The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

“Yes, indeed I
do know the man,” Holmes said, puffing hard on his pipe. “What hold does Mr.
Litton-Stanley have over you?”

“He has some
letters,” she continued, her face blushing somewhat, “some rather indiscreet
letters of mine that I wrote to a friend of his last year.”

“How did he
obtain these letters, Miss Norton?”

“He must have
stolen them. I don’t know how, but when I was staying at his house a few weeks
ago, he told me that he had them and asked 5,000 pounds for their return!”

“This is
astonishing,” I blurted out, but Holmes gestured for me to remain silent for
the moment.

“And why, Miss
Norton, should he consider your letters, even indiscreet letters, worth so
large a sum?”

“I’m engaged to
be married to Lord Weston’s son. That awful man, Litton-Stanley, knows that if
my fiancée saw the letters, the marriage would never take place.”

“Have you told
your mother?” Holmes asked.

“Oh no, she’d
never understand!”

“Hmm, she might
surprise you on that score, I think,” Holmes said as he rose and moved to gaze
out at the countryside from one of his windows.

“And your
father?”

“Daddy’s a
barrister. He most certainly would not understand.”

“And so you come
to me. Why?”

“Mother has told
me about your abilities and, in any case, I’ve read Dr. Watson’s stories.”

“Watson,” Holmes
chided, “your stories will land me in serious trouble one of these days. Now,
Miss Norton, what exactly do you want of me?”

“Please, get the
letters back for me.”

“But how, my
dear child?”

“Steal them, of
course.”

I sat there,
shocked by the words of this beautiful young lady, astonished by the idea that
she would place Holmes in the category of a common thief.

“Really, my dear
young lady,” I ventured, “how could you think that my friend—”

Holmes cut me
short.

“No, my dear
Watson. Don’t be shocked. Miss Norton is a forthright girl like her mother
before her. It’s most refreshing!”

“Mr. Holmes, you
can’t say you won’t help me.”

“No,” Holmes
spoke up, turning to face the desperate young lady, “I don’t think that I can
say that. In any case, I have a slight personal score to settle with Mr.
Litton-Stanley, myself. He’s rude, and has no understanding of bees.”

“And how are you
going to steal the letters?” I asked, quite dismayed by the entire matter.

“That problem
requires a little thought,” returned Holmes.

“I could tell
you how to do it, Mr. Holmes.”

I turned towards
Miss Norton, again astonished by her words. Holmes smiled, taking all this in
in his inimitable way, then moved to seat himself as before.

“Really now,” he
said laughingly, “this is delightful, my dear. You explain the problem, and
also the way of solving it. How easy a detective’s work might be if all clients
were equally helpful. Tell me, what is your plan?”

“Tomorrow is the
servant’s half day off at Mr. Litton-Stanley’s. He’ll be alone there during the
afternoon.”

“How do you know
that fact?” Holmes asked.

“My maid was ‘keeping
company,’ as they say, with Deevers the butler when I was staying there a few
weeks ago. She found out everything from him. My letters are kept in a filigree
box in his desk.”

“With your
enterprise, my dear,” Holmes interjected, “I’m surprised you didn’t try to open
the desk yourself.”

“I did,” she
returned, “but it’s very sturdy and has a combination lock. However, I’m sure
that you and Dr. Watson can think of some way of getting the letters.
Particularly if Mr. Litton-Stanley is alone in the house.”

“We shall do our
best, Miss Norton,” came Holmes’ reply as he stood and graciously bowed to this
rather astute young lady. He took her hand and led her to the door. I stood and
followed. Miss Norton turned to us at the doorway, an anxious look on her face.

“Promise me one
thing, both of you.”

“What is that?”
I returned in curiosity.

“Don’t read the
letters, will you? I’m . . . I’m really rather ashamed of writing them.”

“Of course we
won’t, my dear child,” I added reassuringly.

“You’re both so
sweet to me. How can I thank you?”

“Thanks would be
a little premature at this point,” Holmes said. “Do forgive me now as I must
take time to give this problem some thought.”

I nodded a
goodbye as Holmes ushered Miss Norton out. He stood in the doorway a moment,
his gaunt frame immovable as he watched the young lady walk lightly up the
garden path. When he returned and we were both seated comfortably, he pulled
out his pipe and lit it.

“Interesting,
Watson. A charming and interesting young lady.”

“It seems a
difficult problem finding a way to rob Mr. Litton-Stanley.”

He laughed,
puffing vigorously on his pipe.

“Heavens no,
Watson. I should say it’s only half a pipe problem. In the meantime, let us
relax and enjoy the evening hours to come.”

“Hmm,” I said, “what
unusual circumstances. Tonight, we relax. And tomorrow, a touch of daylight
robbery!”

II

Holmes, a master
of disguises, had, at various times fooled me by his ingenious use of makeup.
But none of Holmes’ past efforts surprised me as much as what he did the
following morning. I felt quite the fool as I stood there, made up by his deft
hands to look like a country doctor. A Scottish doctor by the name of Hamish,
long beard and all.

“Holmes,” I said
in irritation, “it’s quite one thing to disguise yourself, but to put me
through such machinations is intolerable!”

“Watson,” he
replied, ignoring my remarks, “you look wonderful! Quite the appearance of a
doctor of the old school!”

“But Holmes,” I
pleaded. He placed his hands on my shoulders and spoke in the gentlest of
tones.

“Watson, you do
me the honor to not only be my friend, but to accompany me on this small
adventure. Please bear with this annoying contrivance for but a short while. It
is essential that you be disguised.”

How could I
resist my old friend Holmes? He was right, of course, for we both knew we were
together again, even for a short while, and truly, the game was afoot!

I accepted with
a slight nod and a smile.

“I knew you
would understand, Watson. Now, let us commence with our bit of intrigue!”

