The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

“Core, wish me
old trouble and strife could see me now!”

“Trouble and
strife?” said Peregren.

“Trouble and
strife, that’s me wife, G’vnor. ’Ere, sit down yerself, sir, come on. Go on.
Sit down, try it. Go on, go on, G’vnor. Take the weight off your plates of meat.”

“What barbaric
jargon do you speak? What on earth are plates and meat?”

“Plates of meat
is feet, G’vnor. That’s rhymin’ slang. Go on, sit down in it. It’s dast
comfortable this chair!”

“Oh, very well,”
said Peregren reluctantly. He seated himself, resting his arms on the chair
near the carved woodwork that would have contained the spring.

“Go on,” insisted
Holmes, “run your ’ands over the arms, G’vnor. Ain’t that carvin’ pretty? Ain’t
it just ducky?”

“Yes, yes it is,
but I don’t want the wretched thing. There’s been some mistake, so you’d better
take it back to London and tell him to sell it! I don’t want anything of my
brothers!”

“Jumpin’
gehosaphat! Can’t see why you don’t want to sit in a nice chair like this, G’vnor.

But, you’re the
one as gives orders around here, so, come on Bertie, get your back into it.
Back in the van it goes!”

“I don’t know
why you’ve made the trip for nothing but—”

“Aw, bless your
heart,” said Holmes, “we don’t worry about that sort of thing, do we, Bertie?”

“Course not. I’ll
just take these orders back along with the chair. That’ll straighten things out,”
I said.

“Nice drive in
the country, anyway. Good day, G’vnor!” yelled Holmes.

“Good day!”
Peregren yelled back, shaking his head in disbelief.

In a moment we
were off down the road, heading back to London.

“That was a
false trail, Holmes. Obviously he knew nothing about the chair. He thought it
was perfectly harmless.”

“As indeed it
was. But the murderer would have thought it fatal. I’ve slipped up in my
reasoning somehow.”

Holmes sat
silently for a few minutes, baffled by this turn of events. Then, suddenly, he
sat erect, his hands tight on the horse’s reigns.

“But of course,
Watson! Oh, what a fool I am! We must get back to London as fast as this tired
nag can take us. Come on!”

“Holmes, I don’t
think I’ll ever fully understand you. I haven’t the slightest idea of what you
are up to!”

“We must get
back to Sir Edward’s house and the staging of another little drama that I’m
sure will give us the final answer to this problem!”

“Surely I don’t
have to continue acting in these dreadful clothes, Holmes!”

“No, we’re
finished with that, thank goodness.”

Later, after
returning to London, we cleaned up and went on to Sir Edward’s house where
Holmes spent a moment talking confidentially to Inspector Lestrade.

“I’ve made all
the arrangements, Mr. Holmes, as you said. I’ve got Miss Irvin, young Binyon
and the butler waiting outside. And no one knows we’ve switched the chairs.”

“Splendid.”

“You’re sure
this is the harmless chair, Holmes?” I said.

“Of course I am.
Look here. I sit in it, so. Run my hands over the arms. Yes, this chair is
harmless, as every person, save one, will know. Show them in, Lestrade.”

“All at once,
Mr. Holmes?”

“No, I think we’ll
take Miss Irvin and Mr. Binyon first.”

Lestrade ushered
in the two suspects as I stood nearby, watching intently, trying to deduce, as
Holmes would do, whom the murderer might be. As Miss Irvin entered, she gasped.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!”

“What’s the
matter, Miss Irvin?” he said.

“It’s just so
horrible seeing you there in the same chair where I saw father.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said
young Binyon, “it’s a trifle too macabre for you to assume the position of the
corpse. Please get up!”

“But it seems
the most comfortable chair in the room,” said Holmes, dallying with these two
suspects. “And I do like my comfort when I interrogate witnesses. However, it’s
hardly chivalrous, is it? Miss Irvin, please sit down, won’t you. In this same
chair.”

“I . .
.
I don’t like to sit down in the chair in which
father died.”

“Miss Irvin,” I
added, forcing the issue, “we couldn’t bear to see you standing.”

“Very well then.”

“Don’t sit down,
Harriet!” yelled Binyon as he moved towards Miss Irvin. Holmes stopped his
movement.

“Why not,
Binyon? What’s the matter? Isn’t the chair safe?”

“No, no . . .
I . . .”
he began to
stammer.

