The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III Read online

  The worthy in question proved to be a genial old man, whose speech and deportment told of better times, long since past. Fortunately, his small office proved to be the warmest part of the station, and I gratefully accepted his invitation to step inside. Like a good many in his position, the clerk seemed grateful of the opportunity to strike up a conversation, and I had to endure a tepid cup of tea and a series of mind numbing anecdotes before he finally responded to my initial inquiry.

  My patience and endurance were finally to be rewarded. As it turned out, the locals were rather proud of the fact that they had, from amongst their midst, something of a celebrity, an aspiring young actress who went by the stage name of Sophie Sinclair. I did not need reminding of the significance of her initials, but my enthusiasm was dampened by the fact that the clerk had only seen Miss. Sinclair in the company of an elderly gentlemen but once. I apologised for leaving my tea cup three-quarter full, and with a grateful hand shake, I took my leave.

  I stepped outside to light a cigarette and gazed up at the front of the station. It was a surprisingly small and innocuous façade, fashioned from red brick with only a single arch, and it was cradled within a small clutch of run-down shops. At that moment, a thin veil of sleet was suddenly whipped into a frenetic dance by the remorseless Autumnal wind. I pulled up my collar, pulled down my hat, and made my way towards a small ale house on the opposite side of the road.

  On more than one occasion, Holmes had gained valuable information from the loosened tongues of the clients of a public house, and so I decided to act upon his example and I stepped inside. In all honesty, it was also an act of self preservation!

  Once I had purchased a large whisky from the bar keep, I immediately made my way towards a small fire that was struggling, in vain, to warm that small and dismal hostelry. I stood with my back to the flame so that I could survey my fellow clients and decide who I should best approach for information. I must confess that my brief appraisal proved to be a disappointment.

  I was one of only six who had ventured over the threshold that day, and two of these had clearly sampled the landlord’s wares to a point beyond all reason! The remainder comprised of two elderly gentlemen engaged upon a heated political debate, a young artisan fallen upon hard times, and a bucolic ruffian who was mumbling to himself while he drained his tankard of its last drop of ale.

  Although he was the closest to me, I forsook the pleasure of conversing with the ruffian and instead made my way towards the artisan. To my dismay, as I turned away from him, I felt the ruffian’s hand land upon my shoulder with vigorous intent.

  “I say, sir!” I protested while I removed myself from his grasp. His straggly grey hair was as overgrown as his beer-stained moustache, and his overcoat was worn beyond the point of redemption. When he spoke, the stench of beer and tobacco was overwhelming, and each word was framed by bronchial phlegm.

  “‘Ere guv, I meant no ‘arm, but I am short of the price of tobacco. Could a gent like yourself spare me that?” Each word seemed to be punctuated by a cough so severe that I was forced to cover my mouth with a handkerchief.

  “Sir, from the sound of it, more tobacco is the very last thing that you require!” I was on the point of vacating that ghastly place when the fellow’s voice suddenly modulated and dropped to a whisper. I was staggered by this dramatic alteration and stopped dead in my tracks! I turned back and immediately recognised a familiar smile breaking through the bedraggled hair.

  “Watson, do not betray a single indication of recognition, I beseech you. Now give me one of your cigarettes and I shall meet you outside in five minutes.” Even from within this startling disguise, Holmes’s instructions had their usual compliant effect upon me. I handed over the cigarette without hesitation and stepped out onto the windswept street once more.

  I paced back and forth in agitation for a minute or two until Holmes’s ruffian, as good as his word, shuffled through the ale house door and lurched towards me aggressively. Holmes remained in character until we had turned a corner and he was certain that we could not be spied upon. He led me towards the cab of “Gunner” King, and it was only once we safely on board and moving towards town once more that Holmes slowly began to remove his disguise.

  By the time that he had removed the last tuft of hair and straightened his frock coat, Holmes’s ruffian had all but drifted from memory, and I was left with my old friend once more and a string of questions. Holmes could not help but laugh at my nonplussed demeanour, but he allayed my interrogation by raising his hand up while he lit the cigarette and took down the soothing smoke. He ran his fingers through his hair and bore the expression of a boy who had just been presented with his most sought after gift.

  “Oh, Watson, before you ask, I must tell you that I arrived here ahead of you because King tore up the streets of London while you were meandering along on the train. As commendable as your choice of transport undoubtedly was, you were sadly ignorant of the need for speed. As soon as King had confirmed my worst fears, I donned the persona that you have just witnessed and rushed to meet you here before it was too late.”

  Holmes’s breathless explanation had done little to make the thing clear to me, so I shook my head slowly and told him so.

  “In truth, Watson, for once I would have been surprised had you been able to grasp the situation. Events have unfolded at such a rate, that even I am not clear on one or two details! However, we have a little time before we arrive back at Baker Street, so it would only be right were I to pass on my limited knowledge of the matter to you.

  “No sooner had I mentioned the address in Chester Square than King and his colleagues were able to put together a schedule of Harden’s movements in a very short space of time. To avoid detection, Harden hailed his cabs from nearby Eaton Square. Although he did indeed visit his company’s offices in the City, he rarely remained there for any length of time, and he spent the majority of his days within his club in Pall Mall.