It was not long
that Holmes and I stood in front of Mr. Litton-Stanley’s home, an elegant Tudor
mansion with long windows that reached almost to the floor, and surrounded by
much shrubbery. Without hesitation Holmes pounded on the door.

“Remember
Watson, since you are a real doctor, it should be easy to assume the role of a
doctor, even a Scottish one. Wait! Here comes someone!”

In a moment the
door was opened and there stood a tall, formidable man. A man of great strength
with large hands. His face was sharp featured with a high forehead and a great
crop of dark hair, specked with gray. In an instant Holmes fell into the role
of a rather firm, but frail Nonconformist parson.

“Mr.
Litton-Stanley?” he asked.

“That is my name.”

“Mine is Appleby
and this is my friend, Dr. Hamish.”

“Glad to meet
you sir,” I added, “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“What can I do
for you?”

“If we could
come in a moment,” Holmes smiled, “I’ll explain our mission.”

“Very well,” said
Litton-Stanley reluctantly, “come into the study.”

He strode before
us, his huge frame moving clumsily into the study. There he turned and gestured
for us to have a seat. Holmes and I seated ourselves comfortably while the huge
man leaned against a nearby table.

“We are raising
a subscription list,” Holmes began in an awful high-pitched voice, “for a charity
hospital in Paddlewaite, just across the downs. You are a prominent resident
here and we thought you might like to donate a few guineas.”

“I’m really not
very interested. I’ve given as much to charity this year as I can afford.”

“Ahh, it’s a
fine cause, sir,” I added, “I’m giving my medical services three days a week,
and the Reverend Appleby is donating his services, too.”

“Who else has
contributed to this fund?” asked Litton-Stanley, crossing his arms.

“All your
neighbors, sir. We just came from the bee farm over the downs,” said Holmes. “The
owner gave us a check for five guineas!” Litton-Stanley clenched his fists as a
frown crossed his brow.

“Holmes gave you
five guineas, did he?”

“Aye. A very
nice gentleman, Mr. Holmes,” I added. “We’re proposing to name a ward in the
hospital after him.”

“Is this list of
subscribers going to be published in the local papers?”

“Oh yes, Mr.
Litton-Stanley, yes,” Holmes said, smiling his utmost.

“I’ll give you
TEN guineas!”

“Oh, thank you
sir,” Holmes remarked in mock amazement.

“I’ll get my
checkbook.”

Litton-Stanley
sat at his desk, his back to us. As he unlocked his massive roll-top desk and
pulled out his checkbook, Holmes turned to me and whispered in my ear.

“Quick Watson,
the chloroform!”

“Now, who do I
make this check payable to?” Litton-Stanley said as I moved quietly behind him,
my arm poised. Before an answer was forthcoming, I was upon him, having poured
some of the chloroform from a small vial into my handkerchief. He struggled for
a moment, his huge frame rising from the chair, dragging me effortlessly with
him, but Holmes held him steady with his strong hands as the chloroform took
effect. Soon he slumped forward as I placed him back in the chair, leaning him
gently against the desk.

“Very neat,
Watson,” said Holmes, a grin crossing his face.

“Is the filigree
box in the desk?” I asked.

“Yes, as a
matter of fact, here it is, Watson!”

In one gesture,
he had pulled it from the drawer he suspected it might be in and showed it to
me. Then, almost as quickly, he went to its lid and opened it. I found myself
in a rage, prompted by his action and what he had earlier promised Miss Norton.

“Holmes, don’t
open it! You promised you wouldn’t!”

“I just wish to
make sure that—”

Holmes never
finished his sentence, for a voice somewhere in the room interrupted him.

“To make sure of
what was there, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

Holmes and I
were taken by surprise, but before we could turn around and see who it was, he
again spoke.

“Do not turn
around! I have a revolver pointed at you both! Now place the box on the table,
Mr. Holmes. And put your hands up, gentlemen!”

“I know that
voice,” Holmes said calmly, as he placed the box on the table, “it’s Deevers,
the butler.”

“Quite right,
sir.”

“Well Deevers,” I
said furiously, “you needn’t point a revolver at us. Your master isn’t injured.”

“I’m not in the
least interested in my master’s health, Dr. Watson. In fact, if he were dead, I
should be delighted.”

“Then what are
you up to, Deevers?” questioned Holmes.

“I’m taking
advantage of the situation, sir,” he replied quite calmly. “I’ve been trying to
open that desk for weeks. After such kindness on your part, sir, I hate to seem
ungracious, but I’m dreadfully afraid I shall have to kill you. Rather, to kill
the both of you!”

I stood there,
my hands above my head, at a complete loss as to what to do. When I looked at
my friend Sherlock Holmes, I saw no trace of emotion on his face, whereas I
found myself fighting off the anguish of the moment. I felt sure that Holmes
and I would soon be lying dead in Litton-Stanley’s house.

“Deevers,” Holmes
spoke up, “I dislike to interrupt such a melodramatic moment, but why is it
necessary to kill us?”

“For months, Mr.
Holmes, I have been waiting for an opportunity to steal the Kitmanjar Emerald,
and now you have done it for me, sir, and presented me with a perfect alibi.”

“The Kitmanjar
Emerald?” Holmes questioned, a curious look upon his face.

“Come now, Mr.
Holmes, you know the treasure is in this house as well as I do. Apart from the
emerald, there is a superb Cellini that would fetch a fine price in the right
market!”

“We aren’t here
after any valuables, my good man,” I said, deeply annoyed.

“Please do not
call me your good man, Dr. Watson,” Deevers said sharply. “It’s patronizing and
untrue. In any case, whether you were here after the valuables or not makes no
difference. Let us say that I’ve caught you both red-handed! You are completely
in my power, gentlemen!”