The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1 (6 page)

Chapter VIII. The British Museum.

I shall not bore my patient readers with the tedious details of the following few hours in Haywards Heath. Suffice it to say that the local police were suitably stunned by what they found, and were compelled to call in Scotland Yard, which meant young Jasper Lestrade, who arrived at the house around ten o'clock that night. Holmes told him what he knew, and Lestrade handled the rest. This included the return from a weekend away with friends of the fortunate girl Ellie, who was so shocked and hysterical that she had to be tranquilised and sent off by ambulance to a local hospital for the night. Holmes and I adjourned finally to The Dolphin around one in the morning, thoroughly exhausted, and grateful for our beds.

My sleep was fitful and its intermittent dreams were haunted by a middle-aged woman standing in the corner of a greenhouse, smiling as she swallowed a can of slimy green liquid, watched by a small boy smoking a pipe, his chin resting on his tented hands as he noted with interest the clutching of the throat, the body falling to the ground, the writhing in agony, the death throes. In the background, a shadowy figure in a white straitjacket crept among the plants, giggling. I woke up several times during the night, but could not rid myself of the recurrent tortuous nightmare.

There was a brief unsigned note from Holmes waiting for me at breakfast: ‘Must remain here with Lestrade for further tests and funeral, etc., Suggest you return to London by first train and pursue the British Museum angle. Would appreciate it if you could move back into Baker Street. No expenses to be incurred by you. Just until the case is solved, of course.'

Well really!

Frankly it suited me to return to London, as I still had patients to see, but I was annoyed that he should have risen so early and left me to my own devices in this way. I suspected he had other plans, quite apart from his father's funeral. Plans that excluded me. As for setting up my plate once again in Baker Street, such a departure from my normal routine would require rather more than a mere line or two at breakfast! Who did he think I was? One of the Baker Street Irregulars? Wiggins? No expense, indeed! Mind you, the thought of seeing Lily Hudson every day did have its attractions.

And so as usual I did as I was told, and spent that day clearing patients off my roster, and preparing to move back into 221B Baker Street. I still hadn't heard from Holmes on the second day, so I took his advice and started to investigate the previous employees of the British Museum, in the hope that we might identify his childhood friend.

After a hefty breakfast, I took a wonderfully lethargic hackney to the British Museum via Regent's Park. It was a delightful journey. Apart from the musical clipping and clopping, spring was in the air and there was plenty of enjoyment to be derived from the snow drops and daffodils. The fog had cleared early, the sun shone bright as a diamond and the sky was a welcome azure blue. Squirrels crept cautiously out of hibernation, realised their mistake, and crept back in again. I did try to concentrate on the job in hand, but found myself thinking of Lily Hudson. And of Tennyson:
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
What a silly old codger!

I arrived at the Museum around ten o'clock. Montague Street hadn't changed much since my early days in practice. Holmes had lived there also, but it was only when he advertised for someone to share the apartment in Baker Street, that young Stamford facilitated our meeting in the Pathology Laboratory of Bart's Hospital. Somehow it seemed like a long time ago. What? Forty-four years or so? A lifetime for some. And a day I shall never forget.

The stern blue-rinsed crone at reception, with horn-rimmed spectacles raised querulously upon her forehead (I decided privately to call her Charity Pecksniff from Dickens'
Martin Chuzzlewit
) was initially most unhelpful in my quest. Until I introduced myself, that is. Then it was all ‘Oh, Doctor Watson this, and Doctor Watson that, I've read all the books, etc., etc., I'm such a fan of Sherlock Holmes. Isn't he clever?' Indeed. Eventually she calmed down somewhat, and introduced me to the Assistant Manager of the Museum, Mister Archibald Eccles, a rather squat mustachioed curmudgeon, whose grumpy grey features had obviously spent far too much of their life poring over ancient parchments and manuscripts in dusty rooms. He was not a fan, but reluctantly agreed to assist me in my task. Grumbling away about the importance of character versus plot, a subject I knew little about and cared less, he escorted me into the Payroll Office, where all employee records were held in metal cabinets that thronged the surrounding walls, like sentries on guard against invasion by consulting detectives and their assistants. They were organised alphabetically, but with nary an Arthur in the A section, nor a Conan in the C section. This came as no surprise to me.

