Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘“Hallo?” I said tentatively, after a moment. “Is there anyone here?”

‘The response made my hair stand on end, for there was a movement in the blackness to the side of me, and a dark figure stepped forward from a shadowed doorway. He opened the shutter of a lantern and held it up to my face.

‘“You are A. Herbert, I take it?” said he in a rough, coarse voice. It was certainly not my old school-fellow, but, as he knew my name, I assumed it must be some agent of his.

‘“I am,” said I.

‘Two more figures materialised out of the blackness behind the first and approached. There was menace in the way they loomed up about me, and I began to fear for my safety. I took a step backward, but found myself with my back to a brick wall.

‘“Have you the bag?” said the first man.

‘“It is here,” I replied, holding it out to him.

‘He took it from me and cursed when he found that it was locked. He asked me if I had the key, I told him I had not and he cursed again. The thought passed through my mind that the honour of the Hollingworth family would have stood on shaky ground indeed had it depended in any way on such a man as this.

‘“Give us your knife, Harrison,” said he sharply to one of the other men, who passed him a long-bladed, evil-looking knife, and took the lantern. Then, with more oaths and curses, he bent down and began forcing the clasp of the bag. Presently he grunted with satisfaction, pulled the bag open and lifted from it a large, heavy-looking bundle, wrapped in what appeared to be a length of striped curtain material. The other men held the lantern closer as he unfolded the bundle on the ground, and I must confess that, for the moment, my feelings of fear were forgotten, so consumed was I with curiosity as to what might be contained within the cloth.

‘Carefully, he pulled back the last fold of material. There, lying upon the old curtain, was a strange, shining black statue, about nine or ten inches in height. It was clearly from the Orient and quite grotesque, having four arms, and with a ferocious and horrible expression upon its face.

‘“What is the meaning of this?” said the first man sharply, looking up at me.

‘“I do not know,” I returned. “I had no idea what was inside the bag.”

‘“You liar!” he cried, and sprang at me like a wild beast. I turned away, but he grabbed me by the shoulder and my head struck the wall, with the result which you see. Then he flung me to the ground, which was rough and dirty, and, seizing me by the neck, held the long blade of the knife up to my face.

‘“Unless you act cooperative,” said he in an evil tone, “I’m going to slit your throat from ear to ear.”

‘“I don’t know anything,” I cried, although I could hardly get the words out, so tight was his grip upon my windpipe.

‘“Leave him, Strong,” said one of the others. For a moment, my assailant was perfectly still and I thought my end had come; but then he relaxed his grip and took the knife away, although he deliberately cut my cheek as he did so.’

Mr Herbert put his hand up to his face and gingerly touched his wound, before continuing: ‘The three men spoke quietly together for a minute, then turned to me.

‘“Tell your master,” said the one called Strong, “that he has had his chance to settle matters his way; now we will settle matters our way.” With that they turned and disappeared into the darkness once more. For several minutes, I lay on the ground, not daring to move, until the sound of their footsteps had passed beyond my hearing, then I quickly stood up, gathered together the bag and its contents, and hurried back down the alley to Fleet Street. From there I took the first cab I could find to Dr Watson’s house.’

‘What a terrible experience!’ I cried.

‘You have been wading in deeper waters than you realised, Mr Herbert!’ observed Holmes after a moment’s reflection. ‘May I see the bag, and its contents?’

He took the oriental figure from the bag and held it up for a moment, examining it closely. It was jet black and highly polished, and gleamed in the light of the lamp. About its neck was depicted a necklace of human skulls and upon its features was an expression of the most intense evil.

‘It is Kali,’ said Holmes; ‘the fearsome, destructive aspect of an otherwise thoroughly good-natured Hindu deity. What devilry has been done in her name over the centuries! You may regard yourself as fortunate, Mr Herbert, that your assailants did not take their inspiration from this particular goddess, or you might not have emerged from Carstone Court alive! However,’ he continued, ‘they were evidently uninterested in her history and regarded the figure as of little value.’ He turned the heavy statue over and over, and examined it from every angle. ‘From a purely practical point of view, their judgement was correct. By its weight, it is solid brass; a heavy piece, but of no great worth, except to a collector of such exotic curios. It was made in Calcutta, where they manufacture these things by the thousand.’ He put it down on the floor beside his chair and took up the bag which had contained it, from which he pulled out a piece of striped cloth. ‘There is something else here,’ said he, reaching into the bag again and withdrawing a small, crumpled slip of paper, which he flattened out and studied for a moment, a frown upon his face. ‘What a very singular epistle!’ he remarked at length in a thoughtful tone, as he passed the paper to Mr Herbert.

‘Good Lord!’ cried the latter, looking up from reading the note. ‘What on earth can it mean? What shocking business is afoot!’

Herbert passed the note to me and I read the following enigmatic message:

DO NOT FORGET: Windsor – The Monarch – Dynamite

‘I rather fancy,’ said Holmes, ‘that Dr Watson may be able to enlighten us!’

‘Why, whatever do you mean?’ I cried in amazement.

‘Was there not a race meeting at Windsor a week or two ago?’

‘Oh, of course!’ I cried, clapping my hand upon my knee, as I realised the meaning of the note’s terse phrases. ‘The Monarch and Dynamite are both horses that ran there. Dynamite is from Lord Thuxton’s stables. He was heavily backed for the big race of the day, but came second, by a length, to Trayles. The Monarch finished last in his race, as far as I remember.’

‘So,’ said Holmes, ‘the owner of this bag moves in the world of the Turf and gambling, the most rapid mode of financial transfer from one man to another that mankind has yet devised. You still cannot recall what his name might be, Mr Herbert? For it is certain, of course, that he is one of your old school-fellows.’

Herbert shook his head. ‘Hard as I have tried to remember them all, I cannot place this man’s face. If, as he says, he was in Mr Newsome’s form when I was in that of Dr Jessop, he must be a year younger than me, but more than that I cannot say.’

‘No matter,’ said Holmes. ‘We may be able to reach our destination by another route. You say you have his present address?’

‘Yes, Quebec Street, not far from here.’

‘Then I suggest that, if you feel up to it, you confront your old school-mate at once,’ said Homes, rising to his feet. ‘We shall, of course, accompany you.’

‘Then I am more than ready.’

A short walk down Baker Street and around Portman Square brought us to Quebec Street. It was a fine starlit night and the air was mild. Mr Herbert directed us to a narrow-fronted house near the corner with Seymour Street, but before we reached it, we could see that something was amiss. The front door stood wide open to the street, casting a yellow oblong of light across the pavement outside.

Holmes’s ring at the bell was answered after a few moments by a stout, red-faced and irascible-looking gentleman in a frock-coat.