The Final Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Volume 1 (11 page)

Chapter XVI. Pyotr's Cave.

‘It was ten-fifteen when our Clarence pulled up, clippety-clop, clippety-clop, at the rear of the Diogenes Club on Carlton House Terrace. During the trip I had updated Lestrade with the story of my childhood friend, Conan Arthur, and his difficult life. When I told him of my suspicion that he was the killer of the musical men, he smiled grimly and patted the British Bulldog Webley in his jacket pocket. I found myself wishing that his father had been his equal in strength, intelligence and character. We might have solved many more cases and relieved the British taxpayer of the cost of quite a few trials and life sentences.'

‘That's vigilante talk, Holmes,' I put in tiredly.

‘Of course it is, Watson. Our time together has been just that. A vigil against crime. But we are running out of years, and I have observed many recent cases where the legal process seems to favour the criminal rather more than the victim. I intend to redress the balance to the best of my ability during the rest of my life. With your assistance, of course.'

‘Holmes!'

‘To continue. The pair of delicate nancy-boys alighted stylishly from the growler and gazed through the dense, dripping fog at the sinister twin garage fronts for a possible entrance to Pyotr's Cave. But all was as silent as the grave. We could not even hear the traffic in Pall Mall. Like Ali Baba, I willed some jinn to arrive and for a magical door to open,
sesame
-like. And after a few minutes, it worked. Not a jinn, exactly, but the Diogenes doorkeeper Joseph, who emerged from within the hedgerow like a wraith, lost in the dark of the night. His pale features and plaited blonde hair gleamed beneath the dim gas lighting. A pair of black round eyes finally stopped moving and stared into mine with deep suspicion. Yet I don't believe the innocent child recognised either one of us.'

‘ “Password?” he asked.'

‘I had not anticipated this problem and was forced to think quickly. What kind of password would a club like this use? I decided that it must be something to do with Tchaikovsky's music. A rapid mental flicking provided Swan, Lake, Sleeping, Beauty, Romeo, Juliet, Pathetic, Nutcracker…'.

‘ “Nutcracker,” I replied with absolute confidence. There was a flash of white teeth from the simple-minded pickaninny as he beckoned us to follow him into the hedge, which proved to be merely a few branches at the end of a garden. Joseph disappeared through a small wicket gate at the side of the first garage, and we bent down to follow him into what appeared to be a large padded cell, whose walls were lined with thick beige cushions. Watson, if I had only known that you were in crucifixion mode next door, I would surely have rushed to your rescue then and there. You do believe me, don't you?'

‘Oh, of course, Holmes. Of course. That explains why I could not hear anyone coming or going through it. Eh, what exactly
was
in the other garage, as a matter of interest?'

‘Nothing. Except for a dirty rolled-up loop of carpet and a metal trapdoor in the middle of the floor. It was evidently quite heavy, as Joseph had to use both hands to lift it up, revealing a flickering light and a set of steps leading down to… what? Dante's Inferno? Perhaps. Music drifted up from below. Grinning, he invited us to enter the dungeon. I clasped my stick sword firmly and stepped forward, followed closely by Lestrade. Our descent was steep and led to the middle of a candle-lit tunnel hewn out of pure granite stone. A bright crimson arrow had been stencilled onto the wall, pointing towards the left. We followed it dutifully. Rose petals were strewn along the floor and colourful balloons hung from the roof. There was an unusually sweet smell that I recognised later as incense, burnt to hide the odour of cannibis resin. It became much warmer and sweat began to sting my eyes. The music grew louder as we progressed along the twisting corridor for several minutes, passing other arrows at forks in the shadowy passage. Wherever we were going, it could not have been anywhere near the Diogenes Club. By my judgement, if we were heading for Pyotr's Cave, it was probably underneath the Carlton Club. Then I remembered that certain private clubs in London had built underground shelters for their members during the Great War, in case of bombing from Count Zeppelin's airships. They were dotted around the city, and some of them could still be functional.'

‘ “What is that awful sentimental music?”whispered Lestrade.'

