The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (20 page)

“Please!” Holmes put up one hand for silence and eased open the door. Pendleton-Smythe was striding briskly up Baker Street, swinging his walking stick angrily, as though it were a machete. We both slipped out and Holmes closed the door behind us. Then together we crossed the street and proceeded surreptitiously after the colonel. He seemed to be heading toward the river.

“What is this affair about?” I asked as I hurried after Holmes.

“Mr Pendleton-Smythe, had you bothered to read that article in the
Morning Post,
disappeared two days ago. Foul play was suspected. In the fireplace of his London home police inspectors found several scraps of paper, but little could be made out except one phrase: ‘Amateur Mendicant Society.’ What do you make of it?”

“A mendicant is a beggar, I believe.”

“True!”

“But a whole society of amateur beggars? And for a retired army colonel to be involved in them! It boggles the mind.”

“I suspect,” said Holmes, “that modern views of beggary have colored your thoughts on this matter. Mendicants have been, at various times and in various cultures, both revered and despised. I suspect this is another name for the Secret Mendicant Society, a network of spies which is – or was, at any rate – quite real and much older than you realize. Its roots stretch back to the Roman Empire and as far abroad as Russia, India, and Egypt.”

“You think it still exists, then?” I asked.

“I thought it had died out a generation ago in Europe, but it seems to have surfaced once more. I have heard hints in the last few years, Watson, that lead me to suspect it has become an instrument of evil.”

“And Pendleton-Smythe …”

“Another Professor Moriarty, pulling the strings of this society for his own personal gain? Fortunately, no. He is, I believe, a pawn in a much larger game, although only a few squares on the board are yet visible to me. More than that I cannot say until I have questioned Pendleton-Smythe.”

“What do these ‘amateur mendicants’ do? Are they beggars or not?”

“Quickly!” Holmes said, pulling me behind a stopped Hansom cab. “He’s turning!”

Pendleton-Smythe had stopped before a small rooming house. As we peered out at him, he paused on the steps to look left then right, but did not see us. He entered the building and shut the door behind himself.

“Interesting,” Holmes said. “But it confirms my theory.”

“That he’s a beggar?” I asked, feeling a little annoyed for all the rushing about. “If so, he is surely a well-lodged one.”

“Pendleton-Smythe has gone into hiding out of fear for his life. Why else would a man who owns a house choose to rent a room in such shabby surroundings as these?”

“Are we to question him here, then?” I asked.

He paused, lips pursed, deep in thought. After a minute I cleared my throat.

“No, Watson,” he said, turning back toward Baker Street. “I think that can wait until tomorrow. I have much to do first.”

The next morning Holmes knocked loudly on my door until, bleary eyed, I called, “What is it, Holmes?”

“It’s half past six,” he said. “Mrs Hudson has the kettle on and breakfast will be ready at seven sharp.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I said, sitting up. “Tell me, why have you awakened me so early?”

“We have an appointment!”

“Appointment?” I asked, still cloudy. I rose and opened the door. “Ah. Pendleton-Smythe and his amateur beggars, I assume. But that’s not until nine o’clock sharp – you said so yourself!”

“Exactly!” He had a fevered look to his eye and I knew he’d been up most of the night working on the mysterious colonel’s case – although what the actual nature of the case was, I still hadn’t a clue. Yet Holmes seemed to place singular importance on it.

When I had shaved and dressed, I emerged to find an excellent repast set out for us by Mrs Hudson. Holmes had barely touched his plate. He was rummaging through stacks of old newspapers strewn across the floor and every flat surface of the room.

“Here it is!” he cried.

“What?” I asked, helping myself to tea, toast, and orange marmalade.

“A pattern is emerging,” he said softly. “I believe I have all the pieces now. But how do they fit?”

“Explain it to me,” I said.

He held up one hand. “Precisely what I intend to do, Watson. Your clarity of thought may be what I need right now.” He cleared his throat. “In 1852, Oliver Pendleton-Smythe and six of his schoolmates were expelled from Eton. They were involved in some scandal, the nature of which I have yet to ascertain – official reports tend to be vague on that sort of matter.”

“Rightfully so,” I murmured.