I spent the following three hours sifting through all the records, listing the names of employees during 1890-1910. Then I reduced it to librarians and researchers, male only, and of the right age. None had a record of any previous mental illness. No surprise again. Such details were not shouted from the rooftops. Not then. Not now. Probably never. I ended up with thirteen names. Inspired, I decided to talk to Charity about them, as she might have actually worked with Holmes' childhood friend. I swore her to silence about this list, which caused her eyes to glisten and her spectacles to fall down onto her nose with excitement. Miraculously, she remembered everyone on the list and was a fund of information about each, including possible addresses and phone numbers, if any. I was able to make copious notes. None of them appeared to have been born in Yorkshire, though. Then she informed me that two of them were still working at the Museum on that very day and offered to introduce me to them. Apparently the British Museum had a policy of continuing the employment of certain older people with special skills, for as long as they wished. I agreed, on condition that she allow me to take her out to lunch first. Has a woman ever beamed so much, I wonder?

Huge mistake! By the time lunch was over, my ears had begun to wilt under the pressure of Charity's incessant chatter, chatter, chatter, about her problems with Archibald, her ailing mother and sisters, the way the Museum should be run, her loneliness and the cost of everything from clothes to pens to cabs to theatres. I fought bravely to get a single word in edgeways. After a while I began to think that Holmes had the right idea, in never being too friendly with strangers, especially women. I managed to extricate myself from her verbal clutches back at the Museum, as she was forced to return to the reception desk. I am ashamed to record that I made a promise to contact her again, knowing full well that I would never keep it. Poor soul.

She had told me where those two gentlemen were located, so I was able to track them down easily. The first was an unlikely candidate for the post of Sherlock's mentally troubled pal – Jeremiah Ludgate, a tiny effete librarian from Sussex with a high-pitched accent that was as far removed from Yorkshire as Wales. It was genuine southern counties, with a faint hint of Somerset. And he was single, lived with his mother, had never married and would like me to join them for supper that night! I excused myself instantly, and moved over to the second suspect, wondering if it was now the ‘in' thing to be a nancy boy, an alteration in society's values that had passed me by altogether since the loss of my darling Beatrice.

Suspect number two was more promising. Ignatius Doyle looked exhausted, his gaunt cadaverous face drooping peacefully back over his chair. His emaciated skin had the pallor of a dead man. He seemed to be sleeping soundly. However, he hauled himself up rapidly on my arrival, fingered his thin grey Van Dyck goatee protectively and stretched out his long legs. There was something effeminate about the movement. He seemed in a very bad mood indeed. Perhaps he didn't appreciate being woken up.

‘Good afternoon,' I said.

‘O yea?' It was a thin, reedy voice, his accent more London estuary than Yorkshire. His Adam's apple jiggled up and down in his scrawny neck.

‘All right, then. Bad afternoon. My name is Dr. Watson.'

‘Better. Much better. Well done. And a bad afternoon to you, too.
Doctor
Watson.'

For a second I imagined that I had slipped into my unconscious mind, where all the writing action is supposed to take place.

‘Eh, I wondered if you might be able to help me. I'm checking on some people who used to work here between 1890 and 1910. I believe you were employed here then. It's on behalf of my good friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes.'

Another mistake.

‘Ah, yes. Let me remember. Wasn't he the character who imagined he was some sort of brilliant detective?
Holmes, the meddler; Holmes, the busybody; Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office
. Years ago, that was. Never believed a single word of those yarns of yours. All lies. Sorry. Can't help. Busy cataloguing.'

‘I'll have you know, sir, that many criminals have had cause to regret their contact with the
brilliant detective
,' I stated loyally.

The loathsome cretin actually giggled as he turned his creepy pale blue eyes up at me and stroked his pathetic excuse of a beard.

‘But not all criminals? What about the ones he let go, eh? Like he was God Almighty? He misprisoned a felony on ten occasions, at least.'

‘To whom might you be referring?' I enquired haughtily.

‘Let me see now. Obviously this means I have read the books, something I wouldn't want to admit to my neighbour, but what about old Sterndale in ‘The Devil's Foot', or Milverton's regal murderess, or Black Jack of Ballarat, or… Ryder in ‘The Adventure Of The Blue Carbuncle'? Eh? What about them for starters,
Doctor
Watson?'

‘Holmes represents justice, not the law, Mr. Doyle,' I retaliated. ‘These people were victims, not criminals, and in one case, he was about to die anyway. For him, sometimes the solution of a crime is its own reward. That's quite enough. I can see you have no wish to be of assistance to me. I'll let you get back to your so-called
work
. Good day to you, sir.'

Doyle slid his legs under the desk and continued his idle pretense of cataloguing. What a nasty piece of work! And worthy of a special tick beside his name. After all, the weed obviously knew quite a bit about the adventures of Holmes and myself. Could he be Sherlock's childhood friend, Conan Arthur, after a name change? Obsessed with his old pal's success in life, as documented by yours truly?

And jealous as all Hell?

Chapter IX. The Second Puzzle.

