Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Of course he did. But did anyone else see him? I asked some of the neighbouring shops and none of them received a visit from a Greek, but they did buy candles from a man who was selling from door to door. Your father once had an enemy who was Greek, who I helped deliver into the hands of the police, and it suited your purposes to have a mysterious stranger who could be held responsible for initiating your father’s death.”

  All eyes were on Iqbal but this still did not make sense to me. Why would Iqbal want to kill his father? Then I realised that this was exactly the question that Holmes wanted the answer to himself.

  Yousef could clearly not believe what he was hearing. It was hard enough for him to take in the fact that his father had been murdered.

  “If Mr Holmes is convinced that you killed your father then I am sure he can prove it. He would not make allegations without evidence to support his claims,” said Lestrade.

  “You have nothing on me,” Iqbal said, as Lestrade took hold of his arm and eased him into the grasp of one of his constables.

  “On the contrary. Why did you come to me and talk about how your father had met me many years ago? You reminded me of a debt I owed him, and yet your brother did not seem to have the same recollection. Only you met the supposed Greek salesman, who not even your neighbours saw. But the most telling evidence remains on your sleeve.”

  Iqbal glanced at the cuff of his jacket and I caught sight of a discoloured patch in the cloth.

  “When you came to Baker Street I detected a slight waxiness when I shook your hand, then I saw the patch on your jacket. While I had no idea of what it signified to begin with, it puzzled me. Once there was mention of an argument with a door-to-door salesman I knew that it was important. Claiming that the salesman was Greek was bound to raise my concerns; after all it was a Greek man that had threatened your father’s life when I first met him.”

  “He rarely spoke of him,” Yousef said, interrupting Holmes. “The Greek man. Who was he?”

  Holmes paused for a moment. It was clear that he knew the answer but seemed to be considering whether he would reveal the information. “His name was Andreas Palandrou. He was your mother’s brother. He was convinced that your father was responsible for your mother’s death by stealing her away from her family and came looking for him. He planned to kill your father and take you both back to Greece with him.”

  “I had no idea,” said Yousef. “He only told me that he had met you when Dr Watson’s stories began to appear.”

  “He gave me this,” Holmes said, producing the slipper from his pocket and handing it to the young man while his brother struggled in the arms of the police officer.

  “My father has one like this tucked away in a drawer somewhere. I always thought it strange that he should keep an odd one. Perhaps it was to remind him of the kind of work he used to be able to do. Now we make gloves, but at least that requires more skill than the kind of work my brother would have us do,” said Yousef, turning the slipper over in his hands.

  “And what would that be?” Holmes asked.

  “Knee pads for miners and back protectors for coal delivery men. Leatherwork for industry.”

  “And is there much demand for those items?” Holmes had never seemed that interested in the day-to-day activities of manufacturing before, but he clearly knew that this was important to the brothers.

  “I have orders that would earn in six months what we normally make in three years,” said Iqbal. “But my father would not entertain the idea. He was afraid of risk. We would have to expand into bigger premises, but the business would be there for us for a long time. We would not have to work as hard or live from hand to mouth.”

  “I doubt that very much,” said Holmes. “This was a man who risked everything for the woman he loved, for the two sons who were everything to him and for a young man he barely knew. If he was afraid of anything, it was of the threat appearing again. I suspect that he feared success would bring his name to the attention of people he would rather not know of his whereabouts.”

  “He was weak.”

  “And you thought that was good enough reason to kill him? Your father had a weak heart and I suspect that you made him weaker with the use of gradually administered poison. So much so that a shock to the system would prove fatal. He was already afraid of the very idea of a Greek coming after him, and you fuelled that fear. I suspect that you told him the candles came from this imaginary Greek when he was too frail to even get out of bed. You closed the curtains and lit the candle and locked the door behind you, pulling a similar key into the hole to make it look like he had locked himself in. And then you came to see me to plant the idea that he was afraid a djinn had been sent to kill him.”

  The man said nothing more before the police led him away. He was close to admitting everything, I had seen that look often enough. Lestrade would not have much difficulty in getting the confession he needed. I had rarely known a man capable of killing the person who had raised him in such a calculated way.

  Yousef gave the slipper back to Holmes and thanked him, saying that any debt had been repaid many times over. I was not convinced that Holmes felt the same. There was something about his demeanour that suggested failure, but we both knew that the old man was most certainly already dead by the time that Iqbal came to visit us in Baker Street.

  He had done everything he could and that was all that was possible. Nevertheless, in the dark days that followed, I was glad he turned to his violin instead of the seven-per-cent solution.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Steve Lockley is the author of around a hundred short stories, including a couple of contributions to Doctor Who anthologies, along with a handful of novels and novellas. His next novel, The Sign of Gla’aki, co-written with Steven Savile and due to be published by Fantasy Flight Games in 2013, sees Harry Houdini and a young Dennis Wheatley caught up in a world of Lovecraftian horror.

  With Mike O’Driscoll, Steve was awarded the British Fantasy Society Special Award in 1995 for their work on the horror convention Welcome to my Nightmare and he has served as a judge for the prestigious World Fantasy Awards. Steve lives in Swansea with more books than he can ever hope to read.