  “I knew that my knowledge of London had not become so shabby that I could not recognise Harden’s assertion that his club was near Gower Street as anything other than a lie! There is no such establishment, I assure you, Watson. Quite often, he would divert his journey to Gower Street via the Garrick Theatre, where his vehicle would await the arrival of a vivacious young actress who goes under the name of-”

  “Sophie Sinclair!” I declared triumphantly. For once I had truly stopped Sherlock Holmes in his tracks. He sat there dumbstruck before turning towards me, smiling proudly.

  “How could you possibly have known that?” he asked incredulously.

  I explained to Holmes the outcome of my visit with the ticket clerk and the reasons for my subsequent visit to the ale house.

  “Well, well, well, it would seem that our two diverse journeys have culminated in the same location, having reached the same conclusions,” Holmes stated, just as we had turned the corner into Baker Street. “Well done, King!” Holmes called up to the driver as we pulled up outside 221b.

  As we let ourselves in, I asked, “I still do not see how you also ended up in that same ghastly place, moreover in that astounding disguise.”

  “I discovered that on those days when Harden forsook the pleasures of the theatre, he and Miss Sinclair would use that dubious establishment as their point of rendezvous. Obviously I could not visit that place in my own person, for fear of detection. Harden would have recognised me in a thrice.”

  “Of course, but are you any closer to discovering the source of Harden’s persecution?” I asked as we reached the top landing.

  “I will only be able to determine that once I have discovered the true nature of Harden’s relationship with Sophie Sinclair. That information I expect to receive from Harden himself when he returns here tomorrow. After all, by then he will have had all night during which to cool his heels. Good night, old fellow”

  I was grateful for an early night
and I made way up a further flight of steps to my room with a slow determination.

  To my surprise, Holmes was still in his room when I came downstairs the following morning. Although he was prone to keeping the most bohemian of hours at times, he was normally highly energised when active upon a case, and I had expected to see him at his first cup of coffee. I took advantage of his absence by having the first read of the morning papers. The lead headline of the Times sent me scurrying towards Holmes’s room in a state of great agitation!

  When he did not respond to my hammering upon his door, I took the unprecedented step of entering without invitation and I began to shake him by the shoulder. This was a treatment that I had received at Holmes’s hand, on many similar occasions down the years. However, now that the roles were being reversed, I did so with much trepidation, as I could not be sure of his reaction. I decided to present him with the headline as soon as his eyes were focussed, in the certain knowledge that its contents would deflect any anger that he might otherwise have felt.

  Holmes was clearly shaken to the core by the awful news and he was out of his bed and at his toilet in an instant.

  Tobacco Baron Has Fatal Fall

  While Holmes completed his preparations, I looked back over this dramatic headline and studied the scant details of the death of John Vincent Harden, which were printed below. According to the initial reports, Harden was seen being backed up towards the edge of the platform at West Hampstead Station by the aggressive behaviour of two women, who were clearly much disturbed. One of these women seemed to push him in the chest and as a consequence, Harden fell headlong on to the track in front of an oncoming train. His death had been gruesome and instantaneous!

  At such an early stage of the inquiry, neither of the women had been identified as yet, and the younger of the two had disappeared prior to the arrival of the authorities. Our old friend, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, was in charge of the investigation, and he had held the older woman for questioning.

  Holmes was ready in a thrice, and, while our cab was speeding towards West Hampstead, I read out the brief report. Holmes sat silently and thoughtfully for a moment or two before peering at me with remorse set deep within his troubled eyes.

  “Oh, Watson, I fear that I am guilty of having seriously misjudged the gravity of the next stage of Harden’s persecution,” he said quietly.

  “Or perhaps Harden’s death was a direct result of nothing more than misadventure?” I suggested in the hope of alleviating my friend’s dark regret.

  Holmes slowly nodded his head with a weak but hopeful smile.

  We smoked in silence for the remainder of the journey, and we were met at the station entrance by the sight of the brazen and weasel-like features of our old friend, Inspector Lestrade, who appeared to be in a most animated disposition.

  “Well, well, Mr. Holmes, I had not expected to see you here today and that is for sure. I suppose that you already have some knowledge of the matter, which you have absolutely no intention of withholding from me?” Lestrade sarcastically suggested.

  “I have become acquainted with certain facts that may help to clarify this tragic situation, and I will gladly share with you any data that might prove to be relevant. Firstly, however, we must learn what we may from the trackside, if the area has not been too heavily trafficked in the meantime.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that there is very little to show you there. The decimated and grisly remains of Mr. Harden have long since been removed and his wife, whom I strongly suspect to be his murderer, is safely within my custody for further questioning,” Lestrade responded, with understandable apprehension. All too often in the past, the enthusiastic Inspector had believed himself to be upon the right path to solving a case, only to find that my friend was already one step ahead of him.

  “Nevertheless, I would like to judge that for myself, with your kind permission.” Holmes’s smile was anything but engaging, and Lestrade waved him towards the site of the tragedy with an air of resignation. Before he began his examination of the area indicated, Holmes gave me his permission to explain every aspect of our involvement to the bewildered detective.

