Текст книги "A Farewell to Baker Street"

Автор книги: Mark Mower

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A FAREWELL TO BAKER STREET

A Collection of Previously Unknown Cases from the Extraordinary Career of Mr Sherlock Holmes

Mark Mower

Publisher Information

Published in the UK by MX Publishing

335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,

London, N11 3GX

www.mxpublishing.co.uk

Digital edition converted and distributed in 2015 by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

© Copyright 2015 Mark Mower

The right of Mark Mower to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.

Cover design by www.staunch.com

Preface

It is with a very sad heart, yet enormous pride, that I pen these few words in introducing this collection of previously unknown cases from the extraordinary career of Mr Sherlock Holmes. In reality, it would be more appropriate to refer to the ‘...extraordinary careers of Mr Sherlock Holmes and his ever-loyal partner, John H Watson, MD.’ as I am firmly of the view that had it not been for the lasting friendship and assiduous note taking, file keeping and penmanship of my late uncle, the consulting detective’s fame would have been considerably diminished with the passing of years.

That is not to say that I have anything other than the greatest admiration and respect for Sherlock Holmes. Had it not been for his intervention, the course of my life would have been very different and considerably poorer to be sure. I will say no more of the matter at this stage, for the full details of the case are set out in the narrative which Dr Watson has entitled An Affair of the Heart and which forms the first of the tales in this new volume.

My real point is that Watson’s role, in many of the conundrums and investigations we have come to know and relish as the enduring performance of a genius, is all too easily overlooked or played down with Holmes taking centre stage. And yet, the good doctor was no mere support act or bit-part player. He was the light to Holmes’ darkness and the candle to his flame. The great detective did indeed shine, but it was Watson that provided much of the illumination and kept him firmly in the spotlight.

John Hamish Watson passed away in the early hours of Monday, 6th February 1939, at the age of eighty-six. He is sadly missed by us all. His health had declined rapidly in the two weeks prior to his death, so much so, that when he sent word to me that the bowel cancer he had been diagnosed with some months before had finally placed a firm and irremediable grip on his frail body, I knew that the end was near and raced to be at his bedside. Not once did he complain and not once did he question why it should be at that moment that his own extraordinary life should come to such an end.

My uncle had let it be known a decade earlier that on his death he wished me to be the executor of his will and guardian of all of his personal and pecuniary affairs. One of the tasks he had sanctioned very deliberately was that I should use my discretion in selecting for publication some of the three dozen or so cases where he had assisted Holmes, which had not already seen the light of day for one reason or another. One of these was The Trimingham Escapade, which was the last case the pair enjoyed together and one which only reached a point of some conclusion last year. I am delighted to present it in this collection.

The other tales I have chosen for this volume demonstrate more of the critical interplay between the two men which made their partnership so memorable and endearing. The Curious Matter of the Missing Pearmain is a murder story to rank alongside the best of the tales being produced by our current crop of ‘Golden Age’ crime writers, what some authors of American detective fiction might term a locked-room mystery. The Case of the Cuneiform Suicide Note is a tale in which Dr Watson uses his expert knowledge to help solve a mystery, while A Study in Verse has the pair assisting the Birmingham City Police in a complicated case of robbery which leads them towards a new and dangerous adversary. All are very fine tales.

I am not sure whether the release of any more of these previously unknown cases would be in the public interest. I will determine that in due course, having considered the critical response to this first volume. Either way, I hope I have contributed in some small part to the lasting memory of two extraordinary men.

Christopher Henry Watson, MD

Bexley Heath, Kent – 15th February 1939

1. An Affair of the Heart

In my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I only ever knew him to be an honourable and loyal friend, who could be relied upon to act with the utmost tact and discretion on any matters of a personal nature. So it was that when I found myself embroiled in a distinctly delicate family matter in the autumn of 1886, it was to Holmes that I naturally deferred.

