The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (19 page)

“Something about a note found in the missus's cabinet,” the cook told me in his guttural drawl. “Something about a rented room, and a Mr. Cutter or Cutler or some-such, and a great deal of money.”

Apparently the Inspector had found a scrap of paper in Mrs. Glennon's vanity, a rough note in a hand unlike that of her or her husband. The note supplied an address, an assurance that “the job” would be done “beyond the most expert scrutiny”, and reiterated an agreed-upon sum. What the transaction entailed lay beyond the Inspector's knowledge, but his interest was piqued. Mrs. Glennon swore that she'd never seen the note before.

Collins, accompanied by the Glennons and my father, were conveyed to the address mentioned in the note. There was no answer at the door, and the landlady was sent for. She confessed she'd let a suite to a Mr. Cutler, who had insisted on having a separate entrance. She had only met this man twice, and was unaware of his goings or companions. Collins mentioned his police credentials, and the landlady permitted them entrance into Cutler's quarters.

Collins, no doubt believing himself a keen bloodhound, took in the contents and state of the room and deduced the story in full. My father identified various trinkets as belonging to my departed mother - ivory handbrushes, minor bits of jewelry, along with a pawnbrokers' ticket for several other familiar items. Collins inferred them as payment; unobtrusive items which could easily be stored, say in one's skirt or bags.

Among the various paintings and supplies were a series of preliminary sketches of a scandalous nature, featuring the rough outline of a woman of advancing years. Glennon looked at these, then removed himself from the room. His wife stood mute, her face drawn and bloodless, no doubt assembling some cunning justification.

Near the window Collins identified my father's prized book, and next to it, a painstakingly accurate facsimile of several of the pages, one only half-complete. Inks, leathers, dyes, magnifying glass - materials were on hand, enough to produce several ersatz tomes. Collins also turned up a wax copy of a skeleton key, which my father identified as a match to the display case's original lock.

Mrs. Glennon began to enumerate her own beliefs regarding the scene, but she was hushed quite violently by the good inspector. Collins had them open the door to the adjoining room. Himself being speechless, he wished this state imposed on the others until he processed what he saw.

It was a bedroom, in filthy state, with men's and women's hygienics arranged on the drawing board near the mattresses. Amongst the disarray Collins noted a not insignificant quantity of laudanum, along with several political tracts and a few novels of a lurid nature.

Collins assembled these facts into a story of lust and avarice befitting the reading materials of the flat's inhabitants. It was clear Cutler had attempted to procure the volume from Mrs. Glennon, and that the pair obviously shared much more than a passing acquaintance. Not only had she cast a key to help remove the volume, she had filched enough of the bereaved family's own keepsakes to capitalize this venture. Worst of all, though, she had incriminated her student and charge - then dealt the punishment to the child herself!

Returning to our house, and ignoring Mrs. Glennon's protestations, Collins and my father once again interrogated me. When I attempted to say that Mrs. Glennon was a good woman, my father said he'd have no more lies from me.

I said I'd never seen her commit any wickedness. In the hours I was under her tutelage, I would see her come and go at admittedly odd intervals, but assured them her actions seemed benevolent. On the contrary, her brief separations seemed to reinvigorate her, and she returned to our studies with an improved demeanor, if less than full concentration and sobriety.

I told them, if I'd withheld this information from them, it was only because Mrs. Glennon had so insisted on pain of further lashings.

Inspector Collins had his constables roust Cutler from a local tavern and account for himself. He protested innocence, even agreeing to furnish samples of his handwriting. These would be identified as a match to the note found in the Glennons' living quarters.

Mr. Glennon admitted several of the products found in the flat were similar to those used by his wife. The pawnbroker produced a brooch belonging to my mother, an anniversary gift. The broker said a man roughly matching Cutler's description had pawned the bauble, well below its value, but the broker admitted he had trouble differentiating the specific facial features of gentiles.

Cutler accepted his sentence to hard labor, no doubt grateful he wasn't born a few years earlier, when forgery was a hanging offense. Mrs. Glennon was remanded to a women's' institute. While the scandal-mongerers presented them as desperate lovers, and Mrs. Glennon especially as a modern-day Black-Eyed Sue or Sweet Poll, to my knowledge they never exchanged so much as salutations.

I happily finished out my studies with the self-determination I so craved. What joy to set the chart and rudder of one's own voyage! Such freedom is priceless, desperately priceless, and all too rare.

