The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (7 page)

“After that meeting, my husband was a changed man. He did not come to bed that night or any succeeding night, for that matter. I couldn’t get more than a few words out of him at a time, and once, when I looked in upon him in his study, he looked as though he had been weeping. The only excuse he would give was that he was concerned over a friend of his at the club, Sampson, I believe, who was gravely ill. This was all he offered, and most of the time, I could barely make eye-contact with him.”

“I am sorry,” said Holmes. “I have only one more question. Do you remember at what time you came across your husband’s meeting with this stranger?”

“Yes, it was almost 9:30 when he left.”

“Thank you, Lady Morris. I shall let you know as soon as I have any information.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” said Lady Morris, as she and her maid left the room. “Please let me know if I can provide you with anything further.”

As soon as she departed, the butler entered the sitting-room. He was slim and in his fifties, with long and greying sideburns.

“Hello, Perkins. I am Mr Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr Watson. I have just a few questions for you.”

“I shall try my best to answer them, sir,” replied the butler.

“What were you doing when you heard the shot?”

“I was at the other end of the hall, making sure all of the candles and lamps had been extinguished when I heard it.”

“You heard only one shot?”

“Yes, sir, and I hurried to the study as quickly as I could. I was sure the sound had come from there.”

“At what time had Lord Morris come home that evening?”

“Around midnight, sir. He went directly to his study without saying a word.”

“At what time did you hear the shot?”

“When I passed the longcase clock in the hall, it was 12:45.”

“When you entered the study, you found it just as it is now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You saw no intruder?”

“None, sir, but I was slow to act, on account of the shock. It took me a moment to walk over to the French doors.”

“Perkins, why did you close the door behind you when you entered Lord Morris’s study?”

“I didn’t, Mr Holmes. The wind blew it shut.”

“Thank you, Perkins. That will be all for now.”

Perkins opened the door for us, and our trio re-entered the hall. Holmes turned once more to Perkins and asked, “Would it be possible for you to call Dr Watson and I a cab, please?”

However, Lady Morris immediately appeared at the banister and called down, “Nonsense, our driver shall convey you to your lodgings. Perkins, please get Boggis.”

After thanking Lady Morris, Holmes, Inspector Nicholson, and I discussed the case outside, while waiting for the coach.

“What do you make of it, Holmes? Was Lord Morris shot with his own gun?”

“So it would appear, Watson. You will telegraph, Inspector, when you know for certain?”

“Of course.”

“Holmes, why would the killer load a second round into the gun?” I asked.

“It is much too soon to speculate. Perhaps the killer didn’t,” said Holmes, with the faintest trace of a grin forming upon his face.

“Nonsense, who else would have done it?” shot back Nicholson. “It could be that the murderer was trying to make it appear as though a different gun had been used, in order to deflect suspicion from someone within the household. After all, only someone familiar with the house could have found the gun.”

“There is a germ of a sound theory in that statement, Inspector. The gun and the room’s appearance are definitely meant to deflect suspicion.”

“I take it you are referring to the room’s being rifled?” I asked.

“Yes, Watson. It is suggestive.”

“How so, Holmes?” asked Nicholson.

“An intruder could have had but a minute in which to work, before Perkins entered.”

“That affirms my theory that it was an inside job—the killer knew where to find the papers he wanted,” Nicholson interjected.

“In any event,” I ventured, “I think suspicion rests squarely upon this man in the broad-brimmed hat. Find him, and you’ll find your killer.”

“Yes, Watson. Once we have this stranger’s identity, we shall have solved this case.”

“Well Holmes, if you have no objections, after I consult with the coroner, I am going to start questioning some of the people in this address book.”

“Very good, Nicholson. Watson and I will visit the Bagatelle Club. I shall contact you, if anything develops.”

By this time, Boggis had arrived with the coach. Before Holmes gave him directions, he asked my friend if he was Mr Sherlock Holmes. Once Holmes had affirmed this, Boggis began to draw closer and speak confidentially.

“Mr Holmes, sir, there is something that has been troubling me about the master, but I’m not sure if it’s something I should mention to the mistress.”

“Go on, Boggis.”