We were sitting in the congenial surroundings of Brown’s Hotel in Albemarle Street having just met with the establishment’s proprietor in his newly refurbished lounge bar. Holmes had been engaged to tackle a potentially damaging case of jewellery theft from one of the more expensive suites in the hotel, occupied at that time by a crown prince from Eastern Europe. I had high hopes that this would turn out to be a colourful and absorbing episode, which might showcase my friend’s remarkable talents. In reality, what I had envisaged somewhat prematurely as The Curious Case of the Ukrainian Emerald was solved by Holmes in less than half an hour, leading to the very public arrest by Scotland Yard of both the crown prince and his criminally-complicit manservant. It was clearly not the outcome that the hotel owner had anticipated and, having paid Holmes very discreetly for his services, the red-faced manager left us to finish what remained of our strong Turkish coffee and Panamanian cigars.

Holmes turned towards me with a telling grin. “Not one for your journal then, Watson? I fear that a simple case of insurance fraud is unlikely to excite the interests of your expectant readers. Still, while we have a quiet moment, it might be a good time for you to share with me the concerns you have about your nephew Christopher’s impending marriage to Mrs Virginia Aston-Cowper.”

His offhand comment caught me completely by surprise. “Holmes, I had no idea that you had spoken recently to young Christopher. I do indeed have some reservations about the match, but cannot see how my nephew knows of these – it is a good six months since we last had any sort of conversation. In any case, it was only four days ago that I received the wedding invitation, which, I have to say, came very much out of the blue.”

“My dear friend, I have had no such conversation with Christopher. In fact, if you remember, I have only met him but the once, on the infamous occasion that he called upon us at Baker Street, claiming to have lost his wallet and being without the train fare to enable him to get back to his student digs in Oxford.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied, remembering how embarrassing the incident had been. “Not the first time his excessive gambling has got him into trouble. But how, then, do you know about his recent news and my thoughts on the matter? Please tell me this isn’t some elaborate parlour trick on your part.”

Holmes laughed heartily. “From a lesser man, I might have taken that as an insult, Watson. There is no trickery I can assure you. As you said, the wedding invitation arrived four days ago. It was the only letter addressed to you from the pile that Mrs Hudson brought up to me that day. I cast a glance at the envelope and then placed it in your post rack.”

“I trust you didn’t return to the letter and open it without my knowledge?”

“Of course not – the envelope told me all that I needed to know. The letter was postmarked ‘Oxford’ and the address was written in that small, spidery hand which I have come to recognise as that of your nephew. While you may not see or speak to him often, I have observed that Christopher’s letters have been arriving more frequently of late, no doubt linked to his gambling debts, but expressed to you in his polite requests for small amounts of money to support his continuing medical studies at the university. That this particular letter was not one of those regular communiqués was apparent from the oddly-sized envelope, which enclosed a card of some sort. Coupled with the clearly displayed ‘RSVP’ on the back, it was not hard to discern that this was a wedding invitation. And on reading through the announcements in The Times that same day, I couldn’t fail to see the notice regarding the forthcoming marriage of ‘Mr Christopher Henry Watson of Trinity College, Oxford, to Mrs Virginia Belvedere Aston-Cowper of Bexley Heath, Kent’.”

“Very neat, Holmes, but how did you know that I had failed to greet the news with any great relish? It is true, that I have tried to support my nephew through all of the troubles he has encountered since the death of my alcoholic brother. I have a great affection for the boy, especially since he has chosen to devote himself to a course of study which mirrors my own. But this latest caper is indeed troubling. And yet, I cannot recollect saying anything to you about the matter.”

“Precisely so, and the very fact which prompted me to take note. It is not every day that one receives an invitation to a family wedding and yet you chose not to mention it. Of late, you have been less garrulous than normal and given to periods of intense introspection. The invitation also required a prompt response – something you would attend to ordinarily by return of post. Thus far, you have seen fit to leave the invitation inside the envelope, which this morning still sat within the letter rack. Lethargy is not a characteristic you are prone to, Watson, so I can only conclude that you have chosen to delay your response, being troubled once again by the imprudence of your nephew.”

