Disquiet at Albany

About the author

N.M Scott was born and educated in south London, and after a career in advertising moved to the Sussex coast, where he now lives and works. He maintains a lifelong interest in the history of transport, church architecture and the ‘Canon' of Sherlock Holmes: he has previously published three volumes of new stories featuring the famous detective.

By the same author:

The British Hearse and the British Funeral
, Book Guild Publishing, 2011

Sherlock Holmes: The Missing Earl and Other New Adventures
, Book Guild Publishing, 2012

Sherlock Holmes: A Case at Christmas
, Book Guild Publishing, 2013

Sherlock Holmes: The Russian Connection and Other New Adventures
, Book Guild Publishing, 2013

Murder on the Santa Special
, Book Guild Publishing, 2014

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Disquiet at Albany

Published by arrangement with the estate of the
late Doctor Watson, M.D.

N.M. Scott

Book Guild Publishing

Sussex, England

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
The Book Guild Ltd
The Werks
45 Church Road
Hove, BN3 2BE

Copyright © N.M. Scott 2014

The right of N.M. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

Typesetting in Baskerville by
Keyboard Services, Luton, Bedfordshire

Printed in Great Britain by
CPI Antony Rowe

A catalogue record for this book is available from
The British Library

ISBN 978 1 909984 29 5
ePub ISBN 978 1 910298 83 1
Mobi ISBN 978 1 910298 84 8

Especially for Aunt Marie, Aunt Heather and Aunt Janet (and Frank, Phil and Clive). Also for Pauline and Mariette, Dot Dodswell and Keith and Cynthia Gogel and Joanna Walder.

Acknowledgements

Grateful thanks to all at Book Guild Publishing and, as always, Amanda Payne, Olivia Guest, and the staff at my local library.

The characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are used here by kind permission of Jonathan Clowes Ltd, on behalf of Andrea Plunket, administrator of the Conan Doyle copyrights.

Contents

1

The Porter Knocks Twice

I confess I am surprised at my industry, and shall allow myself the satisfaction of writing a very brief account of a case which I had fairly copied out in my notebooks, and still possess, but which, due to the laws of criminal libel governing usage of names of persons still living, has remained until now extinct from the public domain. My colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes's love of the science of deduction is well known – the process by which he could, even from a very brief abstract theory, solve the most puzzling of crimes, a science that gradually predominated over every other taste. How great was his joy when a solution occurred to him – how despondent and low when there occurred a period of inactivity, and, alas, there was no case available to solve.

Anyhow, I am about to embark upon a brief sketch of my dear friend, whom I have known better than any other and with whom over the years I enjoyed the privilege of sharing digs, accompanying him on adventures and recording his many and varied cases for posterity.

* * *

Upon the morning of a gusty autumnal day at the end of October, following a night of stormy gales that had caused structural damage and blown slates off the roofs of the houses opposite, I heard a couple of knocks upon the door, and a personage entirely unknown to us, penitently standing with bowler hat in hand, appeared at our rooms in Baker Street. He was a big man, with a square Teutonic head that could have been carved from a block of granite, a large-boned and heavy-set jaw, and dressed very smartly. He had clipped hair and side-whiskers, a long-tailed jacket and stiff, starched white collar turned down at the edges. He hesitated upon the threshold until at length was moved to say, ‘Shadwell, Lew Shadwell. I ‘opes I h'aint interrupting, gents.'

Holmes smiled in an assenting manner. ‘Come in dear fellow, come in. Don't stand there out on the landing. You are a concierge, else a porter, at Albany I perceive, for although you've dispensed with your smart uniform top hat and coat, you persist in wearing a pair of the most distinctive maroon trousers in the West End. The sharply defined emerald green stripe down the side is the giveaway.'

My colleague bent forward and agitated the flames of the somewhat subdued sea-coal fire with the poker, waving away intrusive smoke being blown down the chimney by the wind presently howling along Baker Street.

‘Mr Shadwell, that's it. Here, have a cigarette, draw a chair up to the hearth. Watson, be a good fellow and pour our breakfast visitor a cup of coffee. My, my, this wretched smoking chimney is a bind.'

‘I wondered if I might 'ave a word, Mr Holmes. I am, as you correctly infer, a porter at Albany. I must emphasise our code is strictly no publicity, so we must needs be discreet.'

‘Perfectly proper,' Holmes rejoined.

‘Well sir, a gentleman what lives in an apartment upstairs, or “set” as they are referred to by us porters and residents alike, a Mister Ethby Sands, has not been seen or heard of for a fortnight. I took the liberty of opening his rooms this morning and, with your permission, I shall relate certain disturbing details.'

‘By all means Mister Shadwell. I recall, Watson, Ethby Sands was once an M.P., chairman of the Conservative Party and an eminent Justice of the Peace, who sadly was forced to resign his constituency due to ill health. He inherited a good deal of money from his father's agricultural machinery business and owns what is judged the finest collection of stuffed red birds of paradise in the country.'

