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  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

  Daniel Stashower

  ISBN: 9781848564923

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

  David Stuart Davies

  ISBN: 9781848564930

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE STALWART COMPANIONS

  H. Paul Jeffers

  ISBN: 9781848565098

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE VEILED DETECTIVE

  David Stuart Davies

  ISBN: 9781848564909

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

  Manly W. Wellman & Wade Wellman

  ISBN: 9781848564916

  THE MAN FROM HELL

  BARRIE ROBERTS

  TITAN BOOKS

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES THE MAN FROM HELL

  ISBN: 9781848565081 (print)

  ISBN: 9781845869140 (eBook)

  Published by

  Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

  144 Southwark St

  London

  SE1 0UP

  First edition: February 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 1997, 2010 Barrie Roberts

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Ninteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Author’s Notes

  Also Available

  Foreword

  The circumstances in which I came into possession of what seems to be a quantity of manuscripts by the late Dr John H. Watson have been explained in an earlier publication –Sherlock Holmes and the Railway Maniac. Briefly, they appear to have been in the possession of my maternal grandfather, who was both a medical man and a contemporary of Watson’s in the RAMC.

  In preparing the present manuscript for publication I have made such checks as have occured to me, to try and confirm its authenticity. The results of my researches will be found in a series of notes appended to the narrative. Suffice it to say, at this point, that I am as satisfied as I can be that this is a case of Sherlock Holmes’ recorded by his partner, Dr Watson, of which nothing was formerly known, apart from a couple of passing references in the Doctor’s published records.

  Barrie Roberts

  1996

  One

  THE DEATH OF A PHILANTHROPIST

  In looking over the many records I have prepared of the cases of my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, I find that I have not given his followers an account of the Backwater murders. That I did not do so earlier was for two reasons. In part it was because the story is one that embraces both appalling cruelty and corruption. In addition it was to avoid embarrassment to the living and to prevent the circulation of information which the ill-disposed would readily use to besmirch the memory of one of the Empire’s greatest philanthropists. Indeed, my use of the pseudonym Backwater is still necessary, for the principal victim in that unhappy affair bore a name which may yet be read on memorial plaques and on the foundation stones of charitable institutes across the nation. Nevertheless, the resolution of the case was one which afforded my friend Sherlock Holmes no little satisfaction and removed a deep-rooted and secret evil from our public life, and so this manuscript has been prepared with due consideration for the privacy of those involved, while setting out the essential facts of the case.

  My journal shows that it was the early summer of 1886 when the Backwater matter came to Holmes’ attention. It was during the first period of our shared residence at Baker Street and I had become well aware of the irregular habits of my companion. Despite my lack of an occupation, I endeavoured to maintain a fairly orderly regime, but my efforts were brought to nothing by the moods of my friend. If I rose early it would be to find that he had not been to bed, or that he had slept late and would take his breakfast at an hour more suitable for luncheon. Yet when the exigencies of a case demanded it, he would rise early and alert and set out about his business.

  There were mornings when he surprised both Mrs Hudson and me by being early at the breakfast table when he had no enquiry in hand. On those days he seemed to expect action and would go through the newspapers thoroughly and read his post as though a summons was imminent. If the papers or the post showed no indications, and if no prospective client’s foot had been heard on our stair by mid-morning, he would take himself off to the British Museum to pursue his arcane researches into early British charters or ancient languages. I came to believe that this behaviour derived from an excess of energy at the completion of a successful case, and I noted with misgivings that the phenomenon disappeared when he took to poisoning himself with cocaine.

  It was one such morning when the Backwater case began, a bright morning when the sun struck deep into our little sitting-room. Holmes’ early rising had not taken Mrs Hudson by surprise and, having finished breakfast, he turned over the newspapers.

  ‘Lord Backwater has been murdered!’ I exclaimed, seeing a notice to that effect in my paper.

  ‘So I see,’ said Holmes from behind his own newspaper, ‘and one paper has a leader arguing that it is evidence of a completely disordered and unjust universe that a man who has given employment to thousands, hugely enriched the nation and has never stinted in his donations to the unfortunate should be struck down by poachers.’

  ‘Is that what occurred?’ I asked. ‘There are few details here.’

  ‘There are longer accounts in some of the papers,’ said my friend. ‘It seems that he was strolling in his own park when he disturbed poachers about their work and was savagely attacked.’

  ‘Then it has no interest for you?’ I asked. ‘Despite the man’s wealth and eminence?’