His pinpoint accuracy in targeting such a raw nerve left me deflated. “I was unaware that my innermost thoughts were so easily exposed,” said I. “What do you make of the situation?”

He lent across to the low coffee table in front of us and stubbed out what remained of his cigar. “As you know, I am not given to any moral panics or ethical dilemmas when it comes to affairs of the heart. I do not profess to know what drives a man to declare his undying love for another and be content to live out his existence in the shadow of a better half. In this case, I take it that your main concern is the fact that Mrs Aston-Cowper is both a widow and a woman some years older than Christopher?”

“Eighteen years older, to be precise!” My anger had surfaced finally and I could no longer hide my frustrations of late: “Christopher is a rash, happy-go-lucky, sort of fellow. But his heart has always been in the right place. A more devoted, loving individual it would be hard to find – exactly as my brother had been, before he descended into poverty and took to the bottle. What I fear, is that his mounting debts and overriding material desires are clouding his judgement. Mrs Aston-Cowper is a wealthy woman, who is no doubt flattered by the attentions of a younger man. As such, they both have something to gain from the union. And yet, I fear it will be a marriage of simple convenience that one or both parties will live to regret.”

“Watson, you have the upper hand on me. I feel disinclined to venture any opinion on Christopher’s romantic inclinations and cannot claim to know his wider motivations. But what of the lady herself – what more do you know of her?”

“Alas, very little. I made some discreet enquiries at one of my dining clubs. A steward there knows of her, and furnished me with a few particulars. She is the widow of Sir Ashley Aston-Cowper, the eminent anatomist, famed for carrying out some pioneering arterial surgery on one of the Queen’s continental cousins. When he passed away in February of last year, he left his wife a fashionable and expensive home in Bexley and a tidy annual income to match. Inexplicably, she has, since that time, ceased to use the honorific title of ‘Lady Aston-Cowper’.”

“Yes, indeed. But there is something more. I cannot recollect all of the details, but seem to remember that she was embroiled in some sort of scandal involving the younger son of the Duke of Buckland.”

“Well, that is news to me!” I spluttered. “And what was the nature of this impropriety?”

“Given the delicacy of the situation, Watson, I am loath to tell you anything that is not completely accurate. I suggest we retrace our steps back to Baker Street, where I can consult my files and tell you all of the pertinent facts surrounding the Cheddington Park Scandal.

***

The two-mile walk back to Baker Street lifted my mood considerably and I felt reassured that I had, at last, confided in Holmes. But at the back of my mind, I was now anxious that the matters he had referred to might exacerbate my woes about the marriage.

On entering 221B, we were greeted immediately by an agitated Mrs Hudson. “I’m so sorry, Mr Holmes, but the lady insisted on waiting for your return. I have just taken her a cup of tea, but she seems very emotional and has already sat upstairs for the best part of an hour.”

“Understood, Mrs Hudson, then we will delay her no longer,” Holmes replied, removing his overcoat and hat and nodding for me to do the same. “But do please tell us – who is our resolute, yet excitable guest?”

Mrs Hudson’s reply came as a surprise to us both. “Her calling card says ‘Aston-Cowper’...‘Mrs Virginia Belvedere Aston-Cowper’.”

We climbed the seventeen steps to the upstairs room and entered the study. Mrs Aston-Cowper stood promptly to greet us, dropping her small handbag on to the chair she had been sitting in. It was clear that she had been crying and she still held within her delicate, gloved left hand a small handkerchief which I gathered she had been using to dry her tears.

The lady appeared to be considerably younger than I had expected. While I knew her to be just over forty years of age, I could not in all honesty say that she looked a day over thirty. She was slender in build and around five feet, ten inches tall. Beneath her heavy black shawl, she wore a long, exquisitely tailored dress of green silk, which accentuated her slim figure. Her bright, delicate face was framed with a mass of dark curls, on which sat a velvet bonnet festooned with a colourful assembly of flowers. As I approached her, I was transfixed by her intense blue eyes.