When I began lecturing at the university several years later, I received a letter from Mrs. Glennon informing me that she'd been released. She'd found work in a hotel kitchen, and cheap lodging in a boarding-house in Southwark. She wrote that since the divorce, she'd entertained few visitors in her admittedly-shabby accommodations. Nevertheless, if I could tear myself away from my lectures for a fraction of an afternoon, I'd find myself welcome to join her for tea.

I've since made a rule never to consort with a known criminal, and never, for any reason, in that person's private quarters. Youthful arrogance! I sent her a reply indicating my pleasure to call on her.

The former Mrs. Glennon had aged severely, thinned out and grown sickly. We sat on a pair of carefully repaired cushionless chairs. Mrs. Glennon's unsteady hands poured out black tea from a battered service. No keepsakes of her prior life adorned her small apartment. Her quarters had the charm of a Dickensian orphan, and I informed her of such. She accepted the compliment graciously.

“I think you'll find,” she said, “I've quite reformed. I practice nothing of the sort of activities I was accused of.”

“A profitable way,” I agreed, “to ensure one's happiness and liberty.”

“Yes, one should confront what one has done, for by making peace with oneself, one makes peace with the world.” I agreed with the sentiment for decorum's sake - who would wish to make peace with the world? Mrs. Glennon asked if I recognized the maxim's author.

“Cicero, I believe.”

She shook her head but did not correct me.

“Coleridge? Swift, then.”

“Margaret Ann Glennon,” she said. “Something I made up just now. I was always quite gifted at coinings.”

“An impressive trick,” I said, “most useful for amusing a husband - beg your pardon.”

“He saw education the same way,” she said. “A parlor game, a diversion. I'm often glad my parents didn't share his sentiment. They valued
qua
knowledge, being devotees of Mrs. Wollstonecraft's inestimable volume. Knowledge is a lonely blessing, isn't it, James?”

I said nothing.

“I will admit, James, your infinite superiority in cunning and cleverness. I needed a year to deduce the authorship of your plot. Who could hold such a grudge against me, and to what end?” Her smile was not ironic. Sensing my hesitation, she added, “We're alone, I assure you, and I'm past the desire for retribution. But I would like to hear your reasons, as well as exactly how you accomplished my ruin.” I indulged her - another weakness I have since attempted to correct.

She'd believed, erroneously, that I'd employed Cutler only to double-cross him. I explained that my accomplices numbered only two, and Cutler had not been among them. Rather, he had been part of the price for my partners' complicity.

“Yarborough,” she exclaimed, speaking to herself as if validating a private theory.

“Indeed. The master felt a certain guilt for his apprentice's crimes, but nothing touching the infernal rage and humiliation of having his own works forged - and bettered, according to one cretinous critic.”

I went on. “Yarborough himself forged the book; he did so twice, or more accurately, one and a half times. The volume first found in your room was a forgery - the best he could do without close scrutiny of the book. Luckily such scrutiny evaded my father as well. It resembled his precious volume enough to assure him of its authenticity.”

“The volume which was returned to the case,” Mrs. Glennon began.

“Stolen and traded with Mr. Yarborough's trusted servant, the forgery placed by your bed - yes, knowing it would be perhaps too spot-on at first, and my father's wrath would be incurred by me. But how much more on
you
, when he realized you'd deceived him, and acted as the instrument for the unfair punishment of his son?”

“A double blind,” she marveled.

“Quite so.” I was enjoying myself. Mrs. Glennon took the opportunity to refill our cups.

“Yarborough's servant helped me funnel several minor items out of the household. I'd drop them from my window to the garden below, or secret them during a walk. While delivering messages, the servant would retrieve them. Doubtless it was he who pawned the brooch, and arranged the room, resembling as he does Mr. Cutler in a very general way.”

“And Cutler's note?”

“Included in Yarborough's correspondence - the old master outdid his pupil at forgery. When the time came, I broke the glass case and slipped the forged book into the garden in much the same way.”

“Then the volume recovered from the apartment was the original?”

I smiled. “It is the one father still treasures in its case to this day. He is satisfied, and the profits of others with similar volumes are beyond his care.”

“And Yarborough?”

“The old man died satisfied, happy to have outlived Cutler by several months. I understand prison weakens one's constitution - perhaps you could confirm this yourself. In any case, prison aged Mr. Cutler quite horribly.”

“As it did me,” she said. “Poor Mr. Cutler. Poor Yarborough, for that matter. A great deal of death.”

I didn't respond.

“You remember, James, I spoke of the lonely blessing of knowledge? It is clear you have it. It would take the mind of Shakespeare to conceive a plot such as yours.”

“Shakespeare nicked most of his plots from the Romans,” I said. But I thanked her for the compliment.

