The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (31 page)

“Thieving was on his mind that fateful May, but not just for the silver. The moth was his true goal, though he was already dangerous with his need for money. Little Artie may have seen him take down the case; we will never know. He shot him down in cold blood and fled with silver and moth, leaving behind a wreck of the specimens on the wall.

“What with the loss of her closest confidant's son, which Miss Oriana felt responsible for by securing the child's post, and the devastation of her beloved collection, she was not far from the grave. Stapleton must have thought himself safe, for even he had no idea Abraham Quantock was a savvy moth-man, chafing at the believed destruction of the rare moth.

“For this
was
a very rare moth indeed with reverse-patterned wings. This happens less than three times in five thousand specimens - which Stapleton had estimated but had never been able to personally collect.”

“I still can't imagine it.” Sir Henry's expressive face was clouded. “All of this for a little moth.”

“Do you know the root of entomology, Sir Henry? From the Greek
entomos
, ‘that which is cut in pieces.' The entomological world is as complex as the creatures they study. The fanciers of moths alone will guarantee you a fair share of rivalries, destroyed careers, and thefts of far more than specimens.

“Sadly for Mrs. Baldwin, in helping restore the room of her son's murder, she discovered the forgeries within the cases. With Miss Oriana's failing health, she had taken over for her mistress more than anyone could guess. She knew it could have only been the nephew's work. But what could she do? The shock of learning her Abraham was a thief would surely reduce the old lady's life further. In miserable silence, this poor woman kept watch over her friend, but grief is difficult to mask, and Abraham not only learned she had his secret, but that she was very easily bullied into submission. It was the work of a minute to remind her of the slender financial thread upon which their livelihood hung at the Inn. It took only a minute more to force her to swear to silence. And so this sad affair continued through Miss Oriana's decline into death. Unable to bear the strain, Mrs. Baldwin consciously cut her income by moving back to the Inn, and Quantock's greedy soul must have thrilled that she had by choice ran away. She had sworn never to speak, and he firmly believed in the superstition of the peasant against breaking their word.

“Alas for his schemes! Stapleton's perfidy was exposed the moment Quantock saw the newspaper photo of Sir Henry by the rescued Merripit Collection! For there by his arm was his aunt's Vandeleur Moth, a spectre from the past! In a single stroke, Quantock thus gasped Stapleton's blow and plotted frantically to get the moth back.

“Quantock hit upon the idea of using Sir Henry's need to clean Stapleton's stain from Baskerville honour by ploy of Merripit House. If he had the full collection of Stapleton's plunder, he would have the precious Vandeleur again, sell it, and easily do as he vowed in repairing Merripit. But he dare not tell Sir Henry his true goal, for his greedy soul could not imagine so much honour in a baronet. His need for the moth and its verified price on the market was twenty times that of Merripit House, and almost equal to that of Folkestone.”

Sir Henry exploded. “I wouldn't sell him his own family's moth back to him!”

“Be calm, Sir Henry. It is no slur on you that a morally destitute man viewed you with his own limited lens.” Holmes soothed. “One may very well ask an ant's opinion of a pine tree.”

“Maybe so, but all this effort to lie when they could have just kept to the truth!” But the baronet quieted, his fists thrust into his pockets as he listened.

Holmes continued his explanation. “His foggy scheme, which is only slightly better contrived than Stapleton's theft, would have been successful had he remembered Mrs. Baldwin. Her sense of duty was no less as strong as a Ghurka's, and when she saw the same newspaper article, she recognised the moth for what it was. Suddenly there was a shard of her beloved lady's legacy - survived! She had to protect, and so she
wrote
her grief to her husband, circumventing her oath to never talk. Together they hatched a clever plan to avoid Quantock's spies using the Onion Johnnies.

