Sherlock Holmes and the Missing Shakespeare Read online

  Jennings touched his finger to the side of his nose and said no more.

  ***

  With the brandy and cigars finished, we had coffee and as the night fell over the town, Kendricks and I quitted the house and each went our way, agreeing to meet for lunch the next day. When I returned to the inn, I found Holmes was not there.

  I spent an hour in the common room to read the day’s newspaper while enjoying the inn’s fine ale. With the newspaper read, I made to retire to my room but just as I began to climb the stairs, Holmes entered the inn and waved at me the moment he noticed me there. As I turned and made to descend again, Holmes ran up and took me by the elbow. “Shall we partake of something in the privacy of my parlor, my dear Watson?”

  I agreed, although quite filled up with fine food and liquors, and while I waited there upon the step, Holmes darted down to ask for a tray of something to be brought up to his room. He then marched up after me with his long strides.

  “I will not ask you about your progress,” Holmes said the moment we entered his room, “as it is still early days for you.”

  “You wished to talk to me in the privacy of your room to tell me that?”

  Holmes let out a chuckle of laughter. “You are right, of course, in thinking I have an ulterior motive in wanting your presence here.”

  “What would that be, Holmes?”

  “I need your professional opinion on a matter of great importance.”

  There were a table and some comfortable chairs by the window, so I sat down there. A moment later, there was a knock on the door and a maid brought in a tray with brandy and coffee for us. She placed it on the table and went out again after Holmes told her to add it to his tab.

  Holmes sat down and pulled a folder from the inner pocket of his coat. “Some subterfuge allowed me to obtain this from the local pathologist.”

  “What is it?”

  “The report he gave to the coroner investigating the deaths at Galham House.”

  I balked at that comment. “But, Holmes, why are you looking into that?”

  “In due course, Watson, in due course.”

  “But, by Jove, Holmes!” I ejaculated. “Surely you do not think the tragedy at Galham House is related to the manuscript’s theft?”

  “I am of that mind.”

  I did not know how to respond to that, so instead I took the folder from him. I opened it and began to leaf through the pages contained within. “I will need some time to read through these, Holmes.”

  “Take as much time as you need, Watson. I am quite patient.”

  “You are? Am I still really speaking to the great and honorable Sherlock Holmes?” I teased him.

  Holmes grinned and waved the comment away. “We are getting closer to the truth of this case, Watson. I feel it.”

  I held up the folder. “And you think my opinion on the pathologist’s report will get us even closer?”

  “It is a piece of this puzzle, my dear Watson. The more pieces I manage to place in the right position, the clearer the picture will get.” Holmes sat down, too and began stuffing his pipe. “I doubt any single piece that is missing will cause me to be unable to see what the puzzle depicts, but every piece I can put into place is one step closer to the goal.”

  “Normally you are keen to determine every detail, Holmes.”

  “As many as possible, Watson. Deduction can uncover many other details that remain hidden from us. As long as we have the details in place to come to the right conclusion.”

  I took up the first page of the report and began to read as Holmes lit his pipe and began contentedly puffing away.

  The first pages contained the details on Sir Roger, Earl Galham. The pages were held together by a wire slipped through a round hole punched into the top left-hand corner of each sheet. The next pages concerned his wife, the Lady Mary, Countess Galham. The names of their children were written on a separate pathology report, of which was not included.

  I scanned the details and found the pathologist had been very thorough, which caused me to have an acute sense of admiration for his work. Yet it had been a long day and the brandy was taking a stronger hold over me than the coffee was. I felt my eyes slowly closing and I had to shake myself awake.

  “I say, Holmes, perhaps I should read these over breakfast.”

  Holmes took a sip of brandy and then continued smoking his pipe. “I dare say it is best left to a moment when your mind is capable of processing the data, as you rightly determine. But I trust you will stay for another few moments?”

  “Though the brandy is excellent, I must confess I am rather tired.”

  “Then perhaps I can persuade you to stay by telling you something about my exploits of the day?”

  “I thought you were not going to recount those?”

  “No, Watson, I said I would not say anything regarding why I am looking into the tragedy at Galham House.”

  “Though of course, Galham House is where the manuscript was found.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But you think those deaths are related to the manuscript’s discovery and subsequent theft from your rooms?”

  Holmes gestured with his pipe. “You know the answer to that question already, Watson. You need not ask it, for that is the question to which you will not receive an answer. Not yet.”

  I held my tongue for a moment, taking some brandy. “Well then, Holmes, of what did you undertake this day?”

  So Holmes began his recount of the day’s events.

  Chapter Eight:

  Hot on the Trail

  “The one person we have ruled out as being the perpetrator in the theft of the missing Shakespeare manuscript is, of course, the Honorable Sir Gerald Fitzwilliam. Yet he was there when it was discovered and he was the reason we were away when the manuscript was taken. I thought it prudent to discover as much as I could about his whereabouts while he was John Miller at Galham House.

