The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (6 page)

“Mr Holmes, you have exceeded my expectations,” Her Grace said, sounding a trifle breathless. “How did you ever discover this?”

Holmes explained his discovery of the crushed glass. “The traces we found were of the same variety used in the jewels’s display case, and the trail led to an alcove in the servants’s hall that is visible through the door.”

“In addition,” he continued, “the thief did not retrace his steps, as the single set of tracks clearly showed. Therefore, it was clear that the thief entered the servants’s hall at that location, directly from this chamber.”

“So the thief must still have traces of glass in his boots,” I said.

“Exactly, Watson.” Holmes pointed to the area of powdered glass on the floor beside the hearth. “The thief trod in the glass there, and when he exited, he left a trail—Constable! Stop that man!” Holmes cried.

Denbeigh started.

Confused, I glanced about the chamber.

Carolus struggled in the grasp of the burly constable, shouting what sounded like pleas in a foreign language, his face pale with terror. He must have surreptitiously edged toward the door as Holmes outlined the evidence.

“If you examine the soles of his shoes,” Holmes said to Jones, “you will discover traces of glass embedded in the leather—the same glass as that of the smashed jewel case.”

“And the emeralds,” Jones said triumphantly. “He must have taken them after he attacked his master.”

Carolus ceased his struggles and turned to Holmes. “Mr Holmes, you must believe me! I never meant to harm anyone. When my master and Her Grace entered, I hid in the shadows, but I could not stand by and watch the count molest her.”

She shuddered once, then breathed deeply, lifting her chin. I could not but admire her strength.

“Why are you listening to this blackguard, Mr Holmes!” Sheppington pushed his way past his uncle and glared at Carolus. “He has deceived us all.”

“I very much doubt that he is the only person in this room who is not speaking the truth,” replied Holmes with a cold look at the young man. He addressed Carolus again. “But what of the emeralds?”

“I do not have them!” he asserted.

“Then who does?” Holmes asked, his voice implacable.

“I do not know his name, and I never saw his face.” Carolus bowed his head. “He came to me, and threatened to reveal…” His throat worked as he swallowed.

“It is not uncommon for opium addicts to be blackmailed,” said Holmes.

Carolus stared at him. “How did you—?”

Holmes waved negligently. “The characteristic sallow complexion, the wide pupil, a trace of the distinct odour… Your vice was obvious to me the moment we met.”

“I see,” Carolus whispered. “He knew of the secret panel. He instructed me to ensure that the emeralds were displayed in this room and to steal them tonight. After doing so, I was to leave them wrapped in a handkerchief behind a vase in the receiving room. When I checked after arranging for the count to be carried to his chambers, they were not there. I know nothing more!”

“All this sounds extremely dubious to me,” Jones grunted. “Mr Holmes, do you believe this ruffian?”

“I do indeed.” Holmes surveyed the room. He reached into his pocket and then lifted his clenched fist. All eyes were upon him. He opened his hand, revealing the emerald he had discovered beneath Her Grace.

“You may wish to check the jewels you received, Your Lordship, for I believe you are missing one.”

As he spoke, Denbeigh drew himself up and fixed his cold gaze upon Holmes.

“How
dare
you imply—”

“I recognize that voice!” cried Carolus, pointing at Denbeigh. “It is he!”

“The villain lies to save himself,” Denbeigh said, turning to the door. “I will not stand here and—”

“No,” Her Grace whispered, sagging against me.

“Grandmama!” Sheppington rushed up and supported her other arm, but she had already mastered her momentary weakness.

“Maurice.” Her steely tones cut him off abruptly. “Show us the contents of your pockets.”

Complexion the colour of parchment, Denbeigh turned from face to stern face. A constable approached.

“Do not lay hands upon me!” He gazed imploringly at the dowager duchess. “Mother, you cannot—”

“Show us, Maurice.”

“There is no escape, Your Lordship,” Holmes said and held out his hand.