‘ “That, young Jasper, son of the late Inspector George, is the
Rose Adagio
from Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky's
Sleeping Beauty Suite
for the ballet,” I replied somewhat testily. “And it is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever composed by man or beast.” '

‘ “Oh, I believe you,” the youthful philistine muttered in reply.'

‘We had come to the end of the passage and were staring at a completely blank rockface. The music emanated from the other side at full volume, together with a low buzzing sound, like that from a hive of bees, servicing their queen. It had got quite clammy and we were both bathed in perspiration. I searched the wall in vain to find some key. Then Lestrade pointed at the floor, where a tiny button was sticking up, like a skittle waiting to be knocked down. Or a land mine? I stood on it tentatively, and the wall vanished miraculously into the roof with a soft
whoosh
, like a lift travelling upwards. We edged forward into a discordant blend of music and chatter. It was like any public house in Soho on an average Saturday night, crowded with drunks, dense as a smoking battlefield and hosting a central dance floor. Except that everyone inside seemed to be male, of course. And the atmosphere became instantly cooler, as though there were vents somewhere.'

‘So it was definitely Pyotr's Cave?' I asked.

‘Indeed it was, Watson. A huge bunker, hewn out of raw granite and smoothed over with cement. Large holes ranged around the cavern wall for private trysts. Couples slow-danced to the music and kissed.'

‘All right, Holmes. You don't have to go into that much detail.'

‘Poor Watson. You just will not accept the fact that some men are sexually attracted to other men. And some women to other women, of course.'

I sat up abruptly.

‘What on earth do you mean, Holmes? Musical women?'

‘Exactly. The police informed me later on that Virginia Woolf had been caught there, with another of that Bloomsbury lot, Vita Sackville-West, indulging in the cult of Lesbos within one of the caves. Fortunately for them, there's no law against it, unlike with men.'

‘Woman with woman? What? How? But there's no…! Good God almighty!' Now I had heard everything. It simply beggared belief.

‘Well. As far as the Bloomsbury Group goes, I imagine that it is not the expression of the feeling that matters, as much as the feeling itself.'

‘Stop. That's enough, Holmes. You don't have to elaborate. What happened next?' There are some things that I would never understand.

‘Lestrade and I strolled up to the bar and ordered a couple of martinis. We sipped them nonchalantly and pretended to chat while examining the clientele for familiar faces, without any luck. Most of the men were quite ordinary looking people, the type who worked in offices during the day and whom you would pass by on the street without a backward glance. Sadly, they seemed much more interested in my young friend than in the great detective. Joke, Watson. Calm down. Then the music changed back to the dramatic entrance of the Lilac Fairy. There was a sudden hush, the floor cleared and a tiny hairless figure dressed only in a transparent purple tutu danced into the centre, his body glistening with some kind of oil. I nudged Lestrade in excitement. It was my little taxi driver, Ifan Rees. Suddenly many of the unlikely events of the past week began to make a great deal of sense to me. Of course. Rees and Arthur. That was how they had tracked me. Together they must be the killers.'

‘Yes. The filthy little worm was Arthur's grandson. They kidnapped me in Gordon Square.'

‘Indeed. He seemed to have inherited his grandfather's mental problems, right enough. The crowd started to laugh and clap as Ifan jumped and twirled like a pink baby hippopotamus around the floor.'

‘Oh, dear God. That doesn't bear thinking about,' I interjected.

‘It was just good clean fun, Watson. That was when I first recognised my childhood friend, Conan Arthur, the raddled man in that Gordon Square photograph. He had emerged from one of the holes in the wall with a scrawny youth, who looked like one of those rent boys one reads about. You know. A rough type. They hang around Piccadilly Circus quite a lot.'

‘Do they? No. I didn't know that, Holmes.' Surprise, surprise. How in blazes
would
I know that?

