The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (25 page)

“Now,” said he at length. “A serious and ingenious crime has been committed. The famous MacGlevin Buckle has been stolen from the museum on the Island of Uffa. It must be returned to its rightful owner.” He glanced at MacGlevin, who was standing with his arms folded by the doorway, a brooding expression on his face.

“It is, of course, most unfortunate,” said Doctor Oliphant; “but what is it to us?”

“The buckle is in this hotel,” returned Holmes. “Constable MacPherson and his deputed officers therefore propose to search the building until they find it.”

There were loud groans about the room.

“Why, man, that could take days!” said Angus Johnstone.

“Let us make a start, then,” said Homes. “beginning with
that.”
His long thin finger indicated the small leather and canvas satchel which hung from Mrs Morton’s shoulder.

“But this contains only my painting and sketching things,” said she, rising to her feet, the expression on her face a mixture of surprise and indignation.

“Will you open it, Madam, or shall I?” inquired MacPherson.

Reluctantly, she lowered the little bag to the floor, and began to unfasten the straps. “This is an absurd waste of time,” said she, as she tipped the contents of the bag onto the carpet. I craned forward to see. There were numerous tubes of paint, several brushes and pencils tied up in a ribbon, a palette, a pad of paper, and a very dirty rag, stained with every colour of the rainbow.

“Kindly unfold that cloth,” said Holmes.

“It is dirty,” said she. “It is only the rag I wipe my paint-brushes on. I shall soil my gloves – ”

Even as she was speaking, Holmes leaned quickly down and unfolded the screwed-up cloth. There in the middle of the multi-coloured wrapping, lay a large and ornate silver buckle. There were gasps all round the room, and, in that split second of quiet, Hamish Morton suddenly shot from his seat and bolted for the door. He had his hand on the door-knob, but MacGlevin, too, was quick, and grabbed him in a smothering embrace.

“You fool!” cried Mrs Morton to her husband, in a harsh voice. “ ‘Let’s leave Glasgow,’ you said. ‘Let’s get away and lie low for a while’! But you just couldn’t resist this, could you! And now see what you have done!”

It was startling to hear the violent tones of the woman’s voice, and almost made my hair stand on end. Her husband, held tightly in the bear-like grip of the Laird of Uffa, made no response. Next instant, my blood ran cold, for with a quick, darting movement, her hand had dipped into her reticule and re-emerged gripping an evil-looking little revolver.

“Stand aside, all of you!” she said in a cold, clear voice, as she pointed the gun menacingly, from one person to another. “This pistol is loaded, and I am quite prepared to use it.”

I saw Holmes catch the eye of Fergus Johnstone, then he spoke. “Mrs Morton,” said he. For a fraction of a second, she turned her head, and in that instant, in a blur of movement, the gun was dashed from her hand. Fergus Johnstone, who had been standing a little to the side of her, had brought down the old lady’s walking-stick on her wrist with a loud crack. Mrs Morton cried wildly with pain, and clutched her wrist, and Holmes stepped forward quickly and picked up the gun. In a minute MacPherson had whistled up his special constables and the prisoners had been taken away. Then MacGlevin stepped forward to where his precious heirloom still lay on the paint-smeared rag. With an air of reverence, he picked it up. As he did so, there came a further surprise, for there lying beneath it was an exquisite little silver clasp, set with creamy pearls.

“Mrs Formartine’s brooch!” cried MacLeod, almost beside himself with joy.

Some two hours later, after lunch, we were all seated in the drawing-room of the hotel. The Mortons were safely under guard at the local police station, awaiting an escort to take them to Inverness. Doctor Oliphant and Mrs Baird Duthie had long since departed, and the Loch Echil Hotel had returned to an atmosphere of normality.

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Alexander Grice Paterson to Holmes. “Without your intervention, I dread to think what might have become of us.”

“I regret I was a little heated,” said MacGlevin in a sheepish tone, holding out his hand to the man he had accused. “I just couldna’ think how anyone could’ve taken it but you.”

“That is all right,” said the other, accepting MacGlevin’s hand. “Let’s forgive and forget. What I’d like to know is how you got to the bottom of the matter so quickly, Mr Holmes.”