  Holmes eyed me over the top of his newspaper. ‘I am surprised,’ he said, ‘that you do not appear to realise that the personality or antecedents of a victim are of interest only insofar as they may reveal the motive for a crime. If the police in the West Country are correct then it is of no significance that it was Lord Backwater who disturbed a band of poachers; they would just as readily have murdered you or me.’

&nb
sp; ‘It seems a very cold-blooded attitude to me,’ I admitted.

  He laughed shortly. ‘Would you consider a patient’s personality or history when treating his wounds, Doctor? If they did not assist your diagnosis or affect your treatment? No, Watson, you treat the diseases of the individual and I treat the irruptions of society and neither of us can allow our approach to be clouded by sentiment, however worthy.’

  He flung his newspaper into the seat of the basket-chair and drained his coffee. Standing up, he stretched his long, lean frame and sauntered over to the sunlit window. The morning deliveries had been made and the day’s business had not yet begun, so that the street was quiet, apart from the rattle of a solitary cab. ‘You may abandon the newspapers,’ he said. ‘There is nothing there of interest.’

  ‘It is what journalists call “the silly season”, Holmes,’ I ventured.

  ‘A gross misrepresentation!’ he snapped. ‘There is a world of difference between silliness and the arrant imbecilities that obsess the whole of Fleet Street at present. The established press comforts itself and its readers with the information that nothing of any consequence has changed since yesterday – regarding this as “news”! The radical papers treat the same facts as evidence of a stagnant society and the popular sheets invent and repeat unprovable assertions about the private life of the Queen’s family! Rubbish! All of it!’

  ‘I had thought that the items about the Duchess–’ I began, but he cut me short.

  ‘...might once have produced an interesting commission for us,’ he growled, ‘but that is no longer likely when the lady’s indiscretions are the common tattle of every Bermondsey barmaid!’

  He stared moodily out of the window, evidently disappointed that he had risen early to no purpose.

  ‘I believe,’ he said, after a moment, ‘that we have some early business. What do you make of the couple across the street?’

  I joined him at the window and followed his pointing finger. On the opposite pavement stood two gentlemen who had just dismounted from a cab.

  ‘The younger man is dressed both discreetly and expensively. He stands back while the older man pays the cabby. I surmise that the elder of the two, who is dressed in a more workaday fashion, is some senior assistant to the younger – perhaps a man of business, a lawyer – and the other is a man of some wealth.’

  I turned to Holmes, pleased with my observations, but he was still gazing down through the window.

  ‘You might have observed,’ he chided, ‘that both are in mourning. Tell me, what do you make of the bags?’

  ‘The bags?’ I repeated, and looked again. The pair were now looking across to our building and, as I watched, they picked up their baggage and started across the deserted street.

  ‘The younger carries only a small Gladstone, while the elder carries a similar, though shabbier, bag and what seems to be a document case. I believe that confirms my earlier impression.’

  ‘I was referring,’ said Holmes, ‘to the bags at the knees of their trousers. I have remarked on other occasions that the hands are the most informative area when dealing with craftsmen, clerks and labourers, but that more may be learned from the trousers of the middle and upper classes. Here, as you rightly deduced, are a gentleman of position in expensive mourning clothes and his man of business in good office black, yet both have allowed their trousers to become distended at the knee. Can you not imagine a reason?’

  I confessed that I could not and he drew out his watch.

  ‘The Great Western Express,’ he said, ‘arrived in London only minutes ago, yet we have two visitors who have taken the first cab on the Paddington rank and hurried straight to our doorstep without pausing for so much as a cup of tea.’

  ‘But what has that to do with their trousers?’ I asked, mystified. ‘And how can you say that they have travelled by the Western Express?’

  ‘Had they travelled overnight they would have occupied sleeping compartments. They have travelled early this morning, seated face to face in a carriage, and have leant forward to discuss at length some matter of great urgency, thereby causing the bags to which I drew your attention. They might have come from East Anglia, the Midlands or the South Coast, but the timing of their arrival indicates a fast cab from the Great Western terminus. If I shared your love of gambling Watson, I would wager you a sovereign that our bell is now being rung by the new Viscount Backwater and, I suspect, his solicitor.’

  I had already learned not to doubt my friend’s extraordinary inferences and, within minutes, they were confirmed when Mrs Hudson announced Lord Backwater and his solicitor.

  ___

  Author's notes on this chapter

  Two

  A CRYPTIC NOTE

  ‘Colonel Caddage’s views on my father’s death are completely erroneous!’ exclaimed Lord Backwater.

  Our guests were seated and Mrs Hudson had replenished the coffee. The new Lord Backwater was evidently deeply agitated.