Holmes greeted her warmly. “Mrs Aston-Cowper! I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She raised her right hand towards him and he shook it gently. “I am Sherlock Holmes, as you may have guessed, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson, the man you have really come to see. Please, be seated.”

Her face took on a look of gentle surprise and she smiled pleasantly as I too shook the hand that was extended towards me. She then sat back down and proceeded to remove her shawl, black gloves and the green velvet bonnet, revealing the full extent of her brunette locks. “I suppose I should have guessed that a celebrated consulting detective would have little trouble in discerning the primary reason for my visit,” she said, in a confident tone.

We both took seats facing her and I could not resist the opportunity to make an immediate observation: “Mrs Aston-Cowper, no doubt you wish to talk to me about your forthcoming marriage to my nephew Christopher? I imagine that he asked you to come here, knowing that if he had come himself, I would have expressed my displeasure at his hasty matrimonial plans. You may view me as overly-protective and unreasonably paternalistic towards him, but I think I should point out that Christopher is, in many respects, the closest thing I have to a son of my own. I have no reason to question your affections for him, but fear that he may be marrying you for his own selfish reasons.”

Her response was both earnest and considered. “Dr Watson, I thank you for your honesty and directness, as I much prefer a man who says what is on his mind. Christopher knows nothing of my visit today. He holds you in high regard and has told me much about your loyalty and steadfast support for him and his studies. I have taken on the task of arranging all of the preparations for the wedding in order that Christopher may concentrate on the final batch of his university examinations. Of all the invitations I had sent out, yours was the only one which had not prompted any sort of reply. I am told that you are a proactive man, with a military disposition to get things done, so could envisage only two reasons for this. Either, you had not received the letter, or, having taken delivery of it, you had decided that you did not wish to attend the ceremony. My visit today was designed, in part, to clarify if the latter was the case and I recognise now that it was. I know how hurt Christopher will be if you are absent on the day, so I implore you to reconsider, for both our sakes.”

I could not fail to be moved by her appeal and apologised for having not replied to the invitation. At that same time, I resisted the temptation to glance at Holmes, and wondered what he must be making of all this. I then found myself agreeing to attend the wedding, which elicited a most radiant smile from our guest.

“I am so happy to hear you say that, sir! And please, rest assured, I have the measure of Christopher and his wayward habits. Since we first met two months ago at a charitable event in Oxford, we have been the closest of kindred spirits and have both determined that there should be no secrets between us. I have been candid in telling him about my first marriage to Sir Ashley Aston-Cowper and some of the incidents in my life of which I am less than proud. He, likewise, has been open in sharing with me his addiction to gambling and his dishonesty in approaching many of his family and friends for funds to support his compulsion...”

Holmes shuffled in his chair and stifled a chortle with the pretence of a cough.

“...I am convinced now that he has put all of that behind him and is genuinely determined to complete his studies and take up a position he has been offered at Guy’s Hospital.”

I could but marvel at the turnaround in my nephew’s fortunes if what I had heard was true. Having now met his intended and listened to her passionate defence of him, I hoped that this was indeed the case. I turned to the question of his career prospects – “And you say he has been approached by Guy’s?”

“Yes, well, approached may not be an accurate interpretation. I will be honest in sharing with you that it was I that secured the offer. My late husband was very well regarded in his surgical role at Guy’s and I have maintained close friendships with some of his former colleagues. It was not difficult to put in a good word for Christopher, knowing that he has both the skills and determination to succeed in his career.”

This time it was Holmes who spoke. “It seems you have taken an extraordinary risk in placing your faith and love in a young man you have known for such a short time and who has yet to establish himself in society. You are a woman with both status and wealth. Are you not concerned that others may judge your betrothal to be reckless?”