“Then perhaps
you’d care to sit in it,” said Holmes, forcibly moving young Binyon towards the
chair, “to prove that the chair
is
safe. Sit down!”

“Very well,” he
said in resignation, “there.”

“Splendid,” said
Holmes quietly, “it’s a curious chair, isn’t it, Mr. Binyon? I wonder about
these carvings on the arms. They look almost as if they might activate
concealed springs. I wonder what would happen if I—”

“No, for heavens
sake, Mr. Holmes, are you trying to kill me?” said Binyon jumping up from the
chair.

“Kill you?” I
blurted out in anger. “Then you know how Sir Edward and the policeman were
murdered!”

“I . .
.
I knew it must have something to do with the
chair.”

“You knew more
than that, Robert,” answered Miss Irvin. “You planned it. I remember now that
when we went to the shop you—”

“Be quiet,
Harriet!” yelled Binyon, as he grabbed Miss Irvin, turned and ran for the open
door, pushing Lestrade aside.

“No, no, Watson,
don’t go after them. Lestrade will stop him. In any case the police are at the
front door.”

Holmes quietly
pulled out his pipe, put it between his teeth and lit it.

“Oh, Watson,
dear friend, I’m tired. I think I’ll sit in this rather fateful armchair.”

“So it was young
Binyon all the time,” I said.

“Yes, and he’d
all but outsmarted me. I reasoned that somehow the murderer must have intended
the device of this chair to clear him. And suddenly, after our incident with
Peregren Irvin, I saw the real motivation. How better establish his innocence
than seeming to be obviously guilty, and yet leaving a trail whereby an astute
deduction could seem to clear him.”

“I see it now,
Holmes. It was his idea that Miss Irvin should come to you. He used you as a
cat’s paw.”

“That’s right,
Watson. I’m afraid this whole case is a rather humiliating experience for me.

“Why do you say
that?”

“Well, Lestrade
had arrested the right man in the first place! Oh my,” Holmes laughed, “no, my
dear Watson, I shall never hear the end of this! Never!” And, of course, he
never did.

Return to table of
contents

IN France, there was, at this time, a
detective by the name of Francois Le Villard. Monsieur Le Villard was becoming
a most popular figure in his own country due mostly to his having adopted
similar techniques in crime detection as used by my good friend Sherlock
Holmes. In the year 1889, to be exact, Le Villard had come over to London to
discuss with Holmes the difficulties of translating some of his monographs into
the French language. At this particular time I was in the early days of my
marriage. This fact, combined with a busy medical practice, meant that I saw
very little of my old friend. Of course, I missed Holmes greatly and, although
he never admitted the fact, I am sure he missed me also.

One cloudless
June afternoon, a day by London standards considered extraordinarily mild, I
was on a house call and found myself in the neighborhood of Baker Street. It
was a perfect opportunity to pay a visit to Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson was
out, but having retained my old latchkey, I let myself in and mounted the
familiar stairs. It gave me a strange feeling as I raised my hand to knock on
what had once been my own living room door.

“Come in, come
in!” I heard Holmes yell out.

When I opened
the door I saw, seated near the fireplace, my old friend Holmes and another
gentleman. They had obviously been in deep conversation when I knocked, but
when Holmes saw me, he stood up, a look of utter delight on his face.

“Watson, my dear
fellow,” he said with glee, “how very nice to see you again.”

“I’m glad to see
you too, Holmes. I’m sorry I interrupted you. I didn’t know that you had
company.”

“Not at all,” Holmes
insisted, “we’re delighted, aren’t we, Le Villard?”

“Mais oui,” Le
Villard said, standing and bowing slightly.

“Watson, this is
Monsieur Le Villard.”

“How do you do,
sir,” I returned with my own slight bow.

“I have often
wished to see this Dr. Watson. Holmes has told me a great deal about you.”

“That’s very
nice of you, Monsieur Le Villard,” I said.

“Marriage suits
you, Watson, you look in splendid shape. Gained a little weight, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have
gained a few pounds,” I admitted with a bit of embarrassment.

“It becomes you,
dear fellow,” Holmes added, “please sit down, won’t you?”

“You’re sure
that I’m not interrupting you in some important discussion?”

“No, no,
Monsieur doctor, we were having a good natured argument on the relative
abilities of the French criminal compared to the English,” Le Villard said, as
I seated myself next to Holmes.

“You must lend
me your support, Watson,” Holmes said. “Le Villard is convinced that the
English criminal is a very dull dog indeed.”