  THE PROPERTY OF A THIEF

  BY MARK WRIGHT

  There have been times in my long association with Sherlock Holmes when I have seen my friend perform great service to a wide variety of individuals and organisations. Lords, ladies, servants, members of parliament, kitchen maids, draymen, theatrical entertainers, heirs and heiresses number amongst those he has pulled from the brink of ruin and disaster. From the darkest recesses of the London underbelly to the highest authority in the land, Sherlock Holmes is blind to the boundaries of status. If he deems a problem worthy of his singular attention, he will apply himself with vigour and fortitude.

  I have always remained fiercely protective of my association with Holmes; not through selfish reasons, of course, but to sway those acquaintances that would seek to make currency from that association for personal gain. It therefore pains me that I have, on but one occasion, availed myself of his services as a personal favour to others. But not once did he falter from the path in the same diligent manner as he would in service to any other caller to 221b Baker Street; and blast it if he didn’t approach the whole sorry affair with some amusement, mostly at my own expense.

  “No, no, Watson, you must go!” said Sherlock Holmes. His long legs were stretched out before him, feet placed on the breakfast table in a manner that would surely bring forth the wrath of Mrs Hudson. The tie of his open silk dressing gown trailed on the floor and he was wreathed in a blue fug of cigarette smoke.

  “Are you sure you won’t accompany me?” I asked.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Holmes, throwing his head back and taking a long draw on his cigarette. It was the answer I had expected, and was an unequivocal no. The invitation to which Holmes was declining to attend was a weekend gathering at the stately home of Cunningham Hall on the Kent border. It would no doubt be a
tiresome business. Politely stiff small talk over drinks, an attempt to throw oneself into the evening’s social activities, and apparently on Saturday afternoon there was to be some cricket. A visiting team of some repute would be going into battle against a local side.

  I was only going for Mary’s sake; if only she could know it, I thought with a sad smile. James and Elizabeth Cunningham had been acquaintances of my late wife, who we had seen together once or twice prior to her passing. Since my inevitable return to the Baker Street rooms I invariably shared with Sherlock Holmes, they had continuously attempted to coax me to one of their frequent weekend gatherings. I was at the juncture where to decline yet another kindly invitation would border on impudence.

  “But Watson,” said Holmes, removing his feet from amongst the remains of breakfast, “you simply must go. The country air will do you the power of good.” He rose and moved towards a bookcase, eyes darting keenly in the search for a particular volume. I didn’t think for a moment that my friend had given any thought whatsoever to the restorative powers of a country climate, but it was to his credit that he was trying.

  “If you’re sure...” I began, but my half-hearted plea was waved away without a backward glance, cigarette smoke wafting around him in languorous curls.

  I puffed out my cheeks and made towards the door. A triumphant “Ah!” from the vicinity of the bookcase indicated success in locating the errant volume and Holmes began his return orbit to the table. He absently extinguished the cigarette into a plate of cold kedgeree and glanced up.

  “You off?”

  “Ah, yes,” I replied, feeling a little awkward at this parting. “Till Sunday, then.”

  “Hmm.” He nodded, returning to his reclined position at the table, book already open, my presence seemingly forgotten. There would be no further words that morning, so I made a swift exit, not at all looking forward to the social ordeal ahead.

  I retrieved my baggage from the hallway, bade Mrs Hudson farewell and stepped out onto the bustle of Baker Street. Here it was an easy matter to hail a hansom cab for the jaunt down past Hyde Park to Victoria station. Within the hour I was pulling away from the foetid press of London and was soon speeding on towards the Kent countryside.

  It was a bright May morning and my mood started to lift the further from the metropolis the train carried me. Perhaps Holmes had been right about the country air after all.

  I must have dozed off, as it felt that just minutes later the train shuddered and steamed to a halt aside the platform at Cunningham Halt station. These small country branch halts were such a curiosity to me, and I had seen many in my travels with Sherlock Holmes. I stepped onto the platform, blinking into the sunlight, and with my weekend valise, made my way out front.

  Five carriages were awaiting the train’s arrival. Several other guests destined for the Cunninghams had been on the train and I was thankful we hadn’t happened to be sharing carriages. There would be enough awkward conversation to come over the next few days; it was a relief to postpone them for a while longer. But that moment was now upon me. As baggage was placed atop the carriage with the driver, I found myself sitting opposite a perfectly affable married couple who were keen to tell me about their modest property in Eaton Place. I vowed at that moment, as one must from time to time, to make the best of it as we clattered our way on to the hall.

  Cunningham Hall was modest by the standards of country houses of the time. James had inherited the estate in the way these things happen, taking his responsibilities to the family seriously. The frittering away of vast sums, as seemed to be the modern vogue, was not for him. Mary had come to know James when he was making his way in the world, independent from his father, and he had learnt valuable lessons along the way. The family fortune—such as it was— was invested sensibly, and James was proving a popular master with staff and tenants alike.

  The five carriages perambulated their way up the main drive to the house, which nestled against an attractive backdrop of undulating green. As their guests alighted and baggage was whisked away by efficient and smartly dressed staff, James and Elizabeth greeted their new arrivals.