“I have ceased to worry about what others may think. Call it an affectation of age, but I have reached a point in life where I choose to do those things which feel right, rather than those which are deemed by others to be the most rational or sensible course. Knowing something of your professional approach, Mr Holmes, I imagine that may be anathema to you.”

My admiration for this woman was growing steadily and I could understand now why my nephew had become so infatuated with her. Undoubtedly, she had the measure of most of the men she encountered.

Holmes ignored her passing remark and changed tack, as only he could. “Mrs Aston-Cowper, it seems you have resolved the matter of Watson’s attendance at your wedding. Perhaps now you will turn to the other pressing issue which has brought you here today. If I am not mistaken, you are seeking my help on the delicate matter of the Cheddington Park Scandal.

The lady was quite taken aback. She looked to me fleetingly, possibly seeking some sort of explanation or reassurance, but then turned her gaze back to Holmes, her penetrating blue eyes fixed on his. “That is most remarkable. How could you possibly know that?”

“Aligning a few facts and observations into a feasible hypothesis is the very essence of my craft – the science of deduction. Your earlier comments suggested that beyond the immediate matter of the wedding, you had a further, secondary reason for travelling across to Baker Street. This was clearly an issue of some importance, for you were prepared to wait over an hour for our return. And yet, you had not thought to send a telegram or to alert us in any other way to your impending visit. That this is also a very personal matter is evident from your emotional state. Putting both facts together suggests to me that something has happened very recently which has made this a more immediate concern, which you feel unable to deal with on your own. Perhaps there was also a degree of opportunism in coming here, knowing that your visit to Dr Watson might also provide you with access to his colleague, the detective. I am also aware that last year you were embroiled in some delicate matters at your Cheddington Park home, which may now have ramifications for the planned wedding. All in all, it seemed most likely that that would be the topic on which you would wish to consult me.”

She continued to look at him in astonishment. “I declare that I am rarely shocked by much these days, Mr Holmes, but that has certainly caught me by surprise. I hope you will be able to assist me, but fear that I may be clutching at straws, as this is a most delicate and intractable problem. I would, of course, be pleased to reward you handsomely for any help you can provide...”

Holmes looked troubled by the reference to money and was quick to interject. “My dear lady, you need not concern yourself with the latter. I ask only that you acquaint me with the relevant facts of the case, so I may determine if there is any way that I can assist. Without the data, I can do nothing.”

Mrs Aston-Cowper appeared to take this as a positive signal and offered up another of her beguiling smiles. “I will, then, begin at the very start and tell you all that I can. I am not sure how much will be relevant, but will let you decide the matters of substance. You will then understand why it is such a personal and immediate concern.”

I took the opportunity to ask a quick question: “You have indicated that this is a very personal matter. Would you prefer it, if I were to leave at this point?”

“Certainly not, Doctor. I know that you work in close collaboration with Mr Holmes and can be trusted to be discreet. You have thus far been very open and honest with me. It is fitting that I should extend you the same courtesy.”

I smiled and nodded. Holmes brought his fingertips together and raised them to his chin. He then planted his elbows on the arms of his chair and closed his eyes. Mrs Aston-Cowper then began her narrative.

***

“My story begins in the summer of 1863, when I was just nineteen years old. My parents, Henry and Vivienne Melrose, felt strongly that all four of their female progeny should experience as much of life as was possible before marrying well and settling down to a quiet life of domesticity. Central to this enlightened ethos was the belief that travel would broaden our horizons and enrich our conversation. I had no great desire to travel, but faced with the gentle encouragement of my mother and the generous financial backing of my father, found myself that year in the colourful city of Paris. All of the arrangements had been made for me to stay for a period of six weeks, to see all that the metropolis had to offer and to make good use of the conversational French I had been learning for about a year. Travelling with me was Mrs Rose Sutherland, a seventy-year-old chaperone chosen by my mother, who had earlier accompanied my three older siblings to their favoured destinations in other parts of Europe.

