The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (22 page)

“So there is nothing you can do to help the colonel,” I said bitterly.

“The admiral and I rapidly reached an arrangement,” Holmes said, “when I explained what I had done with you and Lestrade. With Scotland Yard about to close in on the headquarters of the Amateur Mendicant Society, there was nothing he could do but agree with me that the Amateurs must be exposed. The publicity surrounding them will camouflage the activities of the real Secret Mendicant Society and allow Pendleton-Smythe the luxury of living out the rest of his days in peace. He, for one, never for an instant suspected the Secret Mendicant Society actually existed. That is his salvation.”

“But what of the new Amateur Mendicant Society? Surely they did not agree to surrender so blithely!”

“Indeed, they offered no objection, since with the exception of our client, they are all dead.” Holmes paused a second. “After I left Harley Street, I proceeded at once to the warehouse. There I found the proper building, knocked twice sharply, and pushed my way inside when the door opened a crack by a man dressed as a beggar.

“ ‘Here now – ’ he began. He pulled out a knife and pointed it at me. In earlier days he might have hurt or even killed me, but his reflexes had dulled with age. I caught his wrist, bent it back until he gave a moan of pain, and the knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

“ ‘We have no time for that,’ I told him. ‘The police have been summoned. You have ten minutes to gather your organization’s papers and vacate the building, or you will be captured and implicated in murder.’

“ ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, rubbing his arm.

“ ‘A friend. Now hurry!’

“He hesitated, looking to the two other men in the room: both were elderly, and both were dressed as gentlemen. They had been going over papers spread out on a table halfway across the room.

“ ‘This must be Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ one of them said.

“ ‘True,’ I said. ‘You now have nine minutes.’

“Without another word, he began to gather up papers and stuff them into a case. His assistant did likewise.

“ ‘Where are Attenborough’s files?’ I demanded.

“ ‘In the back room,’ he said. ‘They were useless to us. Most deal with murder and blackmail.’

“ ‘Do you object to the police obtaining them?’

“ ‘No. You may do with them as you see fit.’

“ ‘Thank you for the warning. It might have been embarrassing to be found here.’

“When they had gone, I checked the back room and found Attenborough’s files. They seemed a complete record of his blackmail schemes. I also found Attenborough’s body, tucked away behind a filing cabinet. He had clearly been dead for some months.

“ ‘I arranged the body to look as though an accident had occurred – a bookcase had fallen on him – then came out just as you and Lestrade arrived. To the untrained eyes of Lestrade and his men, it will look as though Attenborough suffered an unfortunate accident.’ ”

“ ‘What of Attenborough’s files?’ I asked. ‘Surely they will ruin what remains of Colonel Pendleton-Smythe’s reputation.’

“ ‘That will be handled by the foreign office. Lestrade will uncover the records of the Amateur Mendicant Society, which reveal their wrongdoings in excruciating detail. Their specialty was blackmail and extortion, as we had surmised. The records will be doctored to include, I dare say, the full catalog of murders by Dr Attenborough, as he desperately tried to maintain control of a crumbling criminal empire. The newspapers will, I am certain, find much scandalous material in it – and the colonel will have little choice but to deny his participation and suppress that part of his memoirs, should he still choose to write them. All the Foreign Service wants, at this point, is to maintain the Secret Mendicant Society’s anonymity while contributing whatever small gains it can to the war effort.”

“It would seem, then,” I said, “that everything has sorted itself out remarkably well. You’re fortunate they didn’t try to kill you,” I commented.

“I believe the admiral considered it. However, I do make my own small contributions to the Foreign Office, as you well know. You might say we have friends in common.”

“Your brother for one,” I said.

“Just so,” he said.

“Then we have reached a successful resolution to the case – after a fashion.”

“After a fashion,” Holmes agreed with a half smile. “After a fashion.”

