies making practice runs, and lastly a patch of woods where a wild boar stood munching acorns—until we halted finally at the constabulary headquarters to meet Special Constable Thornburgh.

He was a short, thin man of about thirty-five years in age, with a thick black moustache that matched his wavy hair.

“I have heard of your participation in some of Scotland Yard’s investigations, Mr Holmes,” he said by way of introduction, “but there is nothing you can contribute to this one. We have several suspects in mind and are narrowing the field through the process of elimination.” He spoke with confidence and authority, his pointy chin and wide-set grey eyes aiming toward the ceiling in a gesture of aloofness. Holmes, not offended, nonetheless offered his assistance and asked for some details of the crime scene.

“Mr Vamberry discovered the blood-soaked body on the seat of Mr McHugh’s brougham, his hands holding the reins in a death grip and his face contorted, as if surprised,” Constable Thornburgh disclosed. “Mr Vamberry told us that he anxiously waited at home for his brother-in-law to return from his mission, but when Mr McHugh failed to appear by two o’clock in the morning, Mr Vamberry walked toward the bridge. He went along the same route the brougham would have taken, hoping he would encounter Mr McHugh on the way. Mr Vamberry reached the bridge and saw the carriage in the middle, his brother-in-law obviously dead, and the money sack gone. It won’t be but a day or so before we have the perpetrators locked up and learn the whereabouts of Mrs Vamberry.”

Holmes then posed a rhetorical question: “Does not the position of the corpse with its multiple wounds suggest a direction different from your theory?”

“What do you mean by that—do you have a better one?” the officer shot back, glaring at Holmes with irritation.

“I shall pursue other avenues and concentrate on my direction, then I shall reveal all when I have reached a conclusion,” Holmes answered ambiguously before walking away. “His demeanour reminds me of Inspector Lestrade’s,” Holmes confided to me in private as we climbed into the surrey, referring to the beady-eyed Scotland Yard official who usually was obstinate after crossing paths with the empire’s only indefatigable consulting detective.

We drove toward the bridge above the River Avon after first asking guidance to its location from a woman strolling with her clipped and trimmed French poodle. “Be vigilant,” she cautioned, “it is a dangerous place for such a peaceful neighbourhood—there was a robbery and murder there just yesterday.”

At the bridge, Holmes scrupulously examined the surrounding areas on both sides, determining that a footpath at either end could have concealed a person from the police hiding in the bushes along the road in the dense fog Tuesday night. “They expected a conveyance and neglected to cover the more devious approach,” he gathered. “Come, Watson, there is nothing more to see here. Let us pay a visit to Mr Vamberry.”

We gained information from another passerby on how to best reach the winery, which was twenty minutes away. It was set back from the road almost out of view, with tall oak and elm trees lining the circular drive. Halfway along, we glimpsed a sprawling stucco and brick structure of two stories with bay windows on both levels. At the far end was a small grassy plot with a walkway paved by cobblestones leading to the residence. Behind the well-appointed brick home was a vast vineyard of at least ten hectares, showing mostly stems practically bare of leaves or grapes.

Sherlock Holmes led the way through the main entrance to the winery, which was absent of any aroma one might expect—due to the lack of production. The walls were covered with bottles on racks, the majority of the stock bearing labels from California and New York in the United States, plus from La Rioja in Spain, and the upper banks of the Douro River in Portugal. In a larger adjoining room were huge vats, empty presses, and row after row of barrels stacked on their sides. Holmes studied the collection, sniffed the rims of some, and scraped from one a residue of a white powdery substance into a vial he carried in a leather case in his jacket pocket.

There was no sign of Vamberry, so Holmes beckoned me to follow him to locate the proprietor. Just as we reached the exit, Vamberry stepped out of the privy at the corner of the building and gave a start.

“Mr Holmes! What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“We came to buy a bottle of wine for our table this evening,” Holmes answered coyly. “And to make inquiries into the death of my client, Bascomb McHugh.”

“But you were removed from our case,” Vamberry replied, impatient, it seemed, to see us leave.

“That was prior to his demise,” Holmes contradicted. “I have since re-engaged myself, apparently not to your liking.”

“I should think the police are handling matters satisfactorily, and your involvement is totally unnecessary,” Vamberry shouted, strutting past us and through the door to conclude the discussion.

Undeterred, Holmes followed him in, I at his heels.

“I believe a medium-bodied dry white would do nicely,” Holmes continued. “Which do you recommend?”

“What?” Vamberry sputtered with an edge to his voice.

“For our table tonight,” Holmes responded in a friendly manner.

“Oh, but of course, you came for a bottle of wine, as you said,” Vamberry remarked, losing his combative posture. “I would choose the Vidal Blanc from a California vineyard—two sovereigns and four shillings, a bit pricey, but that’s because it is imported.” He escorted Holmes to the appropriate rack and raised the label for him to read.

Holmes nodded in approval and paid the man.

We left and headed for the livery stable to return the horse and buggy. On the way, Holmes said he found it odd that Vamberry had failed to bring up the topic of his missing spouse. “Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose,” Holmes commented wistfully, twirling his hand above his cranium.

Once we were back at Baker Street, Holmes was eager to analyse the white powdery substance to determine its chemical composition. He arranged his assortment of liquid compounds on the deal-topped table and began his experiments. “I have only a minute sample of the residue, so I must make every test count,” he noted with a serious expression as he ignited the Bunsen lamp. “I shall start with the presumption that the substance is potassium hydroxide.”

“Lye?” I exclaimed, looking up from a copy of
The Echo
I had procured from a vendor on our way home. “Mr Vamberry or his wife must have used a perfectly aged wine barrel to make soap, of all things.”

“Or perhaps something sinister,” Holmes guessed. He tinkered with several decanters for about an hour, saying nary a word, then he cried loudly: “It is so! We haven’t a second to waste, my good man. Get your hat and coat—we’re about to roust Constable Thornburgh out of his bed-clothes for the second time this week.”

Without protest, I complied with anticipation, for I knew the climax of Holmes’s investigation was not far off. In the darkness, through patches of fog, we made our way to the Underground and were aboard the night-express to the far West End for another foray into Hampshire. We awakened the manager of the livery stable and hired another carriage that would take us to the constabulary headquarters. There, Holmes stunned the officer in charge by declaring he had crucial evidence in the homicide of McHugh and the death of Mrs Vamberry.

“The death of Mrs Vamberry?” the officer challenged. “You say she’s dead, do you? Well, we have a suspect in custody who can lead us to her alive, mister.”

“May I speak with him?” Holmes implored.

“Not without the permission of Constable Thornburgh, and I’m not disturbing him in bed again,” the officer contended, his voice raised. “You’ll have to wait until morning. He’ll be here at eight o’clock sharp.”

The officer was unrelenting, even when Holmes argued that morning might be too late.

“Here! Here! What’s all this fuss about?” came another booming voice from across the squad room. It belonged to Special Constable Isaac Thornburgh, who, as it turned out, had been unable to sleep, thinking that his prisoner might have had a change of heart and decided to come clean about the whereabouts of Mrs Vamberry. Constable Thornburgh addressed the officer in charge, sarcastically: