Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

"I had stayed in touch with Dickie Clarke all through his campaigns and my own, and when he wrote from London to tell me Attenborough was dead, I thought it would be safe to return home. I planned to write my memoirs, you see.

"Only two weeks ago Dickie died. Murdered – I'm sure of it! And then I noticed people, strangers dressed as beggars, loitering near my house, watching me, noting my movements as I had once noted the movements of others. To escape, I simply walked out of my home one day, took a series of cabs until I was certain I hadn't been followed, and haven't been back since."

Sherlock Holmes nodded slowly when Pendleton-Smythe finished. "A most interesting story," he said. "But why would the Amateur Mendicant Society want you dead? Are you certain there isn't something more?"

He raised his head, back stiff. "Sir, I assure you, I have told you everything. As for why – isn't that obvious? Because I know too much. They killed old Dickie, and now they're going to kill me!"

"What of the four others from Eton? What happened to them?"

"The others?" He blinked. "I – I really don't know. I haven't heard from or spoken to any of them in years. I hope they had the good sense to get out and not come back. Heavens above, I certainly wish I hadn't!"

"Quite so," said Holmes. He rose. "Stay here, Colonel. I think you will be safe in Mrs Coram's care for the time being. I must look into a few matters, and then we will talk again."

"So you will take my case?" he asked eagerly.

"Most decidedly." Holmes inclined his head. "I'm certain I'll

be able to help. One last thing. What was the address of the warehouse Attenborough owned?" "Forty-two Kerin Street," he said.

As we headed back toward Baker Street, Holmes seemed in a particularly good mood, smiling and whistling bits of a violin concerto I'd heard him playing earlier that week.

"Well, what is it?" I finally demanded.

"Don't you see, Watson?" he said. "There can only be one answer. We have run into a classic case of two identical organizations colliding. It's nothing short of a trade war between rival groups of beggar-spies."

"You mean there's a real Secret Mendicant Society still at large?"

"The very thing!"

"How is it possible? How could they have survived all these years with nobody knowing about them?"

"Some people can keep secrets," he said.

"It's fantastic!"

"Grant me this conjecture. Imagine, if you will, that the real Secret Mendicant Society has just become aware of its rival, the Amateur Mendicant Society. They have thrived in the shadows for centuries. They have a network of informants in place. It's not hard to see how the two would come face to face eventually, as the Amateur Society expanded into the Secret Society's established territory. Of course, the Secret Mendicant Society could not possibly allow a rival to poach on their grounds. What could they possibly do but strike out in retaliation?"

"Attenborough and Clarke and the others…"

"Exactly! They have systematically eliminated the amateurs. I would imagine they are now in occupation of the secret club under the old furniture warehouse, where Attenborough's records would have been stored. And those records would have led them, inexorably, to the two Amateurs who got away – Dickie, who they killed at once, and our client, who they have not yet managed to assassinate."

"Ingenious," I said.

"But now Colonel Pendleton-Smythe is in more danger than he believes. He is the last link to the old Amateur Mendicant Society, so it should be a simple matter to – "

Holmes drew up short. Across the street from 22 1 b Baker Street, on the front steps of another house, a raggedly dressed old man with a three-day growth of beard sat as if resting from a long walk.

"He's one of them," I said softly.

Holmes regarded me as though shocked by my revelation. "Watson, must you be so suspicious? Surely that poor unfortunate is catching his second wind. His presence is merest coincidence." I caught the amused gleam in his eye, though.

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidences," I said.

"Ye-es." He drew out the word, then turned and continued on toward our front door at a more leisurely pace. "Let us assume," he said, "that you are right. What shall we do with the devil? Run him off? Have him locked up by Lestrade?"

"That would surely tip our hand," I said. "Rather, let us try to misdirect him."

"You're learning, Watson, you're learning." We reached our house; he opened the door. "I trust you have a plan?"

"I was rather hoping you did," I admitted.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said. "But I'm going to need your help…"

Two hours later, I stood in the drawing room shaking my head. The man before me – thick lips, stubbled chin, rat's nest of chestnut colored hair – bore not the slightest resemblance to my friend. His flare for the dramatic as well as a masterly skill for disguises would have borne him well in the theatre, I thought. I found the transformation remarkable.

"Are you sure this is wise?" I asked.

"Wise?" he said. "Decidedly not. But will it work? I profoundly hope so. Check the window, will you?"

I lifted the drape. "The beggar has gone."

"Oh, there are surely other watchers," he said. "They have turned to me as the logical one to whom Colonel Pendleton-Smythe would go for help." He studied his new features in a looking glass, adjusted one bushy eyebrow, then glanced over at me for approval.

"Your own brother wouldn't recognize you," I told him. "Excellent." He folded up his makeup kit, then I followed him to the back door. He slipped out quietly while I began to count.

When I reached a hundred, I went out the front door, turned purposefully, and headed for the bank. I had no real business there; however, it was as good a destination as any for my purpose – which was to serve as a decoy while Holmes observed those who observed me.

I saw nothing to arouse my suspicions as I checked on my accounts, and in due course I returned to our lodgings in exactly the same professional manner. When Holmes did not at once show himself, I knew his plan had been successful; he was now trailing a member of the Secret Mendicant Society.

I had a leisurely tea, then set off to find Inspector Lestrade. He was, as usual, hard at work at his desk. I handed him a note from Sherlock Holmes, which said:

Lestrade,

Come at once to 42 Kerin Street with a dozen of your men. There is a murderer to be had as well as evidence of blackmail and other nefarious deeds.

Sherlock Holmes

Lestrade's eyes widened as he read the note, and a second later he was on his way out the door shouting for assistance.

I accompanied him, and by the time we reached 42 Kerin Street – a crumbling old brick warehouse – he had fifteen men as an entourage. They would have kicked the door in, but a raggedly dressed man with bushy eyebrows reached out and opened it for them: it wasn't so much as latched. Without a glance at the disguised Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade and his men rushed in.

Holmes and I strolled at a more leisurely pace back toward a busier street where we might catch a cab home. He began removing his makeup and slowly the man I knew emerged.

"How did it go?" I asked.

"There were a few tense moments," he said, "but I handled things sufficiently well, I believe."

"Tell me everything," I said.

"For your journals, perhaps?"

"Exactly so."

"Very well. As you headed down the street looking quite purposeful, an elderly gentleman out for a mid-day stroll suddenly altered his course after you. He was well dressed, not a beggar by appearance or demeanor, so I took this to mean he was now watching us. I overtook him, grasped him firmly by the arm, and identified myself to him.