The Adventure of the Silver Buckle

Denis O. Smith

Holmes continued to throw himself into his cases as 1887 progressed and they did not become any easier. There was the loss of the British barque the
Sophy Anderson.
I have the details of this case but they are not in a sufficient state yet to present to the reader, though they again indicate the intensity of Holmes’s involvement. Soon after this he was involved in the case of the Davenoke family of Shoreswood Hall, a long-unknown case which was identified by the renowned Holmesian scholar Denis Smith, who also rescued the following story. After the Shoreswood Hall case, Holmes investigated the death of Mrs Stewart of Lauder. Although he resolved the murder to his own satisfaction he was not able to find the conclusive evidence needed to convict Sebastian Moran, whom Holmes was convinced was behind the plot. This frustration caused both Holmes’s spirit and energy to flag and Watson again became concerned for his health. It was at this stage that the case of the Grice Petersons on the island of Uffa, referred to in “The Five Orange Pips” occurred. Its facts have been unearthed by Denis Smith, who has produced other stories based on his research which I list at the end of this book.

It was in the late summer of ‘87 that the health of my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, gave further cause for concern. The unremitting hard work to which he invariably subjected himself allowed little time for recuperation from the everyday infirmities which are the lot of mankind, and from which even Holmes’s iron constitution was not immune. So long as he remained fit, all was well, but earlier in the year he had reached a point of complete exhaustion from which he had not properly recovered. Eventually it became clear to all who knew him that unless he were removed from Baker Street, and from the constant calls upon his time which were inescapable while he remained there, he might never again fully recover his health and strength.

By chance, I had at the time been reading Boswell’s account of his journey with Dr Johnson through the Highlands of Scotland to the Herbrides, and had been fascinated by the remoteness of the places they had visited. Thus inspired, I ventured to suggest to my friend that we emulate the illustrious eighteenth-century men of letters. Holmes’s only response was a laconic remark that our travels should be confined to dry land. Taking this to be the nearest to enthusiasm or agreement that I was likely to get, I went ahead at once with the necessary preparations, and, four days later, the sleeping car express from Euston deposited us early in the morning upon the wind-swept platform of Inverness station. From there, after some delay, a local train took us yet further northward and westward, until we reached a small halt, standing in lonely isolation in a silent and treeless glen, where a carriage waited to take us on the last stage of our journey.

It was a strange country we passed through that afternoon, a land of reed-girt lochs, and hard, bare rocks, which thrust through the thin soil like clenched fists. For many weary hours, our road twisted this way and that between these obstacles, until at length it dropped abruptly down a steep-sided valley, beside a sparkling waterfall, and brought us at last to the west coast, and the village of Kilbuie, nestling beneath towering hills on the northern shore of Loch Echil. There was a cheery, welcoming air about the little whitewashed cottages which clustered about the harbour, and the solid, granite-built Loch Echil Hotel, but I saw as we stepped down from our carriage that Holmes’s face was pale and drawn, and it was clear that the journey had shaken him badly. It troubled me greatly to see so vital a man reduced to this state, and dearly I hoped that the fine invigorating country air would act quickly to restore his shattered health.

The Loch Echil Hotel was a pleasant, well-appointed establishment, sturdily built to withstand all that a Highland winter might hurl at it, and our rooms were cosy and comfortable. I had soon unpacked, and then, leaving Holmes resting in his room, I took a stroll to familiarize myself with our new surroundings. The weather was fine, and Loch Echil lay like a looking-glass between the hills. It was nearly a mile across at this point, but narrowed considerably to the east, where it extended for perhaps a further half-mile inland. To the west, just beyond the last building of the town, it widened out into a broad bay, where the water was broken by a great many little islands and rocks. I had brought my old field-glasses with me, and spent a pleasant hour on a bench by the water’s edge, watching the fishing smacks out in the bay, where the shags and cormorants clustered upon the rocks, and the gulls circled high overhead.

The islands were largely featureless, low and bare, like an oddly stationary school of hump-backed whales, but on one, which was somewhat larger than the others, there appeared to be a dark, gaunt tower, rising high above the waves and rocks about it. Intrigued by this, I mentioned it to Murdoch MacLeod, the manager of the hotel, who was in the entrance-hall when I returned.

“That is the Island of Uffa,” said he, “the home of Mr MacGlevin, or the MacGlevin, as he prefers to be known.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that anyone lives out there?” I said in surprise.