With a sigh, Denbeigh reached into his coat pocket, then deposited a small parcel wrapped in a handkerchief into Holmes’s waiting hand. Holmes quickly untied the knots and opened the linen. The gems inside glittered with cold fire.

Jones shook himself as if roused from a deep slumber and took charge of the situation. A phalanx of constables removed Denbeigh and Carolus from the chamber, while Her Grace sent instructions to the family solicitor.

“I shall also ensure Carolus is represented well,” she said, Sheppington standing at her side. “For I feel a certain amount of responsibility for this situation.” She dismissed my protestations with a sad shake of her head.

“Your Grace, I am certain you have many questions,” Holmes began.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, but I am a trifle fatigued.” She gave him a weary smile. “Hilary and I shall call upon you and Dr Watson on the morrow. You may answer my questions then. For now, I would like Hilary to take me home.”

* * * *

The following morning, Holmes and I perused the newspapers over breakfast, and I was relieved there was no mention of the incident.

“It will do nothing to prevent rumours from flying about,” said Holmes in response to my observation. “Fortunately, this sort of occurrence is handled with discretion and seldom goes to trial.”

True to her word, Her Grace, accompanied by Sheppington, called upon us a little later. As she entered our chamber, I was pleased to see that her step was as firm, her carriage as elegant as usual. When she lifted her heavy veil, however, traces of the emotional and physical toll of the previous evening were writ clearly upon her features, for she had apparently eschewed the use of cosmetics and artifice to hide her injuries.

“You are well?” I asked.

“Thanks to your assistance and care,” she replied. Settling upon the sofa, her grandson beside her, she declined our offer of refreshment with a weary air.

“There is still much to be arranged,” she confessed in quiet, dignified tones. “My son’s perfidy extends further than I had suspected.”

“Yet you did suspect something amiss,” said Holmes. He leaned against the hearth, regarding her gravely. “You instructed Viscount Sheppington to monitor His Lordship’s activities. He was unable, or possibly unwilling, to disguise himself as effectively as Lord Maurice, and thereby gained a reputation as a connoisseur of certain unsavoury practices.”

The young man’s countenance darkened. “When I began, I did not realise I would be haunting venues where a disguise would be essential, Mr Holmes. That fact was quickly brought home to me, but by that point, I was already tarred by vice’s brush.” He shrugged. “I can only hope that the rumour-mongers will soon discover another object of interest and I can endeavour to restore my character.”

Her Grace took his hand and pressed it gently. “I never meant for you to suffer so, dear boy.”

“Do not vex yourself, Your Lordship,” said Holmes. “The most cursory glance at the newspapers will supply a variety of individuals with reputations far more scandalous than yours. Besides, isn’t it often considered desirable for a young scion of the nobility to have a faintly dubious past, above which he can rise?”

“I say!” cried Sheppington.

Her Grace assayed a faint smile, yet her lips trembled. “We can only hope that is indeed the case, Mr Holmes.”

I rose from my chair. “But why? Why did His Lordship court exposure and disgrace?”

“For the money,” said Sheppington. “Although his vices were few, they were costly. Gambling at cards and on the horses, and his mistress alone…” He glanced at his grandmother, his cheeks colouring.

Holmes nodded. “When His Lordship encountered Carolus smoking opium in a den of depravity, he conceived of the plan to steal the emeralds. He was familiar with the count’s house and its hidden doorway, for it had been in your family for many years, had it not?”

“We resided there for several years while he was a child,” she said. “Even then, Maurice was always poking into corners and winkling out everyone’s secrets.”

“Through his unsavoury associates,” continued Holmes, “His Lordship knew he could dispose of the gems, or alternatively, he could hold them for ransom. Either way, he would benefit.”

“Unfortunately for Carolus, he became my son’s dupe,” said Her Grace. “And yet I cannot help but be grateful to him, for he defended me from the count’s advances at some considerable risk to himself.”

