Sherlock Holmes Read online

  She broke off as we heard the sound of the door opening, and Bates appeared with the requested glass of water, which he handed to Miss Brown. She took a sip, and placed the glass on her desk beside her typewriter. Bates retreated to stand in the opposite corner of the room, watching us all attentively.

  “And, forgive me for being indelicate, Miss Brown, but he shared no concerns with you during your time together as a man and a woman? No personal considerations?” asked Holmes.

  Miss Brown glanced anxiously at Bates, and then shook her head. “No. Everything seemed normal.”

  “I understand there was some recent furore over a speech given in the House that many considered to represent a pro-German attitude?” said Holmes.

  Miss Brown shook her head. “Mr. Grange was a kind and generous man, Mr. Holmes, and he counselled mercy. He believed that people should not be deemed innocent or guilty simply by virtue of the place they were born, but by their actions. His speech was not pro-German, any more than it was anti-British. He argued against the targeting of German civilians, that is all; whilst at the same time condemning the German command for authorising the zeppelin raids on London. He believed soldiers should fight wars, not the poor, the infirm, or women and children.”

  “He sounds like a wise and honourable man,” I said.

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Which makes it all the more intriguing that he should suddenly end his life in such an apparently erratic manner.” He stopped pacing for a moment before Miss Brown’s desk. “I would appreciate it if you could outline for me, sparing no detail, no matter how small, the full circumstances surrounding your final conversation with Mr. Grange. You said that he did not seem himself?”

  Miss Brown took another sip from her glass. “Yes, of course,” she said, “although I fear there is little to tell. The discourse was quite prosaic, at least it seemed so at first…” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Oh, I suppose I should really start at the beginning.”

  “Thank you, Miss Brown,” said Holmes. “In your own time.”

  “It was approaching midday,” she said. “The morning had passed much like any other. Mr. Grange had been here, in the office, since around half past eight, and he’d conducted three interviews, for which I’d taken extensive notes.”

  “And the nature of these interviews?” prompted Holmes.

  “Mr. Grange was responsible for interviewing naturalised German citizens, Mr. Holmes – people who were either German natives who now resided in England, or had been born British citizens to German parents.”

  “To assess their allegiance, I presume?” I interjected.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Miss Brown. “It was his job to ensure that none of those people were working against us from within our own borders.”

  “And of the three interviews he conducted that morning,” said Holmes, “were any of the interviewees suspected of anything untoward?”

  Miss Brown shook her head. “No, not that I can recall. Herbert—” she stumbled over his name, and then corrected herself. “Mr. Grange, encouraged them to go about their business once their interviews had been concluded.”

  “Have you made typescripts of these interviews, Miss Brown?” asked Holmes.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “What with everything…” She cleared her throat, and I saw that she was perilously close to breaking down again.

  “We understand,” I said, patting her shoulder and glancing at Holmes. “It’s a trying time.” Bates was still standing in the corner, watching. His expression seemed fixed, regimented, as if he didn’t wish to be considered to be either corroborating or denying her story.

  “Nevertheless, I wish to help in any way that I can,” she replied. She took a deep breath, bucking herself up. “As I’ve already mentioned, it was approaching midday, and just as soon as the last of the interviewees had been escorted from the building, Mr. Grange returned to the office and suggested he take me out for lunch.”

  “How did he seem to you at that point, Miss Brown?” said Holmes.

  “Buoyant,” she replied. “Reasonably upbeat. He was talking about a new café that had opened up just around the corner, how he’d spotted it the previous day and decided he’d like to take me there to try it out.”

  “I assume you jumped at the opportunity?” asked Holmes.

  “That’s just it,” she replied, her brows creasing. “I said that I had a little too much work to do that afternoon, and that I’d be quite happy to remain here in the office with my sandwiches and apple.”

  “He was somewhat deflated by this news?” I suggested.

  She shook her head. “No. Well, perhaps. That’s when things became a little odd.” She got up from her chair, and I stood aside to let her pass. “He went to the window and noted that it looked like rain anyway, and that perhaps it was best that we go another day.” She touched her hand to her hair in an innately feminine movement. “Herbert knew how I don’t like to be caught out in inclement weather. I was about to agree when he seemed to be overcome by a sudden – well, illness, I suppose. He put a hand to his head, like this,” she held her fingers to her right temple, “and staggered across here.” She paced across the room, retracing his steps. “He mumbled something along the lines of ‘My God, they’re here. They’re in here.’ He looked horrified. Panicked, even.”

  “How did you respond to this sudden alteration in his behaviour?” said Holmes.

  “I rushed to his side, of course, to check that he was alright. He shrugged me off. He didn’t appear to be in any pain, but he was clearly distraught.” I noticed Miss Brown was trembling as she recounted the harrowing events. “I asked him what he meant, who ‘they’ were, but he was inconsolable. He simply looked at me, grabbed me by the top of my arms, and said: ‘I won’t be responsible for the loss of the spirit box.’ That was it. He didn’t look back, or say goodbye. Didn’t even stop to collect his coat. He simply stormed from the room in a great hurry, and that was the last I saw of him.”