“It was not difficult. I will give you a full explanation when Constable … Ah! MacPherson! We were just speaking of you.”

“Please excuse the delay, Gentlemen,” said the policeman briskly. “I have had a busy time of it. I wired details of the Mortons down to Glasgow, and I have their reply here. We’ve landed bigger fish than we realized, Mr Holmes! They’re fairly certain that the man calling himself Hamish Morton is in fact Charlie Henderson, wanted in connection with the Blythswood Square burglary, earlier this year – ”

“– in which the thieves got away with works of art worth thousands,” interjected Holmes, “and left the owner of the house seriously injured. I recall it very well.”

“And the woman, who has used so many names in her career that it’s hard to keep track of her, is wanted under the name of Mary Monteith, for a long series of frauds and forgeries. Apparently she has real artistic gifts, but she’s used them only in the cause of crime. She’s suspected of being behind some of the most brilliant art forgeries of the last dozen years.”

“Well, I never!” ejaculated Grice Paterson. “But come, Mr Holmes, tell us how you got on to them.”

“My interest was first aroused,” said Holmes after a moment, “by Morton’s report of his boating accident. He declared that all his fishing equipment had sunk without trace, yet when I had seen it the previous evening in this very room, I had observed, without giving it any special attention, that his rod was of the sort which is fitted with a large cork handle. It seemed unlikely that such a rod should have sunk. It might, of course, have become entangled with some other equipment, and been dragged down by it, but Morton merely said it had sunk. It seemed to me that he was lying, but I could not think why, unless he merely wished to swindle the hotel out of a few pounds by way of compensation. It was a petty matter, and I gave it little more thought.

“When we went out to Uffa, to investigate the theft, I had no pre-conceived ideas as to what had taken place there. For all I knew, the result of my examination might have been to confirm Mr Grice Paterson’s guilt. You did not look a very likely pair of thieves,” he remarked, turning to the Grice Patersons with a chuckle; “but I have known many criminals in my time, and a good half of them did not appear capable of the crimes they had committed; so I preserved a professional detachment on the matter, and reserved my judgement.

“My examination of the museum revealed, as you saw, a small tear in the cushion upon which Mr MacGlevin’s Buckle had been lying when last he saw it, which at once suggested to me that some hook, or other sharp device, had been used to lift the buckle. This in turn suggested, of course, that the thief had not been in a position to reach it with his hand. The obvious conclusion was that a line with a hook attached had been lowered from above, through one of the sky-lights. When I found on the floor a small piece of lead shot, such as fishermen use to weight their lines, this presumption became a certainty. The weight would help the line to drop straight, and give the thief more control over it. No doubt the piece of shot we found had become detached when the hook snagged the cushion and had to be forcibly yanked free.

“The next thing then, was to examine the exterior of the building. Here I was fortunate enough to find very clear indications of where the thief had climbed the wall. The fact that I could only just reach the only usable hand-hold – and I am a good six foot in height – indicated that the thief was not a small man, as also did the size of the footprints. These indications eliminated the Grice Patersons, as far as I was concerned.

“I then examined the sky-light which lay immediately above the stand on which the buckle had been displayed, and it was obvious at once that one of the panes of glass had been removed and later replaced. The lead around the glass had clearly been bent back, and then flattened again. That would have presented no problem, and nor would it have been difficult to chip away the putty with a knife. But there were also galvanized nails bent over beneath the lead to hold the pane firmly, which would have required a greater application of force. Was this, I wondered, how the knife-blade came to be broken? This conjecture was at once confirmed, for there in the gutter below me was a little shiny triangle – the missing tip of the blade.

“It seemed clear enough, then, what had happened. The thief had been at work when you chanced upon the scene, Mr Grice Paterson, and was evidently the figure you saw cross the path in the darkness. He would then have returned to his boat, but must have taken the wrong path in the darkness, and mistakenly set off in your boat, rather than his own. You came along shortly afterwards, found your boat missing, and returned to seek Mr MacGlevin’s aid. The thief, meanwhile, must have realized his mistake, and so returned your boat, in which he had dropped his knife, found his own boat, and left the island for the second time.