Despite my doubts about the notion, I moved back into 221B Baker Street early the following morning. Temporarily, of course. It was another of those famous soupy London days, when you had to strain your eyes to see other people through the fog. Lily Hudson welcomed me down from my trap with one of her humorous mock-curtsies, pretending that she was in the presence of royalty. She grinned and fluttered her eyelids demonically while grabbing one of my two cases and leading me up the stairs to my old quarters.

‘Blimey! Jes' movin' in for a li'l while, are we, Watsey? Yer cuddah fooled me! I'll betcha go' lead pyjarmas an' awll!'

‘Is Mr. Holmes at home?' I enquired, as we reached the landing and dropped our cases. In truth, I had no adequate response to her challenging energy and levity.

‘Indeed he is, Watson,' came a cheery voice from inside the apartment. ‘Just finishing an experiment on paper. There we are. Most interesting! Well, come on in, old chap! Don't delay. What do you think of the room now?'

Magically, the chemistry bench was back in its rightful place, as were my old chair, desk and bookcase. And for once, Holmes looked like his old self,
sans
disguise, dressed in one of his dull mouse-coloured dressing-gowns.

‘So you see, Watson. You were not forgotten. We even have your old room ready for you. Miss Hudson will carry your cases up to it.'

‘Bleedin' 'ell! She will if she bleedin' well can! He's go' a full setah cutlery in 'ere, oi reckons. An' some form o' weaponry too, oi shudden be a bi' supprised. An' iron boots. Yer in the cavalry, was yer?'

‘Here, let me get them, Lily.' I hauled the suitcases up the stairs into my old room, and was pleasantly surprised to find it almost unchanged since my last sojourn many years earlier, apart from the redecoration and a new bed. I felt that I was entering Wells' time machine again, as I returned to the first floor.

‘Welcum to the mad'owse, Watsey. Ain't it jes' grawnd? Oi'll be seein' a lo' more o' moi fav'rite teddy bear. Cuppa' tea, anywun?' asked Lily.

‘Yes, Miss Hudson. That would be very nice. Never mind unpacking for now, Watson. Sit down in your old chair, fill your pipe and we'll update each other on our progress.'

‘Certainly, Holmes.'

As he puffed away on his filthy dottles from the previous day, I reflected that this man did not look like someone who had lost both his only sibling and father in less than a week. And whose own life was in imminent danger of coming to its end. Even the story of his childhood did not fully explain his cold-blooded indifference to the normal, everyday emotions of the rest of us. His heart must have been chiselled from a block of ice.

‘Eh, what arrangements have you made for your father's funeral?' I continued.

‘All done, Watson. He was cremated yesterday, in Haywards Heath. I insisted there be no autopsy. Ellie mourned quite a lot, I thought.'

‘But Holmes, why didn't you let me know? I might have wanted to… to share this experience with you, in some manner or other,' I finished lamely.

‘Nonsense, Watson. You had work to do. Any word from the British Museum?'

I sighed, in frustration at ever understanding the lack of humanity in my old colleague.

‘Yes. I went there yesterday and talked to two of the thirteen most likely candidates for the role of your childhood friend. Here's a list of their names and contact details. Ignatius Doyle was extremely rude to me, and it would not surprise me a bit if he was our man. And as a librarian, he might have access to the same type of paper that is used for the ciphers.'

I handed the list to Holmes, who perused it critically.

‘True. I suppose we must check each of these out together, even though some of the ages are off the mark a bit. Dates of birth can be falsified, especially when it comes to getting a job. And I will probably recognise Conan, whereas you will not. Good work, Watson. Although Lestrade and I could find no further clues down at Haywards Heath, I have made some progress in the twin areas of publishing houses and ciphers. You remember Wiggins, don't you?'

‘Of course. He must be middle-aged by now. Surely he's not still doing odd jobs for you?'

‘As well as ever. Although he operates alone, the other Baker Street Irregulars having gone their separate ways, including several into the hands of Her Majesty's Prison Service, I regret to report. And he costs somewhat more than a shilling nowadays. I asked him to purchase samples of the type of paper used by a list of London publishers. I then compared them under the lens with the paper used by our friend, and guess what?'

‘I give up, Holmes. What?'

‘I found one exact match. And it was particularly interesting. Have you heard of the Hogarth Press?'

‘No. They must be a small or private Publishing House.'

‘Watson, what would you say if I were to tell you that the Hogarth Press is run by Virginia Woolf and her husband Leonard, to publish the Bloomsbury Group's own appallingly tedious novels and poetry?'

Holmes' body language resembled that of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. It had the desired effect on me.

