The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

“It would be
interesting to see if any repercussions of your strange adventure reach us.”

“I doubt it. The
woman seemed frightened to death when I mentioned your name.”

“We shall see.
Meanwhile, I’m expecting a client. If you’re not too busy with your practice, I
would greatly appreciate your taking some notes and observations on the matter.”

“I’d like to
very much, Holmes. Do you know who it is?”

“This telegram
will tell you much more than I can,” he said, handing me the paper that lay on
the table near him, “It arrived an hour ago.”

He stood and walked
to the window. The rain was still coming down, washing the street clean not
only of the usual grime and soot, but of all people and vehicles, save for a
few passing Hansoms and carriages. I read the telegram aloud.

“ ‘Be at your
lodgings this morning to discuss our problem. Stop.’ It’s signed A.M.S. Pretty
high handed message. Be at your lodgings! No ‘please.’ What do you suppose
A.M.S. stands for?”

“I was just
toying with that problem,” he said returning to his seat.

“Could it be the
American Medical School?”

“No, Watson,
there’s no such body. You are referring to the American Medical Association.
The curious tone of the message inclines me to believe that the A stands for
Amateur.”

“Very possibly.
Amateur Maskers Society.”

“Or, Watson, the
Amateur Murderers Society,” said Holmes, laughing. “That would be a nice
thought, wouldn’t it?”

The doorbell
rang and Holmes stood, expectation on his face.

“That is their
representative, no doubt, to save us further guesswork.”

I went to the
window and looked out, hoping to gain at least a glimpse of who it was that was
coming to see Holmes.

“Holmes,” I
said, “it looks like the same carriage that I was driven in last night! But the
girl standing on your doorstep is dressed in the height of fashion.”

“Splendid, Watson.
Unless my guess is incorrect, we have not heard the end of your adventure. Go
and meet the lady at the top of the stairs, old chap, and save Mrs. Hudson’s
legs.”

I did as Holmes
suggested and opened the door just as a most charming young lady reached the
top of the stairs. I ushered the lady in as she acknowledged me with a smile.

“Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?” she said, turning to my friend.

“At your
service, madam. Won’t you sit down?”

“I am Lady
Dorothy Broxton.”

“But your voice,”
I said perplexed, “you’re the lady who fetched me last night, dressed up as a
beggar woman!”

“Yes I am, Dr.
Watson. Forgive me for being so mysterious at the time.”

“Doubtless you’ve
come to consult me regarding last nights unfortunate accident at the Amateur
Mendicant Society.”

“How did you
know what the initials stood for, Mr. Holmes?”

“It’s not too
difficult. After hearing Dr. Watson’s story of last night’s happenings, the
connotation seemed obvious, am I right?”

“Perfectly. Last
night when Dr. Watson told us Julian was dead, we thought it was an accident.”

“And now,” Holmes
interrupted, “you think it is murder? Lady Broxton, if you expect my help,
there must be no more mystery. Just what is this Amateur Mendicant Society?”

“I’m afraid it
might be a little hard for you to understand our motives. We’re a group of
people, rather wealthy people I suppose, who find pleasure in deliberately
leading a seamy life disguised as beggars. We use the basement that you were in
last night, doctor, as our headquarters. We keep our beggar’s clothes there,
and change out of them before we go home.”

“What a
fantastic idea,” I said, disgruntled by the whole thing.

“What a futile
and worthless way of spending your leisure time, Lady Broxton.”

“I suppose it
must seem so, Mr. Holmes. But we are curious to learn how the other half lives.
Of course, there’s a certain thrill in rubbing shoulders with the police. At
least we do some good.”

“Indeed?” Holmes
said with curiosity, “I should be interested to learn how.”

“The money we
make as beggars we give to charity.”

“Oh, do you
really? And you feel that this gesture on your part absolves you from any
responsibility to the real beggars whose livelihood you are impairing!” Holmes
said in disgust.

“I hadn’t
thought of it just like that,” admitted Lady Broxton, “Then, I suppose you won’t
want to help us, Mr. Holmes?”

“That’s quite
another matter, madam. As a professional detective I cannot afford to be a
moralist. Yes, I will investigate this case for you, though I warn you my fee
will be an extremely high one!”

“Money doesn’t
matter, Mr. Holmes, as long as we can solve Julian’s death without bringing the
police into the case.”

“Lady Broxton,” Holmes
snapped, “Who is the dead man? The man you refer to as Julian?”

“Julian Trevor,
the poet. He was the one who started our society.”

“Julian Trevor,
yes, I’ve read some of his work. Decadent. Distinctly decadent.”

“What makes you
think that he was murdered, Lady Broxton?” I asked.

“After you left
last night, Dr. Watson, there was a terrible scene. Do you remember Sidney Holt?”

“Was he the tall
fellow who was so unpleasant to me?”

“Yes, that’s the
one. He said that he saw Lord Cecil deliberately trip Julian as he came to the
head of the staircase.”

“Lord Cecil
being whom?” asked Holmes.

“Lord Cecil
Dearingforth, son of the Earl of Meerschaum. There was a bitter argument. Cecil
accused Sidney of doing the same thing to Julian. They had a dreadful fight,
ending up with Cecil threatening to go to the police. That’s when we decided to
send a telegram to you, Mr. Holmes.”

“So, the proof
of murder depends on such flimsy evidence as to whether the dead man fell or
was pushed.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Lady
Broxton begged, “even though you don’t approve, please help us, won’t you?”

Holmes, in his
own dramatic way, moved to the window, staring out at the endless rain, deep in
thought. He turned suddenly towards us.

“Yes, Lady
Broxton, I will.”

“Then you’ll
come back with me now to our headquarters?”

“I shall join
you within the hour. In the meantime, my old friend Dr. Watson can go with you.”

