The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1 (3 page)

‘I understand, Holmes. It's really quite simple. This one reads ‘whwyrothehapthoponrteiotdaepst', if I work from top to bottom on each column.'

‘Precisely.' Holmes created a second matrix and handed it back to me with a smile of satisfaction on his face. ‘Now what have we got, Watson?'

This time the grid read as follows:

‘So now we have the letters:

‘
whoisthepotterprayandwhothepot
'. This just sounds equally meaningless to me.'

Holmes wrote the letters out again and handed the paper back to me.

‘Now what does it read?'

‘Who is the potter, pray, and who the pot? Well, that makes for better English, but it's still double Dutch to me. Although there is something in the Book of Isaiah about pots and clay.'

‘It is a quote from Edward Fitzgerald's translation of Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat:
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?
The wine bowls come alive and ask: Did God invent man, or did man invent God? A fascinating question, Watson. Is he giving us a hint as to who he is? A sculptor, perhaps? Is it simply a clue? Does he want to be caught? Does he think that he is God? Talking of God, Watson. The quote is questioning the existence of a Supreme Being. What about it? Do you believe in the existence of a benign God?'

‘Holmes, how could you possibly ask me that? Of course I believe in God! Don't you?'

‘I have to admit, old man, that my childhood faith was thrown into disarray by that war of wars. What kind of God could have tolerated such slaughter on both sides? And then there's that Darwin chappie, with his theory that man is descended from the ape. He claims to have proof. It might well be true. I've always found it hard to believe that God damned us all because some woman ate an apple. Everything connects, Watson. And nothing has meaning. Our ideas must be as broad as Nature if we are to interpret Nature. Don't tell me that you have faith in an afterlife?'

‘Of course I do. My Mary and Bea are waiting for me there!'

‘Yes, of course they are,' he sighed patiently. ‘You're a lucky man, Watson. Let's forget about such unknowable ideas for the time being, and focus on the quote. What does it tell us? Is it a cipher in itself? In other words, a cipher within a cipher? What kind? Or is it a form of substitution code? He'd need to work a bit harder on his simple-minded grids if he wishes to flummox me. And that word Goatslayer? What religion prohibits homosexuality more than any other?'

‘Islam? And they kill and eat goats in the Middle East,' I suggested.

‘Precisely. And with a certain kind of slaughter knife, too. Might be a clue, might not. Omar Khayyam was a 12th century Persian astronomer and poet, so that's another link. Let me see if my indices have any more data on him or his translator.'

Holmes retrieved a thick volume from his book shelves.

‘Here we are. Edward Fitzgerald – born in Suffolk of a wealthy family – never needed to work for a living – preoccupied with flowers, music and literature – de-da, de-da, de-da – marriage to Lucy Barton lasted only a few months – very close to some male friends. Hah! There we have it, Watson. Reading between the lines, I think we may assume that the translator of the Rubayait was like Mycroft. A musical man. Is it a clue, perhaps? A clue within a cipher, rather than a cipher within a cipher?'

Holmes sat down abruptly and flung the paper impatiently down the table.

‘Oh, I don't think we can get any more out of this note just now. More data is needed, Watson. We can't make bricks without clay. Now, unless I'm much mistaken, the musical door-bell has sounded, signalling the arrival of young Lestrade. Let us drink our tea while we await the unfortunate spawn of the bulldog George, who incidently passed away last year. May his soul rest in eternal peace, as his life was a continual irritation to his betters.'

‘Holmes!' I protested.

Chapter III. Jasper Lestrade.

‘Mr. Lesteraday to see yer, Mr. Houlmes.' Lily, complete with faux-gentry accent, attempted a curtsy and failed, staggering back as she ushered a lean ferret-faced young man into the room. She recovered to close the door delicately behind him.

Jasper Lestrade sported a pencil moustache and twirled a homberg nervously in his hands. A visible wave of relief seemed to come over him when Lily shut the door. For myself, I felt that I was entering one of Mr. Herbert Wells' time-warps, as his clothing and general demeanour were carbon copies of his father's. A much younger version, of course, and without the sallowness of his father. For some reason he assumed that I was Sherlock Holmes and ventured towards me, hand outstretched.

‘I am very pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Holmes. Most sorry to hear about your esteemed brother.'

I shook his hand cordially.

‘How do you do, Detective Lestrade. I am Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes' biographer. This is Sherlock Holmes,' I said, inviting him to meet my friend.

He switched tack immediately to shake the hand of his father's old enemy.

