The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (7 page)

“I must confess at being absolutely befuddled. What do you think we should do next?”

“Dinner and a walk. What do you say, Watson - are you up for a little night air? I find it most restorative to the senses.”

“I should be delighted.”

We dined and passed the time in splendid conversation. Many and varied were the subjects we spoke of. I talked about the newest advances in medicine, and how I was enjoying my married life, after which Holmes thrilled me by recounting the recent championship boxing bout between Dixon and Wallace in Soho. The evening was brought to a close with both of us lounging at Baker Street with pipes in hand, and enjoying the occasional recollection or memory. Not a word was spoken about the case. We retired early, both ready for the resumption of the case the next day.

The next morning dawned fair. I made my way down to breakfast to find Holmes already dressed and drinking his coffee.

“Good morning, Holmes.”

“Ah, Doctor. I trust you slept well.”

“Very. Thank you,” I said as I picked up the newspaper. A small article had been emphatically circled.

“The piece you see there is about the murder. Nothing new to be reported. It reflects everything we already know. However, I have a few items I would like to look into concerning the matter. Would you care to join me?”

“Certainly. Where are we going?”

“The paper that wrapped the box is nothing special in itself, but the smell of the sausage it had once covered was a particular type that is only made in one or two places in the city. I have some questions I would like to ask the proprietor.”

“Sounds like the perfect way to spend a morning,” I smiled.

“Excellent. Let us finish Mrs. Hudson's fine eggs and toast and we'll be on our way.”

Within the hour we were in a cab headed for Southall. Our ride, like many before in our partnership, was spent in silence.

We stopped on High Street in front of a butchery. The windows displayed the rather grotesque and elongated carcasses of numerous hogs and fowl. A breeze carried the smell of cooking animal flesh. The bakers, confectioners, and brewers that lined the street added their own unique smells, resulting in an aroma that confused the senses but roused the appetite.

We stepped inside and found ourselves between two long glass counters which contained all matter of headcheeses, rumps, and shoulders on mounds of ice. Sausages and hams hung from hooks above, and bones for soup and stock were in buckets on the floor in front of the display cases.

“Fancy a taste of somethin', gents?” From behind a curtain stepped a small, thin man with large sideburns and liver spots beneath the remaining strands of hair on his head. He took off his bloodied gloves, tossed them behind the curtain, and wiped his hands on a clean corner of his spattered apron.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend, Dr. Watson. I was hoping I might take a moment of your time and ask about a customer of yours.”

“Mr. Sherlock ‘Olmes. Pleasure to meet you, it is. Stevens is my name. C.L. Stevens.” The man gave a nod to Holmes. “Fine work on that nasty murder of the Prime Minister's cousin. Read about it in the paper, I did.”

“Thank you. Now, to the matter at hand, my good man. It is my understanding that you have done business with Jacob Collier.”

“‘Ow come you be needin' to know that?” the man said, cocking his head to the side.

“Forgive me, Mr. Stevens. Collier is an old acquaintance of mine. Back to our college days, actually. Rugby players. I'm responsible for the scar under his eye.”

“Scar, Mr. ‘Olmes?” Stevens asked in some confusion.

“Well, that was many, many years ago. Perhaps it has healed up completely.” Holmes pointed at the links around the ceiling. “Mr. Collier said your black sausage was the best in the city.”

“Best anywhere. Recipe passed down for several generations,” he said smiling.

“Excellent,” Holmes said. “I was hoping you could tell me the last time you saw Mr. Collier. His shop is closed, and I can't seem to locate him.”

Stevens rubbed his chin. “Always odd for someone to up and leave without tellin' no one. Can't say, though, if that's the case for Jacob. Been a customer of mine since 'e bought 'is shop. Nervous little man. Likes to live the peaceful life. Tends a small farm. Supplies the 'ogs for the sausage, 'e does. Just did some dealin' with 'im a couple days ago. Monday, it was.”

“Can you tell me what time you saw him that day?” Holmes asked.

