Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch (11 page)

“The egg meant nothing. It was something else.” She studied her hands for a moment, and then continued. “Archaeology is not my field, but I have a brother Cecil who has pursued it as an amateur. Seven years ago this month, I joined him in excavating a portion of this very barrow where Dr. Addleton was working. We found no fossil eggs or anything else of interest, and Cecil moved on to another site further north. However, I have an idea that might bring the killer into the open. I plan to announce to Junius Carlyle and the others in our dinner group that, as a tribute to Dr. Addleton, I intend to continue his excavating at the Salisbury barrow.”

“If your theory is correct, it could be dangerous,” Holmes told her.

“That is why I have come to you,” she replied. “I do not want my head bashed in, like Dr. Addleton. I need some degree of protection and I lack any evidence to give the police.”

“Interesting,” Holmes remarked, drawing on his pipe. “When do you propose to undertake this adventure?”

“We are dining tomorrow evening to pay our respects to Dr. Addleton’s memory. That would seem to be the perfect time to announce my plan. If weather permits, I will be at the barrow this weekend while we are enjoying these long daylight hours. I hope my brother Cecil will be able to join me.”

“Watson and I will arrange to be in the neighborhood,” he assured her. “You will be perfectly safe.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

When we were alone, Holmes once more consulted his commonplace books. “She said they excavated at that barrow seven years ago this month. That would have been June of ’87. It was a fairly quiet time for us, Watson. All the news seemed to be about Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee that month, and the gifts she received from various countries.”

“What do you propose to do, Holmes?”

“We will travel to the Salisbury Plain on Saturday morning and see if anyone else joins us there.”

Saturday proved to be a sunny day with mild temperatures and we made the train trip to Wiltshire without incident; engaging a carriage to take us to the Salisbury Plain. The barrow in question was some distance removed from the Stonehenge monument, which we could see off to the south.

“No one seems to be here yet,” I remarked, as we studied the landscape from atop a nearby rise. But we did not have to wait long for some activity. Within a half-hour, a carriage pulled up on the road below us, and I recognized Emma Lakeside, wearing pants and a man’s shirt, accompanied by a bearded man who carried a knapsack.

“That must be her brother. They have a shovel and some other tools.”

But Holmes was hardly watching, keeping an eye on the surrounding area. Off in the distance, I could see some cows grazing and, now and then, a carriage or wagon would pass on the road.

“Holmes…”

“Quiet, Watson. Do you have your revolver handy? We must be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

“I see nothing but the two of them digging. What is it we’re waiting for?”

He did not answer at once, and some ten minutes passed in silence. Then, suddenly, he gripped my arm. “There, Watson! Quickly!”

I saw them in the same instant. Junius Carlyle and his valet had appeared, coming over the barrow from the other side. Kananda carried a heavy walking stick that could have been a weapon.

My hand went to the revolver, but Holmes dissuaded me. “Not yet, Watson. Follow me.”

We reached them just as Emma’s brother had risen to fend off the valet’s attack. Carlyle was startled by our sudden appearance and grabbed Kananda’s arm to restrain him.

“What brings you here, Holmes?” he asked.

It was Emma Lakeside who answered. “I asked for his protection. I expected you’d try to stop me the way you stopped Dr. Addleton.”

“I had nothing to do with Addleton’s murder,” Carlyle insisted. “I came here to prevent you from looting this site of any Druidic treasures the man might have uncovered before he died.”

But Holmes paid little attention to Carlyle’s words. At that moment, he seemed much more interested in Cecil Lakeside’s knapsack, which was noticeably heavier than when they arrived.

“What have we here?” he asked, yanking the sack from Cecil’s hands.

“Don’t…” the man almost shouted, but it was too late. Holmes let the knapsack fall away, revealing a smaller bundle, wrapped in heavy cloth and tied with twine. He brushed the dirt from it, and when Cecil made a lunge to grab it, I drew my revolver.

And then Holmes had it unwrapped for all to see. It was a small golden statue of a striding tiger, dotted with diamonds.

“I’ll venture a guess there are fifty of them,” Holmes said, indicating the gems, “and I expect Queen Victoria will be pleased to receive this, even though it is seven years late for her Golden Jubilee.”

