Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Indeed not, Inspector,” said Holmes, a little harshly. “If the woman had intended the missive to be, as you suggest, a suicide note, would she not have thrown herself beneath the train the very day it was published? The delay of a day suggests quite clearly that she was not, as you imply, attempting to draw attention to her cause by underlining her letter through her actions. By the time her death was reported, the edition of the aforementioned newspaper containing her heartfelt message was already serving as a wrapper to a thousand fish suppers.”

  “Then you suspect murder?” said I.

  “I do not,” said Holmes. “Tell me, Inspector – which train was Miss Temple awaiting when she took her unfortunate tumble from the platform?”

  “The 8.22 from Tottenham Court Road,” replied Foulkes.

  “Ah,” said Holmes. “As I expected. A busy train, Inspector?”

  “One of the busiest,” replied Foulkes. “Hundreds of people all anxious to begin their working day.”

  Holmes nodded. “Then it is clear. Miss Temple’s death is naught but a tragic accident. Her letter, as you suggest, was not a suicide note, but an attempt to begin anew. In this, Miss Temple was simply following the example of Miss Pankhurst in setting aside all thoughts of violent protest. The very fact that she had taken up a position on the production line of a munitions factory proved her point – for Miss Temple, the battle was won. The war has achieved precisely what the Suffragettes have been striving for: raising the acceptance of women in society.”

  Holmes stopped for a moment, peering across at us, each in turn. “There is no evidence of suicide in this matter, Inspector Foulkes,” he said. “Only an unfortunate accident: a young woman, anxious to do her bit for the war effort and attempting to cross town to work, was jostled on a busy platform, lost her footing, and fell into the path of the 8.22.”

  “But surely…” began Foulkes, before trailing off. He gaped at Holmes, utterly flabbergasted. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, and then appeared to think better of it.

  I, of course, had grown used to Holmes’s more theatrical outbursts, and despite our time apart, did not find myself in the least bit surprised by his swift and precise deductions. Nor was I doubtful of their verisimilitude. I knew they could be supported by a score of further deductions that he had not seen fit to mention. “What sets this third death apart, then, Holmes? Why is Herbert Grange so different?”

  I could see the appreciation in Holmes’s eyes, the twist of his lips. He’d been anticipating this question. “Isn’t it obvious, Watson?” he said, animated. “Isn’t it clear? Recall, if you will, what I said of brother Mycroft in the motorcar. He is the instigator of this little adventure, and he rarely acts without cause. I do not doubt for a moment that Mycroft is aware of the true nature of these unfortunate deaths and that – given his position of influence – Mr. Herbert Grange is the man whose demise he truly wishes me to investigate.”

  “But why, Holmes?” I said, confused. “Why go to all this trouble? Why infer a connection where there is clearly none?”

  “Because Mycroft suspects foul play. Because he wishes to keep the wolves from our door, and because he does not want the world at large to know that he has called me here to London with the specific objective of investigating Mr. Grange’s unquestionably suspicious death. The suicides are our cover, Watson; a concealment, a falsehood.” Holmes tapped his index finger thoughtfully against his chin.

  “Then what you are saying, Mr. Holmes, is that you believe Mr. Grange to be a victim of murder?” asked Foulkes.

  “That would be somewhat presumptuous, Inspector,” replied Holmes, who had returned to studying the corpse of the parliamentarian, his back to us. “I fear the body offers little in the way of motive. Where it is clear to me that Captain Cummins was accountable for his own death, and Miss Temple was not, with Mr. Grange I find myself in need of further data. Only then will I be able to establish the truth.”

  He turned abruptly to face Foulkes. “You mentioned that Mr. Grange was engaged in somewhat delicate work for the War Office, did you not?”

  “Indeed,” confirmed Foulkes, “he was interviewing expatriate Germans now living in London.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes. He clapped his hands together, as if to indicate our audience was over. “Then, Watson, to the War Office it is!” He made for the door, without the slightest word of thanks to Foulkes, nor even a glance back over his shoulder to see if I was following.