“Oh, ‘e sent a runner with a note. Does that sometimes. I'll ‘ave the time in me ledger.” He stepped into a side door and back out a moment later. “Well, ‘ere it is. Just as I told you,” he proclaimed, pointing to his ledger. “I wrote it in me book at a quarter to ten. ‘Ere's the note ‘e ‘ad brought in,” he said as he thrust the paper toward us.

Holmes took the paper and studied it carefully. “Does he ever send one of his workers?”

“'E only ‘as the one, Mr. ‘Olmes. Young boy. Pushes a cart for ‘im.”

“When was the last time you actually saw Mr. Collier?”

“Oh, it's been since the week prior. Often comes in ‘imself. Once a week. Really loves me sausages. Must eat them and nothin' else. Orders enough for two people.”

Holmes placed a half-crown in the butcher's hand. “I would like to thank you for your time and bid you a good day.”

“Well, sure, if that's all you be needin'.”

Holmes tipped his hat and started out the door. We stepped out into the sunlight of the day and stood silent for a moment at the edge of the street.

“Holmes, Collier was dead an hour before that. How can this be?”

“There is something most foul here, Watson. Nothing is at it seems. That note had Collier's handwriting on it. He must have sent it.”

“A forgery, perhaps.”

“But about sausage? To what end? No, there is something deeper here. Something we haven't seen.” Holmes tapped his cane impatiently on the ground.

“Perhaps we should take a look at his home in Harrow,” I said.

“I do not believe there is anything more to be learned there. Chamberlain's notes were extensive enough. Also, there is no doubt that the place has been carelessly searched and the grounds tromped over.

“There are a number of things about this case that make it quite unique, my friend. I suspect that we will find out more about Jacob Collier than he ever wanted known.”

“So what now?”

“Back to Baker Street. I am expecting a telegram - a response to one I sent this morning before you rose. It will confirm an idea I had this morning concerning a case in Greater Manchester.”

Upon our arrival Mrs. Hudson met us in the hall.

“Mr. Holmes? There's a gentleman waiting to see you. Been here about twenty minutes.”

“Thank you. Could you send up some tea, please?”

We entered our sitting room and found a gentleman standing before our fireplace. He was dressed in a worsted suit with high black boots, and on the table lay his top hat and yellow leather gloves. He turned to look at us, clutching his lapels. One of his hands was bandaged, and the wrapping had loosened.

Holmes hesitated for a barely perceptible moment and then walked over to the man. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr. Watson. Who do we have the pleasure of meeting?”

“My name is not important,” the man said curtly. “I am not one to mince words so I shall get to the point. I understand you have some interest in the murder of a bookshop owner named Jacob Collier.”

“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss the matter. Perhaps you should approach Scotland Yard with your concerns,” Holmes said.

“Then you
are
looking at it.”

“Without making an admittance of any kind, I will ask how it is that you believe I am familiar with this murder at all?”

“Everyone has a price, Mr. Holmes, including a constable ordered to guard the door of his bookshop.”

“Sir, whatever I may or may not know about the situation, I will not be discussing anything with you or anyone else save the Inspector who has been assigned to the case.”

The man's jaw tightened and his fists balled.

“Your bandage is tattered,” Holmes said. “Watson, would you be so good as to change the dressing for him?”

“Leave it be,” the man barked, hiding his hand behind his back. “Jacob Collier was a friend of mine,” he continued. “He disappeared, and I've only recently found him. I hear, however, that he has been murdered. As I am still acquainted with his family, I am interested in conveying any news I can. I can make it worth your while to tell me what I want to know.”

“I am terribly sorry, sir, but I cannot help you. I am certain that Mr. Collier's family appreciates your concern, and I ask you to give them my condolences. Thank you for stopping in,” Holmes said with an insincere smile.

The gentleman scowled and breathed deeply through flared nostrils. Without another word he grabbed his hat and gloves and hurried through the door. His steps checked, and he slowly descended the stairs. The front door slammed closed.

“Well, that was unsettling. What do you make of him?” I asked.