“The Onion Johnnies are a stout brotherhood, and word passed amongst the ranks in their Breton tongue until they found a rather clever one with the idea of directly appealing to Sherlock Holmes.” Holmes paused for a moment, his grey eyes twinkling, and we saw Lestrade straighten in surprise. “I was soon on my way to Folkestone. The Johnny did not need to know much. He was simply an Onion Seller who happened to know a consultant able enough to go where Sir Henry and Mr. Lestrade could not. It was a moment's work for the Baldwins to slip a detailed confession to me within the head of the largest onion - the Captain's Head, as it is called in the vernacular, and according to the proverbs of these folk,
the Head keeps all secrets
. By these means, I was able to learn of the Baldwins' plight without anyone else the wiser.”

“I was certainly not the wiser!” I breathed. “I heard a crackle when you lifted the onions up, and thought it was only the papery skins! It was the message, wasn't it?”

Holmes bowed again.

“All this made possible by an Onion Johnny!” Sir Henry whistled. “Well, I knew I liked the fellows for a reason. Good with delivering mail when you need them to, and honest to a fault.”

“So I've heard,” Lestrade agreed evenly, and it was all Holmes and I could do to keep our countenance intact. “Mister Holmes, this is one of your queerest cases yet, but it seems to be what you excel at. Still, solving a case backwards is amazing even for you.”

“Why, thank you, Lestrade.” Holmes glanced at his watch. “But I fear the congratulations must be cut short. We have just enough time to return to the Inn and pack before the next train leaves Folkestone.”

And here I have paused. Holmes is finally asleep. I do not pretend I aided this step to recovery; doing nothing is worse for him than doing too much, and keeping him occupied with my poor writings has served this cause before. He rests when he is busy, and frets when he is not.

But it is my sincere hope that with this sleep he will overcome his illness and rise up, as our equally weary England struggles to rise from her sick-bed. I do not lie when I say my friend is indistinguishable from England
.

But I must stop now. I can hear the milk-cart rattling up the shell drive, and with it our long-awaited guest...

“Halloa the house!” A familiar cry makes me smile. As I limp outside with my cane on the uneven earth, the milk-man hurries his cargo to the cool-room for the housekeeper. Our guest is lowering a small bag to the earth, and despite his considerably advanced years compared to mine, he remains as stubbornly spry and active as ever.
Only the bright silver wings sweeping from his temples suggest his age, and a jaunty beret perches upon his touseled head.

I cannot but laugh to see an Onion Johnny here in the Sussex Downs, but they seem to be everywhere, now that there has been just barely enough time for the first crops since the War. And the Bretons will not choose in their loyalties of England or France - it is like asking a child to say which parent they love the most.

He limps unevenly to me, and his own stick is no longer for show. A chapelet of Roscoff's finest droops over his shoulder.

“What is this?” I exclaim. “I thought you had retired!”

“
Lestrade
has retired, Doctor Watson!” is my response
. “But
Onion Johnny
still works.”

I laugh out loud and take the chapelet. “For himself or for the Foreign Office?”

“They are much the same.” This old friend reassures me. “You are looking better! I take it Holmes finally gave you permission to write about that last mess with the moth? Why else would he ‘put in an order' for onions?”

And the truth strikes: I had thought I was seeing to Holmes's health, but all this time he was seeing to mine. He kept me from fretting over him and the wake of the War by concentrating on a long-awaited tale
.

“I had thought to hide my health from him, since his was so much worse.”

“Hum.” Lestrade snaps a cigarillo alight between his lips. “Well, anything I can do to help?”

“Only answer how you could turn from browned Johnny in London to pale Inspector in Folkestone so quickly.”

“No great secret. Most stains come right off, but it was a bit close.
I took the chance. People were watching a late-napping Inspector Lestrade, not the in-and-out Johnnies at the inn.”

“I am glad.”

“As am I.” We pass the tobacco between us and nod to the departing milk-cart. “Come. Holmes will wake soon, and if he hasn't improved, I am making him a plaster!”

“Not from my onions, you won't!”

“Certainly not. There is always a rude friar in the kitchen...”