“Young Pendleton-Smythe found himself shipped off to South Africa after six months of knocking about London, and there his career proved unexceptional. When at last he retired and returned to London, taking charge of his family’s house, things seemed to go well for him. He announced his betrothal to Dame Edith Stuart, which you may also remember from the society pages.”

“A step up for an army colonel,” I commented.

“I suspect she may have been involved in the Eton scandal, but that is mere conjecture at this point,” Holmes said. “Yes, to all appearances it is a step up for him. However, two weeks later he broke off the engagement, and the next day – three days ago, in fact – he disappeared.”

“Until he showed up on our doorstep.”

“Just so.”

“Where does this Amateur Beggar Society fit in?” I asked.

“The Secret Mendicant Society, as it is more properly called, was part of a network of spies set up by the Emperor Constantine. The Roman Empire had more than its share of beggars, and Constantine realized they heard and saw more than anyone gave them credit for. Originally, noble-born members of the Society would dress as beggars and go forth to collect news and information, which then made its way back through the network to Constantine himself.

“The next few emperors made little use of Constantine’s beggars, but oddly enough the Society seems to have established itself more strongly rather than collapsing, as one might have expected. It developed its own set of rites and rituals. One faction in India splintered off and became affiliated with the Thuggee, of whom you may be familiar.”

“Indeed,” I said, “I have heard of those devils.”

Holmes nodded. “Sometime in the Middle Ages they seemed to disappear. However, in 1821 a condemned man mentioned them in his last statement. Since then I’ve found two other mentions of the Secret Mendicant Society, the first being a satirical cartoon from
Punch
dated 1832, which refers to them as a rival to the Free Masons as if everyone had heard of them, and the second being the scrap of paper found in Colonel Pendleton-Smythe’s house.”

“So where does the colonel fit in?”

“I was just getting to that,” Holmes said. “Of the six chums expelled from Eton, I have been able to trace the movements of three. All three died in recent weeks under mysterious circumstances. What does this tell you?”

“That the colonel is next on the list to be killed?”

“Precisely, Watson. Or so it would seem.”

“You have reason to believe otherwise?”

“Ha! You see right through me, Watson. It seems distinctly odd to me that this rash of murders should coincide with Pendleton-Smythe’s return from Africa.”

“Indeed, it does seem odd,” I agreed. “But perhaps there are other circumstances at work here. You won’t know that until you speak with the colonel himself.” I looked at my watch. “It’s only half an hour until our appointment.”

“Time,” said Holmes, “for us to be on our way.”

I stared at him in bewildered consternation. “You’ll have Pendleton-Smythe convinced you don’t want to see him if you keep to this course!”

“Rather,” he said, “I am endeavoring to make sure the meeting does take place. Your coat, Watson! We’ll either meet him on the street on his way here – or if, as I suspect, he intends to skip our meeting since he was recognized yesterday, we will meet him at his rooming house!”

I grabbed my coat and hat and followed him once more out to the street.

We did not, of course, meet Pendleton-Smythe in the street; Holmes always did have a knack for second-guessing other people’s actions. When we arrived at the rooming house, we found a stout gray-haired woman whom I took to be the landlady sweeping the steps.

“Excuse me,” Holmes said briskly, “I wish to ask after one of your tenants – a military man with a slight limp, dark coat, dark hat. I have a letter he dropped last night and I wish to return it to him.”

“You’d mean Mr Smith,” she said. “Give it here, I’ll hand it to him when he’s up.” She held out her hand.

“Is he in, then?” Holmes asked.

“Here now, who are you?” she said, regarding us both suspiciously and hefting her broom to bar our way.

I hastened to add, “This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, and we must speak to your Mr Smith. It’s very urgent.”

“Mr Holmes? Why didn’t you say so, gents? ‘Course I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes. Who hasn’t, round these parts? Come in, come in, I’m forgetting my manners.” She lowered the broom and moved toward the front door. “I’m Mrs Nellie Coram, Sir, and I own this establishment. Mr Smith’s room is on the second floor. I’ll just pop up and see if he’ll come down.”

“If you don’t mind,” Holmes said, “I think we’d better come upstairs with you.”