“From the outset, the carefully formulated plans of my sojourn began to unravel, when dear Mrs Sutherland contracted a debilitating stomach complaint on the sea crossing to France and then spent the first week of the trip confined to her bed within the Hôtel de Crillon. I was content to amuse myself in and around the hotel while she recuperated, each day gaining the confidence to walk a little further from my base, seeking out whatever cultural diversions I could find. Of course, I told Mrs Sutherland nothing of these little excursions.

“On my third day, I visited the impressive gothic cathedral of Notre-Dame, and while walking close to the River Seine chanced upon a group of English artists painting an exterior view of the building. The party had travelled across to France together – a mixed group of male and female painters of all ages who seemed to revel in the relaxed bohemian atmosphere that Paris afforded them. My eye was drawn, in particular, to a watercolour by one of the older men, Gerald Stanhope, who told me that he was a student of the Royal Academy. Imagining that the picture would make a perfect gift for my parents, I asked him politely if it was for sale. He smiled and said that while he could not possibly take any money from me, he would be prepared to let me have the painting if I agreed to sit for him the next day.

“You will no doubt think me naïve, gentlemen, when I say that the proposition – put to me as it was on that fine, sunny day, along a beautiful stretch of river and among a group of talented artists – did not at the time strike me as odd or offensive. I agreed to meet up with the very charming Stanhope the next day, in the Pigalle garret he had rented for the duration of his stay. The following afternoon, I found my way to the garret and climbed the stairs to what was a small, but luxurious attic complex with access to a rooftop terrace overlooking the city’s fine skyline. Stanhope had been true to his word and already had the watercolour wrapped for me to take away. That left the small matter of the sitting.

“Looking around the garret, I could see that he had been extremely industrious in his work; the walls, floor, tables and sofas of the apartment were covered in sketches, watercolours and canvases of all sizes. I could also see various bits of equipment which Stanhope informed me he had acquired for his developing interest in amateur photography. But the two small canvasses which really caught my attention were those hanging in pride of place on the wall of the main room. Both were of young women no older than myself, and each had been captured reclining and naked. I felt myself flush in embarrassment as I realised that this was what the artist now had in mind for me. With the bargain struck, I was immature enough to believe that I had no alternative but to go through with the sitting.

“I should say at this stage, that Stanhope acted without any hint of impropriety, busying himself with the easel and canvas and selecting his oil paints, as I began to remove my clothes. I thought only of the classical tradition of creative muses and the many women before me who had bared themselves in the name of art. It all felt very wrong, but I convinced myself mentally that it would all soon be over and no lasting harm would result. The artist then directed me to recline on the chaise longue he had prepared and which I recognised from the two paintings on the wall.

“Little by way of conversation passed between us, as he seemed to prefer to work without interruption and with an intensity of concentration that I had rarely seen in a fellow human being. The one concession I did extract from him was that in naming the finished painting, he was not to make any specific reference to the identity of the artist’s model. This he agreed to happily, pointing out that he had already done that with his two earlier models. In any case, throughout the short time that I had known him, I had only ever referred to myself as ‘Virginia’.

“Time passed very slowly in that cramped garret and within a couple of hours I announced that I would have to get dressed and make my way back to the hotel, as my elderly chaperone would, without doubt, be wondering where I was. As ever, Stanhope was friendly and obliging, but indicated that he was far from finished and would have to carry on the following day, expecting clearly that I would make a return visit. Realising this to be the case, my emotions got the better of me and the tears welled up within my eyes. He could see my obvious distress and suggested an alternative, which in the awkwardness of the moment seemed to be preferable. He would set up his camera and take a single photograph of me, from which he could then work at his leisure without any further imposition on me.

“That then was that. When I arrived back at the hotel, I found that Mrs Sutherland had barely missed me. I vowed never to tell a soul about the incident and believed that no one could possibly know what I had done. I realised, of course, that in my haste to get away from that claustrophobic apartment, I had not even paused to look at how Stanhope had portrayed me. Had I done so, I may not have been so confident that this was the end of the matter.