  “John,” declared James warmly, taking my hand, “delighted you could come!” I returned the greeting. He retained the same tanned, handsome features that defied the passing years, but he was perhaps filling out the well-tailored waistcoat a little more snugly than before.

  Elizabeth, as pretty as ever, kissed me gently on the cheek. “John.” She glanced at James and then, curiously, peered around me to the carriage I had just stepped from. “Is... is Mr Holmes not with you?”

  I rankled at this. “I’m afraid Holmes was indisposed in London.” It was a terser statement than I’d meant.

  Elizabeth’s face fell. “The invitation was intended for both of you.”

  “I realise that, but Sherlock Holmes is never well disposed at being summoned to a particular time or place, unless on the most urgent business.”

  “But—” Elizabeth began, stopping short as James stepped between us.

  “Elizabeth, leave the poor man alone. We’re just delighted to see you, old boy.” He looked pointedly at his wife. “Aren’t we, darling?”

  Elizabeth’s face softened, any trace of disappointment fading. “Yes—” she smiled “—of course. You’ve been a stranger too long. We do miss Mary so terribly.”

  “As do I.”

  James ushered me skilfully towards the main door of the house. “Of course. So, tell me, how have you been?”

  With that, I was whisked into the comfort of Cunningham Hall, any trace of unpleasantness extinguished in a trice.

  * * *

  One of the many reasons I tended to avoid gatherings of this nature was the seemingly long periods with nothing to do. Friday afternoons seemed to go on forever as others arrived and settled in, took in the lie of the land and scoped out their fellow guests. There was something of the military operation about these affairs, master tacticians preparing to go into social battle.

  I chose to see out the afternoon in my comfortable guest room, taking the opportunity to enjoy the respite from the usual rhythms of life. I looked out from a window bordered on either side by trailing ivy onto the grounds that swept away from the rear of the house, where well-tended lawns dropped down to a small lake. In the distance, through the trees, I spied the pristine white lines of a marquee, where I guessed the cricket match was to take place tomorrow.

  I sighed wistfully, wishing for half a moment that Mary were here. She always made occasions such as this more bearable. But the words of Sherlock Holmes came rushing back to me, as they frequently did: “Watson, there is little virtue in wishing for things that cannot be.” Those words had made me angry at first, but I eventually came to realise they were as close to an expression of sympathy and understanding as Holmes was ever likely to give.

  I turned from the window and dismissed the black mood as quickly as it was upon me. I had already decided to avoid afternoon tea. Instead, I settled down in an armchair to enjoy an hour or so lost in the pages of a book.

  * * *

  Bathed and dressed for dinner, I emerged from my room just as the pre-dinner gong sounded. I took a deep breath, relieved that I could still comfortably fit into my seldom-worn formal dinner wear, and descended the wide staircase. There was already a hubbub of conversation as other guests gathered for drinks in the sumptuously appointed reception room. I suddenly realised I was famished and eagerly looking forward to dinner.

  “John, I thought we’d lost you,” said Elizabeth as she took my arm as soon as I entered, guiding me into the social melee with the grace of an experienced hostess.

  “Not at all, just enjoying the peace and quiet. You look beautiful.” And she did. “The tiara sets everything off perfectly.”

  “This?” She raised a hand to gently touch the diamond-studded piece that adorned her hair. It was elegant, but understated. “A birthday gift from James’s father shortly before his death.”

  “Well, it’s
quite delightful.”

  “Thank you, John,” replied Elizabeth conspiratorially, instantly making me the centre of her world for those few moments. “Let’s get you a drink and then I can introduce you around.”

  A few minutes later I was holding a glass of sherry, being ushered from one gaggle of guests to another. It was futile to resist—and to her credit Elizabeth did not once introduce me as the associate of Sherlock Holmes, as I had feared she would. Across the room I spied James holding court. He glanced over and gave me an encouraging smile.

  It would be naïve to think that at least a handful of guests wouldn’t know my name and of my connection to the well-known consulting detective, but for once I seemed able to enjoy being just plain old John H. Watson, MD.

  I felt the press of Elizabeth’s hand on my arm once more, pulling me inexorably deeper into the room. “John, there’s somebody who’s simply dying to meet you.” My heart sank. I had thought too soon. “Arthur...”

  At this, a gentleman standing with his back to me turned nimbly away from the knot of party guests he was talking to.

  “Please,” this newcomer said, breaking into a smile as he took my hand and began to pump it up and down. “Call me Raffles.”

  This Raffles had the easy, confident manner of one used to social graces. It did not take Sherlock Holmes’ powers of deduction to see a public school upbringing behind the handsome, chiselled features, neatly parted dark hair, tall frame and formal white-tie evening wear. Elizabeth stood between us, glancing from one to the other with an expression of great expectation lighting up her face.

  “Pleased to meet you.” I returned the greeting. “I’m John —”

  “Dr Watson!” declared Raffles, attracting curious glances from around the room. “I know exactly who you are. Can’t get enough of your writings.”

  There it was. “Oh. You’ve read my work,” I managed stiffly