The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (61 page)

“As you may have surmised, Watson, it was the supposed burglar’s footsteps that first suggested to me that all was not right. They appeared to lead from the garden wall, but there was no evidence that anyone had ever come over that wall. More important was the singular fact that the outgoing steps did not overtread those incoming. The two lines of prints were close but quite separate. Now, what burglar would ever tread so artistically? There could be but one explanation: the footsteps did not, in fact, lead from the wall to the study and back, but from the study to the wall and back. In all probability, then, our client himself was responsible for this mummery, and had he not stepped too carefully the fact of an inside job would have been plain to the meanest intelligence. For the rest, he wore boots – new ones, you will recall – fully three sizes too large for him, and strode out manfully to give the impression of a taller man. We may eventually find the boots, but I fear that they have been destroyed.”

On this point, however, Holmes was wrong. It is a matter of record that the boots were discovered, carelessly discarded, in the attic of The Elms, and proved to fit exactly those damning footsteps in the garden. This was the final link in the chain of evidence that took Henry Staunton to an unmourned death on a cold morning at Pentonville Prison.

The Case of the Faithful Retainer

Amy Myers

Watson secured publication of several cases that happened in 1897, including “The Abbey Grange”, “The Red Circle”, “The Devil’s Foot” – the case that nearly saw the end of Sherlock Holmes – “The Dancing Men” and “The Missing Three-Quarter”. There were certainly other cases during the year, but the only one that we have been able to date conclusively is “The Case of the Faithful Retainer”. We have been fortunate that this case survived amongst the papers of the family of M. Auguste Didier, the master-chef whose investigations Amy Myers has been reconstructing. I am indebted to her for allowing me access to these papers.

“You are correct, my dear Watson. The hour may indeed have come when it is in the interests of our great nation that your readers should be permitted to know the full truth behind my indisposition of ‘ninety-seven’.”

As so often in the past, my old friend had correctly broken into my thoughts. “How could you know – ” I began. But why should I be amazed that his powers of observation and deduction remained undimmed, infrequently though circumstances had permitted me to visit Mr Sherlock Holmes, during his years of retirement on the Sussex downs? We were taking our ease in his pleasant farm garden, on a summer day in 1911, and I had been studying the grave news reported in my newspaper.

Holmes shrugged. “You are absorbed in
The Times
report of this Agadir crisis. I noted your frown, and the fact that you read the report several times; hence my conclusion that you consider that the sending of the gunboat to Morocco demonstrates that a certain great European nation is once more flexing its muscles, and casting its shadow over the peace not only of Europe but of the British Empire itself, was simplicity itself. It was then but a small step to deduce from your unconscious glance towards me that in your opinion the unfortunate case of the faithful retainer should now be made known to the world. I agree, but masked, I must insist, in suitable anonymity.”

“Of course, Holmes,” I replied stiffly, somewhat offended that my old friend could imply I had so little delicacy as to reveal the identities of those involved in the services to the nation that had led to Holmes being offered a knighthood in June 1902, the coronation month (had not illness postponed the celebration) of our late and gracious monarch, Edward the Peacemaker. For reasons that must perforce remain undisclosed, these services had been rendered some years earlier, in the spring and early summer of ‘97, at a time when the world supposed Holmes to have been ill, a fiction at which I have hitherto been obliged, from the highest of motives, to connive. His iron constitution, I wrote – truthfully – showed some symptoms of giving way. It did not in fact do so.

On a chilly day late in February 1897 Holmes and I were lunching in the Baker Street rooms, when a telegram arrived. This was hardly an unusual occurrence, but my engagement with Mrs Hudson’s mutton chop ceased immediately when Holmes’s face was suddenly transformed, flushed and with a glitter in his eyes, followed by an expression of extreme thoughtfulness. He handed the telegram to me, his brows drawn into two dark lines. It read: “
Come at once. My club Mycroft
.”

“When Brother Mycroft commands, and during the hour of luncheon at that, we may be sure that weighty matters are afoot, Watson.”

“Shall I accompany you, Holmes?”