The Case of the Murderous Numismatist

by Jack Grochot

After I sold my medical practice in Kensington to Dr. Verner and returned to Baker Street to share rooms again with my friend Sherlock Holmes, life in the summer of 1894 became hectic. I had re-joined Holmes at a time when he was juggling three or four cases at once. Consequently, my own erratic schedule, to say the least, took me hither and yon unprepared, for I usually accompanied Holmes on his adventures, but now I was writing down notes of his movements or encounters haphazardly, with the hope that my memory of events would not fail me when I sat at our dining table to compose a magazine article about the ingenious methods and mind-numbing accomplishments of this peripatetic consulting detective. What follows is an example of my remembrance combined with those sketchy notes:

One day at lunch in our flat - a meal of turkey pot pies served graciously by our landlady, Mrs. Hudson - Holmes flipped a coin onto the tabletop and watched it twirl noisily until it came to a stop.

“What can you tell me about this piece, Watson?” he wanted to know.

I picked it up, examined it, and told Holmes the date the crown was minted, 1707, the very year it was introduced as currency to commemorate the Union of the kingdoms of England and Scotland.

“Is that all there is to it?” Holmes persisted, as if to entertain himself.

“Only that this is a rare coin, a collector's item,” I added.

“Wrong on all counts, as I anticipated,” he blurted with an exaggerated wink.

“Wrong? How can you allege it?” I insisted.

“This is not a genuine crown. It is counterfeit,” Holmes revealed, surprising me. “It is not solid silver, it is silver-plated and made of lead, weighing approximately a half ounce more than it should.”

“Where did you get it?” I quizzed.

“From a new client, or I should say a group of clients,” he answered. “Here is a letter from them that arrived in yesterday's post, along with the spurious coin.” He unfolded a sheet of correspondence that was in his jacket pocket, then tossed it over to me, and I read it aloud:

“We, the undersigned, represent the Society of American Coin Traders, an organization of more than two hundred members,” the message began. “One of us, one whose identity will remain anonymous, purchased this coin by mail from a London dealer, a Joseph Smisky, for the sum of ninety dollars. This specimen is worthless, for it is a fake.

“We have sent a telegraph to Mr. Smisky to demand that the money be returned, and he has ignored our plea. Instead, he has continued to advertise in the newspapers that he possesses a 1707 crown for sale in mint condition. We suspect he actually possesses several reproductions of this valuable coin.

“We urge you to bring an end to his fraudulent scheme and to intercede for us with your Scotland Yard contacts to see that justice is served. We shall reward you with a fee in whatever amount you deem sufficient under the circumstances, providing, of course, that it is reasonable.”

The letter gave the impression Holmes's task was a simple one, but he informed me otherwise. “If Mr. Smisky is to be prosecuted, it must be proven that he not only peddled a counterfeit, but that he knew it was counterfeit when he did so,” Holmes advised. “Thus, the sticky wicket.”

“How do you intend to establish he knowingly sold a bogus collectable?” I wondered with skepticism. “What was in his mind is hardly possible to decipher.”

“My plan-” Holmes started to say, but a knock at the door interrupted him.

“It is only I, here to collect the dirty dishes,” said Mrs. Hudson cheerily, letting herself in and directing a comment toward Holmes. “That pot pie should help put meat on your bones. The way you have been running about at all hours takes a toll on the frame, and you can't stand to lose any more than you have already.”

“It was delicious and abundant, my lady, and no doubt it will amount to as much as a pound on my sorry frame,” he responded, then charmed her with a compliment about her hair.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I didn't think anyone would notice how I did it up differently this morning,” she giggled, blushing. “I'll be out of your way in a jiffy. You gentlemen have more important things to discuss besides my appearance. You approve though, eh?”

“It becomes you, Mrs. Hudson,” I piped up. “No need for you to hurry off.”

“All the same, I best get going, because I am expecting a gentleman caller,” she disclosed, stepping away with the dishes in a rush.

“The word romance never would have occurred to me in a conversation about Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes jested in a low voice after we heard her lively footsteps on the stairs.

“You were about to tell me your plan when she came in abruptly,” I prodded, expecting Holmes to resume our discussion.

“Better yet, Watson, you can enthrall your readers even more so if you witness my stratagem unfolding, rather than listening to me explain it,” he contended. “Come with me to Gravesend, where I shall acquaint you with a female constable who is also an amateur stage actress in her off-hours. Gertie Evans is the key to my grand design and its shocking aftermath for the likes of Mr. Smisky.”