Later, after we had turned Cecil and Emma Lakeside over to the authorities, Emma agreed to make a statement. Holmes and I were present as Lestrade questioned her.

“The jeweled tiger was one of several jubilee gifts from India, in honor of Victoria’s Golden Jubilee seven years ago,” she began. “My brother was working at the docks then, and would occasionally steal a small parcel off a ship from some distant port. Cecil had no idea what he was stealing that day and, when he opened it, he came to me at once for help. We imagined there would be a huge uproar over the theft of such a valuable object, but both the press and the government were silent. Apparently, it had been decided to say nothing, in hopes that the jeweled tiger would reappear when the thief attempted to sell it. Of course, I told Cecil at once that he could do no such thing. I argued for its return while he convinced me it would be safer to hide it away for a lengthy period.”

“And you chose to bury it at the Salisbury barrow,” Holmes said.

She nodded. “Cecil was something of an amateur archaeologist and I knew that barrow held no great interest to the profession. It seemed a safe enough place to bury his treasure until we could agree on what to do with it. Then, out of the blue, after all these years, Dr. Addleton announced at our dinner that he was excavating at the barrow and, in fact, had uncovered a fossilized serpent’s egg. When I told Cecil, he was frantic. If the gold tiger was uncovered, it could be traced back to us, because we’d obtained permission from Mr. Chubb to dig on his property during the month of the Queen’s Jubilee.”

“Which of you killed Dr. Addleton?” Lestrade asked.

She hesitated, and then said, “That was Cecil. He went to his flat to threaten him but, after his experience with Carlyle’s valet, Addleton would accept no more threats. They tussled and Cecil hit him with a bookend. When he realized Addleton was dead, he set fire to the body with some kerosene from a lamp. I knew somehow we had to get back to the barrow and retrieve the statue before someone else found it, so I announced we’d continue Addleton’s digging as a tribute to him. I made certain Carlyle knew our plans and then came to you for protection. I assumed correctly that Carlyle and his valet would appear at the barrow and, in the commotion, Cecil would be able to hide our treasure in his knapsack.”

She turned to Holmes. “May I ask how you knew it was there?”

“It was elementary, Miss Lakeside. When you asked for my protection, you remarked that you did not want your head bashed in, like Dr. Addleton, but the police had not yet released the cause of death. The fact that you and your brother had dug previously at the barrow raised the possibility that your purpose might have been to bury something, rather than dig it up. Since your dig was the very month of the Queen’s Jubilee, I naturally wondered if there might be some connection. As it transpired, there was indeed a connection.”

The matter of the gold tiger was never brought out at the trial that followed but, some weeks later, Holmes received a brief handwritten note from Queen Victoria, thanking him for the part he played in recovering the stolen gift. He gave the note a position of honor in his commonplace book.

I
T WAS A FROSTY
Monday evening in January, and I was staring out our Baker Street window at the falling rain that threatened to change to wet snow at any moment.

“A terrible night, Holmes,” I said with a shudder. “I would hate to be that poor soul I see walking in it.”

“Come warm yourself by the fire, Watson,” my friend urged.

“I do believe the chap is turning in here! Are you expecting a visitor at this time of night?”

Holmes put down his pipe and brushed some loose tobacco from his dressing gown. “Obviously not, but if he is coming here, we must appear respectable. Pick up those copies of the Times, will you, Watson?”

I had barely done as he instructed when we heard Mrs. Hudson’s familiar tread upon the stairs and a knock came at the door. “A gentleman caller to see Mr. Holmes,” she announced, barely hiding her displeasure at the lateness of the hour.

“Send him up, by all means,” Holmes said. “Certainly anyone who would brave this rain deserves a hearing.”

Our visitor arrived moments later, having shed his coat and hat in the downstairs hall. He was a tall, slender man with sideburns and he offered a card upon which I read the name Darrell Z. Foster, Esq.

“Which of you is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

“I am that gentleman,” Holmes replied. “You find me in my dressing gown due to the lateness of the hour.”

“And I apologize for that, sir,” our visitor said. “When you hear my story, you will understand the necessity for such urgency.”