  “Good Lord,” I said, unable to contain my astonishment at such a bizarre and unexpected tale.

  Holmes appeared animated, still pacing, and I could see from the look in his eyes that he was fascinated by this new and unforeseen development. “The ‘spirit box’,” he said. “Do you have any notion of what he meant by that?”

  “I fear not,” replied Miss Brown, returning to her seat. “I’ve never heard of it before. Do you know what it is?”

  Holmes sighed. “I do not,” he said, “although it may yet prove to be of great consequence to the case. Permit me another question, Miss Brown. When Mr. Grange exclaimed ‘they’re here’, who do you believe he was referring to?”

  “Well, the Germans, of course. Who else?”

  “Who indeed,” replied Holmes, cryptically. He was standing before Grange’s desk, looking down upon scattered reams of paper, his back to us. “And you believe he meant that they were here, in the War Office?”

  “It’s so difficult to tell, Mr. Holmes,” replied Miss Brown. “He… he wasn’t himself. Some change had come over him, and at the time I was more concerned with his health than what he was actually saying.” She sighed. “I’ve gone over it a thousand times since, and I can only suppose that’s what he meant by it, yes.” I watched as a tiny tear formed in the corner of her eye, and then rolled down her cheek. She caught it with the back of her hand. Another followed a moment later. “I can’t help thinking…” Her voice cracked. “I can’t help thinking that if I’d only agreed to go to lunch, none of this would have happened.” The tears came in a sudden flood, and she put her hands to her face, turning away.

  “I think we’ve asked enough questions today, Holmes,” I said levelly.

  He gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. “There is just one other thing, Miss Brown, if you’ll forgive me.”

  She choked back her sobs and, with as much dignity as one can muster in such situations, dabbed at her eyes with my handkerchief and straightened herself up. She turned to Holmes. “
Yes, of course. What is it?”

  “The interviews that Mr. Grange has been conducting. How many should you say you’d transcribed?”

  “Why, all of them, save the final three,” she replied. “Around forty or fifty, I should think. They’re over there, in that filing cabinet.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes. He glanced at Bates, “Sergeant Bates, I shall need your permission to remove these transcripts, but I feel it necessary in the pursuit of this matter that I investigate all possible avenues. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “Of course,” replied Bates. “There’ll be some paperwork to see to, but my instructions were to provide you with full and unencumbered access to Mr. Grange’s files.”

  “Most satisfactory,” replied Holmes. He approached the filing cabinet, pulled out the top drawer and began removing the files, heaping them untidily onto Grange’s desk. “Miss Brown,” he said as he worked, “I trust it is not too much of an inconvenience to request your timely assistance in transcribing those final three conversations? I believe their contents may be fundamental in helping to understand this most singular matter.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “I will set to work immediately, and have them sent to you tomorrow.”

  “Very good,” said Holmes. He had finished extracting the contents of the filing cabinet and now had a heap of manila folders about a foot high, balanced precariously on the late man’s desk. He gathered them up into his arms. “Dr. Watson will provide you with the address.”

  With a sigh, I searched in my pocket for one of my address cards and placed it upon Miss Brown’s desk. She glanced at it, and then stood, as Holmes crossed the room with the folders, heading for the door. “Mr. Holmes?” she said urgently, as if panicked that she might miss her chance. “Do you believe that Herbert was under some form of influence when he did what he did? I’m not sure if I could bear it if you thought otherwise…”

  “I believe there is a distinct possibility that he was, Miss Brown,” replied Holmes, with a sad smile. “However, I do not care to speculate until I am in receipt of all of the facts.” He hesitated in the doorway, where Bates was holding the door open for him. “Come along, Watson. There’s work to be done.”

  “My thanks to you, Miss Brown,” I said to the sad, pretty woman, who was still standing behind her desk. “I will endeavour to inform you just as soon as there is any news to share.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” she said. She was holding herself together with remarkable dignity, although I knew that the moment the door was closed, she would once again lose herself in floods of tears. I decided to leave her my handkerchief. It was the very least I could do.

  Holmes had gone ahead and was waiting for me in the lobby while Bates – presumably – saw to the paperwork for the files Holmes wished to remove.

  “A devilish business this, Holmes,” I said wearily, as I came to stand beside him before one of the alcoves. He was staring up at the portrait of a mustachioed man in full military dress.

  “Indeed, Watson,” he murmured in reply. “Indeed.” He touched his index finger to his lips. “There is much still to learn regarding Grange’s interests, his habits, what sort of man he was. I cannot help but feel the answer to this puzzle lies outside this office, amongst matters more personal or private.”

  “You’re referring to this ‘spirit box’, are you not?” I said.

  “Quite so, Watson,” he replied. “Intriguing, is it not? So intriguing in fact, that I will ask for your forbearance for just a short while longer. There is one further stop I wish to make before we retire for the evening – the home of Mr. Herbert Grange.”

  I nodded my acquiescence. “Very well,” I said. “I’ll leave you here to await the return of Bates with your files, and in the meantime I shall prepare Carter for the worst.”

  Holmes laughed. “Watson?” he said.

  “Yes, Holmes?”

  “It is good, is it not, to be once again concerned with a new mystery?”