“You see, sir, I’m the one what always drives his lordship to the club, and sometimes, his lordship asks me to pick up some of his friends, as well. Lately, not Lord Morris, but a couple of these friends have been mentioning something peculiar—a ‘Bagatelle Shakespeare Society.’ But they always sound real oily when they say it, like lechers in a dance hall. Now I’m no better than any other bloke, but it seems to me that these two friends had some kind of corrupting influence on his lordship. Does any of this help you, Mr Holmes?”

“Yes, Boggis. Tell me, had you ever driven Lord Morris and these friends to any destination other than the Bagatelle Club?”

“No, sir. Just heard ’em talk is all.”

“Thank you, Boggis.”

Holmes said hardly a word on our drive back to Baker Street. I knew better than to interrupt my friend during such spells of silence, for he would undoubtedly reveal all at the appropriate time. Our trip was, therefore, rather monotonous, except for a quick stop at the post office, so Holmes could send a telegram. When we finally arrived at 221B, Holmes tipped Boggis most generously, and we ascended to our rooms, Holmes to await a response to his telegram and I to await the lunch which Mrs Hudson was preparing.

After I had eaten, Holmes having elected to instead consume a heroic amount of shag for lunch, I sat down in my armchair and rested my legs upon an ottoman heaped with cushions, for the cold had been bothering my old wound terribly. It was just after I had finally gotten comfortable when two telegrams arrived for Holmes.

“Ah, the first one is from Inspector Nicholson, confirming that Lord Morris’s derringer did, indeed, fire the fatal shot. The second is from the Earl of Maynooth.”

“The father of Ronald Adair? Is he back in England?”

“He has been back for some time, Watson, and has agreed to meet with us, at the Bagatelle Club. Perhaps he will be able to shed some light upon the affairs of Lord Morris.”

Once again, we hailed a four-wheeler and were soon on our way to Regent Street. It was still quite gloomy and cold, but at least the wind had finally died, making our trip somewhat more comfortable. As we approached our destination, I felt a wave of nostalgia as I gazed upon the white façade of the Criterion Bar, for it was there that I first heard mention of Holmes, an event which changed dramatically the trajectory of my life. There was little time for reminiscing, though, for we had soon reached our destination.

Upon entering the club, a small, elderly man in the most neatly pressed suit I had ever seen began leading us past table-upon-table of cigar-chewing nobility, all enjoying their games and their brandy.

“Once again, we are moving in high life, Watson,” quipped Holmes with a sly smile.

We then arrived at a comfortable, oak-paneled alcove where sat an ample-framed, florid-faced gentleman whom I took to be the Earl of Maynooth.

“Hello, Mr Holmes. And Dr Watson, it is so good to finally meet you. Too bad about Lord Morris; terrible business that. I shall do what I can to help, but I must admit that I did not know the man terribly well. Please, take a seat,” he said, indicating two sumptuous leather armchairs. After Holmes and I had accepted and lit the cigars our host offered to us, Holmes addressed the earl.

“I realise, sir, that you were not close to Lord Morris, but was it his custom to stay here until late in the evening?”

“Why Mr Holmes, I, myself, no longer keep very late hours, so I could not positively answer your question.”

“Lady Morris said her husband spent a great deal of his time here, but another source of mine intimated that he may have been here less frequently than she thought. Would you, by any chance, know anything about that?”

“Lord knows I have enough trouble keeping track of my own affairs and could not possibly be expected to keep tabs on a veritable stranger. I do know, however, that the lord and a few of his friends were rather fond of the ladies, Mr Holmes.”

“Yes, that is the very thing about which I need to know more.”

“I am afraid I do not know much more than that. Besides, it is not fitting for a man of my position to engage in such cheap gossip.”

“I understand, sir, but I am afraid that, to find out what happened to the late lord, I must press the issue. What was the Bagatelle Shakespeare Society?”

