The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (42 page)

I heaved myself up. “And the hound has the effrontery to pursue Miss Berthoud, despite her clear revulsion. I should take a horsewhip to him, reverend or no. He is a disgrace to the Kirk and, and - “

Holmes handed me an apple. “Calm, old man. Let us plan our dispositions.”

I subsided onto the bench.

“The letter, then,” Holmes said. “According to the door boy, Reverend Murchison is a prolific letter writer. He drops a bundle of envelopes into that letter box before dinner each evening.” Holmes indicated an iron post box on the pavement a few yards from the hotel entrance. “He uses no other.”

“He does not employ the hotel mail service?” I asked.

Holmes smiled. “Reverend Murchison is clearly a man of frugal habits. If he posts the letters himself, he saves a tip.”

“Merely dipping the letter from his pocket will not answer,” I said, “as Reverend Murchison will simply write another letter and take better care when he posts it. What other measures may we adopt?”

Holmes considered. “Lead line and plumb, with tar or glue on the plumb bob, dropped into the letter box slit just after he posts the envelope to fish it out. Or fit a bag inside the slit. Or we can just set fire to the letters. Do you want the last boiled egg?”

I listened to Holmes's suggestions with mounting unease. “Set fire to Her Majesty's mails! I say, Holmes.”

He shrugged. “Very well. According to the cab drivers, the postman has no less than seven mouths to feed on his wage, and he moonlights as a knocker upper.”

“I refuse to countenance bribery of an official of the Crown,” I said stiffly. “You speak of criminal activity with the insouciance of a Hoxted costermonger.”

“Perhaps you could offer a more benign solution to our problem, Doctor?” Holmes said, taking the last boiled egg. “Miss Bertaud's deadline expires at midnight tonight.”

We returned to Portland Place at eleven-thirty, and I sat in a four-wheeler cab parked across the road from the hotel. Holmes, now in the guise of a London postman, was opposite me.

He smiled. “Three-and-six to a specialist firm in Lambeth for rent of the uniform and post box key.”

“The expenses in this case are mounting,” I said, noting the rental cost on my shirt cuff.

At two minutes to midnight, the hotel door opened and a stooped, elderly man with a thick walrus moustache emerged and paused at the top of the steps, peering around myopically and sniffing the air. He wore clerical weeds and a flat vicar's hat and carried an umbrella. Seemingly satisfied with the balmy weather, he strode down the steps to the pavement, marched to the letter box, and without a moment's hesitation slipped an envelope inside. He turned and sauntered back to the hotel entrance, humming a tune and with his umbrella clicking rhythmically on the steps.

“
Pinafore
,” I murmured, frowning. “Murchison looks nothing like me.”

Holmes put his finger to his lips as we watched Reverend Murchison re-enter the hotel lobby. Holmes instantly leapt from the cab, raced to the post box and unlocked it with his key.

I glanced down at my watch. We had met the regular postman, Mr. Willis, at his local public house earlier in the evening before he started his round. He had blankly failed to comprehend the hints and innuendos that Holmes employed, and Holmes did not dare make a plain offer in case the man informed the authorities. We had fallen back on an alternative plan which required Holmes to retrieve the letter before Willis collected the mail at midnight.

I stiffened as Holmes, kneeling beside the post box, struck a match, but he stood, relocked the box, hurried across to the cab and leapt inside just as a tricycle turned into the square. It stopped beside the post box and Willis emptied the post into his sack.

Holmes tapped on the cab roof with his stick and we set off for home.

“I thought for a moment you were going to set fire to the letters,” I said with a soft chuckle.

“I would not dream of interfering with Her Majesty's mails,” Holmes answered.

I frowned.

“Reverend Murchison will expect his letter to arrive at the admiral's villa in Hampshire tomorrow,” Holmes continued. “The reply, probably by telegraph or express letter, should reach him no later than Friday afternoon, the day before the wedding. If Murchison does not receive that reply, he will gird his financial loins and spring for a telegram.”

“He will not use the Langham Hotel telephone service?”

“Too expensive.” Holmes smiled. “And I checked the directory. Admiral Bartholomew does not possess a telephone.”

We arrived back at Baker Street and settled in our sitting room.