  I glanced at Foulkes and offered him a reluctant shrug. I was about to speak, when he held his hand up to silence me. “No need, Dr. Watson. Just know that, should you require my assistance, leave word at the Yard.” He paused, puffing out his chest. “And know also that you can rely on my absolute discretion.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” I said, stepping forward and shaking him firmly by the hand.

  “Right then, Doctor,” said Foulkes. “I think you’d better hotfoot it after him, or mark my words, he’ll be halfway to the War Office before he notices you’re not with him.”

  I laughed. “You know, Inspector, I’m not at all sure if that would be a bad thing.” I secured my hat on my head, and took off after Holmes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  To my untrained eye, the War Office building on Horse Guards Avenue was something of a monstrosity. Architecturally speaking, of course, it was a triumph of neo-Baroque design, with high, decorative domes, sculpted window frames and artificial pediments. To my mind, however, it represented everything that war was not: glorious, a thing to be celebrated – cultivated, even. It even looked like a ruddy cathedral.

  As I stood there on the pavement looking up at the building, I found it strange to consider that inside that vast edifice, the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener himself, was going about his business, planning our efforts abroad. As an old soldier, I was a believer in war being a matter for professionals. I had found Kitchener’s rhetoric troubling, his exhorting young men with no experience of military life to join up as if they were volunteering for a football match.

  I had not spoken to Holmes regarding his opinions on the war; he did not often interest himself in the murky world of politics. To Holmes a villain was a villain – be they a petty thief, a blackmailer, or a foreign country with which we were at war. I believed the reason he was in London, taking leave of his retirement, was because he felt duty bound to do his bit for the war effort, to use his considerable intellect in assisting his brother to resolve a matter that might yet prove to have far-reaching implications for the morale of the nation.

  Of course, there was also the distinct possibility that he was simply bored, and the mystery surrounding the death of Herbert Grange was nothing but a timely diversion. Truthfully, that was the real reason I’d so far avoided enquiring after his thoughts on the matter – in case I found myself frustrated by the self-centred nature of his response.

  “So,” I asked of Holmes. “How does one gain entry to the War Office? I don’t imagine it’s as simple as strolling up to the front door and asking to be let in.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Watson,” replied Holmes, with a sly smile. “I often find the direct approach elicits the most satisfactory result. Let us not overcomplicate matters.” With that, he tugged determinedly on his lapels, and then, exuding complete confidence, strode right up to the front door and went in.

  I hurried behind him, shaking my head in amusement.

  Two soldiers stood just inside the doorway – guards, I presumed – and they eyed us without interest as we crossed into the lobby.

  I took stock of the lobby. It was everything one would expect from the exterior appearance of the building: opulent and ostentatious. A polished marble floor had been laid in neat, geometric patterns, portraits of former military commanders were hung prominently in a series of alcoves, and a vast chandelier hung on a silver stem from the high, vaulted ceiling. A series of doors opened onto what I assumed to be a network of offices and corridors leading deeper into the building
.

  There were two Chesterfields against the far wall, and a mahogany reception desk in the centre of the room, behind which stood a middle-aged man in a neat black suit. His hair was thinning, and beneath a clump of wispy grey strands his pate gleamed in the sunlight. His features were craggy and careworn, as if he’d spent a lifetime outdoors, toiling in the sun, and had now, approaching retirement, been co-opted into manning the reception desk of this establishment. It occurred to me that he was probably a retired solider like myself.

  “Good morning, gentlemen?” he said, as much a question as a greeting.

  “We are here,” announced Holmes, “to represent the interests of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson.”

  The man raised an eyebrow, and glanced from one of us to the other. “I take it then, gentlemen, that your visit relates to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the death of Mr. Herbert Grange?” asked the man, who I now took to be a most well-informed butler-cum-receptionist.