“I apologize to you for my harshness as a governess,” Mrs. Glennon said.

This I didn't expect. Stunned, I muttered my acceptance of her apology.

“I know well the feeling of being stifled, underestimated, underappreciated. All women know this, James, but my own education made me rather more sensitive to the issue. It is an English-man's world; a woman from the Hebrides has little place in it. I felt so fortunate your father chose me as your governess. How forward-thinking he was, to overlook class and race and gender! How I hoped to inculcate in you that same open-mindedness!”

“Mrs. Glennon,” I began, but couldn't quite finish.

“James,” she said, “I'm not long for this world, so permit me to play Cassandra to you - she was a prophetess whose words invariably fell on deaf ears.”

“I know who she was,” I snapped.

“I could have been an ally, James, even better, a friend. But your genius is singular. It brooks no competition, and therefore accepts no one as equal, no one as companion-worthy.”

I shook my head, anger rising.

“You are a great man, young Mr. Moriarty - professor, I should say. A great man, and destined to make enemies of all those most able to understand you. If and when you are confronted with a true equal, rather than companionship, I suspect you'll find only mutual destruction. It's a fall from grace, and one your young self has already taken. I wish I could pity you.”

She prattled on; I took little heed of her MacBethian pronouncements. The passing years bore out my deafness. My wealth, my successes, my empire, stand in testament to the falsehood of her words.

In her way, Mrs. Glennon was a bright creature, perhaps at one time capable of overcoming the natural inferiority of her sex. To Professor James Moriarty, though, she would always be, merely, a woman.

The Adventure of the Sleeping Cardinal
or
The Doctor's Case

by Jeremy Branton Holstein

My name is Watson, Doctor Watson, and it was my privilege to share the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Throughout the many years I lived with Holmes in Baker Street, I came to know both his many gifts and his many faults. Chief among those faults was an intolerance of dull routine, an impatience that was often tested in the interim between clients when no new problems were available to challenge his active mind. It was during one such lull, in the summer of 1899, that my story begins.

It was early morning, and I was supping upon one of Mrs. Hudson's excellent breakfasts. Holmes, however, had declined the meal, and was instead pacing back and forth before the mantelpiece in our sitting room. Finally he threw up his hands and bellowed his frustration at the top of his lungs.

“Bah!” he cried. “This is interminable, Watson! Interminable!”

“What's that, Holmes?” I said, even though I knew the answer.

“This inactivity!” said Holmes. “Has the entire criminal population of London gone on holiday? Give me a case to solve, a problem to unravel! Anything but this endless boredom!”

“Calm down, Holmes,” I said. “Something will turn up soon. Why don't you have some of Mrs. Hudson's breakfast?”

“I don't need food, Watson,” said Holmes. “I need clients! I am a thinking machine, and my mind must be fed problems, lest it wither from languor.”

“Perhaps there's something in the paper for your mind to chew on.” I picked up the morning paper and leafed through the pages. “Ah,” I said. “Here's an interesting item. They've found Henry Tuttle alive and in hiding! He'd faked his death to avoid his creditors.”

“A cowardly act,” said Holmes, “but far from interesting.”

“I seem to recall you did much the same a few years back,” I said.

“For entirely different reasons, Watson,” said Holmes. “You know that.”

I did my best to hide my smile. “If you say so.” I turned another page, and a new article caught my eye “Ah, here's something. Apparently the
Sleeping Cardinal
has been put up for auction.”

“The
Sleeping Cardinal
?” said Holmes. “Now that is interesting. I believe you were involved in the painting's recovery a few years back?”

“I played my part, yes,” I said.

“Yet you've never told me the full story,” said Holmes.

“It's never come up before.”

“Well then, Doctor,” said Holmes, “if the criminals of the present cannot challenge my mind, then perhaps the criminals of the past can. Tell me your tale.”

“Are you, Sherlock Holmes, really asking me to tell you one of my stories? You usually dislike my writing in the
Strand Magazine
.”

Holmes fixed me with the gravest of stares. “It's either your stories or the needle, Watson,” he said. “I leave the decision to you.”

“Very well,” I said, and pushed my breakfast aside. “Where to begin?”

“You are the storyteller, Watson,” said Holmes. “I place myself in your capable hands.”

“I suppose,” I began, “that the best place would be the summer of 1892. It had been over a year since your disappearance, Holmes, and some months before your reappearance in London. During the intervening time, I had left the world of criminal investigation behind, choosing instead to focus upon my medical practice and the health of my beloved wife Mary, God rest her soul.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Pray continue.”

