The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (5 page)

“Let's go, Watson. I have had enough of this atmosphere.”

I followed him outside, and, as we returned the way we had come, we encountered Inspector Hopkins with two constables.

“There you are, Holmes. You've been inside?”

My friend described the inner chamber we found, and handed Hopkins the bottle. “You might want to leave a constable here in case he returns.”

“Are you off then already?”

“Yes, to the Celtic Knot Pub. The owner is Miss Finney's father, and I suspect he knows who this villain is, though he might not realize it. The villain works for this brewery, and knew Miss Finney already. He knew when she'd be vulnerable, and he followed her. He also knows where that room is, knew it was abandoned, and that he could use it with impunity.”

“You don't mind if I come along, do you?”

Holmes smiled. Hopkins was a student of his methods, if an imperfect one.

“Of course, Inspector. Let's hail a cab, shall we? The pub is in Southwark but too far too walk.”

When we reached the pub, we encountered the owner turning down the gas lamp outside the shop. He was a small man, whose pale face and shock of white hair betrayed his own Celt heritage.

“Ach, fellows, I cannot help you tonight. As you see I'm closing the doors a bit early. We've had some family trouble.”

“We are aware,” said Holmes. “That's why we are here. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and these gentlemen with me are Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard, and my associate Doctor Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes - Scotland Yard.” He nodded. “You are quick, gentlemen. I only submitted a missing person's report today, as they'd not let me do it sooner.”

“Shall we go inside?”

“Surely, surely.” He led us into the pub, and locked the door behind us once we were inside. It was a clean, bright establishment inside, not as grim or dark as others I've visited. In fact, I'd say that while the establishment was one a man would frequent, it had the prim, orderly touch of a woman's influence, with shining glassware, well-swept floor, and dust-free artwork and lamps.

“Would you like a pint, gentlemen, or anything else to drink?” Mr. Finney ushered us to a large table at the centre of the floor and we sat together. “
Gratis
, of course. You're here to help, and I'll not take a farthing.”

“I'm on duty, so nothing for me,” said Hopkins. “Though Holmes and the doctor can indulge.”

“If I had something now, it may put me to sleep,” I said. “Holmes?”

Holmes shook his head. “I think you might want something for yourself, Mr. Finney. What we have to tell you might be a shock.”

The barkeep paled visibly and sank into the open chair beside Holmes. “It doesn't serve to drink the profits,” he said in a subdued tone. “You might as well tell me what you must.”

“First, let me begin by assuring you that your daughter is alive.”

“Oh, thank God.” Finney rested his face in his hands.

“But there is more,” my friend continued. In a gentle tone, he revealed the facts of his daughter's misery, and as he spoke the barkeep's eyes welled with tears.

“Dear Lord in heaven,” he muttered, when my friend finished. He wiped his eyes with his fingers. “My sweet Melinda. Where is she now?”

“The doctor's wife is caring for her at my residence. She's sleeping in the guest room now, I hope. We shall bring her home tomorrow, late in the morning.”

“Why late?”

“She must identify the culprit, and you also may help with that goal. The man who did this worked for Anchor Brewery and would have been here regularly. Do you know anyone that fits that description?”

The elderly man dabbed his eyes once more with a handkerchief. “There are three that I know. Charles Hamming is the nephew of the owner and the salesman who takes my orders. The delivery driver is Paul Somersfield, and then there is Joshua Gable. He's an odd fellow, a bookkeeper for the brewery, and he comes here frequently after he leaves work. He doesn't say much, but he has a queer look in his eyes.”

“Are any of these fellows clean-shaven?” I asked.

“Clean-shaven? Yes, Gable is clean shaven. The other two have moustaches, and Hamming has a beard after a fashion.”

“After a fashion?” I asked.

“He's been trying to grow one, it seems. It's not filled in.”

“This has been a helpful interview, Mr. Finney,” said my friend, rising from his chair. “Let's leave you to your rest, confident that your daughter will be returned to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mr. Finney said, shaking our hands. “Thank you so very much.”