  “You surmise correctly, sir,” replied Holmes, with a gracious bow of his head. “We have some questions regarding his last known movements, and I wish to examine his office if you would grant me leave.”

  The man gave a curt nod. “Please wait, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, while I consult with my superiors.”

  He reached for a telephone receiver, which he plucked from its cradle between finger and thumb as if it were something distasteful. He dialled a number, and waited. A moment later, I heard the crackle of a voice on the other end, although I was unable to discern the precise words.

  “Mr. Bates,” said the receptionist. “I have two gentlemen here, claiming to be representatives of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

  A pause.

  “Yes, that’s right, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and associate. They wish to speak with someone regarding the death of Mr. Grange.” He listened intently, and then placed the receiver back in the cradle.

  “Sergeant Bates will be with you momentarily,” he said.

  “My thanks,” said Holmes.

  We moved away from the reception desk while we waited, so as not to be overheard.

  “Well, Holmes,” I said. “That was somewhat easier than I expected. Although I wonder if invoking the name of your brother might perhaps count as cheating.”

  Holmes allowed a smile to twitch at the edge of his lips.

  “A truly great detective makes use of all the many weapons in his arsenal, Watson. My brother is nothing if not comprehensive.

  Mark my words, his fingerprints are all over this matter. I have no doubt that we are expected.”

  As if in confirmation of Holmes’s theory, the door opened and a man in a black suit appeared. He approached us, his eyes lowered. “You are very welcome, sirs,” he said. “My name is Bates. Sergeant John Bates, retired.” He puffed out his chest as he delivered this piece of information, clearly proud of his former career. It was heartening to see. “I am to remain in your company for the duration of your visit. I shall escort you to the late Mr. Grange’s office. You may ask your questions of his secretary, Miss Millicent Brown.”

  “Most satisfactory,” said Holmes.

  The man inclined his head. “If you’d like to come this way,” he said, beckoning for us to follow. He showed us through another door, which opened onto a long corridor. The floor was lined with plush red carpet, the walls with yet more portraiture. I couldn’t shake the notion that the figures in the paintings, peering down at us with their strict military bearing, were watching our every movement.

  “Afghanistan?” I ventured, catching up to the fellow as he led us past innumerable offices, some of them apparently inhabited, others silent and empty.

  “Yes, sir,” said Bates.

  I nodded. “Yes, me too.” I smiled. “It seems a long time ago, now.”

  “Yes, sir,” confirmed Bates. He stopped abruptly, and I nearly stumbled as I caught myself from marching on ahead of him. “This is Mr. Grange’s office, gentlemen,” he said, indicating a glass-panelled door. A small, brass name plaque confirmed his assertion. He knocked twice, and then turned the handle, poking his head around the door.

  “Ah, Miss Brown. I hope you’ll be amenable to helping two gentlemen who have come to enquire about Mr. Grange’s unfortunate…” He trailed off, struggling to find the appropriate words. “Well, they wish to ask you some questions.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the police, Sergeant Bates,” came the quiet, hesitant reply. “But if you think it might help, then of course. Please, show them in.”

  Bates pushed the door open for us and waved us through. I found myself leading the way.

  The first thing I noticed was the distinct scarcity of any personal effects; the room was sparsely furnished and felt decidedly unlived in. Two oak desks, two chairs, a poster map of Europe and a filing cabinet were the sum of the room’s contents, aside from a low bookcase under the small window in a far corner. The bookcase held what appeared to be legal texts and Parliamentary reports, although I was surprised to see a rather ornate amber paperweight on the bottom shelf, into which had been etched a five-pointed star. Given the stack of papers on Grange’s desk, I was surprised that he hadn’t made better use of such an object. Craning my neck to see through the window, I could see the identical windows of other offices on the opposite side of a triangular courtyard. Clearly Grange had had neither elegant digs nor much of a view.