  I grinned. “Yes, Holmes,” I said. “It most certainly is.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Herbert Grange’s house was a relatively modest property for a man of his standing; a mid-terraced home just of Theobald’s Road. The small front garden was not yet mature, but a row of glorious red roses spilled over the dwarf wall, poking out through gaps in the cast-iron railings.

  There were no lights on in the front room, although the curtains had been closed in the bay window. It simply looked as if nobody had arrived home from work that day; as if the house was still waiting for Grange to return. The thought made me shudder, recalling images of his bloated, distended body. If it hadn’t been for the soft yellow glow leaching out through the glass panel above the front door, offering evidence of recent occupation, the place would have seemed entirely unwelcoming. Clearly, however, Inspector Foulkes had arrived before us.

  Holmes had telephoned ahead to Scotland Yard, requesting that Foulkes meet us at Grange’s house, and judging by the light in the hall and the automobile parked in front of the building, he’d already arrived.

  My stomach was grumbling, and I hoped what remained of the evening’s endeavours would not take long. I was sure that both Holmes and I would benefit from a hot meal at my club.

  Despite this distinct lack of sustenance, I could not avoid the fact that I’d enjoyed myself more that day than I had in quite some years. It felt good to be working with Holmes again, not only because I had missed my friend dearly during the months since our last adventure, but because I felt that, finally, I was able to do some good. The war had left me feeling helpless and old, but Holmes’s arrival and insistence on my help had reminded me what it was to be useful. To be a man who made a difference.

  I glanced across at him, only to discover he was already climbing out of the motorcar, despite the fact we had not yet come to a complete stop. I mobilised myself quickly in order to keep up.

  “You should come inside with us, Carter,” I said to our driver, as I opened the door and climbed down into the road. “You’ll catch your death out here.” The sun had long since set, and the bright, clear skies of earlier had given way to a chill and starry evening.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me, Dr. Watson. I’m quite happy to wait for you out here. I’ve a good book and a warm coat. You go about your business, and I’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re ready.”

  “If you’re sure?” I said, offering him a final chance to change his mind.

  “Perfectly sure, Dr. Watson,” he replied.

  I took him at his word, hurrying round the vehicle to catch up with Holmes. “Decent chap, that Carter,” I said.

  “Quite,” replied Holmes. “Shame about his heart.”

  “His heart?” I queried. “What the devil do you mean, Holmes?”

  Holmes issued a disapproving tut. “Watson, I should have thought to a medical man it was obvious. Our driver suffers from a chronic weakness of the heart. Consider the facts: pale skin, breathlessness…”

  “The very fact he’s here, in London, rather than at the front…” I cursed myself for my poor observation. “I should have seen it. Poor boy.”

  Holmes said nothing, but took the steps up to the house and rapped loudly on the door with the brass knocker. It was cast in the shape of a rather undignified, impish face, its mouth fixed open in a screaming grimace.

  Footsteps followed, and a moment later the door yawned open and Inspector Foulkes stood in the light, his considerable figure cast in stark silhouette.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” he said. His voice sounded muffled, and it took a moment before I was able to discern that he was speaking around the mouthpiece of a pipe, which he’d clenched between his teeth. “This is something of an unconventional hour to be making house calls.”

  I offered him an apologetic shrug from behind Holmes.

  “Well come in, come in.” He stood to one side and ushered us both over the threshold.

  “I understand, Inspector, that Herbert Grang
e lived alone,” said Holmes.

  “That’s correct, Mr. Holmes. He was a bachelor,” replied Foulkes.

  “No lodgers, tenants, housekeeper?”

  “The housekeeper comes in on Monday, Wednesday and Friday to take care of the washing and cleaning. I gather Mr. Grange had no love of home cooking and preferred to eat out.” Foulkes shook his head, as if finding it difficult to comprehend such a notion. Holmes had already pushed on past him and was at the other end of the hallway, taking stock of his surroundings. “There were no lodgers or other inhabitants,” added Foulkes.

  “Very good,” said Holmes. “Now, if you’ll give me leave?”

  “Be my guest,” said Foulkes, with a gregarious shrug. “Take as long as you need.” At this, I felt my stomach grumble once again. “We’ve disturbed nothing. The house is as it was the day Grange died.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes. He passed along the hallway and disappeared down the short flight of steps to the kitchen.

  Foulkes glanced at me, realised that I was not about to follow Holmes, and gestured for me to join him in the sitting room instead while we waited.

  The room, and from what I could gather the rest of the house, was well appointed. Grange had obviously lived comfortably, and lived well. The house had the well-worn feel of a place that had been inhabited. Trinkets clustered on the mantelpiece, and on top of the sideboard stood framed photographs of people I took to be close friends and family.

  Papers were spread out on a small table beside a high-backed chair in the bay window. A cut-glass decanter and a half-finished tumbler of whisky had been placed on top of them.

  The curtains were drawn, but I had the distinct impression that the room was indeed very much how Grange had left it, as if he had simply got up from where he’d been sitting and left for the day, with every intention of returning later.

  “So, Dr. Watson,” said Foulkes, “did you manage to turn up anything useful at the War Office?”