The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (91 page)

“Note carefully the last word, which is ‘First.' This might, of course, have been an obscure reference to the Bible, in which it is promised that the last shall be first, but in perusing the original message I sensed no religious aura, and I am particularly sensitive to such emanations. No; instead I allowed myself to consider those cases in which it might be important to be first. I do not, of course, refer to queues or obstacles of that nature. The logical answer, naturally, is in wagering. The various means available to the
Englishman of today to place a wager are extremely proscribed, and after checking the team standings and finding Nottingham still firmly in the lead, I turned to the racing news.

“And there I found, as I had honestly expected to find, that in the second race at Ascot today, the entry of the Abbott-Castle stables is a three-year-old filly named
Who's On First
.”

He turned to the young woman at his side. “My dear,” said he, “I fear that your uncle is involved in a touting scheme and that the group with whom he has been meeting lately have been using the telegraph system to send advices regarding probable winners. This is, of course, frowned upon in most racing circles; but as I have so often stated, I am not of the official police, and therefore feel no responsibility for bringing people to their so-called justice over minor vices. I shall look forward, however, to the proof of my ratiocination at the track in a few moments.”

“Oh, Mr. Schlock Homes,” cried Miss Wimpole, clasping his hand in gratitude, “you have relieved my mind greatly. I have been so worried, especially since I have accidentally come across large sums of money hidden in obscure places in the house and feared that my uncle had become involved with some desperate characters engaged in nefarious practices. Now that I am cognizant of the nature of the enterprise, I can relax and may even replace at least a part of these sums with my conscience at rest, knowing that they were not gained through fearful means. But you must let me pay you for your efforts in this matter, Mr. Homes. Pray tell me what your fee is.”

“No, Miss Wimpole,” replied Homes with simple dignity. “If my theory is as good as I believe it to be, there shall be no question of payment. I shall take as payment the benefits of the information which you yourself were so kind as to bring to my attention.”

Within a few minutes our hansom drew up at the ornate gate of the famous racing meet, and while Homes went to study the posted odds and speak with some of the bookmakers with whom he enjoyed acquaintance, I purchased the latest journal and retired to the stands to await his return. He was with me in a few moments, smiling broadly.

“It is even better than I had imagined, Watney!” said he. “The true genius of these people arouses my profoundest admiration. I note that in addition to
Who's On First
in the second race, this same Abbott-Castle stable has entered a horse named
What On Second
in the first race. And when I spoke to one of the track stewards just a moment ago, he informed me that because of rumours which have been flooding the steward's office—rumours apparently started by one of the hansom drivers at the gate—they propose to combine the two races. Now, at long last, the true nature of this ingenious plot finally emerges!”

“But what might that be, Homes?” I asked in bewilderment. “Can it be that the stewards are cognizant of the touting scheme and are using this means to combat it?”

“Your faith in track stewards is touching, Watney,” said Homes dryly. “I am quite convinced that without the aid of one of their members, named Joseph, the entire scheme could not have been contemplated. No, no, Watney! The plan is far more intricate. These people know that if they go to a bookmaker with a bet on any one horse to win, the maximum odds which they can expect will be in the nature of five, or at most ten, to one. But think, Watney, think! Consider! What would the odds be against a
tie
?”

At once the devilish cleverness of the entire business burst upon my brain. “What do you propose to do, Homes?” I asked, searching his strong face for a clue.

“I have already done it, Watney,” he replied calmly, and withdrew from his weskit five separate betting slips, each for the sum of £20, and each to be redeemed at the rate of 200 to 1 should the combined race end in a tie.

“Well, Watney,” said Homes, when we were once again seated comfortably in our rooms in Bagel Street, “I can honestly state that to my mind this
was one of my most successful cases—certainly from the financial standpoint. I feel that the ingenuity involved in codifying the betting information, while leaving out certain obvious factors, places our Mr. Wimpole and his associates in a special category of brilliance. We must be thankful that they have selected this relatively harmless means of breaching the law, and not something more nefarious. I certainly do not begrudge him his gains, although I must say that in seeing through their clever scheme, I feel quite justified in keeping mine.”

Homes lit his pipe, and when it was pulling to his satisfaction, spoke again. “And now, Watney, we must search for another case to ward off boredom. Is there any crime news in that journal you are perusing which might prove to be of interest to us?”

“Only this,” I said, folding the sheet in half and handing it to Homes with the indicated article on top. “Some three million pounds' worth of diamonds were stolen last night from the home of the Japanese ambassador. They were known as the Ogima Diamonds, and were considered the most valuable collection of their type in the world. The article states that the police believe it to be the work of a gang, but that otherwise they find themselves without a clue.”

