The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (19 page)

“Mr Holmes, Sarah has been with me for several years, and I know she would never do such a thing. The policeman thinks me foolish, I am sure, but I know that she is innocent, and I will not see her subjected to any indignities. The poor girl is very upset, and is terrified that she will lose her position, or worse.”

“What, pray, is your husband’s reaction?”

“Cecil does not want to see her prosecuted as a thief, and seems to feel that it will be difficult to prove the case against her conclusively. However, he seems convinced of Sarah’s guilt, and is urging me to dismiss her. This I shall not do until I have proof one way or the other. That is why I have come to you for help.”

I could not help but admire the woman for her compassion, and her staunch defence of her maid. My friend, however, merely shrugged and said, “The police case seems fairly clear. What exactly is it that you would have me do?”

“I would like you to come to the house and see what you can find. It is well known that you can see things which remain hidden to others. I am sure that you will find evidence which the police have overlooked or misconstrued. Please say you will help!”

Holmes thought for a moment, then said quietly, “Yes. I will help.”

Our client gave a sigh of relief, and a smile erased some of the strain from her features. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. Will you come back to Camberwell with me now?”

“No,” said Holmes. Noting her look of surprise and disappointment, he added, “I have a pressing engagement in an hour’s time, but I shall be at your disposal after that. If you will leave your address with us, we shall be out to see you no later than three o’clock.”

After our client had left, Holmes sat musing for some minutes, while I sat quietly, waiting. Much as I wished to know his thoughts, I refrained from interrupting his reverie, knowing his dislike of being disturbed. Finally he sprang from his chair and picked up his hat and stick.

“Off to your appointment?” I asked.

“Yes, Watson, and it is one to which you might be interested in accompanying me. I am off to see Mr Cecil Forrester, of the firm of Williams and Co.”

“I was not aware that you had an appointment with him.”

“Nor was I, until a few minutes ago, when I excused myself from accompanying Mrs Forrester. The truth is, Watson, that I wish to see Mr Forrester before examining the house.”

We hailed a cab, and eventually found ourselves deposited in a small square off Threadneedle Street, in the shadow of the Royal Exchange. The office of Williams and Co. appeared to be prosperous, judging by the hum of activity which greeted us as we entered. Holmes explained to a clerk that we were there to see Mr Forrester on urgent business, and the emphasis placed on the word “urgent” caused the man to hurry off. He returned with the news that Mr Forrester would see us in a moment. Holmes, whose keen eye had been noting down details of the office, commented on the activity.

“We’re no busier than usual,” replied the clerk. “We did have another chap employed for a few months, to help us with some extra business, but we let him go three months ago. Ah, Mr Forrester will see you now.”

We were ushered into his office, and the clerk left, closing the door behind him. Our client’s husband was a man of about five-and forty, although his pale and somewhat haggard face made him seem older. He gazed at us in puzzlement.

“My clerk said you had urgent business with me, gentlemen, but I am afraid I cannot place your faces.”

“Perhaps you can place our names,” said my friend smoothly. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this gentleman is my colleague, Dr Watson. We have been asked by Mrs Forrester to look into the matter of some missing jewellery.”

Forrester’s face went even more pale, and he sat down abruptly. “My wife came to you?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Yes,” said Holmes, “and I informed her that I would call upon her at three o’clock this afternoon. Unless, that is, you would care to explain to me why you have secretly been taking your own possessions.”

Forrester sprang from his chair and stood trembling behind his desk. He began to say something, but no words issued from his mouth. Then he sank back down and buried his face in his hands.

“It is all up,” he said finally. “How much do you know?”

“I know most of what you did. You have been taking your own valuables one by one and either selling them or pawning them. When you had exhausted your own articles you took a ring from your wife’s jewellery case, which brought everything to light. I should imagine that you would have preferred not to involve the police, but there really was no other way, and you must have counted on suspicion falling on a member of staff rather than the respectable head of the household. In this you were not disappointed, and you were prepared to see your wife’s innocent maid accused and dismissed rather than admit your own culpability.”