“So much seemed clear. But who, then, was the thief? There seemed no way of knowing. It was then that I recalled Morton’s reported accident, and his claim to have lost all his fishing tackle, about which I had had some doubt at the time. Now it struck me as possible that his boat had not sunk at all, but had been hidden in the bushes by the shore on the south side of the bay, together with his fishing equipment. If that were so, he would be able to use it when he wished to commit this crime, without the slightest suspicion attaching to him, even if the crime were discovered before he and his accomplice had left Kilbuie. MacPherson and I therefore rowed over to the mainland, which is no great distance at that point, and soon found what we were looking for – one of this hotel’s distinctive little skiffs dragged up behind some rocks, with a disordered heap of fishing tackle within it.

“The case was therefore complete, and it remained only to locate the buckle. I was quite certain that the Mortons had it, but finding it might have taken some time. However, as you may recall, they had claimed on the day the crime was committed to have gone inland so that Mrs Morton might sketch – probably they did so, earlier in the day – and had therefore had the satchel containing the art materials with them. It seemed likely, then, that the stolen buckle had been secreted in there in the first place, and, if so, it seemed to me possible that it was still there, especially as Mrs Morton was demonstrating an unusual attachment to the bag. This surmise proved correct, and the rest you know. Mr MacGlevin has his heirloom restored to him, Mrs Formartine will soon have her brooch back – that was something of an unexpected bonus, I must confess – clearly Morton had been keeping his hand in – and two dangerous criminals are safely under lock and key.”

“You make it sound so obvious and straightforward, Mr Holmes!” exclaimed MacGlevin in amazement. “I’m sure that if we had spent all day examining the museum, we should not have observed the little traces which you found, nor made anything of them if we
had
done!”

“Aye, it’s a grand job of work all right,” said MacPherson with feeling. “I may get my sergeant’s stripes over this arrest. I don’t know how I can ever thank you, Mr Holmes,” he continued, extending his hand. “Without your help, I don’t know that we should ever have caught those villains!”

“It is always a pleasure to assist the forces of law and order,” returned my friend with a smile. “Now, Watson,” he continued, turning to me: “the fresh air on Uffa has quite invigorated me! What say you to another expedition, this time to catch something a little smaller and tastier, for our supper?”

The Case of the Sporting Squire

Guy N. Smith

It was during 1887 that Watson obtained permission from Holmes to seek formal publication for his account of their meeting and the case known as “A Study in Scarlet”. It’s quite likely he finalized this novel while on holiday in Scotland and submitted it to the publisher Ward Lock via his agent Arthur Conan Doyle. Ward Lock published it in their
Beeton’s Christmas Annual
that December and that was the first time that the general public came to learn of Sherlock Holmes. It inevitably led to an upsurge in the number of requests Holmes received and also, Holmes jokingly acknowledged, caused him to start going about his business in disguise. More importantly, it meant that Watson began to keep a better record of the cases. Flushed by the success of this sale Watson now wrote up most of the cases that happened over the following year from the end of 1887 and through 1888. These include some of Holmes’s best: “Silver Blaze”, with the curious incident of the dog in the night; “The Valley of Fear”; “The Greek Interpreter” – which is remarkable in that not until now did Watson apparently discover that Holmes had a brother, Mycroft, though we know he was aware of him earlier; and “The Cardboard Box”, in which Holmes reveals his ability to deduce Watson’s thoughts. Another of the cases falling in this period was that of “The Sporting Squire”, one that Watson did not refer to but which came to light following the investigations of that redoubtable author Guy N. Smith early in his own career when undertaking research into the theory and practice of gamekeeping.

I have long learned to tolerate the varying moods of my colleague, Sherlock Holmes. When a working fit was upon him, nothing could exceed his energy; at other times he would lie on the sofa, scarcely moving from morning to night, his eyes closed but I knew that he did not sleep. He either contemplated some intricate problem or else he was melancholic, but I knew better than to intrude upon his thoughts for it would only evoke some brusque reply, for my friend could be exceedingly rude when his private musings were disturbed.