Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

"Nellie Coram," the landlady said. "I have two visitors for you, Mr Smith."

The door opened a crack, and I saw a single piercing blue eye regard Holmes and me for a second. "Come in," said the voice, stronger now, and its owner moved back and opened the door for us.

Holmes and I went in. I looked around and saw a small but tidy room: bed, wash-stand, armoire, and a single straight-backed chair by the window. A copy of The Times lay open on the bed.

Pendleton-Smythe closed the door before Mrs Coram could join us, and I heard a muffled "Humph" from the other side and the sound of her footsteps as she returned to her tasks downstairs. The colonel himself was a man of medium height and strong build, with iron gray hair, blue eyes, and a small moustache. He wore dark blue trousers, a white pinstripe shirt,

and a blue jacket. But it was the service revolver in his hand that most drew my attention. Pendleton-Smythe held it pointed straight at Holmes and me.

"What do you want?" he barked. "Who are you?"

Holmes, who had already taken in the room with a single glance, crossed to the window and parted the drapes. "Rather," he said, "I should ask what you want, Colonel. I am here to keep our appointment. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson."

Holmes turned and stared at Pendleton-Smythe, and after a second the colonel lowered his revolver. His hands were shaking, I saw, and I steadied his arm for a second.

"I am glad to have you here, Mr Holmes," he said. Nervously he crossed to the bed and sat down, tossing the revolver beside him. He cradled his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath. "Truly, I am at my wit's end. I don't know if you can help me, but if any man in England can, it's you.Your presence here is proof enough of your remarkable abilities."

Holmes sat in the straight chair, steepled his fingers, crossed his legs, and said, "Begin at Eton, with your involvement in the Amateur Mendicant Society."

He started violently. "You know about that, too? How is it possible?"

"Then he's right," I said, "and the Amateur Mendicant Society is involved?"

"Yes-yes, damn them!"

"My methods are my own," Holmes said. "Please start at the beginning. Leave out no detail, no matter how small. I can assure you of our utmost discretion in this and all matters."

I sat on the bed beside the colonel. Suddenly he looked like a very tired, very old man. "You'll feel better," I told him. "They say confession is good for the soul."

He took a deep breath, then began.

"Everything started with one of my professors, Dr Jason Attenborough. He taught second-year Latin as well as classical history, and one day after class six of us stayed late to ask about the Secret Mendicant Society, which he had mentioned in passing in that afternoon's lecture. It was thrilling in its own way, the idea of spies among the ancient Romans, but we found it hard to believe any noble-born person could possibly pass as a beggar. Dr Attenborough said it was not only possible, it had happened for several centuries.

"Later, at a public house, almost as a dare, the six of us agreed to try it ourselves. It seemed like a rum lot of fun, and after a few rounds at the Slaughtered Lamb, we set out to give it a go.

"We went first to a rag merchant – he was closed, but we pounded on his door until he opened for us – and from him we purchased suitable disreputable clothing. Dressing ourselves as we imagined beggars might, we smeared soot on our faces and set out to see what news and pennies we could gather. It was a foolish sort of game, rather stupid really, and the prime foolishness came when we decided to visit Piccadilly Circus to see what sort of reception we got. We were pretty well potted by this time, you see, so anything sounded like fun.

"Suffice it to say, we terrorized several old women into giving us pennies and were promptly arrested for our trouble. The next day, after being ransomed home by disbelieving parents, we were summonsed to the Dean's office and informed that our activities had disgraced the school. In short, our presence was no longer desired. The news was devastating to us and our families.

"That's where things should have ended. We should have quietly bought our way into other schools, or vanished into military life, or simply retired to family businesses – there were many choices available. However, that night, as we gathered one last time in the Slaughtered Lamb, Dr Attenborough joined us. He was not consoling or apologetic. Rather, he was ebullient.

"He asked what we had learned as beggars – and we hadn't learned a thing, really – but as he led us through the lesson (for that's what it was to him), we could see that we had gone to the wrong section of the city, spoken to the wrong people, done all the wrong things. Beggars have their place in our society, as you know, and we had stepped outside their domain. That's where we had gone wrong.

"As he had done in his lecture hall, he inspired us that night with his speech. He persuaded us that we should go out again and this time he went with us.

"Dressed once more as beggars, we ventured into the sordid, dark places near the docks, where such as we had never dared go at night. Using the Roman system as a model, he showed us what we had done wrong – and how we could do it right.

"We listened at the right windows. We lurked outside sailors' taverns and heard their coarse, drunken gossip. And suddenly we began to understand how the Secret Mendicant Society had worked so admirably well. Wine loosens men's tongues, and much could be gleaned from attentive listening. For who pays attention to shabby beggars, even among the dregs of our society?

"There were a dozen ship's captains who we could have turned in for smuggling, a handful of murders we could have solved, stolen cargoes that could have been recovered with just a word in the right ear at Scotland Yard.

"We did none of that. It was petty. But we were young and foolish, and Dr Attenborough did nothing but encourage us in our foolishness. Oh, he was a masterful speaker. He could convince you night was day and white was black, if he wanted to. And suddenly he wanted very much to have us working for him. We would be a new Secret Mendicant Society – or, as we chaps liked to call it, an Amateur Mendicant Society. Dabbling, yes, that was a gentleman's way. It was a game to us. As long as we pretended it was a schoolyard lark, it wasn't really a dirty deal.

"I regret to say I took full part in the Amateur Mendicant Society's spying over the following six months. I learned the truth from dishonest men, turned the information over to Dr Attenborough, and he pursued matters from there. What, exactly, he did with the information I can only guess – extortion, blackmail, possibly even worse. However, I do know that suddenly he had a lot of money, and he paid us handsomely for our work. He bought an abandoned warehouse and had a posh gentleman's club outfitted in the basement – though, of course, there were no servants, nobody who could break our secret circle. Later he leased the warehouse out for furniture storage.

"I was not the first to break the circle. Dickie Clarke was. He told me one evening that he had enlisted in the army. His father had used his influence to get him a commission, and he was off to India. 'I'm through with soiling my hands with this nonsense,' he told me. 'I've had enough. Come with me, Oliver. It's not too late' I was shocked, and I refused – to my lasting shame.

"When Attenborough found out, he had an absolute fit he threw things, screamed obscenities, smashed a whole set of dishes against the wall. Then and there I realized I had made a mistake. I had made a pact with a madman. I had to escape.

"The next day I too enlisted. I've been away for nineteen years – I never came back, not even on leave, for fear of what Dr Attenborough might do if he found out. He was that violent.