“Why, certainly. We leave immediately. Mrs Hudson will no doubt forgive our abandonment of her excellent treacle pudding. I smell danger in its place, though of a form which I trust should have no need of your pistol.”

Within the half hour we were being ushered into a private room of the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall, one of the few places where speaking was permitted in this club of most unclubable gentlemen. There we found not only Mycroft awaiting us, but three other most distinguished visitors. The remains of a hasty luncheon suggested they had been foregathered some time. One of the visitors we recognized instantly and indeed Holmes had undertaken cases for him on former occasions. If anything were needed to convince us of the seriousness of the circumstances that called us here, it was the presence of the elderly Lord Bellinger, once more Premier of Britain. The second was Sir George Lewis, solicitor in delicate matters to the highest in the land. He too was no stranger to Holmes, though my presence brought a swift frown to his face which was only removed by a nod from Lord Bellinger. The third, a keen-eyed tall man of about thirty-five, was introduced to us as Mr Robert Mannering, a name familiar to us as Lord Bellinger’s Adviser on European Affairs. He had inherited the mantle, though not yet the high office, of the late Trelawney Hope, Lord Bellinger’s Secretary for European Affairs at the time of the Adventure of the Second Stain. Holmes’ brother Mycroft sat in the midst of the group, a huge and ungainly spider in the centre of the web of Government diplomacy and intrigue.

“I had not thought we should yet again have need of your services, Mr Holmes,” the Premier began. “Your brother informs us you are exceptionally busy at the moment.”

“That is so.”

“We have to ask you to lay all else aside, save that which we are about to ask you to undertake.”

“That is scarcely feasible, Lord Bellinger.” Holmes was taken aback at this request. “There is the interesting case of the Vanishing Pedlar, and the affair of the Ten Black Pillowcases.”

“Insignificant trifles, Sherlock,” Mycroft rumbled.

From no one but his brother would Sherlock Holmes have accepted this without considerable demur.

“Well, well, that may be debated on a future occasion.”

“Let me explain, Mr Holmes. I act on behalf of a –” Sir George coughed slightly as though he were unwilling even to commit himself so far, “– a noble client of the highest station, who is concerned on behalf of his mother, a – um – lady of venerable years,” Lord Bellinger and Mr Mannering’s eyes were momentarily averted from us, “who is held in highest public esteem and affection and who has no knowledge whatsoever of the events that I am about to relate to you. Nor must she ever have. That is mandatory. His mother – let us call her Lady X – ”

“If you insist,” Holmes agreed in a bored voice.

“Lady X,” Sir George continued hurriedly, “is mistress of an exceptionally large household in London and several country residences. She was widowed early after a most happy marriage, and though blessed with a large and loving family, inevitably as each in turn chose matrimony she came more and more to rely in her private life on a large group of retainers, and one in particular, a loyal and faithful servant who was her personal attendant and confidant to a degree that aroused the disquiet of some of her advisers, though he was an honest enough fellow.”

“To the point, Sir George. I believe this loyal and faithful retainer of yours to be dead these fourteen years,” Holmes said, displaying some impatience.

Sir George bowed his head in slight amusement, despite his obvious anxiety. “As always you are correct, Mr Holmes. He died in one of Lady X’s larger country residences and afterwards his effects were naturally returned to his family in Scotland. He left no will, and her ladyship made the request of his appointed executor that such correspondence as had passed between them, on matters concerning the estate and so forth – should be extracted and returned to her. This was done, or so it was believed.”

“Believed?”

“We have reason to believe that one letter never reached the security of Lady X’s archives. The librarian keeps the correspondence under lock and key, not to mention his own coded system. He is positive it has not been touched since it entered his possession. I need hardly say he himself is above suspicion. Yet this morning, Mr Holmes, I received an unsigned letter informing me that the writer had in his possession a letter from Lady X to her retainer and was prepared to part with it for a suitable sum.”

“On a matter concerning the estate?” Holmes queried politely.

Sir George hesitated, and Robert Mannering after a nod from Lord Bellinger replied for him. “We must rely on your complete discretion, Mr Holmes, Mr Watson.”