He nodded his head. “He’s restored the old ruined castle on the island, and has part of it for a museum of antiquities, which is open to the public, and well worth a visit. Most of your fellow-guests in the hotel went over there yesterday. He has some very interesting and valuable pieces, including the famous MacGlevin Buckle, a very fine piece of Celtic workmanship, in solid silver. His one concern in life has been to establish a permanent home for his clan, but he’s certainly picked a remote spot for it! He has a fine house in Edinburgh, but it’s let for most of the year, as he prefers to hide up here. Apart from an old couple, kinsfolk of his, who help him to keep the place in order, he lives in splendid isolation, laird of all he surveys – such as it is!”

“He sounds something of an eccentric!”

“Aye, you could say that,” MacLeod returned in a dry tone. “You may see him about, for he comes over occasionally in his little steam-launch,
Alba
, to pick up supplies. He’s a great huge fellow with a ginger beard. If you meet him, you’ll not mistake him!”

I could not have imagined then just how dramatic that meeting would be.

On the first floor of the hotel, immediately over the entrance, was a broad, airy drawing-room, illuminated by a row of tall windows, which commanded a magnificent view over the harbour, the loch, and the wilder sea out to the west. When the weather was poor, and Holmes did not feel up to venturing out of doors, we would often sit by these windows as the cloud-bank rolled down the steep hills across the loch, watching the little sailing-boats, their sails puffed out by the westerly wind, making their way up the huge expanse of water towards the harbour. Often, also, I watched anglers out on the loch in the hotel’s distinctive little rowing-boats, and thought how pleasant it would be to be out there myself; but although I alluded to the idea once or twice, Holmes showed little inclination for such an excursion.

Our fellow-guests in the hotel were a singularly assorted group. There was, for instance, Doctor Oliphant, a balding, white-whiskered, elderly man, of a stooping, learned appearance. His voice was thin and reedy, which made him difficult to understand, but I gathered that he was something of an antiquary and archaeologist, from St Andrews, in Fife. Two sandy-haired young men I had judged to be brothers, so similar was their appearance, and this surmise proved correct when they introduced themselves as Angus and Fergus Johnstone, up from Paisley for the fishing. A soberly dressed and very reserved middle-aged couple, Mr and Mrs Hamish Morton, were from Glasgow, as was a very old woman, Mrs Baird Duthie, who wore widow’s weeds, walked with a stick, and was almost stone deaf. It seemed unlikely that there would be much of common interest in such a group, but when the conversation of the talkative Johnstone brothers turned to angling, the quiet and withdrawn Mr Morton displayed an interest, and a discussion ensued between them on the merits of various kinds of fishing-tackle. Mrs Morton, not surprisingly, did not share in full measure her husband’s interest in this subject, and I had the impression that she tolerated rather than approved of it. She herself, she informed me, had hoped to do some painting and sketching during their stay in Kilbuie, although the weather so far had limited her opportunities. This observation prompted Doctor Oliphant to some remark about mankind’s perennial urge to artistic creation, whereupon he, she and I engaged in a lively debate on the subject. Holmes took little part in this or any other discussion, but sat back in his chair, his eye-lids languorously half-closed. I had ceased to follow the conversation at the other side of the room, between the rival fishermen, when Mrs Morton had begun to speak of her own interests, but I watched with some amusement as each of them in turn brought in his fishing equipment, unpacked it all upon the carpet, and argued its merits in the most serious tones.

I had, I confess, no great knowledge of the subject, but it seemed to me that they each spoke with the authority of an expert. Odd it was, then, that the very next day, all met with calamity whilst engaged in their sport. The Johnstone brothers returned shamefacedly to the hotel about tea-time. Angus Johnstone’s rod had broken, and their fishing-lines had become entangled, and in the resulting confusion, Fergus had fallen overboard, and Angus had lost his reel in the water. Mr Morton’s accident had been potentially the more serious, although, in the event, he too returned to the hotel chastened but unharmed. He had been out alone, fishing among the islands in the bay, his wife having remained behind to do some drawing by the harbour, when his boat had sprung a leak. Unable to stem the inrushing water, and with nothing with which to bale out, he had rowed with all speed for the shore, but his boat had disappeared beneath him before he had reached it, and he had had to swim the remaining distance. Murdoch MacLeod was most distressed at this account, and rung his hands in his misery.