The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (26 page)

“What do you want?” he barked. “Who are you?”

Holmes, who had already taken in the room with a single glance, crossed to the window and parted the drapes. “Rather,” he said, “I should ask what
you
want, Colonel. I am here to keep our appointment. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.”

Holmes turned and stared at Pendleton-Smythe, and after a second the colonel lowered his revolver. His hands were shaking, I reached across and I steadied his arm for a moment.

“I am glad to have you here, Mr Holmes,” he said. Nervously he crossed to the bed and sat down, tossing the revolver beside him. He cradled his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath. “Truly, I am at wit’s end. I don’t know if you can help me, but if any man in England can, it’s you. Your presence here is proof enough of your remarkable abilities.”

Holmes sat in the straight chair, steepled his fingers, crossed his legs, and said, “Begin at King’s College, with your involvement in the Amateur Mendicant Society.”

He started violently. “You know about that, too? How is it possible?”

“Then he’s right,” I said, “and the Amateur Mendicant Society
is
involved?”

“Yes—yes, damn them!”

“My methods are my own,” Holmes said. “Please start at the beginning. Leave out no detail, no matter how small. I can assure you of our utmost discretion in this and all matters.”

I sat on the bed beside the colonel. Suddenly he looked like a very tired, very old man. “You’ll feel better,” I told him. “They say confession is good for the soul.”

He took a deep breath, then began.

* * * *

Everything started with one of my professors, Dr Jason Attenborough—he taught second year Latin as well as classical history. One day after class, six of us stayed late to ask about the Secret Mendicant Society, which he had mentioned in passing in that afternoon’s lecture. It was thrilling in its own way, the idea of spies among the ancient Romans, but we found it hard to believe any noble-born person could possible pass as a beggar. Dr Attenborough said it was not only possible, it had happened for several centuries.

Later, at a pub, almost as a dare, the six of us agreed to try it ourselves. It seemed like a rum lot of fun, and after a few rounds at the Slaughtered Lamb, we set out to give it a go.

We went first to a rag merchant—he was closed, but we pounded on his door until he opened for us—and from him we purchased suitable disreputable clothing. Dressing ourselves as we imagined beggars might, we smeared soot on our faces and set out to see what news and pennies we could gather. It was a foolish sort of game, rather stupid really, and the prime foolishness came when we decided to visit Piccadilly Circus to see what sort of reception we got. We were pretty well potted by this time, you see, so anything sounded like fun.

Suffice it to say, we terrorized several old women into giving us pennies and were promptly arrested for our trouble. The next day, after being ransomed home by disbelieving parents, we were summoned to the Dean’s office and informed that our activities had disgraced the school. In short, our presence was no longer desired. The news was devastating to us and embarrassed our families.

That’s where things should have ended. We should have quietly bought our way into other schools, or vanished into military life, or simply retired to family businesses—there were many choices available. However, that night, as we gathered one last time in the Slaughtered Lamb, Dr Attenborough joined us. He was not consoling or apologetic. Rather, he was ebullient.

He asked what we had learned as beggars—and we hadn’t learned a thing, really—but as he led us through the lesson (for that’s what it was to him), we could see that we had gone to the wrong section of the city, spoken to the wrong people, done all the wrong things. Beggars have their place in our society, as you know, and we had stepped outside their domain. That’s where we had gone wrong.

As he had done in his lecture hall, he inspired us that night with his speech. He persuaded us that we should go out again—and this time he went with us.

Dressed once more as beggars, we ventured into the sordid, dark places near the docks, where such as we had never dared go at night. Using the Roman system as a model, he showed us what we had done wrong—and how we could do it right.

We listened at the right windows. We lurked outside sailors’ taverns and heard their coarse, drunken gossip. And suddenly we began to understand how the Secret Mendicant Society had worked so admirably well. Wine loosens men’s tongues, and much could be gleaned from attentive listening. For who pays attention to beggars, even among the dregs of our society?

There were a dozen ship’s captains who we could have turned in for smuggling, a handful of murders we could have solved, stolen cargoes that could have been recovered with just a word in the right ear at Scotland Yard.