“Take down Bradshaw would you, old man?” Holmes requested. “I want a Portsmouth train stopping at Rowland's Castle not later than nine-thirty on Saturday morning. That gives Murchison time to have his breakfast (included in his room charge and not to be missed by our frugal friend), take a ‘bus to Waterloo and get to Rowland's Castle before the wedding starts at ten.”

Holmes sat at his writing table, took a sheet of notepaper from an envelope, dipped his pen and wrote in silence for a few moments.

He looked up and handed me the note. “I have made an appointment for Reverend Murchison to meet Admiral Bartholomew on the morning of the wedding - that will appeal to the reverend's sense of drama. He will relish his power to destroy the happiness of Miss Berthoud and her naval swain.”

“This is The Railway Hotel, Rowland's Castle notepaper, Holmes.”

“A touch of authenticity courtesy of Wiggins' Uncle Silas, confidential printer, and purveyor of slush paper to the Quality at tuppence a sheet.”

I made a note.

We were on our bench opposite the Langham at six-thirty on Saturday morning.

“Reverend Murchison has checked out,” said Holmes. “And, here he is, curtly spurning the offer of a porter to carry his carpet bag and stalking head down towards the omnibus stop.”

“He is not as sprightly as he was two nights ago,” I remarked as we stood and picked up our bags. “He seems to be in a gruff mood.”

“I want Reverend Murchison in a lather,” Holmes said, rubbing his hands together. “I did not destroy his letter to Admiral Bartholomew, I merely crossed out the address and marked the envelope ‘return to sender'. Oddly, when the letter was returned to the Langham in yesterday's morning post, the admiral's reply came in the same delivery. Reverend Murchison has had a confused night. Come, we will go on ahead to Waterloo by cab.”

“What if he takes a Portsmouth train from Victoria Station?” I asked as we crossed the square to the stand.

“He will not. That service does not stop at Rowland's Castle. He would have to buy a separate ticket from Portsmouth and incur more expense. No, no, we shall wait for him at Waterloo.”

Holmes purchased our tickets at the kiosk in Waterloo Station and instantly disappeared into the crowd. I looked about me and started as Reverend Murchison strode purposefully from the arched exit from the omnibus stands, bought a second-class ticket at the kiosk, and headed towards the Departures Board.

Holmes reappeared beside me dressed as a railway porter.

“Holmes!” I cried. “He is here. What now?”

He passed me a ticket. “Stick precisely to my plan, of course.”

I stalked my prey as he squinted up at the Departures Board and at the station clock hanging from the roof above us.

“What platform for the eight-oh-four to Portsmouth?” I called across Reverend Murchison to Holmes lounging against a porter's trolley.

“Moved to platform seven, sir,” Holmes answered.

“Stopping at Rowland's Castle?” Reverend Murchison asked in a gruff tone tinged with Scots.

“Number seven, sir. You'll have to hurry.”

Reverend Murchison reached towards his empty watch pocket and frowned. “I will do no such thing. I have thirty minutes or more.”

Holmes pulled out a brass pocket watch and checked it with the clock above us. “Five or less, sir. It's just gone eight.”

“My watch says eight and a bit,” I said truthfully. “We'll have to run!” I hefted my Gladstone bag and raced towards Platform Seven with Reverend Murchison grumbling at my heels.

A group of schoolboys milled about the entrance to the platform with a harassed looking master attempting to bring them to order. I pushed through them and waved my ticket at the attendant guarding the platform entrance. A line of a dozen or so carriages stood behind him with the engine in front hissing and puffing out billows of steam. The attendant glanced at my ticket and indicated with a jerk of his head that I and my clerical companion might proceed.

“Have I time to get a paper?” I asked.

“You have not, sir. She's away any moment.”

“Come now, boys,” the teacher cried in a shrill voice. “You heard the man, you must come along. The train is leaving.”

The gate attendant chuckled. “He'll never get that lot on; he's herding cats.”

Reverend Murchison and I pushed through the mass of boys, who seemed to take delight in obstructing us. I lost my stick in the commotion, which was probably just as well as I would have been sorely tempted to use it on the brats. I saw that Reverend Murchison's hat was askew and his umbrella had become unfurled.

At a harsh cry from the teacher, the boys came instantly to attention, and I was able to struggle through to clear ground on the platform beyond with Reverend Murchison close behind, rolling up his umbrella.