“Not so loud, man. And do not think for a moment that I would ever forget the service you and Dr Watson performed for my family in risking both of your own lives to apprehend my son’s murderer. I would not miss any opportunity to help you, but I must be discreet. Lord Morris and two of his friends, whose names I will provide to you should it become absolutely necessary, liked to prowl the theatres of the West End in search of conquests. The practice started when the lord met an actress at the Burbage Theatre by the name of Cecilia Benson. He was quite fond of her and went to see her regularly. She then introduced some of her friends to Lord Morris’s companions. Since all of the men are married, they would usually come here first and then depart for the Burbage later in the evening.”

“Thank you, sir. You have been a tremendous help. Tell me, before we go, how is Sampson getting on?”

“I am afraid I know of no one by that name. Is he a member?”

“Evidently not. Sorry, my mistake. Come, Watson. We must get to the theatre before it opens for the evening. Hopefully, we will have time for a word with Miss Benson.”

“
Mrs
Benson, Mr Holmes,” the earl corrected. “Cecilia Benson is married, as well.”

A short time later, Holmes and I, after another silent cab ride, found ourselves in the Strand before the Burbage Theatre. According to the signs out front, Cecilia Benson was appearing as Volumnia in
Coriolanus
. We made our way through the large, richly carpeted lobby, the walls of which were lined with caryatids of gilded plaster, to the manager’s office. At our knock, a small, rather high-strung man emerged, and we introduced ourselves.

“It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes. To what do I owe the honour?”

“It is imperative that I speak to one of your actresses, a Mrs Cecilia Benson.”

“Indeed, I, too, would like to speak with her, for you see, she’s been missing for the last four days.”

“Holmes, that corresponds with the missing pages of the appointment book!” I said.

“You wouldn’t happen to know who saw her last?” queried Holmes.

“Well, sir, that would probably be me. On Tuesday afternoon, I was gazing out of my window at a strange carriage I had noticed which was parked in front of the theatre. Within moments of my turning to look outside, I saw Cecilia walking towards the carriage with a man. They climbed inside, and off they went. I’ve been making do with her understudy, ever since.”

“Could you describe the man who accompanied her?”

“I didn’t get a good look at his face, but he was quite tall and walked with a pronounced limp.”

“Was he wearing a broad-brimmed hat?”

“Why yes, Dr Watson. He was.”

“What was it about the carriage that struck you as odd?” Holmes resumed.

“It was the insignia upon the side—a cross, in front of which was something resembling a fluttering sheet of linen. Over this, were the initials ‘St V.’”

“Holmes, there was a man named St Vincent listed in the appointment book!”

“Thank you, Watson. Sir, would it be possible to see Mrs Benson’s dressing room? It might help me to find her whereabouts.”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes. Follow me.”

The dressing room was fairly small, its large dressing table taking up most of the space. Amongst the make-up and brushes littering this was a small notebook which Holmes immediately began to examine.

“Watson, there is a page missing.”

Holmes then produced a charcoal stick from his pocket and began lightly rubbing the right-hand page which would have lain beneath the missing one. In this way, he was able to reveal the following faint message:

“My Darling,

“I am to be admitted this afternoon. Please come.”

Holmes then searched the rest of the tiny room but revealed nothing further.

Finally, we took our leave, Holmes promising to contact the theatre manager if he found the missing actress. Before returning to Baker Street, Holmes dropped into a post office to send two more telegrams. In the cab, on our way home, I could remain patient no longer.

“Homes, what can it all mean?”

“Surely, Watson, a man of your background should have no problem finding our fugitive actress’s location.”

“All I can make of it is that she is to gain admittance somewhere with someone who might possibly be named St Vincent.”

“Come now, Watson. The note says nothing of ‘gaining admittance’ but of being ‘admitted’. Surely, that would suggest something to someone such as yourself.”

“Well, in my profession, one is usually ‘admitted’ to a hospital.”

“Precisely. Now, let’s assume that ‘St V’ does not stand for the name of an individual.”

“I’m sorry, Holmes, but I don’t follow.”

“The cross, the linen, ‘St V’—surely that would indicate St Veronica.”

“St Veronica’s Hospital for Women! Of course.”

“Yes, Watson. I have just sent a telegram to them, asking if Mrs Benson is a patient and if we can pay a visit tomorrow morning.”

“To whom did you send the second telegram?”