We did none of that. It was petty. But we were young and foolish, and Dr Attenborough did nothing but encourage us in our foolishness. Oh, he was a masterful speaker. He could convince you night was day and black was white, if he wanted to. And suddenly he wanted very much to have us working for him.

We would be a new Secret Mendicant Society—or, as we chaps liked to call it, an Amateur Mendicant Society. Dabbling, yes, that was a gentleman’s way. It was a game to us. As long as we pretended it was a schoolyard lark, it wasn’t really a dirty deal.

I regret to say I took full part in the Amateur Mendicant Society’s spying over the following six months. I learned the truth from dishonest men, turned the information over to Dr Attenborough, and he pursued matters from there. What, exactly, he did with the information I can only guess—extortion, blackmail, possibly even worse. However, I do know that suddenly he had a lot of money, and he paid us handsomely for our work. He bought an abandoned warehouse and had a posh gentleman’s club outfitted in the basement—though, of course, there were no servants, nobody who could break our secret circle. Later he leased the warehouse out for furniture storage.

I was not the first to break the circle. Dickie Clarke was. He told me one evening that he had enlisted in the army. His father had used his influence to get him a commission, and he was off to India.

“I’m through with soiling my hands with this nonsense,” he told me. “I’ve had enough. Come with me, Oliver. It’s not too late.” I was shocked, and I refused—to my lasting shame.

When Attenborough found out, he had an absolute fit—he threw things, screamed obscenities, smashed a whole set of dishes against the wall. Then and there I realized I had made a mistake. I had made a pact with a madman. I had to escape.

The next day I too enlisted. I’ve been away for nineteen years—I never came back, not even on leave, for fear of what Dr Attenborough might do if he found out. He was that violent.

I had stayed in touch with Dickie Clarke all through his campaigns and my own, and when he wrote from London to tell me Attenborough was dead, I thought it would be safe to return home. I planned to write my memoirs, you see.

Only two weeks ago Dickie died. Murdered—I’m sure of it! And then I noticed people, strangers dressed as beggars, loitering near my house, watching me, noting my movements as I had once noted the movements of others. To escape, I simply walked out of my home one day, took a series of cabs until I was certain I hadn’t been followed, and haven’t been back since.

* * * *

Sherlock Holmes nodded slowly when Pendleton-Smythe finished. “A most interesting story,” he said. “But why would the Amateur Mendicant Society want you dead? Are you certain there isn’t something more?”

He raised his head, back stiff. “Sir, I assure you, I have told you everything. As for why—isn’t that obvious? Because I know too much. They killed old Dickie, and now they’re going to kill me!”

“What of the four others from King’s College? What happened to them?”

“The others?” He blinked. “I—I really don’t know. I haven’t heard from or spoken to any of them in years. I hope they had the good sense to get out and not come back. Heavens above, I certainly wish I hadn’t returned!”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. He rose. “Stay here, Colonel. I think you will be safe in Mrs Coram’s care for the time being. I must look into a few matters, and then we will talk again.”

“So you will take my case?” he asked eagerly.

“Most decidedly.” Holmes inclined his head. “I’m certain I’ll be able to help. One last thing. What was the address of the warehouse Attenborough owned?”

“42 Kerin Street,” he said.

* * * *

As we headed back toward Baker Street, Holmes seemed in a particularly good mood, smiling and whistling bits of a violin concerto I’d heard him playing earlier that week.

“Well, what is it?” I finally demanded.

“Don’t you see, Watson?” he said. “There can only be one answer. We have run into a classic case of two identical organizations colliding. It’s nothing short of a trade war between rival groups of beggar-spies.”

“You mean there’s a real Secret Mendicant Society still at large?”

“The very thing!”

“How is it possible? How could they have survived all these years with nobody knowing about them?”

“Some people
can
keep secrets,” he said.

“It’s fantastic!”