“Ah, really?” murmured Homes, his nostrils distended in a manner I had long since come to recognize as indicating intense interest. “May I see the article, Watney? Ah, yes! Ogima…Ogima…There is something faintly familiar…” He reached behind himself to the shelf where the reference books were kept and, drawing one out, opened it to the letter
O
.

“Ogima in basic Swahili means pencil-sharpener,” he said, half to himself, “while the same word in ancient Mandarin referred to the type of pick used with the one-string guitar. No; I doubt if this is of much help. It would be far too subtle.”

He returned the reference book to the shelf, and studied the article once again. Suddenly his faced cleared, and he leaned forward excitedly.

“Of course! You will note, Watney, that
Ogima
spelled backwards becomes
Amigo
. I shall be very much surprised if the answer to this problem does not lie somewhere south of the border. Your timetable, Watney, if you please.”

THE CREATOR OF
the irascible but beloved Inspector Morse, Norman Colin Dexter (1930– ) shares many qualities with his detective (though not the irascibility). They both love English literature, cask ale, the music of Richard Wagner, and extremely difficult crossword puzzles. In November 2008, Dexter was featured on a BBC broadcast,
How to Solve a Cryptic Crossword
, where he spoke about Morse's dexterity with crossword clues.

The first novel featuring Morse was
Last Bus to Woodstock
(1975), and he was the central character in all of Dexter's thirteen novels and six of the stories in
Morse's Greatest Mystery
(1993). Already widely read, the series about the Oxford police detective achieved even greater success when it was televised over thirty-three episodes of the TV series
Inspector Morse
, produced between 1987 and 2000. Much like Alfred Hitchcock, with his brief moments in front of the camera in the films he directed, Dexter enjoyed making a cameo appearance in almost all episodes. A lesser character from the Morse series, Sergeant (now Inspector) Lewis, became the star of a television series,
Lewis
; Dexter has cameos on this series as well.

The (British) Crime Writers' Association has honored two of his novels—
The Wench Is Dead
(1989) and
The Way Through the Woods
(1992)—with Gold Daggers, and awarded him the Cartier Diamond Dagger for lifetime achievement in 1997. In the tradition of other distinguished British mystery writers like Dorothy L. Sayers, Nicholas Blake, Edmund Crispin, and Michael Innes, Dexter's mysteries combine scholarly erudition, well-constructed plots, and humor.

“A Case of Mis-Identity” was originally published in
Winter's Crimes
, edited by Hilary Hale (London, Macmillan, 1989); it was collected in
Morse's Greatest Mystery
(London, Macmillan, 1993).

LONG AS HAD
been my acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I had seldom heard him refer to his early life; and the only knowledge I ever gleaned of his family history sprang from the rare visits of his famous brother, Mycroft. On such occasions, our visitor invariably addressed me with courtesy, but also (let me be honest!) with some little condescension. He was—this much I knew—by some seven years the senior in age to my great friend, and was a founder member of the Diogenes Club, that peculiar institution whose members are ever forbidden to converse with one another. Physically, Mycroft was stouter than his brother (I put the matter in as kindly a manner as possible); but the single most striking feature about him was the piercing intelligence of his eyes—greyish eyes which appeared to see beyond the range of normal mortals. Holmes himself had commented upon this last point: “My dear Watson, you have recorded—and I am flattered by it—something of my own powers of observation and deduction. Know, however, that Mycroft has a degree of observation somewhat the equal of my own; and as for deduction, he has a brain that is unrivalled—
virtually
unrivalled—in the northern hemisphere. You may be relieved, however, to learn that he is a trifle lazy, and quite decidedly somnolent—and that his executant ability on the violin is immeasurably inferior to my own.”

(Was there, I occasionally wondered, just the hint of competitive envy between those two unprecedented intellects?)

I had just called at 221
B
Baker Street on a fog-laden November afternoon in 188–, after taking part in some research at St. Thomas's Hospital into suppurative tonsilitis (I had earlier acquainted Holmes with the particulars). Mycroft was staying with Holmes for a few days, and as I entered that well-known sitting room I caught the tail-end of the brothers' conversation.

“Possibly, Sherlock—possibly. But it is the
detail
, is it not? Give me all the evidence and it is just possible that I could match your own analyses from my corner armchair. But to be required to rush hither and thither, to find and examine witnesses, to lie along the carpet with a lens held firmly to my failing sight…No! It is not my
métier
!”

During this time Holmes himself had been standing before the window, gazing down into the neutral-tinted London street. And looking over his shoulder, I could see that on the pavement opposite there stood an attractive young woman draped in a heavy fur coat. She had clearly just arrived, and every few seconds was looking up to Holmes's window in hesitant fashion, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons of her gloves. On a sudden she crossed the street, and Mrs. Hudson was soon ushering in our latest client.