I gathered my thoughts, and began.

It was a beastly hot summer, as I recall, and my list of clients had swelled as a result. I had just finished treating a patient for heat exhaustion over near Covent Garden when I, quite literally, ran into an old friend. I was walking home and so consumed with thoughts of my wife and her health that I didn't even see the gentleman until I had barreled into him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said.

The gentleman, however, did not want to give pardon and began to yell back at me. “Why don't you watch where you're...” he began, but then stopped, his eyes widening in surprise and his mouth spreading into a grin. “Well, if that doesn't beat all,” he said. “Is that you, Doctor Watson?”

My heart burst with joy at the sight of the man. “Why, it's Inspector Lestrade!” I said. “My dear fellow. It's good to see you.”

“What brings you down to Covent Garden?” said Lestrade.

“Oh, I've just finished up with a patient,” I said. “And you?”

“Business, I'm afraid.”

“Ah!” I said. “A case?” I could not help but feel a tingle of the old excitement at the prospect.

“Still investigating crimes, Doctor?” said Lestrade.

“No, of course not. Not since Holmes's death at Reichenbach.”

“Of course.”

“I still follow crime in the paper, though,” I said. “Try to puzzle them out as Holmes would have done.”

Lestrade regarded me with a curious expression. “Actually,” he said, “it's funny running into you like this. This robbery I'm looking into. It's exactly the sort of case your Mr. Holmes would have enjoyed.”

“Really?” I said.

Lestrade considered me for a moment, and then said, “See here, Doctor, this is a bit irregular, but are you busy? I could use a fresh set of eyes on this one.”

I smiled. “For old time's sake?” I said. “Why, Inspector, I'd be honored.”

“Capital,” said Lestrade. “Then follow me, and I'll outline the details of the case en-route.”

“Lead the way,” I said. “I'm your man.”

We set off together down St. Martin's Lane, Lestrade talking as we walked.

“It's like this, Doctor,” he said. “Last night, one Lady Margaret checks into the Hotel Metropole, carrying with her a very expensive painting, called...” Lestrade pulled a notebook from his pocket, and consulted his notes. “...
The
Sleeping Cardinal
,” he finished.

“I'm not familiar with it,” I said.

“Neither was I before now,” said Lestrade, “but they say it's a masterpiece and worth a king's ransom. Lady Margaret had brought the framed painting into town for an exhibition. Not wanting to leave it in her room, she asks the manager...” Lestrade checked his notebook again. “... one Patrick Pardman, if he'd store it in the hotel safe for the night. Mr. Pardman agrees, and locks the painting up in his office before heading home. You follow me so far?”

“Perfectly,” I said.

“Well, Doctor,” said Lestrade. “Imagine Pardman's surprise when he arrives the next morning, goes to open the safe, and finds the painting gone!”

“Stolen!” I said.

“One would think so, but there's no evidence of a break-in at all! The safe is stored in Pardman's office, a small room with no windows and only one entrance in or out, a door just behind the main desk of the hotel.”

“And the desk was manned all night?” I asked.

Lestrade nodded. “They assure me it was. By one...” He checked his notebook again. “... James Ryder, I believe.”

“James Ryder,” I said. “I know that name from somewhere.”

“Do you now?” said Lestrade. “Well, this Ryder claims no one else entered the office between the time Pardman left for the night and when he returned the next morning. So how did the painting disappear?”

“Was the office locked at night?” I asked. “Could someone have slipped in while Ryder wasn't looking? Or perhaps it could have even been Ryder himself?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Mr. Pardman assures me he locks the door when he leaves at night, and only unlocks it first thing in the morning.”

“No sign of tampering, I suppose.”

“None.”

I thought about the problem as we walked. “This is a bit of a stretch,” I said after a time, “but could Pardman himself have taken the painting?”

“Pardman was seen last night leaving the hotel by both Ryder and the porter,” said Lestrade. “He wasn't even carrying a bag, let alone a framed painting.”

“You're right, Lestrade,” I said. “This is exactly the sort of case Holmes would have enjoyed.”

“I thought as much,” said Lestrade, “As you can imagine, Lady Margaret is quite distraught and demanding the hotel cover the value of her painting in currency. If we can't find the culprit and recover the
Sleeping Cardinal
, the hotel will find itself in quite a financial bind! Ah, here we are,” he said, stopping on the street before the Hotel Metropole. “This way, Doctor,” he said.