  “As John Miller was the gardener at Galham House, I started my investigations at the stores that sell supplies for gardening. There are a number of farmers who remember him, asking for manure to be delivered to the grounds. They all relayed the same really. John Miller was a very competent gardener, who knew exactly what he was doing. They also all wondered about his voice. He was not a local and his accent was something they could not quite grasp. He managed to hide the foreign accent in his voice for a part, but they all noticed the poshness in his speech.

  “The general store and the blacksmith next door reported much the same. They recalled an unremarkable man who was a splendid gardener with the same oddities in speech and voice. The blacksmith also recalled that our man had ordered a ring to be made out of a piece of steel he provided. He never picked it up, for the next day, the tragedy at Galham House occurred.

  “I also asked the blacksmith about a key in my possession. I did not think he would recognize it, but he did. He recognized it as his own work. He explained it to be the key to a strongbox he had constructed for a gentleman.”

  “What gentleman?”

  “Alas, I do not know.”

  “Did he not give a name?”

  “He did. John Smith.”

  Soon after Holmes’s short tale, I retired to my rooms. In the morning, I took the pathologist’s report with me to my breakfast. I inquired whether Holmes was already having his tea or would care to join me momentarily, but the innkeeper told me Mr. Holmes had already left.

  Holmes’s peculiar departure held my interest for only a few moments before I settled down at a table in the main hall and asked for the breakfast menu.

  As soon as the pot of tea arrived, I opened up the pathology files again and read through the last reports. I was fascinated as I read deeper into the documents and was relieved that I had started with the reports instead of the crime scene photographs.

  It seems that Lord Galham had, for all intents and purposes, lost his mind that night. He’d strangled his wife, Lady Mary, to death in their bed and then slit the throats of b
oth his children with a hunting knife. Finally, Lord Galham threw himself off the balcony with his neck tied in a noose and hanged himself to death.

  I was appalled and yet strangely intrigued. I couldn’t help but wonder what could have gone so dreadfully wrong that a well-respected, wealthy peer of the realm would murder his family and then kill himself. As I’d deduced earlier, he must have been squarely out of his mind.

  When my soft boiled egg, sausages and toast arrived, I was well ready for the refreshment. I threw the files shut, pushed them aside and turned my attention to the meal. As I swallowed the last bite of toast and lifted the teacup to my lips, I was hit with a very important question.

  I placed the cup back in the saucer and threw open the file; searching with everything I had to find the clue I needed. Alas, it wasn’t there.

  “Oh, by George! I think I’ve found it,” I said to myself, but loud enough to warrant a raised eyebrow or two.

  It didn’t take me long to get myself together and leave the public house. I gave the boy there a sixpence coin to hail a carriage for me while I stopped at the desk to send a telegram to my wife. I had to let her know that I would not be staying in Stratford-upon-Avon any longer, having been abandoned by Holmes. I only planned to do one last thing before catching the early afternoon train back to London.

  When the cab pulled up, I boarded it and asked the driver to take me to Llewelyn Kendricks’s office as quickly as he could. At that point, it was all I could do to hope that my new friend would share my concern in the matter and help me get closer to the bottom of things.

  I followed his clerk into the office and found Kendricks seated at his desk pouring over a pile of legal documents. As the clerk added even more files, he announced my arrival to his employer. It was apparently Kendricks’s morning for doing his work as a notary and he was fully engaged in cross-checking several facts before affixing his stamp and signature to the paperwork in each docket.

  I cleared my throat, having realized he had not heard a word his clerk had said to him regarding my presence in his office. Finally, he glanced up, looking a bit harried, and waved me in. I took a seat across from him at the desk.

  “I’ll wait until you are finished, my friend,” I started. “As what I have to tell you, and, even more so, what I wish to ask of you, are two very serious matters indeed.”

  “I dare say, Watson,” he replied without looking up at me, “it all sounds like extremely grave business.”

  “You wouldn’t even be able to guess the half of it, old boy.”

  “Then you will appreciate some tea while you wait. I promise it won’t be long; you’ve rather piqued my interest.”

  Kendricks called for a pot of tea to be brought in, as it was close to ten o’clock. A proper time for tea indeed. When it arrived a few moments later, steaming and fragrant, there were sandwiches and cakes along with it. I hadn’t realized I was hungry until I spotted the sandwiches. Ham, smoked salmon and egg sandwiches were perfectly complemented by tomato, cucumber and watercress selections. In contrast, a lighter fare had been selected for the sweet portion; it was only morning tea, after all. Still, I was quite delighted to see all of my favorites: lemon cake, madeleines and raisin scones. I immediately left the armchair in front of my friend and took a seat at the card table where the tea and food tray had been set up.

  The smell of a delicious meal must have put some fire under the otherwise overwhelmed Kendricks because it wasn’t long after I’d swallowed my third sandwich that he placed his stamp down heavily on the desk, flourished the last signature and called for his clerk to come and clear away the pile of dockets.

  He took the seat across from me and immediately began to fill his plate with sandwiches. I poured the tea while he made his selections, then waited patiently for him to polish off a sandwich or two before I began to speak.

  “Well, by now you must be wondering why I barged into your office so early this morning without even so much as a prior appointment, Kendricks,” I started.