“You may be assured of it,” my friend replied coldly.

“This letter, a copy of which was enclosed, was written during the retainer’s last illness, which was a highly infectious one precluding any visits by Lady X to his bedside. It was a letter of warmth, full of affection and gratitude for the years of devoted service and friendship that he had given her.”

“Come, come, Mr Mannering. We trifle.”

“By an enemy,” Robert Mannering continued steadily, “that letter, assuming it to be no forgery, might be capable of grievous misinterpretation by those who seek an opportunity for mischief.”

“If that is the case,” I said eagerly, “why has nothing been heard of it for fourteen years?”

“Good, Watson,” Holmes cried. “However, an event is to take place this summer which must surely rank above all others in placing Lady X at the forefront of world attention. At such a time the letter, if it fell into the wrong hands, might well be used to devastating effect.”

“To ruin her reputation?”

“Worse, Watson. To besmirch not only England, but the Empire itself, if I am not mistaken. Why else should the Premier’s Adviser on European Affairs be with us today?”

“You are not mistaken, Mr Holmes.” Lord Bellinger spoke gravely. “We must buy that letter back.”

“Pray let me see the copy, and the letter to you, Sir George.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sir George handed both to him. “It will tell you nothing. It came by hand from an unknown messenger.”

“Nothing in itself inevitably conveys information,” Holmes remarked, scanning the contents. Both were penned in a bold black copperplate, and the letter to Sir George was brief: “The writer is prepared to part with the original of the enclosed letter for a sum to be arranged. The crest will prove its provenance. The personal columns of the daily newspapers will convey my next instruction.”

“They are written by hand,” Holmes observed to his brother.

Mycroft chuckled. “I can supply names, Sherlock.”

I was bewildered at this exchange, and indeed I was only now appreciating the gravity of the whole affair. Holmes did not pursue the subject.

“We would ask you to carry out the negotiation on our behalf, Mr Holmes,” Sir George said.

“I believe my services may be required for more than mere barter,” Holmes replied quietly, “or Mycroft alone would be handling this affair.”

“Why, Holmes?” I was startled, but the expression on Lord Bellinger’s face confirmed it.

“Ten years ago this month, Watson, there was another occasion of equal importance to Lady X yet nothing was heard of this letter then. Does that not suggest that the writer of the letter is no ordinary sneaksman, but plays for large stakes and to whom, since time appears no object, the game is of more importance than the outcome? A dangerous opponent, Watson. Ten years ago – correct me if I err, Mr Mannering – the leader of the European power who now casts envious eyes on Britain’s prosperity, had not yet succeeded his father on the throne, and moreover his country had a great and wise Chancellor to guide it. Today, however, the son rules alone, and through jealousy, his relations with England are currently so bad that he would stop at nothing to mar the additional prestige that this summer will undoubtedly bring to Lady X and the British Empire.”

“I fear you are right, Mr Holmes,” Robert Mannering said heavily, “and that this affair will by no means be a straightforward financial transaction.”

“What then?” I asked, as no one spoke.

“There will be other bidders, Watson,” Holmes replied. “It remains to be seen whether we shall be permitted to be one of them.”

“But Sir George’s letter – ”

“The game, Watson, the game.”

Readers of my chronicles may recall the name which was now to be mentioned, and whose dramatic introduction to my friend I stated that I might some day recount. I am now able to do so, for Sir George said briskly: “All the more reason that the world must not know that you are involved, Mr Holmes. I have already taken the liberty of arranging for you to visit Dr Moore Agar of Harley Street who will issue instructions to you to surrender all your cases and take a complete rest, lest you suffer a breakdown of health. The newspapers will be informed of this. Dr Agar is well accustomed to such confidential work on our behalf.”

Holmes, who prided himself, despite his addiction to the notorious drug, on his strong constitution, reluctantly concurred.

In order to maintain the fiction we hailed a cab even for the short distance from Harley Street to our Baker Street rooms. No sooner had we entered than he flew to his index of biographies. After a mere ten minutes he exclaimed, “I have it. The chief player in our game, Watson.”