‘Yes, I read in
The Times
,' said I, ‘that he, along with the Marquis of Anglesey, helped sponsor the explorer and naturalist Alfred Russell Wallace on his voyage to the Indonesian spice islands, or Moluccas as they are called. Wallace generally financed his work by sending rare zoological specimens to an agent in London who sold them on to museums or wealthy collectors such as Mr Sands. He spent much of his time in the western part of Indonesia visiting Sumatra, Java, Borneo and Sarawak. That was between '54 and '56 I believe.'

‘Oh, them bootiful stuffed red birds of paradise are a feature of ‘is set sir. Keeps 'em in lovely glass-fronted display cabinets, does Mr Sands. But I diversify. If I may continue, with my first impressions of Mr Sands's set, unusually his wheeled chair, such a part of him since he became gravely ill, was stuck at angles in the hall, the rug being slung in a most slovenly way across the arm-rests, not like his valet Garson would approve of, Mr Holmes, so that's something out of character. Next, I dare to say this sir, I noticed what looked to be like bloodstains upon the Turkey hearth rug before the mantelpiece. Additionally, a crumpled up bundle of newspaper in the wicker waste basket by his escritoire looked to me to be also stained with blood.'

‘Might I congratulate you, Mr Shadwell. You are first rate in your observations of minutiae – a “natural”. Pray, enlighten us further. For instance, were the valet's bowler and winter overcoat absent from the hall stand?'

‘Well, that's the crunch, there's just no sign of Mr Garson the valet – or of his master. The set looked to be abandoned at short notice – coffee cups unwashed, beds unmade, but it's that bloomin' blood what worries me most, gentlemen. The rules at Albany is no dogs, no children, no silly noise -and I have to be absolutely clear here, Mr Holmes,
no publicity of any kind
. My residents, some of whom are crown princes, members of the aristocracy, talented artists and musicians, top milliners, actors of distinction, would definitely frown upon their privacy being invaded by any pushy policemen nosing around disturbing the refined atmosphere. I mean, Albany is exclusive, wonderfully situ'hated in Piccadilly. We don't want no coppers, thank you very much. I mean, certainly Mr Sands's absence bothers me, but not to the point of wishing to contact the official force and risk offending residents.'

‘Discretion is assured, Mr Shadwell, and we can of course entirely rule out Scotland Yard. From what you have so far told me in confidence, you obviously fear Mr Sands may have been criminally abducted.'

‘What else am I to make of it? Mr Sands is a most gregarious and engaging individual. He, or at least Mr Garson, should never dream of absconding like this, going off somewhere without h'informing us porters. Why Mr Holmes, he has been a resident at Albany for more years than I care to remember. We are on most pleasant and convivial terms. I pride meself on being a trusted confidante of personages, famous or otherwise, who live in our exclusive apartment block.'

‘Quite so, quite proper. I comprehend the delicate situation this places you under. One further point, Shadwell – you are certain in consulting with colleagues that Ethby Sands and his valet Mr Garson on no account left Albany by the front entrance or via the Rope Walk in the past fortnight?'

‘Positive – but that's just it, you see, Mr Sands has been ill for some time, suffering from a wasting disease that has left him very weak and reliant on his valet for everything. He would be incapable of walking anywhere, even if he wanted to. He has been confined to a wheeled chair for the past six months or so, so you can understand, gentlemen, why I am so worried.'

2

The Collector of Stuffed Birds of Paradise

Allowing Mr Shadwell to make his own way on the subterranean railway, our clothes flapping and holding onto our hats for dear life, we hailed a hansom outside our diggings and, with a persistent sharp wind in evidence, it being very cold in London where there had been a flourish of sleety rain the previous day, our cab was soon rattling down Old Bond Street, my companion wholly concerned with checking his leather pocketbook, for it turned out we had an appointment at Fortnum & Mason's restaurant to share a pot of tea and cakes at the invitation of our theatre friends, the impresario Langton Lovell and his business partner, Charles Lemon, the acclaimed actor. A dazzling new musical, a light opera, was on the horizon and they were anxious we should meet both the composer and lyricist responsible for writing the new production, which would be having its opening night at the Wimborne Theatre in Drury Lane the following week. We occasionally dined with Lovell and Lemon at Goldini's, else Simpson's-in-the-Strand, and had known them for a number of years.

Albany, that most stately of Georgian piles, situated so conveniently in the heart of Piccadilly, a stone's throw from the grandeur of St James, is a bastion of privacy. The inhabitants guard the tenure of their selective sets with alacrity.

‘My brother Mycroft lived here for a time,' remarked Holmes, faintly smiling, putting his pocketbook away as our cab drew up outside the main entrance.

