The New Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

‘He wrote to you from ports of call, did he not? I recall that you showed me one or two of his letters.’

‘You must forgive an old man his pride,’ Mr Buckle said in a muffled voice. ‘I’m a sentimental old fool, I suppose, keeping those letters. But apart from my memories, they are all that I have left of him and I like to show them to people who might be interested. He was such a lively correspondent, Mr Holmes. His last voyage took him to the other side of the world and he delighted in telling us what he got up to and all about the sights he saw.’

‘Were all his letters were stolen by this burglar?’

‘Not all of them, thank the Lord. He left a couple, together with several from Charlotte, which I kept in a drawer in my bedroom. But the theft mortified me. How I wished that the rogue had stolen something else – anything but those letters! Kilner did his best to console me, but I would have none of it. Suddenly I had the worst of all worlds. A determined burglar had for some reason made me his target, yet failed to take anything but the items I held most dear. It was a pound to a penny that he would return to steal whatever he wanted in the first place. He left no clues for the police to follow and they have confessed themselves baffled about the crime. From that day to this, I haven’t dared to open the shop – or leave the building. Had it not been for the comfort provided by the herb of grace, I should have been entirely bereft. You know yourself that nothing dispels the clouds of care in quite the same way as a cloud of aromatic smoke.’

‘Indeed. I have been remiss, Mr Buckle!’ Holmes cried, hastening to one of the tobacco pouches on the mantel-piece. ‘I beg you to forgive my manners.  Will you join me in a stick of cavendish?’

For the first time a faint smile passed across our visitor’s troubled features. As if transformed by the mere sight of the tobacco, he ceased to be a bent old man and became a skilled craftsman, slicing and shredding the herb with infinite care. After rubbing it gently between his palms, he gathered it up in his fingers as if it were a pet kitten, all the while smelling it as he might a delicate flower.

‘Ah, the Nicotian joys!’ he exclaimed as he took his first puff. ‘I love my business, as you know. Even at seventy one, I had not contemplated retirement, but this affair has knocked the stuffing out of me. Kilner sought to cheer me up. He argued that the burglar, having tried and failed, would not trouble me again, but I was much less sanguine. For the past few weeks I have been a prisoner in my own home, Mr Holmes. At last this morning I concluded that I owed it to myself, and to George as well, to seek your guidance.’

‘A pretty puzzle,’ Holmes said, casting another glance at the anonymous message. ‘Tell me this, Mr Buckle. What is the name of your customer or associate who enjoys a close connection with the town of Bradford?’

Our visitor stared at Holmes in amazement. ‘Why, how on earth do you…?’

‘His name?’ Holmes insisted.

‘Well, Harry Kilner, the friend I mentioned to you, was born and bred in that part of the world. His sisters still live in Bradford, but he came to London years ago.’

‘He still retains a nostalgic attachment to his Yorkshire roots, I believe.’

‘Most certainly. He often speaks about his youth in the West Riding. I have often heard him say that he longs to return there.’

‘Then why does he not do so?’

Buckle shifted in his chair, as if discomfited by the prospect of disclosing a confidence. ‘The truth is, Mr Holmes, that Harry’s sister is a pillar of the Temperance movement and he is rather too fond of a drink. I keep telling him that good tobacco is far better than grog. Sometimes he joins me in a cheery pipe and helps me blow a cloud. But alcohol has been his downfall and since losing his regular employment, he has spent more of his time in taverns than in seeking work.’

‘What was his trade?’

‘He was a valet, but when his employer died, his heir had no wish to retain Harry’s services and the poor fellow has never found another steady job. It is sad, for he’s a decent sort, if a little impulsive. His ideas may be muddled, but he has my welfare at heart.’

‘You mentioned to him that you intended to see me this morning?’

‘I did.’

‘And he sought to discourage you from troubling me?’

Mr Buckle stared. ‘Precisely so. He said that there was no need, that I would not be bothered again by the burglar, despite his failure to steal anything of value. When I demurred, he became quite agitated and insisted that you would be too busy. But how did you know? What is your interest in Kilner?’

‘Quite simply this. Your Yorkshire friend holds the key to your little mystery.’