We entered into an opulent hotel lobby, empty save for a constable guarding three people by the main desk. The woman, who I took to be Lady Margaret, for she was well dressed and ample, stood beside the two gentlemen who could not have looked more different from one another. One, who I soon learned was Patrick Pardman, was a tall, handsome fellow. The other, James Ryder, was short and rat-faced.

Lady Margaret wasted no time in pouncing upon Lestrade. “At last!” she said. “What took you so long?”

Lestrade was ever the professional. “My apologies, Lady Margaret,” he said, impassively. “Yard business.”

Lady Margaret huffed at this. “I don't understand what could possibly be more important than my compensation.”

Lestrade ignored her indignation, and instead introduced me. “This is my colleague, Doctor Watson,” he said. “He'll be assisting me with the investigation. Doctor, this is Lady Margaret, Patrick Pardman and James Ryder.”

We all mumbled, “How do you do?” to each other.

“Excuse me,” said Pardman, “but are you the same Doctor Watson who works with Sherlock Holmes?”

I considered correcting his grammatical tenses, but decided to let it pass. “I am,” I said.

Pardman seized me by my hand and began to shake vigorously. “Bless me!” he said. “It's an honor sir. An honor.”

“You've read my stories?” I asked.

Pardman let my hand go, somewhat sheepishly. “Well, not as such, no,” he said. “But you're quite popular among the hotel guests. They're always chattering on about your friend's exploits. Is he here with you now? It would be a privilege to meet him.”

“I'm afraid not, Mr. Pardman,” I said. “Holmes is...” I paused, searching for the right word. “... away,” I finished.

“If we can get back to the business at hand, please,” said Lestrade, never one to let a sentimental moment remain uninterrupted. He pulled out his notebook yet again, and flipped open to an empty page. “Now, let's review the details for Doctor Watson's benefit. Lady Margaret. You checked in to the hotel last night around seven. Is that correct?

“Correct,” said Lady Margaret.

Lestrade recorded this in his notebook. “And while checking in, you turned the painting over to Mr. Pardman for safe-keeping?”

“Well, of course!” said Lady Margaret. “I couldn't have such a priceless masterpiece of art lying around my room, now could I? You never know who works at these sorts of places.”

“Madame,” began Pardman, with the greatest indignity. “The Metropole is among the top hotels in London...”

Lady Margaret interrupted him. “The top hotels in thievery, you mean.”

“If I can continue?” said Lestrade, waving his notebook about for emphasis. “Now then. Lady Margaret, can you describe the painting in question?”

“Certainly,” said Lady Margaret. “It is a particularly lovely piece of impressionistic artistry by the painter Flemming. With sublime brush strokes, Flemming depicting a priest at rest upon an altar...”

Lestrade cut her off. “Just the size of the painting will do.”

Lady Margaret looked as if she might explode, but she answered with even precision. “Two by three feet, Inspector, mounted in a mahogany frame.”

Lestrade wrote this down in his notebook. “Thank you. Now, Mr. Pardman. You put the painting immediately into your safe, is that correct?”

“Immediately, sir,” said Pardman. “Security is a top priority.”

“And you locked the safe thereafter?” asked Lestrade.

“Of course,” said Pardman. “I even double-checked the lock.” His lip trembled at this, as some of his professional composure broke. “Oh, Inspector, how could this have happened?” he said. “I'll be out of a job!”

“Have some faith in the force, Mr. Pardman,” said Lestrade. “We'll recover the painting, never fear. Now what time did you leave the hotel?”

“Just after eight that night,” said Pardman. “Ryder had come on to work the desk shortly before Lady Margaret checked in, and I retired to my office to finish some paperwork. When I was done, I locked the office and bid Ryder good night.”

“Ryder,” said Lestrade, “can you confirm the time?”

Ryder, who had been very quiet up until now, nodded his head. “Indeed, sir,” he said. “Eight o'clock.”

“And you're absolutely certain,” said Lestrade, “that no one entered the office between eight that evening and when Mr. Pardman arrived for work the next morning?”

“On my honor, sir,” said Ryder. “It was a quiet evening, and I never left my post at the desk.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Ryder,” I asked, “but you look very familiar. Have we met before?”

“I don't believe so, sir,” said Ryder, but he never met my eyes. I could tell he was lying.

Lestrade noticed none of this. “What time did Mr. Pardman return?” he asked.

“Around six this morning, I think,” said Ryder.

“Six on the dot, sir,” said Pardman. “Punctuality is my motto.”

“And it was then you discovered the painting missing?” said Lestrade.

“Well,” said Pardman, “not immediately. It wasn't until Lady Margaret came down and asked to check on her painting that I opened the safe. But when I did, the painting was gone!”