  ‘And who, pray, is Colonel Caddage?’ enquired Holmes.

  ‘He is our Chief Constable,’ said Mr Predge, the solicitor.

  ‘And he insists on treating my father’s murder as a casual act by poachers when it is evidently something else!’ asserted the young Lord.

  Holmes raised a hand to stop the angry young man. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you were to give me the facts of your father’s death, Lord Backwater, without applying any interpretation. Then we shall see where they lead us.’

  ‘You are right, of course,’ said Lord Backwater and paused to collect his thoughts.

  ‘My father left our home on the afternoon before last at about four. He gave no indication that he would be absent from dinner but he had not returned by dinner-time. My sister and I grew alarmed and ordered a search for him. His body was found in the beech woods to the south of the house. He had been brutally beaten to death.’

  Lord Backwater shuddered slightly and relapsed into silence. Holmes sat for a moment with his head tilted back and his eyes half closed without speaking.

  ‘The newspapers,’ he said, without opening his eyes, ‘give that account, but no more. Was your father in any way distressed or disturbed before he left the house?’

  ‘I did not see him that afternoon,’ said Lord Backwater, ‘but my sister reports that he was in good spirits and intended to walk no further than a particularly ancient beech tree. It was one of his favourite walks.’

  ‘The late Lord Backwater was celebrated for two things if one can believe the accounts in the newspapers,’ said Holmes. ‘He had given large sums to charity and he was notably reclusive. Is that so?’

  ‘He had donated hundreds of thousands to worthy causes,’ said the young man, ‘but he eschewed any form of notoriety. Almost his entire life was passed within the bounds of the estate. He hardly ever visited the county town and only went to London very occasionally on business matters.’

  ‘So that a stranger who wished to make a personal appeal to his charity might seek to waylay him on a familiar walk?’ queried Holmes.

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed His Lordship. ‘Already you see another explanation.’

  ‘I see only what you tell me,’ said Holmes, ‘and I examine all the possible meanings of these data. Do not allow yourself to be misled by my questions, though you may rest assured that poachers are unlikely culprits.’

  ‘I was quite sure of that,’ said Lord Backwater.

  ‘I am certain. The time of day is wrong, the proximity to Backwater Hall is wrong, and because poachers would have fled or hidden rather than launch an unnecessary attack upon an elderly man. Do you have some other reason for your view?’ asked Holmes, and he opened his eyes wide.

  The young man faltered slightly before my friend’s gaze. ‘I have... I have... a note which my father received.’

  Mr Predge opened his document case and passed his client an envelope. Lord Backwater gave it to Holmes without opening it.

  My friend turned the envelope over in his hands and I could see that it was of ch
eap white paper. Across the front a firm hand had written “Lord Backwater, Backwater Hall” in ink. It had been sealed but bore no postage stamp.

  Holmes’ long fingers extracted a single sheet of paper from within the envelope and he held it up to the light.

  ‘A quarto sheet of cheap writing-paper,’ he mused. ‘No watermark, a poor pen-nib and a diluted ink.’

  He lowered the paper and examined its message, which consisted of only a few words:

  The man from the Gates of Hell will be at the old place at six.

  There was no signature.

  ‘This was written,’ said Holmes, ‘by a man of moderate education and vigorous nature, probably in his middle years. The paper, pen and inks suggest a post office, hotel or inn, but if it had been written at a post office it would, most probably, have been stamped. Did your father have any Welsh connections?’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Lord Backwater, but he looked to his solicitor for confirmation. The lawyer shook his head.

  ‘And does the expression “the Gates of Hell” mean anything to either of you?’ Holmes enquired.

  Now they both shook their heads.

  ‘Then it may be the other Gates of Hell,’ said Holmes. ‘What about the phrase “the old place”?’

  ‘It means nothing to me,’ said Lord Backwater. ‘I have told you that my father frequently strolled to that particular ancient beech tree.’

  ‘When did your father receive this note?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘It seems to have been on the afternoon before his death,’ said the young man. ‘It lay on his desk that night and both my sister and I had been in the room during the morning and it was not there.’

  ‘Was anyone seen to call at the house in the afternoon?’

  ‘No, Mr Holmes, but I am not able to say that no one did.’

  ‘Then it is at least possible that it was delivered that day,’ said Holmes. ‘Why have you not given this to the police?’

  ‘But I showed it to Colonel Caddage!’ exclaimed Lord Backwater. ‘He told me that, since I could not explain it and since we could not swear to its delivery, it was irrelevant – a coincidence that undoubtedly had some innocent explanation!’