The man looked up, amazement struggling with the fear on his face. “How do you know this?” he whispered.

“Your wife said that all the missing items save the ring were yours, which was suggestive, as thieves are not usually selective in their choice. Then, too, there was the fact that the thefts occurred over a period of some weeks. If a servant was responsible, is it likely that she would take only one piece at a time, knowing that she could be discovered at any moment? No. Any thief would strike once, take all they could, and vanish. Your wife also mentioned that you had been working very long hours of late, and this change of habit was concurrent with the start of the thefts. It seemed likely that the cause of your late hours was not connected with work, but with something that required money. Am I correct?”

Forrester nodded. Now that the initial shock had passed, he seemed almost relieved, as if glad that his secret had been discovered. When at last he spoke he did so in a stronger voice than he had previously used.

“Yes. You are correct, Mr Holmes. I did take the items, which were pawned as soon as I had them. I took my own items first, as my wife was not as likely to miss them, and I could always invent a plausible story should she enquire. It was desperation which caused me to take the ring. But you are wrong about Sarah. I did not want to see the poor girl turned out with a thief’s name, even though I suggested it. I hoped that the police would find no evidence and would drop the case.”

“What caused this desperation?” I asked when he stopped. Forrester rose and gazed out the window behind him for a moment before replying, “Gambling.”

He turned back to face us, and I was reminded of a prisoner in the dock making a confession. “I have been gambling at the track for some time now. At first it was done casually, but soon it became a mania, and I was caught tight in its grasp. Try as I might I could not break free, and I began to spend more and more time there. Soon I had heavy debts, and my salary was not enough. I continued betting, however, using the money from the pawned items in the gambler’s forlorn hope that one stroke of good fortune would enable me to make good my losses. Soon the money was gone, however, and I needed more. I thought that with the money to be obtained from pawning my wife’s ring I could win enough to pay my debts and redeem the pawned items. I was so desperate that I did not even think of what would happen should she discover its loss, for I could not see beyond my debts. I knew the house would be empty on Wednesday afternoon, so I returned and took the ring. I had no idea that Sarah was not feeling well, and had therefore not gone out. When the policeman indicated that he suspected her I was at first relieved, then appalled at what I had done and what I had become. And now – now I do not know what to do.”

He sat before us, a broken man. I felt a keen sympathy for him, having experienced some of his fascination for the turf. Well I knew what it could do to a man, for I had seen many ensnared by its coils and dragged down. I had escaped, but I knew many who had not. Still, it could be done, and I said so to Forrester.

“Escape?” he said, in a tired voice. “But how? What shall I do?”

“Tell your wife,” said Holmes, who had been sitting quietly.

“My wife? But I cannot. The shame …”

“Is better than the ruin which will certainly come to you if you continue down this path. Come, Sir,” he continued in a softer tone, “your wife is a compassionate woman. She came to us out of concern for her maid, and I am sure that if you are honest with her you shall have nothing to regret. Go to her now and explain everything, then tell Sarah that she has nothing to fear.”

Holmes rose to go, but paused at the door. “I shall send a telegram, but please extend my regrets to your wife for not keeping our appointment. I am sure she will understand. Come, Watson.”

The Adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society

John Gregory Betancourt

1887 was one of Holmes’s busiest years. We know for certain of at least thirteen cases that year, and indications of several others. Watson refers to some of these at the start of “The Five Orange Pips” although, in his usual devious way, the case of “The Five Orange Pips” itself did not happen in that year but in 1889.