Two spots of colour appeared in our visitor’s cheeks. ‘What on earth makes you think so?’

‘I dare wager a modest sum that he is the author of that warning,’ Holmes said, gesturing languidly at the unsigned note.

‘What?’ Mr Buckle rose stiffly from his chair. ‘Mr Holmes, it is inconceivable!’

‘Unpalatable, perhaps,’ my friend said blandly. ‘Nevertheless, you will find that my surmise is well-founded. I have some knowledge of different newspaper typefaces and this example is distinctive. Those words have been cut from headlines appearing in
The Bradford Telegraph
, you may depend upon it. The blurring of the letters is a conspicuous and recurrent fault. I understand the paper to be an excellent publication, but a touch parochial in its concerns and infrequently purchased south of the West Riding. Yet the message was not sent through the post from White Rose county, but rather hand-delivered. From that it is easy to infer that the newspaper had been supplied to a Yorkshireman exiled to the capital and then cut up by your unknown correspondent.’

Mr Buckle’s face turned the colour of chalk. ‘Kilner told me that his sister sends it to him regularly, to keep in touch with local events.’

‘Indeed. That the person who warned you was someone with whom you were on good terms was self-evident. It is rare for anonymous warnings to include the word
please
. If Harry Kilner expected you to be burgled, and was concerned that the culprit might prove violent if confronted, that would explain his determination to take you out of harm’s way on the evening that the crime was committed.’

‘But that implies that he is in touch with the man who stole George’s letters!’

‘If not in league with him. I fancy that Mr Harry Kilner has a good deal of explaining to do. But we do not have a moment to lose, now that he is aware you are consulting someone other than the local constabulary. Watson and I must pay him a visit.’

‘I shall come too!’ our visitor exclaimed. ‘Mr Holmes, you will not take it amiss when I state my belief that you are making a dreadful mistake in pointing the finger at Kilner. The man would not hurt a fly.’

Holmes shook his head. ‘His tender heart is evidenced by the warning he sent you, but that may not be enough to save him.’

‘Save him?’

‘From the consequences of his own folly. This is dangerous work, Mr Buckle. Might I ask you for a favour?’

‘Anything!’

Holmes sprang to his feet. ‘Please return at once to your premises and set about re-opening the shop. The smokers of London should not be deprived of your wares for a day longer. Kilner was right. For you, the moment of danger has passed. For him, it is the here and now.’ 

In such mood, my friend was irresistible. All protests stilled, Mr Buckle consented to part from us. Within minutes, Holmes had given a cabby the command to whip his horse up and we were in a hansom, clattering frantically through the December drizzle. The address Mr Buckle had given us for Harry Kilner was unknown to me, but Holmes, with his intimate knowledge of the by-ways of London, identified it as a miserable street half a mile distant from the tobacconist’s emporium. As we travelled, I sought to draw Holmes out and gain an insight into his analysis of the mystery, but not for the first time he contented himself with an enigmatic response.

‘You are familiar with my addiction to logic. What do you believe was the burglar’s purpose?’

‘Hardly to steal a batch of letters that date back perhaps thirty years.’

‘Really?’

Holmes’ lip curled, but when I pressed him, he refused to say more and that set me furiously to think. Might the letters contain a secret? An idea struck me. I recalled that, in the days when George Buckle had sailed to the other side of the globe, gold was being discovered in Australia. Could there be a connection? It seemed to me a fruitful line of enquiry, but at present I was able to make little of it, save to infer that Kilner might have believed that the letters contained clues to the whereabouts of a treasure trove. A cryptogram, perhaps, that the tobacconist had failed to understand. It seemed improbable, but Holmes had already taught me that there is a world of difference between that which is impossible and that which is merely unlikely.

I was still battling the conundrum when we reached our destination. The cab drew up outside a shabby brick building which adjoined a public house on the corner called The White Swan. According to Josiah Buckle, his friend occupied a room in the basement and a flight of steep stone steps, worn deep by generations of trudging tenants, led down from the pavement. At the bottom, a heavy door stood ajar.

‘I fear we are too late,’ Holmes whispered.