“Well, we’ve met
some far from dull ones in our time, I assure you.”

“The exceptions
rather than the rule, I fear, Monsieur doctor,” Le Villard insisted.

“You are stubborn,
aren’t you, Le Villard?” Holmes said.

“Believe me, my
dear friend,” Le Villard went on, “I will yield to no one in my admiration of
your knowledge and skill. That is why I wish I could persuade you to see my
viewpoint on these matters. What could possibly interest you in this land of
gray fogs, boiled potatoes and pots of tea?”

Holmes was
laughing as I sat quite disturbed by Monsieur Le Villard’s remark.

“Upon my soul,
sir, you’re not very flattering,” I interjected, none too pleased by this
observation.

“But I meant no
offense, my friend.”

“You say the
English criminal is dull. Perhaps if you were to read a published story of mine
called A STUDY IN SCARLET you’d think differently. It tells of a very exciting
adventure that Holmes and I had together.”

“I have read it,”
Le Villard returned.

“You have?” I
said with surprise.

“An extremely
gripping story, but surely you will admit that the crime was essentially of
American origin.”

“He’s right,
Watson, he’s perfectly right,” Holmes said, still laughing. “Dear me, what can
I do to vindicate the ‘dishonor’ of the London criminal? Let me see.”

Holmes placed
his fingertips together for a moment in thought, while Le Villard sat
patiently. I was about to again defend our position, when Holmes jumped up.

“I have it. A
copy of today’s Times. I shall introduce you to the section known as ‘The Agony
Column.’ ”

Holmes opened
the paper and hurriedly found the advertisement pages.

“Yes, Le
Villard, this should convince you of the color and variety of English life.”

“ ‘The Agony
Column’? It sounds most painful. What is it, pray?”

“The personal
columns,” I said, “they are liable to contain anything from a lover’s frantic
appeal to his lady, to a ransom note.”

“In my
profession I’ve frequently found it invaluable as a medium for contacting the
underworld,” Holmes said, as he continued to peruse the columns. “Oh dear me,
today’s column seems rather uninspired, I’m afraid.”

“May I examine
it?”

“Yes, of course,”
Holmes replied, handing Le Villard the paper. It was but a moment before Le
Villard found something and read it aloud.

“ ‘If the lady
who helped my little boy cross the road at the corner of Threadneedle Street
last Wednesday at 4 P.M. will get in touch with Box 845, she will learn of
something to her advantage.’ It can be more colorful than that in Paris, my
dear friends.”

“I think we can
do better than that, too,” Holmes said, scanning the column again. “Here, look
at this, will you?”

I glanced over
as Le Villard and I read the notice, then, quite puzzled by the ad, I spoke.

“The printer
must have been half asleep when he set up the type for this advertisement. ‘Will
any gentlemen interested in discussing cryptography and cipher writing please
communicate with box XQL696. The Times.’ ”

“I fail to find
this message any more stirring than the preceding one,” Le Villard pointed out.

“You notice the
execrable printing, don’t you?” Holmes asked.

“Why indeed I
do. It is all mixed up,” Le Villard went on. “The first word ‘Will’ starts with
a capital
W
and a capital
I.
The second word ‘any’ starts with a small
a,
and then has a capital
N
and
Y
. It is a shocking example of
typography.”

“And when it
occurs in a paper noted for its excellence in typesetting, one realizes that
this is no mistake!”

“What do you
mean, Holmes?”

“This is undoubtedly
a code message, Watson.”

“Come now, my
friend,” Le Villard laughed cynically, “I defy even you to make a mystery out
of a printer’s negligence.”

“I accept your
challenge, my dear Le Villard,” Holmes said excitedly. “If you recall, the
Baconian bilateral cipher depends upon the use of two sizes of type. If we
group the letters in units of five, the arrangements of small and capital
letters within the groups should give us the message.”

Holmes took the
paper and placed it on a writing table. Pencil in hand, he began scribbling the
cipher along the white border of the paper. Le Villard and I rose and quietly
joined Holmes, our curiosity peaked by this intriguing problem my good friend
had uncovered in the personal column.

“Let me see, now,”
Holmes went on, more to himself than to us, “two capital letters followed by
three small, gives us the letter H, then two capitals, one
small . . .
yes, here you
are, that gives us E.”

“I still think
you are trying to make an adventure out of a mere printing accident,” Le
Villard insisted.