“Grand design? Shocking aftermath? What on earth?” I marveled.

“I suppose I should confide in you my ulterior motives for accepting this case, my good man. The investigation of a counterfeit coin is a means to an end. Dealing dishonestly in rare coins is but a minor crime for the nefarious Mr. Smisky, a commonplace infraction ordinarily not worthy of my attention. The fact of the matter is that I have another client, The British Fire and Casualty Company, which has its sights set on Smisky for a heinous insurance swindle. The company has engaged me to probe his responsibility in the destruction of a tenement he owned in the East End. A tremendous explosion and conflagration leveled the structure last April, killing six occupants and injuring a multitude of others.”

“I recall reading about it, Holmes, but if I remember correctly, the police blamed a faulty gas valve for the tragedy,” I interjected.

“The police suspect sabotage, but they didn't say as much to the newspapers to avoid arousing interest on the part of Smisky or the professional arsonist he employed,” Holmes stated categorically. “Unfortunately, the authorities have been unable to assemble any evidence of a deliberate act. The insurance firm has come to me, therefore, to solve the puzzle so it can deny Smisky a settlement of fifty thousand pounds.”

“Good heavens, he committed six murders, for money. How disgraceful and malicious,” I remarked scornfully. “His malevolence is unparalleled.”

“As is my ambition to see him hang,” Sherlock Holmes threatened. “Shall we go now?”

“I am as eager as you,” I assured him, donning my bowler.

The afternoon sun was intense, so we rode in a hansom to Charing-Cross, where we boarded a train to Gravesend, down by the great river. On the train, Holmes spoke not a word, but tapped his toes to the rhythm of a song in his head and drummed his bony fingertips on his knees, his close-fitting cloth cap pushed forward onto the bridge of his hawk-like nose. When we reached our destination, he cautioned me on the platform not to let on in public that I knew Gertie Evans was a police official. “She works surreptitiously and wears no uniform,” he observed, “and she is very careful to protect her true identity.”

We met Gertie at the Boar's Head Pub, a raucous establishment on the waterfront with sawdust on the floor and medieval armour hanging on the walls. She waved warmly to Holmes from a corner table occupied by three surly men competing for her attention, one a sailor, another a businessman, and the third a football player wearing his colours. Gertie, aged about thirty, looked lovely in a dark blue dress and yellow blouse with ruffles around the neck and on the ends of her sleeves. Her auburn hair was done in large curls that draped over her shoulders and back, accenting a youthful, angelic face. As Holmes and I approached, she ordered the three suitors to “take a powder, boys, I have private business to discuss with these two gents.” Grumbling, the men strolled to the bar.

“So this is your deputy and biographer, Dr. Watson,” she said coquettishly to Holmes, who stood at the table until she motioned for us to sit. “It is my pleasure to see you in the flesh, Doctor, because I have admired your writings from afar,” Gertie crowed. “And Mr. Holmes, I consider it an honour to collabourate with you once more.” A waitress took down our preferences for refreshments and Gertie wasted no additional time getting to the matter at hand.

Speaking barely above a whisper in the din of the pub, Gertie outlined the step she had taken on her own. “My sergeant is a numismatist, and he loaned me five rare coins from his collection to offer them to Smisky for the right price. Give me the imitation crown and I'll put it with them.”

Holmes produced the counterfeit, which she inserted into a small paraffin paper jacket and dropped into her reticule. “Your plan will fall apart if Smisky buys back this hunk of junk,” she frowned. “I'll memorise his words when he lays eyes on it. Now let's see what happens.” We departed the pub together, Gertie hailing one cab while Holmes and I summoned another to take us to the railway station. “Best we're not seen together until this is over,” Holmes theorised when we boarded separate cars for the trip to Saxe-Coburg Square, the location of Smisky's coin shop. Once in the vicinity, Gertie walked alone the two city blocks to the shop, with Holmes and me trailing about twenty paces behind. As she went in, we plopped down on a bench near the entrance so we could hear the banter between Gertie and Smisky, close enough to intervene in the event there was trouble.