The year began with Holmes facing one of his most formidable opponents, the King of Blackmailers, Charles Augustus Milverton. It was followed by the case of “The Paradol Chamber”, which I am still piecing together and hope to bring to you at a future date. After that Holmes was plunged into the major problems of the Netherland-Sumatra Company, which also resulted in the case enticingly referred to as “The Giant Rat of Sumatra”, for which the world is not yet ready, and the daring schemes of Baron Maupertuis. It is of some significance, I believe, that all record of these cases has been extinguished and my researches and those of my colleagues have revealed nothing. I have no doubt that Watson was, in any case, concealing identities here, but I also have no doubt that these were amongst some of Holmes’s most daring and important cases. His exertions upon them damaged his health to the extent that Watson ordered Holmes to join him on a few days vacation in Surrey to recuperate, whereupon Holmes promptly threw himself into the local case of “The Reigate Squires”. The case acted like therapy and within days Holmes was reinvigorated and back in London.

One of the next cases that Holmes took on was “The Adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society” which Watson delayed from writing down for several years. That delay meant that some of his earlier jottings about the case did not end up in his final papers stored in the despatch box and instead surfaced amongst some other papers found by bookdealer Robert Weinberg, whose own researches I shall return to later. Weinberg sold these papers to John Betancourt who has helped piece the case together.

As I have written previously, my first years sharing lodgings with Mr Sherlock Holmes were among the most interesting of my life. Of all his cases – both public and private – which took place during this period, there remains one in particular of which I have hesitated to write until this time. Despite an ingenious resolution – and to my mind a wholeheartedly satisfactory one – contrived by my friend, the bizarre nature of this affair has made me reluctant to place it before a general readership. However, I feel the time has come to lay forth the facts concerning Mr Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and the most unusual organization to which he belonged.

My notebook places our first meeting with Mr Pendleton-Smythe, if meeting it can be called, at Tuesday 24 April, 1887. We had just concluded a rather sensitive investigation (of which I am still not at liberty to write), and Holmes’s great mind had begun to turn inexorably inward. I feared he might once more take up experimentation with opiates to satiate his need for constant mental stimulation.

So it was that I felt great relief when Mrs Hudson announced that a man – a very insistent man who refused to give his name – was at the door to see Mr Holmes.

“Dark overcoat, hat pulled low across his forehead, and carrying a black walking stick?” Holmes asked without looking up from his chair.

“Why, yes!” exclaimed Mrs Hudson. “How ever did you know?”

Holmes made a deprecating gesture. “He has been standing across the street staring up at our windows for more than an hour. Of course I noticed when I went to light my pipe, and I marked him again when I stood to get a book just a moment ago.”

“What else do you know about him?” I asked, lowering my copy of the
Morning Post.

“Merely that he is an army colonel recently retired from service in Africa. He is a man of no small means, although without formal title or estates.”

“His stance,” I mused, “would surely tell you that he a military man, and the wood of his walking stick might well indicate that he has seen service in Africa, as well might his clothes. But how could you deduce his rank when he’s not in uniform?”

“The same way I know his name is Colonel Oliver Pendleton-Smythe,” Holmes said.

I threw down the
Morning Post
with a snort of disgust. “Dash it all, you know the fellow!”

“Not true.” Holmes nodded toward the newspaper. “You should pay more attention to the matters before you.”

I glanced down at the
Morning Post,
which had fallen open to reveal a line drawing of a man in uniform. missing: colonel oliver pendleton-smythe, said the headline. I stared at the picture, then up at Holmes’s face.

“Will you see him, sir?” asked Mrs Hudson.

“Not tonight,” said Holmes. “Tell Colonel Pendleton-Smythe – and do use his full name, although he will doubtlessly bluster and deny it – that I will see him at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. Not one second sooner and not one second later. If he asks, tell him I am concluding another important case and cannot be disturbed.” He returned his gaze to his book.

“Very good, sir,” she said, and shaking her head she closed the door.

The second the latch clicked, Holmes leaped to his feet. Gathering up his coat and hat, he motioned for me to do likewise. “Make haste, Watson,” he said. “We must follow the colonel back to his den!”

“Den?” I demanded. I threw on my own coat and accompanied him down the back stairs at breakneck pace. “What do you mean by ‘den’?”