“Addicts are not necessarily criminals or depraved individuals,” I said, not looking at Holmes. “Indeed, there are several private clinics that have successfully weaned these unfortunate individuals from the sources of their addiction. If Your Grace would consider arranging for his treatment at one such facility, it would certainly repay his actions on your behalf.”

“An excellent suggestion, Doctor.” She nodded. “If I may, I shall ask for a few recommendations.”

“Of course.” I bowed.

“Now I must broach a more delicate matter, one I wish to conduct without intermediaries.” She stood, opened her reticule, and withdrew an envelope. “Mr Holmes, your assistance in this matter has been invaluable to me and to all of my family, even the one exposed by your investigations. I hope you will accept the enclosed as a token of my gratitude for your efforts.”

“I was honoured to be of service.” Holmes accepted the envelope, setting it to one side.

“And you, Doctor,” she said, turning to me with a smile. “How can I ever find the words to thank you?”

Momentarily speechless at the warmth of her regard, I bowed again. “It was entirely my pleasure.”

“I know you would not accept any gift of great value, but I hope you will permit me to present you with this small keepsake.” She pressed a small, gold locket into my hand.

“Your Grace!” I said, opening the locket. Inside rested an exquisite miniature portrait of the dowager duchess, obviously painted at the time I first met her. “I am honoured and will keep it always.”

“And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us,” she said. “I have an appointment with my solicitor. Hilary, will you see to the carriage?”

“Of course, Grandmother. Thank you, Mr Holmes, Doctor.” He hurried out the door.

Holmes gravely bowed over her hand, and she allowed me the pleasure of seeing her to the door. Her carriage waited at the kerb. With a wistful smile, she pressed my hand before turning and crossing the pavement. Sheppington handed her into the brougham, then joined her.

I returned to our apartments, unaccountably melancholy. Had not Holmes solved the case to Her Grace’s satisfaction? Taking my seat beside the fire, I picked up a medical journal but did not open it.

“She is a woman of immense strength, Watson.” Holmes sounded almost kind. “I am certain she will weather any storm of gossip or public exposure regarding her son’s behaviour with her usual dignity.”

I sighed. “You are right, of course. I wish there were some way for me to assist her through this horrible period. If there were not more than thirty years separating our ages…”

A quiet knock on the door interrupted me.

“Come,” said Holmes.

Mrs Hudson entered, a small crease between her brows. “A messenger brought this at the behest of Viscount Sheppington.” She held out her hand. In her palm rested a small gold cigarette case.

“Good Lord, Holmes.” I glanced at the table where I had last seen it resting. “Isn’t that the case from—” I stopped, remembering in time the gentleman’s request for anonymity.

Holmes laughed. “It is indeed, my dear fellow.” He took the case from Mrs Hudson. “Was there a message?”

“Only that he would endeavour to be vigilant, but that it might be necessary to call upon you in future.” She shook her head. “I hope you understand it, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

I gazed in consternation at my friend, for it was impossible for me to conceal my disappointment at this evidence of Her Grace’s continuing kleptomania.

He waited until she departed before continuing. “Take heart, Watson. It is a small flaw in an otherwise sterling character, and yet I suspect we have not seen the last of Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Penfield.” He glanced out the window. “Since the afternoon has turned fine, I suggest we take a turn about the park.”

“Excellent idea, Holmes.” As I collected my coat and hat, I glanced at the locket depending from my watch chain and smiled.

* * * *

Editorial Note:
Carla Coupe’s story is
very
loosely based on the radio program “The Adventure of the Elusive Emerald,” scripted by Anthony Boucher and Denis Greene, originally broadcast on December 21, 1946.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND ROUND, by Mark Wardecker

It is with much reserve that I begin this account of the mystery which awaited my friend Sherlock Holmes and me at Sherrinsthorpe Manor in Kensington. In fact, not since recording the tragedy of the Cushing sisters have I felt such misgivings about publishing one of Holmes’s cases, and in that instance, my reticence did finally prevent the story’s inclusion in most subsequent anthologies. Still, the masterful way in which Holmes illuminated such an obscure conspiracy demands no less than that a record be published. Only this and the fact that the passage of time has swept away many of this drama’s principal actors have moved me to finally set it down.