“What I make of him is that whomever we were just addressing is not who he says he is. Also, he was wearing lifts in his shoes to make himself appear taller. His high-heeled boots added to that deception. Did you notice how slowly he descended the stairs? He is not comfortable wearing the lifts.”

“Incredible.”

“His moustache was real enough, but it and his hair were dyed darker.”

“So, who were we talking to?”

Holmes peered out the window. “I have a suspicion, but I cannot commit at the moment.”

“Should we follow him?”

“No. I saw the unmistakable shape of a revolver in his right-hand pocket, and any man who is brazen enough to pay off a policeman and then bribe others for data regarding a murder is not a man to be taken lightly.

“Watson, I need to step out for a few moments. I shall return shortly.” Holmes grabbed his hat and was downstairs in seconds.

Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tray. “I apologize for the delay, Doctor. Where is Mr. Holmes going?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. He'll be back soon. I'll keep the pot warm for him until he gets back.”

No more than fifteen minutes passed before Holmes reappeared. “I think we should have this little problem unknotted by tonight, at least if my sources don't fail me.”

“Where did you go?”

“When one wishes to know what happens on the streets of London, one has to go to those streets.”

“Ah. You've been to see the Irregulars, haven't you?”

“They are the most valuable institution for information, next to the press. As you know, they have been helpful on a number of occasions. I have Wiggins and his friends gathering some data for me, and if my suspicions are correct, we should have an answer to my query in no more than a couple hours.”

“And until then?”

“I have sent for Inspector Chamberlain. I would prefer having an official member of the Force with us. Unless I am very much mistaken, he will have learned nothing about the murder of Jacob Collier. Ah! I see you've kept the tea warm. Excellent.”

As the clock on the mantel sounded four, we heard heavy footsteps climbing our stairs. The Inspector appeared at the door.

“What's this all about, Mr. Holmes?”

“I was hoping you might bring us up to date on what you know concerning the murder of Mr. Collier,” Holmes said.

“I'm afraid there isn't much to tell.” Chamberlain sat. “Since we have no witnesses to give us a description of the killer, no usable evidence left at the crime scene, and no way to know what happened at the bookshop, my men have come up with nothing.”

“Any theories?” Holmes asked as he rose and stood at the window.

“I still believe the man in the shop who signed for the package was the murderer. It all went so. Collier left for work that morning and arrived at his usual time - probably about seven, as I understand it. Sometime around eight he realized he had forgotten something important at home and returned to retrieve it. In doing so he unintentionally left the shop door unlocked. When he arrived home he must have interrupted a robbery and was stabbed while running away. The killer then went to his shop to rob the place, and was nearly unmasked when the postman arrived. After that he disappeared. I've yet to find him, but I will.”

“Excellent, Inspector. However, I believe there is more to this story than you may have realized,” Holmes said as he gazed down at the busy street. Suddenly a slight smile crossed his lips and he started across the room. “And unless I am mistaken part of the answer should be coming through our door in seconds.”

Holmes opened the door just in time for a young page to enter.

“I have a message for you, Mr. Holmes,” the boy said, holding out a folded sheet of paper, and trying to catch his breath.

Holmes took the paper and opened it. His smile grew and he dug into his pocket. He handed the lad a coin. “Thank you. Your expedience is very much appreciated.”

“Thank you, sir. Good day,” the runner said. He turned on his heel and left.

“Well, gentlemen, one half of the mystery has been cleared up. Now we only have to wait for the answer to the second half. I suspect it will be here very soon.”

“Out with it, Mr. Holmes,” Chamberlain scowled. “We
are
talking about a murder here, you know.”

Holmes handed the paper to Chamberlain. As he read it his brow furrowed. “What's the meaning of this? We already know this,” he exclaimed.

“Read it aloud for the good Doctor, if you please.”

“‘JACOB COLLIER IS DEAD.' If this is some kind of joke, Mr. Holmes, I'll have you spend a night looking through bars.”

“I assure you it is nothing of the kind. What the note
doesn't
say is confirmation of a clue you didn't even know you had, Inspector.”