‘Oh, well done. I'd say we were onto something concrete at last, Holmes. Mycroft was a member of the Group, and they are known for their sexual… laxity.'

‘Well. All it really means is that the killer has access to the same type of paper used by the Group. He might have purchased some of their books, and may not have anything to do with that lot. And the fact that Mycroft was once a member may be pure coincidence.'

‘But Holmes, put that with the notion of free love and musical men. That's a definite connection. Also the first clue was of a literary nature. What about the second clue? Have you solved it yet?'

‘I believe so. But I'm not sure it gets us very far. As I thought, it is a simple pigpen cipher. Our man is no mathematical genius. Indeed, his mind is quite childish. He seems to be learning as he goes along.'

‘What exactly is a pigpen cipher, Holmes?' It occurred to me that sometimes I could be confused with the straight man in a comedy duo, feeding the funny man his lines.

‘It's a substitution code, where symbols are swapped with letters, based on a grid. Other names for it are the tic-tac-toe or masonic cipher. The scheme was developed by Freemasons in the early 1700s for record-keeping and correspondence, and was used by the Confederates in the American Civil War. The grid can be any agreed set of symbols, but the most commonly used one is a box-and-dot, like this one.'

Holmes handed me a piece of paper with this puzzling diagram drawn upon it:

‘In other words, Watson,

This can be personalised by entry of an agreed keyword at the beginning, thereby creating a unique substitution code. Each symbol can be shifted to a different angle, say ninety degress, to make any decryption more complex. Or indeed, any equation of letters to any set of symbols can be agreed in advance of encryption. I'm sure you get my meaning. Anyway, using the conventional method of transposing the letters for the symbols:

translates to:

W.H.A.T.U.G.E.T.O.N.F.I.R.S.T.X.M.A.S.D.A.Y.

Now what do you make of that, Watson?'

‘Not a single thing. I can't think at the moment. My head's not right, and my brain hurts. Eh. Presents? Santa Claus? Turkey? Drunk?'

‘First, Watson. What u get on
first
xmas day. Hhmm. I confess it has caused me some puzzlement also. More pipes might be needed.'

‘A bleedin' par'ridge in a bleedin' pear tree, tha's woh!'

We were so involved with the cipher that we had failed to notice Lily Hudson entering the room with her tray.

‘Oi tol' yer pair the day'd come when yer'd need the 'elp o' Lily 'Udson. An' oi were righ'!'

I leapt out of my chair with excitement. Well, almost.

‘Of course. What a clever girl, Lily! She's absolutely on the button, Holmes. You are familiar with the Christmas Song, aren't you?'

I burst into the first few verses of the song, with Lily joining in, for good measure:

‘On the first day of Christmas, 

my true love sent to me 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

On the second day of Christmas, 

my true love sent to me 

Two turtle doves, 

And a partridge in a pear tree. 

On the third day of Christmas, 

my true love sent to me …'

‘Enough! Good God! Do stop!' shouted Holmes, jumping up also.

‘A partridge in a pear tree, Holmes. Don't you see? That's the clue!'

‘Yes, yes, Watson. I do get it. I'm not entirely dense, you know. And apparently my present housekeeper is almost as intelligent as I.

‘But what does it mean?' I mused. ‘Thank you, Lily.'

Lily poured our tea silently for us, and left the room quietly, and I suspect, rather hurt by her master's threatening lack of enthusiasm for her efforts.

‘I say, Holmes. You were a bit rough on her. Just because she showed us both up.'

‘Yes, yes, Watson. But what does that line mean? Where is the clue? Partridge, pear and tree are the only nouns in it, so presumably it might mean that the name of the next victim is one of those.'

‘What can we do about it? Find everyone with those names, and warn them?'

‘We can but try. Fetch me the directory, will you?'

‘Eh, where is it kept now?' I asked innocently.

‘On the mantelpiece, beside the telephone.'

‘Oh, I see. Same place as usual. I had forgotten. Here you are, Holmes.'

Holmes opened the directory on the table and flicked through the pages.

‘Now let's see… Peak, Peal, Pean, Peas… no Pear… Treber, Trecine, Tredwell… no Tree… Partridge, Partridge, Partridge. There are three Partridges in the London book, so I suggest that we start there. Damn. Who can that be at this hour of the day?'

Noisy clumpings from the stairs signalled Lily's arrival after the bell. She was followed closely by an obviously stressed-out Jasper Lestrade, who burst past her into the room, gesturing frantically with his hat.

‘There's been another murder,' he blurted.

‘Great Heavens! Who the devil is it?' Holmes and I shouted in unison.

‘Reginald Sherring Partridge. Apparently he was a writer of sorts.'