After handing her coat to Holmes, the young lady sat nervously on the edge of the nearest armchair, and announced herself as Miss Charlotte van Allen. Mycroft nodded briefly at the newcomer, before reverting to a monograph on polyphonic plainchant; whilst Holmes himself
made observation of the lady in that abstracted yet intense manner which was wholly peculiar to him.

“Do you not find,” began Holmes, “that with your short sight it is a little difficult to engage in so much type-writing?”

Surprise, apprehension, appreciation, showed by turns upon her face, succeeded in all by a winsome smile as she appeared to acknowledge Holmes's quite extraordinary powers.

“Perhaps you will also tell me,” continued he, “why it is that you came from home in such a great hurry?”

For a few seconds, Miss van Allen sat shaking her head with incredulity; then, as Holmes sat staring towards the ceiling, she began her remarkable narrative.

“Yes, I did bang out of the house, because it made me very angry to see the way my father, Mr. Wyndham, took the whole business—refusing even to countenance the idea of going to the police, and quite certainly ruling out any recourse to yourself, Mr. Holmes! He just kept repeating—and I
do
see his point—that no real harm has been done…although he can have no idea of the misery I have had to endure.”

“Your father?” queried Holmes quietly. “Perhaps you refer to your step-father, since the names are different?”

“Yes,” she confessed, “my step-father. I don't know why I keep referring to him as ‘father'—especially since he is but five years older than myself.”

“Your mother—she is still living?”

“Oh, yes! Though I will not pretend I was over-pleased when she remarried so soon after my father's death—and then to a man almost seventeen years younger than herself. Father—my real father, that is—had a plumbing business in the Tottenham Court Road, and Mother carried on the company after he died, until she married Mr. Wyndham. I think he considered such things a little beneath his new wife, especially with his being in a rather superior position as a traveller in French wines. Whatever the case, though, he made Mother sell out.”

“Did you yourself derive any income from the sale of your father's business?”

“No. But I do have £100 annual income in my own right; as well as the extra I make from my typing. If I may say so, Mr. Holmes, you might be surprised how many of the local businesses—including
Cook and Marchant
—ask me to work for them a few hours each week. You see” (she looked at us with a shy, endearing diffidence) “I'm quite good at
that
in life, if nothing else.”

“You must then have some profitable government stock—?” began Holmes.

She smiled again: “New Zealand, at four and a half per cent.”

“Please forgive me, Miss van Allen, but could not a single lady get by very nicely these days on—let us say, fifty pounds per annum?”

“Oh, certainly! And I myself live comfortably on but ten shillings per week, which is only half of that amount. You see, I never touch a single penny of my inheritance. Since I live at home, I cannot bear the thought of being a burden to my parents, and we have reached an arrangement whereby Mr. Wyndham himself is empowered to draw my interest each quarter for as long as I remain in that household.”

Holmes nodded. “Why have you come to see me?” he asked bluntly.

A flush stole over Miss van Allen's face and she plucked nervously at a small handkerchief drawn from her bag as she stated her errand with earnest simplicity. “I would give everything I have to know what has become of Mr. Horatio Darvill. There! Now you have it.”

“Please, could you perhaps begin at the beginning?” encouraged Holmes gently.

“Whilst my father was alive, sir, we always received tickets for the gas-fitters' ball. And after he died, the tickets were sent to my mother. But neither Mother nor I ever thought of going, because it was made plain to us that Mr. Wyndham did not approve. He believed that the class of folk invited to such gatherings was inferior; and furthermore he asserted that neither of us—without considerable extra expenditure—had
anything fit to wear. But believe me, Mr. Holmes, I myself had the purple plush that I had never so much as taken from the drawer!”

It was after a decent interval that Holmes observed quietly: “But you
did
go to the ball?”

“Yes. In the finish, we both went—Mother and I—when my step-father had been called away to France.”

“And it was there that you met Mr. Horatio Darvill?”

“Yes! And—do you know?—he called the very next morning. And several times after that, whilst my step-father was in France, we walked out together.”

“Mr. Wyndham must have been annoyed once he learned what had occurred?”

Miss van Allen hung her pretty head. “Most annoyed, I'm afraid, for it became immediately clear that he did not approve of Mr. Darvill.”

“Why do you think that was so?”

“I am fairly sure he thought Mr. Darvill was interested only in my inheritance.”

“Did Mr. Darvill not attempt to keep seeing you—in spite of these difficulties?”

“Oh yes! I thought, though, it would be wiser for us to stop seeing each other for a while. But he did write—every single day. And always, in the mornings, I used to receive the letters myself so that no one else should know.”