‘Did he indeed?' said I, surprised by my friend's revelation concerning his portly brother.

‘The exclusivity, the monastic bachelor ambience, the nearness of Fortnum's, Burlington Arcade, within walking distance of St James or the Houses of Westminster – all this appealed to him wonderfully. My dear Watson, surely it is no secret that the “picky” board of trustees who oversee this establishment show favouritism towards members of the Diogenes Club above all others when a set becomes vacant for occupancy. Ah, Mr Shadwell, lead the way.'

After we had been shown the Rope Walk, we hurried through the main entrance with its imposing pedimented façade, then along the central corridor adorned with busts, including a fine representation of Lord Byron, to a staircase whither was situated the set in which Ethby Sands resided, or at least should have resided.

‘Last summer, Mr Holmes, you always saw Mr Sands in that little ivy-clad garden we saw earlier, sunning himself by the bronze statue of Antonius at the Fountain. It was his own little space. Mr Garson was always so attentive to his master and would keep him amused with observances of life going on in and around Piccadilly when out shopping.'

‘Most commendable. Could you let us in Mr Shadwell?' Holmes asked. ‘Time is moving along, you know.'

‘Forgive my rambling on so, let me just put the key in.'

With the door open, it was surely that abandoned wheeled chair with the untidy rug thrown over it that seemed to admonish our intrusion, looking at us accusingly as if to imply ‘he who it was sat on me once was murdered'. But Holmes paid little heed, bounding into the airy, tastefully furnished sitting room. There was a Chinese Chippendale chair, a linen Chesterfield sofa. Ming porcelain vases sat either side of the marble mantelpiece, and a gilt-framed portrait of Ethby Sands in the House of Commons hung above. In plain words, it was a bachelor's nest, comfortable and unfussy, books and a box of Coronas to hand, a Japanned upright piano which I pointed out to Holmes standing in the bay, and of course a collection of stuffed red birds of paradise beautifully displayed behind glass and extending into many of the other rooms in the apartment.

‘A remarkable collection,' I conceded, forgetting for a time that we were visiting Albany for a purpose.

‘And lo! There, gentlemen, is the bloody stain. The hearth rug shall require a good soaking in a solution of soft soap to shift it.'

‘Step aside Mr Shadwell, I shall not be long.'

Brandishing his magnifying lens, upon an impulse of curiosity my colleague got down on his knees, his great beak of a nose almost touching the floor.

‘Gawd 'elp us, it ‘as to be murder, don't it, Doctor Watson?' said the house porter grimly.

Holmes made a slight grimace. ‘I believe I can offer a simpler alternative, my dear Shadwell,' he said, springing up on his feet once more. ‘For I can detect scuff marks in the ropey fibres of the Turkey rug, but not blood.'

‘What then?'

‘Cherry Blossom shoe polish of a rich, red tint. Likewise I have already checked the crumpled pages of a London
Daily Echo
extracted from the waste paper basket.'

‘And . . .'

Holmes broke into a light laugh. ‘Smudged with boot polish.'

‘Well I'm blowed,' the porter exclaimed.

‘It is a simple enough deduction. I perceive an over-vigorous use of the shoe brush responsible, a sheet of newspaper not placed in proper alignment. Ethby Sands does wear a pair of red shoes presumably?'

The porter hurried out into the hall to check.

‘I last saw a pair of red loafers out here, Mr Holmes.'

‘He must be wearing them.'

‘But what use would they be to him, sir? He cannot walk. Like I says, he's stuck in a wheeled chair. Of late his feet swelled up so bad 'e wore carpet slippers with the toes slit like a turtle's mouth.'

‘A conundrum of footwear,' chuckled my companion. ‘Now, Mr Shadwell, we do have a pressing engagement at Fortnum's tea rooms. You have already established that the valet's bowler and winter overcoat are absent from the hall stand, as are Mr Sands's gentleman's hat and coat – and scarf. Now, consider this carefully: did the ex-MP have a favourite walking stick, an ivory-handled cane, for instance?'

‘Good ‘eavens, Mr Holmes, now you come to mention it, he used always to favour a metal-headed walking stick bearing a silver, hallmarked ferrule. Would not be seen without it when out strolling along Piccadilly.'

‘But it is missing. A group of bamboo handled umbrellas is all I see in the stand.'

‘Yes, it's gone sir. Lor', I 'ope I haven't wasted your time gentlemen,' said he, a little put out. ‘That bloomin' blood – boot polish, I ask you. I should have been more thorough, checking my facts first before comin' round to Baker Street.'

‘On the contrary, you were most wise to alert me to the possibility of some criminal enterprise and I congratulate you for it, Shadwell. I shall keep all this in mind, and do not fail to contact me again if Mr Sands fails to return to his set in the next few days. Now Watson, onwards to Fortnum's.'