  The second thing that struck me was the sheer winsomeness of Grange’s secretary, Miss Millicent Brown. She was a remarkably handsome woman; young, in her mid-twenties, with startling rust-coloured hair tied back from her long, pale neck, and a smattering of delicate freckles across her nose. She was dressed in a smart blouse and grey jacket, and was standing behind her desk on the left of us as we entered the room.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Miss Brown,” said Holmes. “I understand this must be a troubling time for you. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”

  The woman’s expression changed so dramatically at the sound of our names that I had to resist the urge to laugh. Her eyes widened in shocked recognition, and her bottom lip began to tremble uncontrollably. “M… M… Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” she stammered, before sitting down on the edge of her chair and looking decidedly lost.

  Compassion overrode any sense of amusement I had felt. I went to her side. “Are you quite well, Miss Brown?”

  “Oh, yes, quite well,” she said, although her tone was unconvincing. Her eyes flitted from me to Holmes, and then back again.

  I glanced up at Bates. “Could I trouble you to fetch Miss Brown a glass of water?” I asked.

  Bates nodded and went immediately from the room. It was clear to see that the woman was out of sorts. This, I supposed, was in no small part down to the recent death of her employer, but it also seemed that the appearance of Holmes and me had thrown her into disarray.

  “Forgive me,” she said, after a moment. “It’s just – to have you both here, it suddenly makes it all so real.” She put a hand to her mouth. “He’s really dead, isn’t he?” She peered up at Holmes, a pleading look in her eyes.

  “How long had you and Mr. Grange had an understanding, Miss Brown?” said Holmes, gently.

  “An understanding?” I blurted, surprised. I quickly realised my transgression and found my manners, although I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Once again, Holmes had managed to see to the root of the matter within moments.

  “But how…?” began Miss Brown.

  Holmes smiled, but managed to refrain from showing off too overtly to this clearly distressed woman. “I observe the sterling-silver pen upon your desk, marked with the initials ‘M.B.’ It is clearly less than a year old – the nib shows wear consistent with only a few months’ use, and the casing is not yet tarnished. It was evidently an expensive object, far beyond the means of a secretary. A gift from an admirer, then. This, along with the unusual proximity of your desks, the onyx mourning ring upon t
he third finger of your right hand and your obvious distress, lead me to infer that you and the late gentleman had a relationship beyond the confines of the War Office.”

  Miss Brown gave a sad, knowing smile. “You’re right. Of course you are. We have been courting for almost a year,” she replied. “We were to be married, once the war was over. He didn’t want to wait, but I couldn’t do it, not with all this going on.” She waved her arms as if to encompass not only the room, but also the entire War Office, and everything it represented. “I couldn’t bring myself to be that happy when we were sending so many young men to their deaths. When even my friends and neighbours were at risk of dying in their sleep, with the zeppelin raids…” She broke off into a sob, and I passed her my handkerchief. She dabbed ineffectually at her eyes.

  “I can’t believe he’d do something like this,” she said, between stifled gasps. Her body shuddered, wracked with misery. My heart went out to the poor girl. “Why did he do it?”

  “That is what we are here to establish, Miss Brown,” said Holmes, not unkindly. He paced up and down before Grange’s desk, thoughtful for a moment. “So, if I am to understand you correctly, Miss Brown, you believe Mr. Grange’s actions on the day of his death to be… shall we say, uncharacteristic?”

  “If you mean, did I have any notion or indication that he intended to kill himself, Mr. Holmes, I did not. I thought we were happy…”

  “Nothing in the weeks or days leading up to Mr. Grange’s death gave you any cause to suspect he may have been troubled? No nervousness, unexpected telephone calls, erratic behaviour, cancelled trysts?” Holmes had tented his hands beneath his chin, and continued to pace up and down, a distant look in his eyes.

  “No, nothing like that. He was a busy man who often found himself pulled from pillar to post, but there were no signs of anything unusual,” replied Miss Brown. “Just his work here, and the typically punishing schedule of meetings in Whitehall. That is, until the last day. The last time we spoke he did not seem himself…”