“Oh, is he a slippery one, then?” she said. “I thought he might be, but he paid me a fortnight’s rent in advance, and I can’t afford to be too nosy, business being what it is these days.”

“He is not a criminal,” Holmes said. “He is a client. But it is urgent that I speak with him immediately.”

She laid a finger alongside her nose and gave him a broad wink, but said no more. She led us in at once, up a broad flight of steps to a well-scrubbed second floor hallway. She turned right, went down a narrow passage to a closed door, and there she knocked twice. A gruff whisper came in answer almost immediately: “Who is it?”

“Nellie Coram,” the landlady said. “I have two visitors for you, Mr Smith.”

The door opened a crack, and I saw a single piercing blue eye regard Holmes and me for a second. “Come in,” said the voice, stronger now, and its owner moved back and opened the door for us.

Holmes and I went in. I looked around and saw a small but tidy room: bed, wash-stand, armoire, and a single straight-backed chair by the window. A copy of
The Times
lay open on the bed.

Pendleton-Smythe closed the door before Mrs Coram could join us, and I heard a muffled “Humph” from the other side and the sound of her footsteps as she returned to her tasks downstairs. The colonel himself was a man of medium height and strong build, with iron gray hair, blue eyes, and a small moustache. He wore dark blue trousers, a white pinstripe shirt, and a blue jacket. But it was the service revolver in his hand that most drew my attention. Pendleton-Smythe held it pointed straight at Holmes and me.

“What do you want?” he barked. “Who are you?”

Holmes, who had already taken in the room with a single glance, crossed to the window and parted the drapes. “Rather,” he said, “I should ask what
you
want, Colonel. I am here to keep our appointment. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.”

Holmes turned and stared at Pendleton-Smythe, and after a second the colonel lowered his revolver. His hands were shaking, I saw, and I steadied his arm for a second.

“I am glad to have you here, Mr Holmes,” he said. Nervously he crossed to the bed and sat down, tossing the revolver beside him. He cradled his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath. “Truly, I am at my wit’s end. I don’t know if you can help me, but if any man in England can, it’s you. Your presence here is proof enough of your remarkable abilities.”

Holmes sat in the straight chair, steepled his fingers, crossed his legs, and said, “Begin at Eton, with your involvement in the Amateur Mendicant Society.”

He started violently. “You know about that, too? How is it possible?”

“Then he’s right,” I said, “and the Amateur Mendicant Society
is
involved?”

“Yes–yes, damn them!”

“My methods are my own,” Holmes said. “Please start at the beginning. Leave out no detail, no matter how small. I can assure you of our utmost discretion in this and all matters.”

I sat on the bed beside the colonel. Suddenly he looked like a very tired, very old man. “You’ll feel better,” I told him. “They say confession is good for the soul.”

He took a deep breath, then began.

“Everything started with one of my professors, Dr Jason Attenborough. He taught second-year Latin as well as classical history, and one day after class six of us stayed late to ask about the Secret Mendicant Society, which he had mentioned in passing in that afternoon’s lecture. It was thrilling in its own way, the idea of spies among the ancient Romans, but we found it hard to believe any noble-born person could possibly pass as a beggar. Dr Attenborough said it was not only possible, it had happened for several centuries.

“Later, at a public house, almost as a dare, the six of us agreed to try it ourselves. It seemed like a rum lot of fun, and after a few rounds at the Slaughtered Lamb, we set out to give it a go.

“We went first to a rag merchant – he was closed, but we pounded on his door until he opened for us – and from him we purchased suitable disreputable clothing. Dressing ourselves as we imagined beggars might, we smeared soot on our faces and set out to see what news and pennies we could gather. It was a foolish sort of game, rather stupid really, and the prime foolishness came when we decided to visit Piccadilly Circus to see what sort of reception we got. We were pretty well potted by this time, you see, so anything sounded like fun.

“Suffice it to say, we terrorized several old women into giving us pennies and were promptly arrested for our trouble. The next day, after being ransomed home by disbelieving parents, we were summonsed to the Dean’s office and informed that our activities had disgraced the school. In short, our presence was no longer desired. The news was devastating to us and our families.