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

‘I do not understand,’ I interrupted. ‘Does this mean that he is not, then, in danger?’

‘I should not go so far as to say that,’ replied my friend. ‘Indeed, I believe that he is exceedingly fortunate still to be alive. But to answer your questions more fully, it is necessary to go back a dozen years, to when a gentleman by the name of James Green deposited a large sum of money in the vaults of the Anglo-Hellenic Bank in King William Street, in the City. He was, according to his own testimony, the principal in a firm of wine-shippers, who specialised in wines from Greece and the Aegean Islands. At regular intervals after that, further sums were deposited and, from time to time, withdrawals made, either in London or at the branch office in Athens.

‘It was only when the bank collapsed, amid a terrific scandal, early in ’82, that in the course of attempts to locate all the creditors and settle with them as best they could – which was hardly at all – the authorities discovered that no such person as James Green existed and no more did his supposed firm of wine-importers. The whole elaborate charade had been devised to conceal the fact that the funds were those of the Seven-Fingered Hand – money which had been extorted from the peasants of Eastern Europe, and which was employed in the furtherance of the society’s own evil ends and to keep its leaders snug. This emerged at the bankruptcy hearing and the subsequent fraud trial, which created quite a sensation at the time.’

‘I believe I recall it,’ said I. ‘The chief clerk had used his clients’ money in a series of wild speculations, each of which had in turn failed. He had thus been driven further and further into desperate measures, and yet wilder schemes, in his attempt to recoup the losses, until in the end the bank had scarcely a penny to its name.’

‘You recall it precisely. The chief clerk’s name was Arthur Pendleton, who distinguished himself at his trial by showing not the slightest shred of remorse and who was, as I learnt from the court records this morning, sentenced to fifteen years for his troubles. A junior clerk whom he had somehow managed to embroil in his criminal schemes received a shorter sentence, of ten years, in recognition of his lesser culpability and in the certain knowledge that had it not been for the strong and evil influence which the older man had had over him, he would never have become involved at all. The bank was sold off, lock, stock and barrel, but the creditors received scarcely one part in a hundred of what they were owed.’

‘You have evidently had a busy day,’ said I, impressed by the speed at which my remarkable friend had been able to gather information on such remote matters; ‘but I still cannot grasp the pertinence of these matters to the case in hand. Are you convinced that there is a connection?’

‘The matter is beyond the realm where it is appropriate to speak of conviction and into that of certainty,’ replied Holmes. ‘I spent some time this afternoon at Somerset House, which was enlightening, and when I read that the man found in the river at Chertsey had carried an old wine cork in his coat, there remained no doubt what was afoot.’

‘A wine cork?’

‘He would use it to protect the point of the knife and to prevent the blade from slitting the lining of his jacket, which is where the knife would be concealed.’

‘Are you suggesting that the knife which killed him was his own?’

‘Precisely. He was an assassin, Watson; that is apparent. But he whom he sought to kill has turned his own weapon upon him. You read that all labels had been removed from his clothes? That is a trade-mark of such men: anonymity is the very essence of their work. No connection must ever be traced between the assassin and the organisation which commands him.’

‘Such precautions would appear to suggest,’ I remarked after a moment, ‘that the man thought it quite likely that he might, indeed, lose his own life.’

‘Well, it is an ever-present hazard for the assassin, as you will imagine. But it is not one upon which he may dwell; for he will be aware that failure to carry out his commission will result in the next such commission having his name upon it, not as agent, but as victim. But come! This is Staines and we must make all haste.’

A short journey in the station-trap down a sun-baked country road brought us to the gates of Low Meadow, where we paid off the driver and entered on foot. Up the drive we hurried, round the corner of the house and into the rear gardens. Not a breath of wind disturbed the leaves upon the trees and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. Ahead of us on the lawn, a handsome young woman in a white dress was sitting on a rug, with a sewing-basket beside her. She started up when she saw us, a look of surprise upon her face.

‘Mrs Pringle?’ enquired my friend.

‘Yes, but—’

‘My name is Sherlock Holmes. Pray forgive this abrupt intrusion into your privacy, but our mission is most urgent.’

‘You had best explain yourself,’ said she with some sharpness, rising to her feet.

‘There is no time.’

‘I insist upon it.’

‘Very well. I have been employed by your husband to make inquiries on his behalf into certain matters which have recently perplexed him. All I have learnt convinces me that there is mortal danger here at Low Meadow.’

‘Mortal danger?’ she repeated in a tone of disbelief. ‘For my husband?’

‘No, for your brother.’

At this she paused for a moment and took a sharp breath, then threw her head back with a peal of laughter.

‘All you have learnt has evidently been nonsense!’ said she. ‘I have neither brother nor sister, so whoever has a brother in mortal danger, it is not I!’

Holmes remained quite unmoved by this outburst. ‘You cannot afford to play games,’ said he gravely, ‘when it is your brother’s life which may be the forfeit.’

‘I tell you I have no—’

‘I understand well enough the reasons for your pretence, Mrs Pringle,’ Holmes interrupted her, ‘but believe me when I tell you that the time for such pretence is past. Perhaps if I tell you all I know, it may convince you that I speak the truth.’

She seemed about to reply, but hesitated, and Holmes hurriedly continued: ‘Your brother, John Aloysius Wadham, was born upon the fifteenth of October in the year 1858, at Gloucester. In 1880 he married Helen Montgomery at Guildford. In 1882, whilst employed at the King William Street branch of the Anglo-Hellenic Bank, he became involved in a massive series of embezzlements, as a result of which, when the matter came to light, he was sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude.’

‘It is false!’ she cried out passionately. ‘The conviction was false! He only became involved with Arthur Pendleton in an attempt to save that wretched, ungrateful man, but soon found himself ensnared in the other’s web of deceit, from which, struggle as he might, he could not extricate himself. No thought of personal gain had ever crossed his mind. One word of the truth from that villain might have saved my brother from an unjust fate; but his heart was stone, his friendship hollow.’

‘I do not doubt, madam, that what you say is true; however I come not to accuse your brother but to save him. A few weeks ago, having earned the maximum remission from his sentence and being seriously ill, he was released from prison. Shortly before his release, his wife, who had remained loyal and faithful to him through all the long years of his imprisonment, had been to see you to discuss the matter. Your husband, who for some reason knew nothing whatever of your brother, overheard a part of your conversation, but misconstrued it as referring to himself.’

‘Dearly would I have loved to tell Mark the whole truth,’ Mrs Pringle interrupted, a tear forming in her eye, ‘but John begged and pleaded with me not to do so. He would not, he said, have his shame and disgrace inflicted upon his sister and her fine husband. I told him many times that Mark would welcome him like a true brother and think none the worse of him for what had happened in the past; but he refused absolutely to presume upon Mark’s generosity and I was obliged to keep his existence a secret. I have acted according to his wishes all along.’