As Holmes and Hopkins stepped outside, I paused a moment with Mr. Finney. “Sir,” I said, “Your daughter will have great difficulty returning to your pub, I think. It is where she was taken, and the memories of her experience will be quite raw. Does she have anywhere she can go to stay for a time to calm her nerves? Somewhere in the country perhaps?”

Mr. Finney nodded. “I have a sister in Yorkshire. I'm sure she'd be happy to have Melinda to stay with her for a while.”

“Excellent,” I shook his hand once more. “And if there's anything I can do to help in anyway afterward, pray, let me know.”

When we arrived at Baker Street, Holmes, Hopkins, and I found Mary in Holmes's sitting room, sleeping in the chair by the fire. I touched her shoulder and she woke with a start. “Oh! You've returned. I am sorry. I tried to stay awake.”

“Do not apologize, dear,” I said. “Is Miss Finney in bed?”

“Yes. She's clean and her wounds are bandaged. The maid gave her one of her nightgowns and put her in your old room. I stayed with her until she fell asleep.”

“I think sleep is a fine idea for all of us,” I said. “I don't believe we can do much more until morning. Or, rather, later this morning.”

“I'd rather not leave her, though. The maid said there was a room downstairs where I might sleep, but I wanted to wait until you came back before I went to lie down.”

“I hope you would both stay if you can,” said Holmes. “Tomorrow morning may be a trial for her, and your presence would be a great help to me.”

“That room will accommodate both of us, as I recall,” I said. “I'll send a boy over to our flat gather some clean collars for me and some things for you as well, Mary.”

“Hopkins,” Holmes turned to the inspector. “Those three men can be collected when they report for work in the morning. Do you think you could bring them here?”

Hopkins shrugged. “We've done it before, so I cannot see why not. With some good constables with me, I believe we can have them here around ten o'clock.”

“Then you should all go get some much needed sleep. I will stay up a bit longer and smoke-” He paused. “A cigarette or two.”

I smiled. “Very well, then. Good night, Holmes.”

The next morning, I awoke at eight o'clock. Mary had already risen, dressed, and gone to look after Miss Finney. I washed and dressed quickly, and, upon entering Holmes's sitting room, discovered a breakfast laid out for us. Holmes, Miss Finney and Mary were already seated at the table. One of the windows, I noticed, was opened slightly, allowing a fresh morning breeze to billow the curtains.

“The maid has anticipated our needs, Watson,” Holmes said. “Come join us.”

I did as he suggested, and we ate together in silence for a few moments, until Holmes said, “Miss Finney, there is something I must tell you.”

She looked up at him, her right eye more a vivid blue in contrast to the grey-blue bruise that surrounded it. “What is it, Mr. Holmes?”

He placed his napkin and looked around at all of us. “This morning, Inspector Hopkins will be bringing three men here, one of whom is most likely your assailant.”

Miss Finney set her fork down on her plate with a
clink
. “Oh.”

“Do not fret, dear lady. I will not ask you to face him. However, if you desire justice, you must identify him for the police.”

She shook her head. “But I did not see him.”

“You heard his voice. Therefore, I will interview the men in this room. You will listen to the conversation from my bedroom, which is adjacent to this one.” Her eyes widened at the suggestion of being in his bedroom, but he held up his hand. “Mrs. Watson will stay with you, will you not, Mrs. Watson?”

“Of course,” Mary said.

“There, on my chemistry table, you will see that I have an Edison light bulb in a lamp stand. I have attached it to a switch that I'll give to you. When you hear a voice you recognize, you will flip the switch to signal to me.”

“Will they not see the light go on?” Miss Finney asked.

“They may, but that need not concern you.”

Miss Finney looked to Mary, who, in turn, placed her hand gently on her arm. Miss Finney straightened her shoulders and turned back to my friend.

“I can do it,” said Miss Finney. “I
will
do it.”

“Capital. There is only one thing more.” Holmes leaned forward with his elbows on the table and asked in a voice that was most gentle. “Are you certain that there is no particular word or phrase that the man used, nothing he said that stands out in your mind? Anything he said may be of help to us.”