It was late in the month of November, and though no snow had yet fallen, the frigid blasts of winter rattled every pane and resonated in every chimney in London. During one particularly bitter morning, I arose shortly before dawn and was surprised to find my friend awake and already dressed. What was even more surprising was that, in spite of the early hour and the forbidding, slate-grey frigidity which had permeated the city, Holmes was in remarkably high spirits. He was standing in front of a roaring fire and filling his morning pipe which was comprised of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantlepiece. Upon my entrance, he picked up a letter which was also on the mantelpiece and turned to greet me.

“Good morning, Watson. I am so glad you have already dressed.”

“Good morning to you, as well, Holmes, but I must say that I am surprised to see you up and dressed so early.”

“I was awakened about an hour ago by a messenger,” he said, as he handed me the letter. “Do you remember my mentioning an Inspector Nicholson of the Yard?”

“Yes. He has called you in on a couple of cases within the past year, hasn’t he?”

“Actually, he has enlisted my help on no less than three occasions. He is very young but has already made quite a name for himself in the press. He was the one who finally managed to apprehend the Spotts gang and that without my help. This time, however, he hasn’t wasted an instant in contacting me, which can only mean that he has stumbled upon something unusual.”

At a nod toward the letter from Holmes, I unfolded it and, in my customary fashion, read it aloud:

“Sherrinsthorpe, Kensington

“3:30 a.m.

“My dear Mr Holmes,

“I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line. So far, I have been able to keep everything as I have found it, but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Lord Morris there.

“Yours faithfully,

“Geoffrey Nicholson.”

“Well, this leaves little doubt as to the result of the crime,” I remarked, “but I must confess that the name of the victim is unfamiliar to me.”

“It is to me, as well. Since Mrs Hudson has been kind enough to prepare breakfast, why don’t you have something to eat while I look him up.”

As I sat down to breakfast at the table, Holmes retrieved a red-covered volume from one of the shelves and slumped down into his armchair. When, after several minutes, he stopped flipping through the pages and re-lit his pipe, I hazarded the question: “Well, what does it say?”

“That the victim was noble … not that I doubted it. No, I am afraid we shall have to begin our investigation at the scene of the crime.”

With that, I hurriedly finished Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfast, and in no time, we had abandoned the comfort of Baker Street for a west-bound cab. Holmes, obviously excited over the prospect of an interesting case, talked animatedly of music and the theatre, but I, uncharacteristically, became withdrawn once our growler entered High Street and the precincts of my old neighbourhood. Even Hyde Park and the Gardens looked lifeless on this relentlessly cold morning, and none but the hardiest tradesmen were out and about.

Within an hour, we passed through a wrought iron gate and into a long drive, at the end of which stood Sherrinsthorpe Manor, a massive red-brick mansion of three floors. As we alighted and Holmes paid the driver, a moon-faced and somewhat dishevelled young man emerged from the entrance, said a couple of words to a constable posted by the door, and hurriedly walked over to us.

“Mr Holmes, I’m so glad you decided to accept my invitation!” he said smiling.

“It is good to see you, as well, Nicholson. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.”

“It’s good to finally meet you, sir. I hate to rush you both, but we should probably have a look at the scene before the coroner arrives to examine the body.”

“That’s fine, but let me first congratulate you on the birth of your child,” said Holmes, causing Nicholson to suddenly turn around again.

“Thank you. Our son Adam was born a few weeks ago. Did Inspector Lestrade tell you?” asked Nicholson with a hint of expectation in his tone.

“No, there are several other indicators. In fact, when I first noticed the wrinkled condition of your suit and that you looked unusually weary, even for one aroused so early, I began to worry that your domestic fortunes had suffered a decline. However, once you turned, exposing the dried milk stain upon your left shoulder, I was glad to find that quite the opposite was true.”