“Grant me this conjecture. Imagine, if you will, that the real Secret Mendicant Society has just become aware of its rival, the Amateur Mendicant Society. They have thrived in the shadows for centuries. They have a network of informants in place. It’s not hard to see how the two would come face to face eventually, as the Amateur Society expanded into the Secret Society’s established territory. Of course, the Secret Mendicant Society could not possibly allow a rival to poach on their grounds. What could they possibly do but strike out in retaliation?”

“Attenborough and Clarke and the others—”

“Exactly! They have systematically eliminated the amateurs. I would imagine they are now in occupation of the secret club under the old furniture warehouse, where Attenborough’s records would have been stored. And those records would have led them, inexorably, to the two Amateurs who got away—Dickie, who they killed at once, and our client, who they have not yet managed to assassinate.”

“Ingenious,” I said.

“But now Colonel Pendleton-Smythe is in more danger than he believes. He is the last link to the old Amateur Mendicant Society, so it should be a simple matter to—”

Holmes drew up short. Across the street from 221B Baker Street, on the front steps of another house, a raggedly dressed old man with a three-day growth of beard sat as if resting from a long walk.

“He’s one of them,” I said softly.

Holmes regarded me as though shocked by my revelation. “Watson, must you be so suspicious? Surely that poor unfortunate is catching his second wind. His presence is merest coincidence.” I caught the amused gleam in his eye, though.

“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences,” I said.

“Ye-es.” He drew out the word, then turned and continued on toward our front door at a more leisurely pace. “Let us assume,” he said, “that you are right. What shall we do with the devil? Run him off? Have him locked up by Lestrade?”

“That would surely tip our hand,” I said. “Rather, let us try to misdirect him.”

“You’re learning, Watson, you’re learning.” We reached our house; he opened the door. “I trust you have a plan?”

“I was rather hoping you did,” I admitted.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “But I’m going to need your help…”

* * * *

Two hours later, I stood in the drawing room shaking my head. The man before me—thick lips, stubbled chin, rat’s nest of chestnut coloured hair—bore not the slightest resemblance to my friend. His flare for the dramatic as well as a masterly skill for disguises would have borne him well in the theatre, I thought. I found the transformation remarkable.

“Are you sure this is wise?” I asked.

“Wise?” he said. “Decidedly not. But will it work? I profoundly hope so. Check the window, will you?”

I lifted the drape. “The beggar has gone.”

“Oh, there are surely other watchers,” he said. “They have turned to me as the logical one to whom Colonel. Pendleton-Smythe would go for help.” He studied his new features in a looking glass, adjusted one bushy eyebrow, then glanced over at me for approval.

“Your own brother wouldn’t recognize you,” I told him.

“Excellent.” He folded up his makeup kit, then I followed him to the back door. He slipped out quietly while I began to count.

When I reached a hundred, I went out the front door, turned purposefully, and headed for the bank. I had no real business there; however, it was as good a destination as any for my purpose—which was to serve as a decoy while Holmes observed those who observed me.

I saw nothing to arouse my suspicions as I checked on my accounts, and in due course I returned to our lodgings in exactly the same professional manner. When Holmes did not at once show himself, I knew his plan had been successful; he was now trailing a member of the Secret Mendicant Society.

I had a leisurely tea, then set off to find Inspector Lestrade. He was, as usual, hard at work at his desk. I handed him a note from Sherlock Holmes, which said:

Lestrade—

Come at once to 42 Kerin Street with a dozen of your men. There is a murderer to be had as well as evidence of blackmail and other nefarious deeds.

Sherlock Holmes

Lestrade’s eyes widened as he read the note, and a second later he was on his way out the door shouting for assistance.

I accompanied him, and by the time we reached 42 Kerin Street—a crumbling old brick warehouse—he had fifteen men as an entourage. They would have kicked the door in, but a raggedly dressed man with bushy eyebrows reached out and opened it for them: it wasn’t so much as latched. Without a glance at the disguised Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade and his men rushed in.

Holmes and I strolled at a more leisurely pace back toward a busier street where we might catch a cab home. He began removing his makeup and slowly the man I knew emerged.