“We must make haste,” I cried, pointing to the guard with his flags in his hand marching along the side of the train and closing the last few doors. Reverend Murchison and I raced behind a gentleman in a top hat and overcoat also running for the train. We three jumped through the first open door, which the guard slammed behind us. The reverend and I sat on either side of the compartment, he opposite the gentleman, who snapped open his
Times
and disappeared behind it.

Reverend Murchison nevertheless addressed him, and my heart sank.

“Excuse me, sir, this is the eight-oh-four to Portsmouth, I collect?”

A shrill whistle sounded and the train jerked into motion. The man put down his paper, stood and smiled at me. “Come, my dear fellow.”

Holmes opened the door and we stepped out onto the platform. I closed the door behind us. The train picked up speed, and as it left the station and curved west, a walrus-moustached face squinted from the window of our compartment.

The harassed schoolmaster came up to Holmes with his charges.

“A shilling each boy,” Holmes murmured in my ear, “and three bob for the cat herder.”

I fumbled in my waistcoat for the necessary coins, paid the master and boys and glared down at one schoolboy who held out my stick.

“Reverend Murchison may have some difficulty with the guard before he arrives in Exeter,” Holmes remarked.

“Exeter!” I exclaimed.

“He is on the seven-thirty-eight non-stop to Exeter without his watch and spectacles and with my
Times
and the wrong ticket.” Holmes smiled. “He might go on to the coast in this fine weather.”

“I trust you will post his things back to him, or hand them in at the Lost and Found.”

“I will post them. I want him to know that Miss Berthoud (soon to be Mrs. Bartholomew) has friends.”

I threw my Exeter ticket into a bin, took out my watch and corrected the time. “Where did you find such brats, Holmes? Are they the Crystal Palace gang?”

“No, no. I applied to the nearest Doctor Barnado's Home and borrowed a dozen of their inmates. Before they became Barnado's cherubs, the boys were street Arabs; I am happy to see they have not lost their skills.”

I took out my pencil and made a note of our expenses on my shirt cuff, tut-tutting to myself.

Holmes took my arm. “Come, we have twenty minutes before the Portsmouth train.” He indicated the railwayman's uniform he wore under his coat. “I must change, and then let us have a celebratory coffee.”

I had a sudden thought. “But will Reverend Murchison not pull the communication cord, at the next station and stop the train?”

“And incur a hefty fine?”

Rowland's Castle was a picturesque village nestled around a green, with a Railway Hotel and a church, where I was roped in to give Miss Berthoud away during a short and very simple service. After the requisite photographs at the lynch gate, the groom, Lieutenant Bartholomew, having unaccountably disappeared, I took it upon myself to take the bride's arm and lead the wedding party across the green, where wickets were being set up for a cricket match, to the hotel.

We joined Holmes in a pleasant room adjoining the bar, and the newly minted Mrs. Bartholomew took glasses of Champagne from a waiter and handed one each to Holmes and to me. I proposed a toast to the happy pair, which Mrs. Bartholomew acknowledged with a gracious bow. “I cannot thank you gentlemen enough,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “I should have been lost without you.”

“What are your plans?” I asked.

She smiled as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief and regained her composure. “Alfie and I leave immediately on the mail packet for our honeymoon in Grenoble, then to Gibraltar and our new life.”

“Grenoble?” Holmes asked in a musing tone. “Not Paris? I thought you might like to revisit your old haunts. The Moulin Rouge is very entertaining, or so I am told.”

Mrs. Bartholomew regarded Holmes through narrowed eyes.

“Of course, you will want to put Daisy behind you,” Holmes continued. He lifted his glass again. “To a fresh start for you with Lieutenant Lord Alfred Bartholomew and a very happy life together.”

Holmes bowed and left us, passing through the front door and onto the village green.

I blinked at Mrs. Bartholomew.

“I will indeed start anew with Alfie,” she said stiffly. She considered for a moment, smiled and continued in an accent more reminiscent of Balham than Boulogne. “And I suppose I owe you the truth, Doctor, now that things are all hunky dory, as they say. I met my beloved in Paris, not Bath.” She giggled. “Not at the Moulin Rouge neither. No, no, my little establishment was not at that level, ‘though we had a show.”