“Let’s hope Mr Holmes can make such short work of this murder, Dr Watson. Follow me, gentlemen.”

And with that, we entered the main hall.

“You will probably want to keep your coats on,” warned Nicholson. “As I stated in the letter, nothing has been touched, and the French doors of the study have been open all night.”

Indeed, it was absolutely freezing in Lord Morris’s study, and I was able to feel a blast of wind the moment Nicholson opened its door, which was on the left-hand side of the hall. The French doors were directly across from the entrance, and the only other window, which was closed, was on our left and looked out upon the grounds in front of the mansion. Despite its rifled appearance, the room was neatly furnished, with some scattered Persian rugs, a few armchairs before the fireplace, and a large mahogany desk interposed between the entrance and the French doors. And it was here that Lord Morris sat with his head resting upon the desk’s bloodstained blotter. Also upon the desk lay a small pistol, directly in front of his right hand. The man’s hunched but tall form still retained its frock-coat with only a pair of black patent leather slippers indicating that his day’s exertions were coming to an end.

“Does that gun belong to Lord Morris, Inspector?”

“Yes, according to the butler, Mr Holmes. It appears to be unfired.”

Holmes leaned over and glanced into the gun’s barrel. Then, with a nod from Nicholson, he picked it up and began to examine it.

“It is a .41 rimfire, single-shot Colt derringer. How closely did you examine it, Nicholson?”

“Again, Mr Holmes, I refrained from picking it up, knowing that you would want to see the room exactly as it was.”

“That and the wind would account for the error, for it has, in fact, been fired recently. It is obviously a second round which is undischarged,” he said, handing the gun to Nicholson.

“Yes, you’re right. I can smell the powder.”

“What do you make of the wound, Watson?”

I looked down upon a middle-aged profile that had once been quite dashing but was now pale and expressionless, and replied, “It is obvious from the burns around its rim that it had to have been inflicted at very close range. In all honesty, Holmes, I would probably have taken this for a suicide, if it weren’t for the gun’s being re-loaded. Lord Morris’ death would have been instantaneous. The wound seems consistent with this pistol, but until the bullet is retrieved from the skull, it is impossible to say for sure that it is the murder weapon. I assume there is no need to infer the time of death?”

“No,” said Nicholson. “Perkins, the butler, heard the shot at approximately 12:45 a.m. and entered the room moments after.”

“He saw no intruder?”

“No, Mr Holmes.”

“What about all of these papers lying about? Is there anything of any significance?” asked Holmes, as he stooped to look at them.

“Quite possibly there is something significant which is missing, but those I have seen are nothing but household bills.”

“Yes. Here is one for coal, for gas, the green grocer’s.”

“Holmes! There’s an appointment book under this armchair,” I cried. “It appears the pages corresponding to the past four days have been torn out.”

“Excellent, Watson! Why don’t you and Nicholson examine the rest of it, while I have a look around.”

“Good luck, Holmes. The ground is as hard as a rock out there,” replied Nicholson.

Actually, I had almost been able to forget the cold while we were busy in our investigations, but now, I was grateful when Holmes, crawling around on all fours behind the desk, finally made his way onto the patio and closed the French doors behind him. While Nicholson and I paged through Lord Morris’s appointment book, I would glance up occasionally to see how Holmes progressed in his search, crawling upon the frozen ground outside, in ever-widening semi-circles. When he returned, I could have sworn he had found some clue.

“What did you find, Holmes?” I asked.

“Nothing whatever,” he replied with an odd note of triumph in his voice. “How does your research progress?”

“I told you that you wouldn’t find anything out there,” said Nicholson. “There’s very little of interest in here—mostly Parliamentary meetings and lunch dates with his Bagatelle Club companions. It’s all rather pedestrian.”

“With whom was the last appointment?”

“His wife,” I answered, “for their anniversary dinner.”

“I see. May I have a look at it, please?”