“Take a seat here by the fire,” Holmes told him. “This is Dr. Watson, my trusted companion. You may be completely open with him.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Seated now beside Holmes, I could see that he was a relatively young man. The bottoms of his pants were still wet from the rain and he stood near the fire to dry them before seating himself.

“I note that you have come here directly from the Rose and Crown in the next block,” my friend remarked.

“What?” The young man was taken aback by the words. “How could you know that?”

“There is a scent of beer on your breath, and the Rose and Crown is the only pub within walking distance. Surely on such a night you would have taken a hansom if you were coming from a greater distance.”

“You are correct, of course,” Darrell Foster admitted. “I needed a bit of courage before coming here for your help.”

“And how may we provide that?”

“Have you ever heard of the Domino Club?” he asked.

I saw a frown cross my friend’s face. “There have been rumors of such a place, with an unsavory reputation. I understand it some sort of gambling club.”

“Exactly,” our visitor confirmed. “It is over in Soho, in a rough neighborhood, though it attracts some of the wealthiest men in London. I learned of it through my position as a barrister’s assistant. It is especially popular, since the club’s clients are masked. They wear dominos, loose hoods with a mask for the upper part of the face. Barristers, judges, bankers, government clerks, even members of the royal family are said to go there and gamble in complete anonymity. The stakes are high and fortunes are sometimes won or lost on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel. When I expressed interest in visiting the establishment, my employer arranged it, purchasing entrance passes for myself and a friend.”

Holmes waved that aside. “If you wish me to somehow expunge your gambling debts, you have come to the wrong place. I do not deal with such matters.”

“I fear it is worse than a gambling debt, Mr. Holmes. I did a foolish thing. I allowed a young woman of my acquaintance, Miss Sarah Rutherford, to accompany me to the Domino Club, dressed in men’s clothing. Wearing the hood and mask, no one could see she was a woman, and she thought it would be great sport to observe these men of fame and wealth at their leisure.”

“She is obviously a foolhardy person,” Holmes remarked with some distaste.

“She is indeed. Using an admittance card she received on her first visit, she has returned to the Domino Club without me. I fear she is in danger if her masquerade is discovered.”

“Why would she return there alone?” I asked.

“She achieved some small winnings on our first visit, and has gone back for more. She told me once that her father was a compulsive gambler, and I fear the same fate for her.”

Holmes stirred himself from his chair. “Is she there tonight?”

“No, they are shuttered on Monday. But I fear she will return again tomorrow. I have tried to reason with her, to no avail.”

“If you cannot dissuade her, I know of nothing that Watson and I can do. Could you not report the premises to the police if such gambling is illegal?”

“My employer says that high police officials are among the regular visitors there. But perhaps you could come with me tomorrow and help dissuade her from the foolhardy course she is following.”

“How would we gain entrance without masks?” Holmes asked.

“My employer has given me more admission slips. I could supply you with a hood and mask, and Dr. Watson, too, if he cares to accompany us. I feel sure I will recognize her and we can lure her away from that place.”

I was surprised when Holmes seemed to agree to the offer. He had often helped women in distress, but it seemed to me that Sarah Rutherford had chosen her own path to destruction. However, young Foster agreed to return to our lodgings the following evening with the necessary hoods and masks. When he had gone, I asked Holmes if he was serious about donning a mask to visit this Soho gambling club.

“Certainly, Watson, and you should come, too. It is sometimes necessary that we investigate the underside of London life. As for wearing a mask, that is nothing. You may remember a client once, a representative of a foreign government, who came to us masked.”

I did indeed remember, and I hoped this venture would prove as successful.

The rain had stopped by morning, and there was even a hint of the sun in the city’s wintry sky. Holmes spent much of the day checking his newspaper files for some unstated purpose. By evening, he seemed satisfied with what he had found, though he said no more about it. Shortly after dinner, Foster returned, carrying a box that he soon opened to reveal hoods and masks for the three of us. All were black, and the loose-fitting hoods were more like cowls such as monks might wear. The mask itself covered only the upper part of the face. “We can don these in the carriage,” he explained. “It stops right at the door of the club.”