‘My father told me so much about you, Mr. Holmes. Especially towards the end. All of it good. None of it bad. Well, he may have tried to match you once or twice, and complained about it to the family when he lost out, but I'm here to tell you that any assistance you can give me on the cases I have, would be much appreciated. I need help on this horrible one, sir, and that's a fact. I'm clear out of my depth. We all are, at the Yard. None of us can make head nor tail of it.'

Holmes cast a sideways glance at me, as if this were too good to be true. Either Jasper Lestrade was a genuinely humble policeman – a contradiction in terms, in my opinion – or else he was a masterful manipulator of egos. And he appeared to be rather better educated than his father, which I imagined might be an advantage to us.

‘Lestrade. Please. Sit. Your father was definitely the best of the professionals,' oozed Holmes. ‘He was a dedicated policeman, and a practical man who lacked imagination, but who knew his limitations all too well.'

Lestrade seated himself at the table, but kept his coat and scarf on. He seemed unaware of any insult to his father's memory.

‘Yes. Thank you for your kind note on his demise. It was much appreciated by my mother and I. I'll put my cards on the table, Mr. Holmes. I am more ambitious than my father, and I believe that you and Doctor Watson can assist my career. I was raised on your exploits, and have studied your exciting cases in some detail. The manner in which you arrived at the solution that forced Mr. Jonas Oldacre to expose himself in the matter of the Norwood Builder, I found especially admirable. My father saw himself in competition with you, and was heavily prejudiced against what he called the interference of ‘those Baker Street amateurs'. However, I feel that certain crimes necessitate a more circuitous route to their solution than are provided by professionals. Provided no laws are broken, of course. Might I repeat my sincere commiserations at the loss of your brother, sir? This business must be very trying for you.'

‘Yes, well. Grief has a way of disappearing over time, and during that time I shall be focussing on the capture, arrest and indeed, punishment of his murderer, this Goatslayer. Hopefully before he can get his hands on me. Any ideas on that?'

Lestrade pulled a slip of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Holmes. ‘This is the list of members and their guests who had frequented the club on the two days before Mycroft's murder. The Diogenes employees are written on the back. The autopsy report has been delayed, I'm afraid.'

‘Thank you,' said Holmes, spreading the sheet out on the table. ‘Why the delay?'

‘Well, sir. The toxicologist discovered certain… drugs… in Mr Mycroft's system, and wanted to carry out further tests as to the presence of other… substances.'

‘Really? Most interesting. Do you box?'

‘I beg your pardon?

‘You look like a very fit young man. What is your sport?'

‘Not boxing. But I do play some football for the police team. Association football. When I have time, that is.'

‘Good. We must work closely together from now on, young Lestrade. You may have noticed that Watson and I are no longer in what is fondly known as the first flush of youth. We will need your legs.'

Lestrade looked pleased. ‘I'll do my best,' he murmured. ‘Long as it doesn't interfere with my duties at the Yard.'

‘Excellent. We make a formidable threesome. And you will go far in your profession, I assure you.'

I felt a momentary qualm at being included in Holmes' plans without being asked, and somewhat nettled by his blithe assumption that I was free to join him on his cases. But he had observed all too accurately the paucity of my medical practice, and so my nature was swift to resurrect the loyalty which had kept me by his side all those years ago. If he needed me now, I would be ready again. And for my part I was happy to have some time away from those few patients of mine, with their dreary problems.

‘Do you have any data on the type of weapon used in the… method, Lestrade?' asked Holmes.

‘None whatsoever. It could be anything. All we can presume is that it is more blunt than sharp, because of the mess.'

‘But it might be sharp, and in the hands of an incompetent?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Good. And can you keep this murder out of the newspapers for the time being?'

‘Yes.'

‘Excellent. Are you familiar with the terms of reference of the Diogenes Club, Lestrade?'

‘Eh, no, Mr. Holmes. Can't say that I am.'

‘It is for the convenience of the most unsociable and unclubable men about town. There are many men in London who have no wish for the company of their fellows or their women. Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals, printed on unrustling paper. It is for these that the Diogenes Club was formed. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other. Only in the Stranger's Room is talking allowed. Three offences, if brought to the committee's notice, render the talker liable to expulsion. Someone who coughs three times can be expelled. My brother was one of the founders, and I have myself on occasion found it to have a very soothing atmosphere. Before I was expelled, that is. Can you tell us the time of death, Lestrade?'

‘To the nearest hour, it was four o'clock, Mr. Holmes. A.M., that is.'

‘Indeed. So my brother was murdered at night. Is the Diogenes Club open then?'