‘He didn't notice me at first. Eventually Rees came to a stand-still beside a microphone to the rear of the bunker, and proceeded to sing a version of the song
Three Little Maids
from
The Mikado
in a high-pitched falsetto:

“One little maid from school am I,

Pert as a school-girl well can be,

Filled to the brim with girlish glee,

One little maid from school!

One little maid who, all unwary,

Comes from a ladies' seminary,

Freed from its genius tutelary

One little maid from school!

One little maid from sch…”'

‘All right, Holmes. In heaven's name, stop! You're singing! Do get on with the story,' I demanded impatiently.

‘What's the matter, Watson? Don't you like my voice? You have to imagine a thirty-piece orchestra. Now take it easy. Just another joke. Once the song came to an end and the applause ceased, the hippo bounced his way out of the bunker by another door to the rear. That was when Conan Arthur, fingering his rather twee goatee, stared over at the bar and perceived his childhood nemesis for the first time. The look of astonishment on his face was something to behold, but it was swiftly replaced by one of extreme fear as I raised my stick sword and pointed it at him accusingly, like a rapier in advance of an attack. He handed something to the young boy beside him and started walking – running, really – after Rees through the rear exit. I grabbed Lestrade and pulled him with me across the dance floor and after the murderous pair of serial killers.'

‘It was time for the vengeance of Sherlock Holmes.'

Chapter XVII. The Diogenes Club.

‘We chased my so-called childhood friend down a labyrinthine warren of narrow, undulating passages, with Lestrade taking the lead. He had almost caught up with him when we came to another blank wall. And Conan turned on us.

‘ “If you kill me, I promise that you will never find your Boswell, Sherlock,” he snarled, like a cornered rat. “Your oh-so-literary doctor lover will die, starving and all alone. And in great pain.” '

‘I unsheathed my stick sword, fully prepared to run him through right there and then, regardless of right or wrong. For my father and my brother, Watson. And for the insult to you, of course. But I realised what he was saying, and held back. And that was when we heard these breathless, whispered words behind us:

‘ “One little maid from school am I,

Pert as a school-girl well can be,

Filled to the brim with girlish glee…”

We wheeled around to find the appalling sight of a completely naked hippopotamus, Ifan Rees, tutu-less and his skin gleaming in the candlelight. He was tossing his slaughter knife from hand to hand and laughing to himself, as he prepared to attack. Lestrade withdrew his Bulldog and pointed it at the lunatic.'

‘ “Put down the knife, or I will shoot you,” he commanded.'

‘ “One little maid from school!

One little maid who, all unwary,

Comes from a ladies'semin…” '

‘Rees danced forwards, feigning to cut Lestrade's throat with the knife. The Scotland Yard detective swayed back, and then warned him again.'

‘ “Do you actually
want
to die?”queried Lestrade in alarm.'

‘ “Freed from its genius tutelary

One little maid from school!

One little maid from sch…” '

‘Rees lunged at the Scotland Yard detective and Lestrade shot him once through the throat. The cab-driver stopped in his stride, staggered, dropped his knife, grabbed his neck as though he wanted to hold the skin together, spat a gout of thick blood from his throat, smiled enigmatically, and fell to the floor dead as a doornail. Do please forgive the dramatic clichés, Watson.'

‘Oh, don't worry. I know all about clichés. They can come in really useful at times. My readers are very familiar with them. They wouldn't read the stories without those platitudes. Pray continue,' I yawned.

‘Shortly after the gunshot, I heard Conan Arthur stamping on the ground. I thought it was his rage at the loss of Ifan, but actually he was lifting up the wall and disappearing through it, faster than a vole being chased by a stoat. I was after him like goat's cheese on a tambourine, leaving Lestrade to call for help and to cope with any hysteria produced by his gunshot. Under no circumstances was Conan going to escape my revenge. I hared after him. Well, not exactly hare, Watson, but as fast as I could, anyway. I remember that we went past the original steps from the garage, in the opposite direction to the Cave.'

‘You would have been passing underneath the other garage, then,' I suggested amicably.