He hurried down the steps and I followed close behind. At his touch, the door swung open to reveal a ghastly sight. A man lay face down on the bare-planked floor of a small and musty room. Blood was oozing from a wicked gash on his right temple. My first thought was that he was dead, but as we crossed the threshold into the musty dwelling, he seemed to make a Herculean effort of will and raised his head a fraction. I saw in the bloodshot eyes an expression of deep despair.

‘
Cave
,’ he said in the hoarsest whisper I have ever heard. ‘
The upside down swan
…’

With those words, his head sank down again. I sprang forward to check his pulse. There was nothing.

‘He’s dead,’ I said.

Holmes sighed. ‘A terrible price to pay.’

‘For what?’

My friend gave me a bleak look. ‘For avarice and betrayal of trust. If only we had arrived half an hour earlier this poor wretch’s life would have been saved, although I fear that he would have been spared only for Pentonville. Come, we must summon Scotland Yard.’

As we waited for the police, Holmes examined the miserable rooms of the late Harry Kilner in the painstaking fashion that had become familiar since the day I had accompanied him to the house off Brixton Road where Enoch J. Drebber, late of Utah, met his end. The place was thick with dust and the peeling wallpaper smelled of mildew. Kilner had few possessions, but I saw piled upon a battered chest half a dozen yellowing copies of
The Bradford Telegraph
. At length Holmes gave a nod of satisfaction and was scribbling a note of his conclusions when our old acquaintance Tobias Gregson arrived, accompanied by a clutch of silent subordinates.

‘Well, Mr Sherlock Holmes! What have we here?’

In a few crisp sentences my friend explained the circumstances that had brought us to the scene of the crime. ‘You and your men will no doubt wish to conduct the usual investigations. Dr Watson and I must bid you farewell, for our next task is to break the news to Mr Buckle that his friend is dead.’

Gregson wrinkled his nose. ‘You know, we must not jump to conclusions. I dare wager that this murder is quite unconnected with the tobacconist. You say that Kilner was a toper. Well, such men fall easily into bad company. There may well be a simple explanation for what has happened. A quarrel over a debt or a woman, perhaps.’

‘I quite agree,’ my friend said with asperity, ‘that one should not jump to conclusions. Please take this note. It contains the deductions I have made from the evidence I have found here. You and your men will surely arrive at an identical result, but when you are finished here, you may care to check whether we have the same ideas.’

Holmes folded the piece of paper on which he had been writing and passed it to the detective.

‘What will this tell me, then, Mr Holmes?’

‘The size and type of the boots worn by the murderer, the colour of his coat and of his hair, together with the weapon he used to batter poor Kilner to death. All that remains is for me to express my very best wishes to you for the Christmas season. Good day.’

He turned briskly and led me out of the grim basement. When we had regained the street, I said, ‘I am disappointed in you, Holmes. Your powers appear to be failing. I should have hoped that you would at least be able to suggest the felon’s name.’

Holmes permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Well, I might hazard a guess…but no, it is better to seek solid evidence than to indulge in speculation.’

I pointed at the sign above the entrance to The White Swan. ‘Kilner spoke of an upside down swan and we know that he was overly fond of a tipple – I wonder if we should look inside the tavern for further enlightenment?’

‘I hardly think that it specialises in enlightenment,’ Holmes said crisply. ‘No, Kilner’s final words are suggestive, I grant you, but I suspect that the swan he had in mind was black. Now, here’s a cab! We must return to Josiah Buckle’s premises and break the news that he has lost a friend.’

As was his custom, he refused to say another word about his theory of the crime, leaving me to rack my brains in vain. On arrival at the tobacconist’s shop, we found Mr Buckle hard at work, sweeping the floor as he prepared to re-open for business. He seemed to have shed years since our consultation. His back had straightened and his eyes glinted. He greeted us with a cheery handshake.

‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, how good to see you again! As you will see, I’ve taken you at your word and started to make ready for a resumption of trade. I owe you such a debt. After talking to you, I feel ten years younger. I keep telling myself, even if I’ve lost George’s letters forever, I still have my memories of him. Besides, I know every line of his correspondence off by heart.’

‘I have sad news for you,’ Holmes said. ‘Harry Kilner is dead.’