Holmes flipped through the book for some time without expressing an interest in any of the entries and then handed it back to the inspector.

“Thank you. I think I am finished with this room for now. Would it be possible for me to interview the rest of the household, Inspector?”

“Certainly. I have already done some preliminary questioning, and it seems that, since only Lady Morris and the butler were in the central part of the house, only they heard a shot. The other servants were asleep in the wings and have been able to add nothing to the account.”

“Then it is to Lady Morris and the butler I would speak. Before we go, however, have you been able to determine who benefits directly from the lord’s death?”

“Lady Morris has already been kind enough to show me Lord Morris’s will, Holmes. She and their only daughter are the two principal heirs, but I would add that, as things stand, these two ladies are already quite well off.”

“Excellent work, Nicholson,” commented Holmes, as the inspector led us to the sitting room where Lady Morris was waiting. She was an elegant and stately woman, only just beginning to approach middle-age, and dressed in a rather simple black dress. Though she had obviously been crying, she had regained her composure enough to speak and, at Nicholson’s request, dispatched her maid in order to fetch Perkins, the butler. After the introductions, Holmes took a seat in the chair opposite the one in which she sat and assumed his most comforting tone.

“Madam, you do us a great kindness in agreeing to speak with us, and I promise I shall be as brief as possible.”

“Mr Holmes, I shall answer as many questions as you like, if they should aid you in catching my husband’s killer.”

“Thank you. Lady Morris, could you please recount the events of last night, omitting nothing, no matter how seemingly insignificant.”

“Yes. I had retired early, before my husband returned from his club, in fact, and awoke to a loud noise. I heard a door open and close in the hall below and began to hurriedly dress myself. Upon lighting the lamp beside the bed, I noticed that the time was approximately 12:45. Within a few minutes, I descended the stairs and saw Perkins stepping out of the room. I could tell from the expression on his face that something was horribly wrong. Perkins’s family has been attached to my husband for three generations, and I know him almost as well as I know anyone. He tried to stop me from entering, but I forced my way over the threshold. I saw my lifeless husband slumped over his desk and immediately fainted. After summoning the maid to take care of me, Perkins called the police from the telephone in the hall.”

“Lady Morris, are you positive that you heard only one shot?” asked Holmes.

“A loud noise woke me up, and I heard Perkins enter the study. If there were any sounds before those, I slept through them.”

“How long an interval had passed between your waking and your descending the stairs?”

“I did not look at the clock again, but it could have been no more than two minutes.”

“Did you notice anything about the state of the room when you entered it?”

“I noticed several papers lying upon the floor and that the French doors behind my husband’s desk were wide open.”

“The derringer in the study—did it belong to your husband?”

“Yes. My husband was never fond of hunting. It was the only gun in the house.”

“Which club did your husband attend that evening?”

“The only club he ever attended: the Bagatelle Club, in Regent Street. He loved both cards and billiards.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Yes, she is married to an American railroad owner and lives in San Francisco. She is pregnant with our first grandchild.”

“With your permission, Lady Morris, I would like to ask you some more general questions. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill your husband?”

“My husband’s affairs were largely his own, but no, I can think of no one. There was, however, someone unknown to me.”

“Pray, continue,” Holmes said, as he leaned forward, steepling the tips of his fingers.

“Three days ago, on Wednesday evening, I was passing my husband’s study on my way to the stairs, and I heard him speaking with another man. I could not make out what was being said, but my husband was definitely talking to someone whose voice I had never heard before. I thought this odd, as no visitor had called upon us, so I entered the dining room beside the study and kept watch at the window, waiting for the stranger to appear. I assumed he had entered the study through the French doors, since he hadn’t rung at the front door. I was confirmed in this a few minutes later when a tall man, wearing a black overcoat and a broad-brimmed hat, emerged onto the terrace. I had never seen him before, but he was about your height, with a full beard and a slight limp. I am sorry that I cannot tell you more, but it was too dark.