‘No. But all the members have their own key, and can come and go as they like. It is possible that Mr. Mycroft fell asleep after dinner, and simply remained in his chair – as had apparently become his habit – until the arrival of the murderer. I have talked to Joseph, the doorman. He found the body at seven, shortly after coming on duty. He claims no other members were present then.'

‘So it could be anybody who managed to get a copy of one of the keys. Not necessarily one of the members or staff.'

‘Yes, Mr. Holmes.'

‘I see. Now, the list.'

Homes smoked his foul shag tobacco intently as he perused the list.

‘This is splendid work, Lestrade. You've managed to gather details about each member, such as age, occupation, marital status, duration of membership, address. I notice that two thirds of them are over eighty years of age, and the balance over fifty. The Diogenes Club should really start a membership drive, or else it will fold within a decade or two. Have you interrogated anybody?'

‘Yes, sir. All of them, and the staff also. We spent the first two days of our investigation establishing their whereabouts during the night. All members are married or widowed, and their wives or butlers have provided solid alibis. Of the staff, only Joseph is not married, and the others have similar alibis. It would seem that the club is a bolt hole during the day only, Mr. Holmes.'

I noted with favour that young Lestrade was capable of irony, something his father had lacked entirely.

‘Would it be possible for a day guest to remain there and hide somewhere in the club overnight?' I suggested.

‘I checked that, Doctor Watson. Each member must sign a guest in and out, with the guest's signature included, in the Visitor's Book. None were missing. Joseph also keeps a record of arrivals and departures, and confirms this.'

‘Right. Well, I don't think we can get any more out of the members than you, Lestrade. But we must have a look at the Stranger's Room, at least. I shall have to disguise myself as a senior policeman, no mean task. Watson can be my sergeant-in arms. Can you arrange that for this afternoon, Lestrade?'

‘Yes, sir.'

I coughed gently.

‘Holmes?'

‘Yes, Watson?'

‘Why would Mycroft enter the Stranger's Room with his murderer? Might he have known him?'

‘Yes. I suspect that it is very likely that Mycroft knew his murderer. Now, the employee list,' replied Holmes, turning over the sheet of paper. ‘Hmm. O'Neill is the only name I recognise. Perhaps their staff has turned over since my time there. I'd like to talk to Joseph, at least.'

‘Eh, Mr. Holmes, that might not get you very far. Joseph is rather… simple. His history is that of an orphan who was adopted by a pair of wealthy philantropists, who secured this position for him. He has been well trained at what he does, but I doubt if he can help us in any way. And although his parents were black, he suffers from albinism. He has no pigment in his skin and he looks white.'

Holmes placed his head in his hands. It was a gesture that I recalled from our previous life together. It usually meant that he was getting bored and losing interest.

‘Gentlemen,' he cried. ‘Without facts, we have no case. It is a capital mistake to theorise before we have all the evidence. We need… information!'

‘What about the note left by the murderer?' enquired Lestrade. ‘Have you made any progress with it?'

Holmes indicated with his pipe that I should explain our findings to the young policeman, which I duly did. When I had finished, I noticed that my old friend had descended into the sort of silent reverie that used to indicate a profound concentration, but I rather fancied from the shade of sadness on his fine aquiline features, that he might be contemplating his dead brother and their childhood together. The only sound in the room was the steady ticking of the clock, until I became aware of a familiar clumping from the direction of the stairs.

Like clockwise, at one o'clock a grunting Lily Hudson banged open the door with her backside and entered the room carrying a sizeable tray with a steaming bowl and several dishes. She slammed it pointedly onto the table beside Lestrade, who leapt out of his seat in alarm.

Holmes chuckled.

‘Won't you stay for lunch, Lestrade?'

‘Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I must be getting back to the station. I'll see you both this afternoon at the club. Three o'clock alright?'

‘Excellent,' replied Holmes.

‘There's 'nough fodder fer three, sur,' cackled Lily wildly.

Lestrade grabbed his hat and backed out of the room hastily. It occurred to me later that he might have gone all the way down the stairs backwards, just to keep an eye on Lily as she chased after him.

Holmes seated himself at the table, flicked his napkin over his trousers, and picked up his knife and fork.

‘Hmmm. This smells delicious. I must remember to award Lily the fulsome praise she will no doubt be expecting. Tuck in, Watson. What do you make of young Lestrade?'

‘He seems genuine enough, and a lot brighter than his father,' I replied, a forkful of pie pausing on its way to my mouth.

‘Hhmm.
Seems
being the operative word. There's nothing wrong with being a careerist. Or a diplomat. I shall reserve judgement also, until we see how much help he can give us. Eat up, old fellow. After our lunch we must away to the scene of the crime. By Beardmore taxi-cab, of course.'

I groaned.