  “Indeed, the thought had crossed my mind, Watson. But I, by no means, consider your company to be an inconvenience. It’s actually quite lovely to have a reason to get away from the desk and take a proper mid-morning break, for once,” he replied graciously. “I am curious, though, I’ll admit.”

  “I’ll get to the matter at hand then,” I obliged. “Yesterday, I came into possession of the pathologist’s reports from the deaths of the late Lord Galham and his family and I have happened upon a few of the doctor’s observations that concern me.”

  “The pathology reports? How did you…”

  I put up my hands in protest to stop him from continuing along that line of questioning and simply stated, “I have my resources, Kendrick.” He nodded his acceptance of my explanation and lifted his teacup to his lips, waiting for me to proceed.

  “I found that the doctor had not pursued an explanation of the signs I noticed and I could only surmise that at that time, he may not have recognized them or had the resources to proceed with the proper testing.”

  Kendricks’s face revealed that he was intrigued with what I had to say, so I decided to give him a few clues. If I were to expect the man to help me in the manner I needed, he would have to get a better feel for where I was going in the investigation.

  “I noticed there was a white residue around the mouths of Lord Galham, Lady Mary and the children. Also, their lips bore a slight bluish tinge.” Kendricks was at a loss as to the meaning of my observation, as any layman would be, so I explained further. “It seems that they may have been forced to inhale chloroform, perhaps from a rag soaked in the solution then placed over their nose and mouth. It would have, at the very least, put them in a very drugged state and, at the worst, completely rendered them unconscious.”

  An expression of comprehension spread over the lawyer’s face and a grin played at the corner of his lips.

  “And you say that Roger’s body also exhibited these signs?”

  “Indeed, good sir.”

  “But that would mean that he was as much a victim as the rest of the family unless the unlikely happened, which would be that he drugged himself.”

  “Precisely!” I said and continued to sip my tea.

  “You think someone murdered his family and then killed Roger in an effort to frame him for the crime?”

  “Dead men tell no tales, Kendricks.”

  We sat in silence for a few minutes. The words sank in slowly as we drank our tea and moved on to the sweet treats on the cake stand. Finally, he asked, “But what has that all to do with me, Watson?”

  “That, dear sir, is the winning question!” I replied, jumping up from my seat with excitement. I may have been overplaying the suspense a little bit but I had to. What I was about to ask Kendrick to do was quite close to bordering on an illegal activity. But I hoped he would now feel driven by his conscience to provide a solution to the mystery. “You were the custodian of the late earl’s will, were you not?” Kendricks nodded cautiously. “I suspect that the contents of his will may have been altered to name a different beneficiary than he had originally intended. If that is indeed the case, then we would have true motive for the crime and a clear line of sight to the perpetrator.”

  He shrugged. “So, how do I come in?”

  “I would like to see the original will and testament of the late Earl of Galham.”

  “And I would have loved nothing more than to show it to you but it is no longer in my possession. Not even a copy.”

  “What? How is that possible? Were you not the man’s sole solicitor and your father before you?”

  “Indeed. However, it is the right of the executor of the estate that, once the will was read in an open forum for all the family to hear, to retain the document and that’s exactly what Reginald did. In fact, he retrieved the will from me in its original sealed state some three days before the date set for the reading. As there was nothing out of the ordinary in its contents and it was quite in line with the usual inherita
nce practices, I had not even seen the need to keep a copy.”

  I pondered on that for a moment and suddenly it hit me like a bolt of lightning.

  “Could you say conclusively that the document read at the gathering was the same one you had given to Reginald three days prior?”

  “Conclusively, no. Now that I think of it, I only checked that the writing and signature were as I knew them to be the earl’s and that the signature on the papers had been properly witnessed by an independent individual. Which they were. So, I had no hesitation in notarizing the will.” Suddenly, a look of realization spread over Kendricks’s face. “Oh, dear God! Do you think Reginald changed the contents of his brother’s will?”

  “Yes, dear sir. I certainly do.”

  We sat in silence for a moment until I had an idea.

  “I’m sorry to put you on the spot, old chap, but I think I should warn you that there may be a time in the very near future where either myself or Holmes might be forced to ask a great deal of you in our efforts to bring our suspect to justice. Are you in the game?”

  “I’ve been made a fool of, Watson. As a solicitor and a notary, I take that very personally. As long as you or Mr. Holmes makes a clear request of me, I’m obligated to help. You have my word on that.”

  “Excellent!”

  Chapter Nine:

  The Pieces Fall

  I arrived home at around half past two that afternoon, much to my wife’s pleasure.

  I had eaten a light lunch on the train so she didn’t have to rush the afternoon tea for my benefit. We sat in the parlor while she finished some needlework she had been working on and though I pretended to read the afternoon newspaper, my mind kept wandering back to my conversation with Kendricks. I was uneasy and it was painfully obvious that I would not be able to think of anything else until I had related the news to Holmes.

  “Dear?” I asked my wife. She looked up dutifully from her sewing and I continued. “I know it rather late in the day but do you think there is any way that I could get a telegram off to Baker Street? It’s rather urgent.”