“I wish to speak to the owner,” she notified the muscular man with a handlebar moustache behind the counter.

“You're lookin' at him, lady,” he snickered.

“Do you buy rare coins at a fair price?” she asked.

“What price I pay will beat any competitor's, so help me God,” he swore.

“Well, then, I have six to sell. My dear father passed away and left me his collection. Before he went on to his reward, he told me which ones to part with if I fell onto hard times.”

“I won't take advantage of you, miss,” he pledged. “Let's see what you have.”

Gertie reached into her handbag and displayed the coins on the glass countertop.

“Hmmm,” Smisky hummed, examining each one and replacing them into a row. “This one is worth five pounds to me, this one a little more, and the rest about ten pounds apiece - except this one,” he scowled, manipulating the counterfeit 1707 crown between his fingers, flipping it into the air with his thumb and forefinger, then catching it in the palm of his stubby right hand. “This one is worth nothing, not even face value,” he claimed.

“What in heaven's name do you mean by that?” Gertie ejaculated, pretending to be stunned.

“It's too heavy. It's a replica, not the genuine article,” Smisky laughed.

“We'll see about that,” Gertie snapped. “I'm taking it back, in fact all of them - I shan't do business with a scoundrel.”

“Suit yourself for today, miss, but I'll gamble that when you find I've been truthful I'll see you again,” Smisky concluded arrogantly.

“You can bet your life on that,” Gertie mumbled to herself quietly as she stomped out of the shop.

“A marvelous, convincing performance; I believed you myself,” Holmes beamed, complimenting her at the train station. “Mr. Smisky is one notch closer to the gallows.”

“I was tempted to clamp the irons on his wrists right then and there,” Gertie admitted, “but I realised that would interfere with your plan, Mr. Holmes.”

Gertie returned to the constabulary in Gravesend, while Holmes and I rode on to the Strand for a dinner at Simpson's, our usual Wednesday evening habit.

That night, dressed as an Episcopalian cleric with a grey beard and frizzy white hair, Holmes went on the prowl in the West End, searching the streets for Gunther Williams, a clever and stealthy informant who once served time in Dartmoor Penitentiary for a series of burglaries, and who was known in the underworld as Hobo Willie. Holmes, who had been instrumental in the convict's early release from prison, based upon testimony that he financially supported the orphanage where he was raised, came across Williams at midnight outside a cafe famous for its coffee and fresh-fried donuts.

“I have a job for you, Gunther,” Holmes began.

“And who might you be with a job for me?” Williams retorted.

“It is I, Sherlock Holmes, your benefactor,” Holmes replied.

“By Jove! If it isn't you, Mr. Holmes. Preaching the gospel, are you?” a startled Williams quaked, to which Holmes responded with this quote from
Oliver Twist
:

“Yes, I'm preaching the gospel according to Charles Dickens: ‘To do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained will justify.'”

“You want me to do something underhanded, then,” the corpulent Williams predicted, stroking the fleshy portion of his double-chin.

“Skullduggery is more like it, Gunther,” Holmes corrected. “There is a coin dealer in Saxe-Coburn Square who paid what the Americans call a torch to set an apartment building ablaze in the East End, where six people were burned alive and many others scorched. I want you to make a friend of him and learn the identity of the culprit who destroyed the building.”

“That's an easy assignment, Mr. Holmes,” Williams boasted. “I know the man, Joe Smisky, and he is a hard case, but I am more brainy. I'll betray him to you, yet never to the coppers, though. They would make me go to court and expose myself as a snitch.”

“I shall protect your role in this, Gunther, rest assured,” Holmes promised.

“Your word is your bond, I know that for a fact,” Williams conceded, then was ready to disappear into the darkness until Holmes delayed him with the story of Gertie Evans and the counterfeit 1707 crown. Holmes also gave Williams explicit instructions on how to prompt Smisky to name the arsonist. “I'll sleep on all this and give you my report tomorrow before suppertime, Mr. Holmes,” Hobo Willie vowed.