“No mere
printing accident could so readily fall into one of the great traditional
ciphers,” Holmes countered. “Now, let’s go on with it. This message reads
H . . . E . . .
then
L . . . H . . . E . . . L . . . P . . .
Help; then
Q . . . U . . . I
. . . L . . .
yes, Quilter! Help
Quilter . . . E . . . L . . . M . . .
Help Quilter Elms—P . . . Penge. Here it is: Help Quilter Elms
Penge!”

“Help Quilter
Elms Penge. What does that mean?” Le Villard asked.

“If I may chance
a guess,” I said, “presumably that a man named Quilter who lives at a house
called The Elms in the village of Penge, needs help.”

“Ah, I see it
now!” Le Villard said in amazement, “a helpless victim held prisoner. He
smuggles out this message as a harmless personal with strict instructions that
it be printed in this odd form. He knows that the amateurs of cryptography to
whom it is addressed will decipher his call for help. Voila!”

“Monsieur Le
Villard,” I said with some smugness, “you seem ready to grant that adventure can
exist in London, after all.”

“The advantage,
my dear Watson, of a more mercurial temperament than we Englishmen possess.
Well, Le Villard, what about it? Should we set off for Penge and rescue the
ingenious Mr. Quilter from whatever dire fate awaits him at The Elms?” Holmes
said with marked amusement.

“I am all
impatient!”

“Splendid!”
Holmes exclaimed, then turned to me, “Watson, I suppose you are too busy to
join us?”

“Too busy?”

“I mean, your
practice,” Holmes continued. “I’m sure you have patients to attend to.”

“Yes, of course,”
I returned rather crestfallen, “I have two further visits to make today. One to
a peppery old miser who has the gout, and the other to a wealthy society woman
with an acute attack of hypochondria.”

Holmes stood
silently, a wry grin on his face, as he took one of his favorite pipes from the
mantlepiece and lit it, obviously waiting for me to make a decision, and
enjoying every difficult second I was in.

“To blazes with
both of them! I’m coming with you, Holmes, if you want me.”

“Excellent,
Watson! Come on, let’s grab our hats and coats. The game’s afoot!”

It was down the
stairs and out into Baker Street for the three of us, Monsieur Le Villard as
excited by this venture as Holmes and I were. We hailed a cab and rode the half
hour to The Elms, Penge, all the while Holmes and Le Villard talking about the
comparative differences between police detection in France and England.

When we alighted
from the cab, a gentle breeze greeted us on this most glorious summer
afternoon. It was the kind of weather that begged one to take a slow walk about
the city to enjoy this exceptional warmth.

“So this is the
Elms, Holmes. It’s quite a bit of land for such a modest neighborhood,” I
ventured to comment.

“To call it the
Elms seems remarkably inapropos,” Le Villard commented. “I cannot see an elm
tree in sight.”

“So you see, Le
Villard, the English have more imagination than you give them credit for,” Holmes
said.

“Are you just
going to walk up to the front door and knock, Holmes?”

“And why not,
Watson? The direct approach is often the most satisfactory.”

“You disappoint
me,” Le Villard said. “I had hoped that perhaps you would adapt one of the
disguises in which you are so adept, I am told.”

“Since it is
unlikely that these people would know me by sight, that hardly seems necessary.
However, I trust that this little problem may reward you with some colorful
highlights before we are through with—” Holmes stopped abruptly, for the sound
of three shots rang out. Le Villard and I were stunned, to say the least.

“Great Scott,
Holmes,” I exclaimed, “revolver shots. They came from the house!”

“We are too
late. Monsieur Quilter has been murdered.”

“I think not, Le
Villard,” Holmes went on calmly, “you will observe that the next door neighbor
to the Elms was cutting his front lawn as we drove up. He’s still engaged in
the same occupation. Obviously revolver shots attract little attention in this
vicinity.”

“Mon dieu, you
mean that violence and sudden death are so common that they do not even attract
even a passing interest?”

“No, Le Villard,”
Holmes chuckled, “even the British are not that phlegmatic.”

“Then what is
the answer to those shots, Holmes?” I asked.

“That some
member of this household is addicted to pistol practice. The fact that a
shooting target is nailed to the back of the fence over there would further
support the theory.”

“That’s rather
ominous, in my opinion,” I commented as Holmes stepped up to the front door, Le
Villard and I behind him.

“It’s best we
keep our wits about us, anyway,” Holmes said as he yanked the pull cord on the
bell.