“Were you engaged to this gentleman?”

“Yes! For there was no problem about his supporting me. He was a cashier in a firm in Leadenhall Street——”

“Ah! Which office was that?” I interposed, for that particular area is known to me well, and I hoped that I might perhaps be of some assistance in the current investigation. Yet the look on Holmes's face was one of some annoyance, and I sank further into my chair as the interview progressed.

“I never did know exactly which firm it was,” admitted Miss van Allen.

“But where did he live?” persisted Holmes.

“He told me that he usually slept in a flat on the firm's premises.”

“You must yourself have written to this man, to whom you had agreed to become engaged?”

She nodded. “To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, where I left my letters
poste restante
. Horatio—Mr. Darvill—said that if I wrote to him at his work address, he'd never get to see my envelopes first, and the young clerks there would be sure to tease him about things.”

It was at this point that I was suddenly conscious of certain stertorous noises from Mycroft's corner—a wholly reprehensible lapse into poor manners, as it appeared to me.

“What else can you tell me about Mr. Darvill?” asked Holmes quickly.

“He was very shy. He always preferred to walk out with me in the evening than in the daylight. ‘Retiring,' perhaps, is the best word to describe him—even his voice. He'd had the quinsy as a young man, and was still having treatment for it. But the disability had left him with a weak larynx, and a sort of whispering fashion of speaking. His eyesight, too, was rather feeble—just as mine is—and he always wore tinted spectacles to protect his eyes against the glare of any bright light.”

Holmes nodded his understanding; and I began to sense a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.

“What next?”

“He called at the house the very evening on which Mr. Wyndham next departed for France, and he proposed that we should marry before my step-father returned. He was convinced that this would be our only chance; and he was so dreadfully in earnest that he made me swear, with my hand upon both Testaments, that whatever happened I would always be true and faithful to him.”

“Your mother was aware of what was taking place?”

“Oh,
yes
! And she approved so much. In a strange way, she was even fonder of my fiancé than I was myself, and she agreed that our only chance was to arrange a secret marriage.”

“The wedding was to be in church?”

“Last Friday, at St. Saviour's, near King's Cross; and we were to go on to a wedding breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Horatio called a hansom for us, and put Mother and
me into it before stepping himself into a four-wheeler which happened to be in the street. Mother and I got to St. Saviour's first—it was only a few minutes' distance away. But when the four-wheeler drove up and we waited for him to step out—he never did, Mr. Holmes! And when the cabman got down from the box and looked inside the carriage—
it was empty
.”

“You have neither seen nor heard of Mr. Darvill since?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.

“You had planned a honeymoon, I suppose?”

“We had planned,” said Miss van Allen, biting her lip and scarce managing her reply, “a fortnight's stay at The Royal Gleneagles in Inverness, and we were to have caught the lunchtime express from King's Cross.”

“It seems to me,” said Holmes, with some feeling, “that you have been most shamefully treated, dear lady.”

But Miss van Allen would hear nothing against her loved one, and protested spiritedly: “Oh, no, sir! He was far too good and kind to treat me so.”

“Your own opinion, then,” said Holmes, “is that some unforeseen accident or catastrophe has occurred?”

She nodded her agreement. “And I think he must have had some premonition that very morning of possible danger, because he begged me then, once again, to remain true to him—whatever happened.”

“You have no idea what that danger may have been?”

“None.”

“How did your mother take this sudden disappearance?”

“She was naturally awfully worried at first. But then she became more and more angry; and she made me promise never to speak to her of the matter again.”

“And your step-father?”

“He seemed—it was strange, really—rather more sympathetic than Mother. At least he was willing to discuss it.”

“And what was his opinion?”

“He agreed that some accident must have happened. As he said, Mr. Darvill could have no possible interest in bringing me to the very doors of St. Saviour's—and then in deserting me there. If he had borrowed money—or if some of my money had already been settled on him—then there might have been some reason behind such a cruel action. But he was absolutely independent about money, and he would never even look at a sixpence of mine if we went on a visit. Oh, Mr. Holmes! It is driving me half-mad to think of—” But the rest of the sentence was lost as the young lady sobbed quietly into her handkerchief.

When she had recovered her composure, Holmes rose from his chair, promising that he would consider the baffling facts she had put before him. “But if I could offer you one piece of advice,” he added, as he held the lady's coat for her, “it is that you allow Mr. Horatio Darvill to vanish as completely from your memory as he vanished from his wedding-carriage.”

“Then you think that I shall not see him again?”

“I fear not. But please leave things in my hands. Now! I wish you to send me a most accurate physical description of Mr. Darvill, as well as any of his letters which you feel you can spare.”