“But Holmes,” I
protested, “what can I do without you?”

“You know my
methods, Watson. Act accordingly.”

“Very well, Mr.
Holmes, I shall take Dr. Watson with me. But you promise you’ll be there?”

“I promise you
that I will be there, madam.”

I looked at
Holmes in puzzlement, but he averted his eyes. Lady Broxton stood and went to
the door; I following reluctantly.

“Lady Broxton, I’ll
meet you at your carriage. I want to get my hat and coat,” I said as an excuse
to stay a moment.

As Lady Broxton
continued down stairs I turned to Holmes in agitation.

“Holmes, what
are you up to?”

“Go with her and
ask me no more questions,” he whispered, “I shall join you within the hour.”

“Holmes, there’s
a glint in your eye,” I returned, “I don’t think you believe her story.”

“Of course I don’t,
Watson. Now go with her, old fellow, and keep your wits about you. The game’s
afoot!”

To return to
such a dismal and deploring place of death and intrigue did not sit well with
me, but Holmes had asked me to return and return I did.

As I awaited his
arrival, I took the time to question a few of the members of the Mendicant
Society, but gained no further clues as to the reason or the cause of Julian
Trevor’s death.

I was just
finishing my questioning of Sidney Holt, the tall gentleman who was so rude to
me only hours before. He was still being rude.

“I’m afraid that
I don’t find your story very convincing, Mr. Holt,” I said to him as he stood
over me.

“Oh don’t you
now? Then suppose you stop asking questions until Sherlock Holmes gets here. He’s
the man we’ve engaged to settle this business, not you! We’re paying for his
services, not those of his assistant!”

“Mr. Holmes
asked ME to conduct this preliminary investigation,” I said coldly, restraining
my anger. “I am perfectly familiar with his methods, so keep a civil tongue in
your head if you want Holmes to continue with this case!”

“I’m not
answering any more questions until he gets here!”

“Insufferable
fellow,” I said under my breath as I turned away from him. “Lord Cecil, you say
that you saw Holt deliberately trip the dead man as he came down the stairs
last night?”

“Yes I did,
doctor.”

“Now where were
you standing, sir?”

“At the head of
the staircase. Holt was beside me and as Julian came by he deliberately—”

Lord Cecil was
interrupted by a small, aged man who spoke nervously.

“Excuse me,
please, excuse me, number 11, but there is a strange man just come in. He is
dressed as you when you work, but I do not remember having seen him here
before. He speaks very rough.”

“Did he give the
correct signal?” asked Lord Cecil.

“Yes, and the
password, sir.”

“He must be a
new member,” said Lady Broxton who had been standing beside me during the
entire time of my preliminary investigation.

“I suppose we’d
better see him. Bring him in,” said Lord Cecil with great agitation, “A bad
time for him to come here, confound it!”

Almost
immediately a large man, dressed in tattered clothes and sporting a great beard
came forward.

“Quite a nice
place you got here!” he said. “Certainly do yourselves proud, don’t you?”

“Who are you and
how did you get in here?” asked Lord Cecil rather suspiciously.

“I gave the
signal and the password, just like Julian told me to. I’m a friend of Julian’s
and he told me to meet him here.”

“Who are you,
really?”

“Are we all
friends here?” said the bearded man, glancing about.

“Yes,” Lord
Cecil reassured, “you can talk freely.”

Suddenly this
strutting, ill-dressed ragamuffin of a man bowed deeply. Now, when he spoke, it
was with a slight Spanish accent.

“Then permit me
to introduce myself. I am Don Louis Jose Fernando de La Storez, at your service.”

“Why do you want
to join us?” asked Sidney Holt.

“When Julian
tell me about this . . . well, it tickle my . . . how you say . . . my funny
bone? It is so charming an idea. Aficionados of Mendicancy.”

“Well, I suppose
he’s all right,” Sidney Holt said, eyeing the new member.

“Of course, I am
all right. Now where is Julian, please. He will vouch for me.”

“He’s in the
other room,” Holt went on, “he’s had an accident.”

“An accident?
Not a bad one, I hope.”

“A very bad one.
Dr. Watson, you’d better take him in there and break the news to him,” said the
cynical Holt.

I gestured for
the man to follow me. We entered the room and a look of shock crossed the man’s
face.

“Your friend is
dead, I’m sorry to say. His neck was broken last night in some brawl.”

“Yes, but I do
believe it was an accident, Watson,” came the now familiar voice of my friend
and companion.

“Holmes!” I
exclaimed, completely taken by surprise.

“Quiet, old
chap, quiet,” whispered Holmes.

“But not quietly
enough, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” Sidney Holt exclaimed, his tall frame blocking
the doorway. “Come on now, come back to the others and let’s all take a look at
you! Come on, get moving, both of you! This isn’t a popgun I’ve got in my hand!”

Holt forced us
by gunpoint to join the others.

“Sorry Holmes, I’ve
given the whole thing away.”

“That’s all
right, old chap,” he returned.

“Cecil, Dorothy,
come here! I want you to take a look at the great Sherlock Holmes! Walked into
our trap just like any stupid policeman! I don’t know why you had to dress up
for it, Mr. Holmes. We were waiting for you here anyway, you know.”

“I was well
aware of that, Mr. Holt. You see, I knew I was walking into a trap.”

“How did you
know that, Mr. Holmes?” Lady Broxton said, quite surprised.

“Lady Broxton,
the story that you brought to us today was so obviously a false one. Just as
there is no Amateur Mendicant Society!”

“Then who are
they, Holmes?” I asked.

“Go ahead, Mr.
Holmes,” Holt laughed, “tell him. Let’s see how much you really do know!”

“Why should I
tell you what you already know?” Holmes offered, a cynical edge to his voice.