Her delicate lips turned down in a frown. “Patience.”

“Patience?”

“The first morning, just before he left me, he said that. He mocked me by saying ‘patience is a virtue.' It was horrible... he made it sound as if I wanted...” She covered her mouth and wept once more.

Mary rested her hand on her shoulder. “Mr. Holmes-”

“No more, Miss Finney. I have precisely what I need. Watson, would you escort the ladies next door? I have set some chairs in there so they may be comfortable. I'll ask the maid to clear these dishes, then I'll prepare the light switch.”

I did as he asked, and when I opened the door to his room, I was surprised at the site that met my eyes.

It was tidy to the point of being pristine. Holmes had, no doubt, spent a better part of the night cleaning it. The window was also cracked open like that of the sitting room, allowing in the fresh air. He'd set two padded chairs near the wall where he and I had stood the night before to listen to Mary's conversation with the young lady. There was also a small side table with a pitcher of cool water and drinking glasses.

“Well, then,” I said. “Here you are, ladies. Is there anything else you think you might like?”

“I may close the window later if there's a chill, but I think we're fine for now.”

“I'd recommend a book,” I said. “But reading the detailed lives of criminals might be a bit much.”

“I think we'll be all right,” Mary said with a smile. “What time do you expect Inspector Hopkins to arrive?”

I glanced at my pocket watch. “Any time now. He said he would be here around ten o'clock.”

“Then we haven't long to wait.”

Suddenly the door to the closet opened, and Holmes stepped into the room.

“Good Lord, Holmes,” I said. “What... how did you...?”

“I'm sorry, ladies. Watson.” He held up a bit of rubber-coated wire linked to a small black box with a switch. “This is for Miss Finney. I had to pull the connection through.”

“But your closet... what did you do?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, that. After you married and moved, I knocked a hole in the back of my closet, and another in the sitting room which is covered by those additional drapes. Having a hidden way into my room is useful, especially when one must string wire.” He smiled and placed the box in Miss Finney's hand. “Simply flip this switch. Watson, let's you and I go in the other room and test it. We have little time.”

I followed him back to the sitting room. There he stood in the centre of the room and called out, “Miss Finney, flip the switch please.” The lightbulb on Holmes desk lit. “Excellent, you may turn it off now.”

“Will you interview all the suspects at once, Holmes?”

“Of course, Watson. If a man is interviewed alone, his voice isn't natural. Put him in a conversation with three or more people, and he'll speak normally. That is what we want. Ah, I believe that is Hopkins' ring downstairs. Watson, sit over at my table near the lamp, won't you?”

Holmes then paced back and forth as we heard several men tramping up the stairs. “Come in, Hopkins,” Holmes called out, before the officer's knuckles had struck the door.

Hopkins entered followed by three men and two constables.

“Sit, gentlemen, please,” Holmes said, gesturing to the chairs at the dining table. “I fear I haven't much time. I have more pressing matters to attend to today, but I promised the inspector I'd assist him with his case, so let's get on with it.”

Hopkins raised an eyebrow at Holmes, then turned his gaze to me. I shrugged my shoulders, wondering what this meant.

“Now, gentlemen, you have been asked here by the inspector because a crime has been committed, and we wish to know if you were involved.” Holmes paced around the table, not looking at the suspects. It appeared to me as if he were not interested in them at all. “You sir, are a bookkeeper are you not?”

This question was posed to the man who sat at the end of the table. He was not overly tall, but his eyes were squinting and his mouth turned in an awkward scowl. Clean-shaven and of middle years, he did not meet my friend's gaze.

“I am. How would you know?”

“I was told one of you was a bookkeeper. You seemed most likely, with the mark of a pen on your thumb and forefinger, ink stain on your cuff, and the wear on your sleeve. You also have indentions from a pair of spectacles which are currently in your breast pocket. Your attitude is also lacks the confidence of a salesman. Therefore you are Joshua Gable. This man here,” he pointed to the bearded young man who sat beside Gable, “has that confidence. You are Charles Hamming, are you not? Nephew of the owner of the Anchor Brewery?”