‘Probably. My only thought was to get the worm who had murdered my brother and father. And threatened to kill me, of course. He was gasping for breath, but still ahead of me, when he reached another set of steps, at the end of that right-hand passage. They were very steep and I too was struggling for air, so I had to stop at the bottom and watch him disappear into the gloom. There were no more candles, you see. Eventually I got back enough wind to follow him up the stairs, and just guess where we came out, Watson.'

‘Oh, I don't know. The Ritz?'

‘Ha, ha! I wish! It was the gap between the Main Room and the Stranger's Room in the Diogenes Club. We should have examined that area more thoroughly the other day. You know, this case has made me feel that I might be losing my touch a bit. Perhaps I'm not as good as I once was, but still good enough, eh, Watson? Good man. Absolutely right. Say nothing. A simple dummy wall pushed open from the stairs, and there I was. The door to the Stranger's Room was wide open and so I followed my childhood enemy into it, closing it firmly behind me. He lay below the bay window and seemed to be in some sort of agony, wheezing loudly as he struggled for a tablet from his pocket. He raised the palm of one hand, as though begging me to wait just a minute before I ran him through.'

‘ “Hello, Goatslayer,” I muttered, unsheathing my sword. “Long time, no see.” '

‘He swallowed his pill and stood up shakily, all the while keeping his outstretched hand between us. I waited patiently. There were questions that needed answering. But it was he who asked the first one.'

‘ “How… how did you know where we were? I told that poor Welsh idiot to devise some clue that would provide only your name.” '

‘ “His clue was quite simple, Conan. Maybe he wanted to accelerate your plan:
See you, Holmes, at Pyotr's Cave tonight.
Finding the club required a spot of lateral thinking, but we got there eventually. Now. Where is Watson? If you tell me that, I'll make your end blissfully swift. Unlike those you provided for my brother and father.” '

‘ “That was Ifan's doing. He heard voices which told him what to do. The poor lad was mentally ill from early childhood, a schizophrenic they call it nowadays, and would have spent his life behind locked doors if I hadn't offered to look after him. I suspect that he really wanted to cut off his own genitals, but hadn't the courage. And I'm dying anyway. It doesn't really matter how I go to my reward. Oh, Sherlock, don't you remember anything at all about our childhood friendship, our mutual love?” he pleaded.'

‘ “Not much,” I replied. “Apart from a few games we used to play. Anything else is some perverted fantasy your diseased mind has created to keep the flames of your hatred burning. Back then, you became ill in the woods and I had to go and get help for you. There was nothing more to it than that. Now, prepare to meet your Maker.” '

‘I was about to avenge my family deaths with Conan Arthur when he summoned reserves of strength that I did not expect. Grabbing one of the step-ladders, he flung it through the centre of the bay window, smashing the ventilation fan and the surrounding fruits and family crests and creating a hole large enough for him to crawl through.'

‘ “Look at me, Sherlock! Love you!” the madman cried, blowing me a kiss as he leapt through the window, thereby depriving me of my just retribution. I ran to the hole and gazed down, to witness his final death throes, surrounded by a pool of his tainted blood that spread slowly around his body and into the gutter of Pall Mall.'

‘So there you have it, Watson. He kept up that fantasy of a teenage relationship with me throughout his life, and blamed me and my family for all his subsequent problems. Unfortunately we still had no idea where you might be, until one of Lestrade's constables heard a loud drone coming from within the other garage. It sounded like a malfunctioning motor engine, he said. Starting and stopping. I recognised it! That was when we found you hanging around, fast asleep as usual and snoring your head off. We untied your limbs and granted you the freedom to tell us your version of events and to hear our end of the story, as related by this ancient roué. Let us hope that all musical men in London will sleep safely in their beds from now on. Which reminds me. Why don't you pop off, while I play you a short lullaby?'

Holmes picked up his violin from the mantel, placed it under his chin and started plucking it,
pizzicato
style.

‘Good night, Holmes. Just make it
soave
, will you? Smooth and gentle.'

I shuffled painfully towards the stairs to my old room.

‘Of course, old fellow. Sleep well.'