  While I was making my report, I noticed Holmes hurl himself down upon his stomach, on an area of the platform that appeared to be dangerously close to the track. He pulled out his glass and examined the spot where Harden had evidently lost his balance, for it was marked with a small white cross of chalk. He then wriggled away from the edge of the platform, no doubt tracing Harden’s progress in reverse.

  Holmes stood up sharply and dusted himself down thoroughly before asking Lestrade to briefly explain the facts that had led him to his conclusions. Lestrade was only too happy to oblige.

  As it transpired, he was able to add very little to the brief accounts that we had seen in the morning papers. Lestrade had obtained three eye witness accounts that seemed to verify his suspicions, including that of my old friend the ticket clerk. They all confirmed that two women began to berate the hapless Harden in unison, and he edged away from them in a state of some alarm. The older of the two women seemed to reach out towards him, and it was at that moment that Harden stumbled in front of the train, resulting in those ghastly consequences.

  “Although the younger of the women made away long before we could reach the scene, Mrs. Harden was evidently too shaken and stunned by the results of her actions to do likewise, and she awaited our arrival in the ticket office, as if resigned to her fate. Naturally, it did not take me long to put two and two together, and Mrs. Harden seemed to confess to her crime while she was being led away by my constables.” Lestrade crossed his arms smugly and his knowing smile indicated that he now believed Holmes’s intervention to be redundant.

  “She seemed to confess to her crimes, Inspector? That is certainly an unusual turn of phrase. Is it not just as likely that her state of mind prevented her from putting any cohesive thoughts together?” Holmes suggested.

  “That is mere speculation on your part, Mr. Holmes, but even were it to be true, that still would not negate the testimony of those witnesses.” Lestrade seemed to be determined to stand his ground on this occasion.

  “Ah, but I am sure that you would not be adverse to me demonstrating an alternative explanation, were it to lead us to the truth. Eye witnesses can only account for what they believe that they have seen.

  “We all want to arrive at the truth, Mr. Holmes, but I can assure you of the witnesses’ reliability.”

  Holmes chose to ignore Lestrade’s last remark, and instead he strode over to the unsheltered section of the platform where the sleet was still hitting the ground. He shuffled his feet around in the puddles until he seemed satisfied that his heels and soles were thoroughly dampened, and then returned to where Lestrade and I were awaiting his return. We were both amused and perplexed by Holmes’s inexplicable actions, and when he began to slowly count out a few steps while moving backwards, we were no less confused.

  Finally when he pulled up at a safe distance from the edge of the platform, he beckoned me over to him.

  “Now, push me in the chest, Watson, but please make allowance for the strength of an elderly lady.”

  Naturally I carried out Holmes’s bidding, and then looked on helplessly as he stumbled back slightly and then he took to the floor again with his glass. When he appeared to be satisfied with his examination, he invited Lestrade and me to join him.

  “Obviously this first line of muddied prints belonged to Mr. Harden and they were formed while he backed away from his persecutors. As you can see, they are spaced out equally, but more significantly, they continue right up to the very edge of the platform. My prints, on the other hand, although following a parallel line to those of Harden, suddenly break off at the point when Watson pushed me in the chest. See how that slight but sudden movement caused my shoes to create skid marks both here and here.

  “
You know, it never ceases to amaze me, Inspector, how skeptical and confused you appear to be at some of my more unpredictable actions. Have I not assured you, on numerous occasions, that there is a perfectly sound and logical reason behind everything that I do?”

  “That is all very well, Mr. Holmes, but I am still not convinced that your very fine demonstration devalues the testimony that I have already taken,” Lestrade protested, but without any real conviction.

  “In that case, perhaps you might be persuaded, were I to produce an alternative witness who might be willing to confirm my findings?”

  “I am not aware of any outstanding witness. To whom might you be referring?”

  “Why I am referring to none other than Sophie Sinclair, who happens to be the second lady to have harangued Harden on the platform. I am certain that a local celebrity such as she will not be too difficult to locate in such a small community.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Holmes, I am afraid that you have missed the mark this time. She was seen bolting from the station at the very moment of Harden’s fatal fall. She will be long gone by now!”

  “Indulge me for ten minutes, Inspector, and I shall produce her for you.”

  Holmes was as good as his word, and before long we three found ourselves outside the front door to a small suite of rooms above the local hardware shop.

  The door was opened by an absolutely charming young woman who greeted us with a resigned and philosophical smile. She was tall and slim, and her long dark hair was curled luxuriantly. She did not pause to ask us for either our identities or our reasons for coming to her door, but moved inside and invited us into her small but artistic sitting room. Lestrade and I produced our note books and pencils, while Holmes paced around upon the extremely limited floor space. Miss. Sinclair allowed us no chance to speak.

  “Gentlemen, I know precisely why you are here and at the outset. Please allow me to ask you not to prejudge me.”

  “That is not our intention, Miss Sinclair; we merely wish to discover the truth,” I replied gently.