Albino's Treasure Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Available Now from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also Available from Titan Books

  AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

  THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE (November 2016)

  Stuart Douglas

  THE RIPPER LEGACY (August 2016)

  David Stuart Davies

  THE WHITE WORM (February 2016)

  Sam Siciliano

  MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN (November 2015)

  Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

  THE VEILED DETECTIVE

  David Stuart Davies

  THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

  David Stuart Davies

  THE ANGEL OF THE OPERA

  Sam Siciliano

  THE WEB WEAVER

  Sam Siciliano

  THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

  Sam Siciliano

  DR JEKYLL AND MR HOLMES

  Loren D. Estleman

  SHERLOCK HOLMES VS. DRACULA

  Loren D. Estleman

  THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

  Daniel Stashower

  THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

  Manly Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

  THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS

  Edward B. Hanna

  THE SEVENTH BULLET

  Daniel D. Victor

  THE TITANIC TRAGEDY

  William Seil

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783293124

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783293131

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: May 2015

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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

  © 2015 Stuart Douglas

  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.

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  For Julie, without whom I’d never even have started

  Prologue

  Throughout my long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, it was my practice to present to my friend a copy of my notes on any case of particular sensitivity. Generally, Holmes would glance over the freshly written adventure with barely concealed irritation, mutter some unflattering remark, and indicate that I could do with it as I wished. Occasionally, however, he would frown and, showing a sudden interest, quickly read the entire manuscript. ‘I think,’ he would say, in due course, ‘that this particular case would be best kept between ourselves for the moment.’ And with that he would disappear into his room, my piece for The Strand in his hand – and it would be consigned to the tin box he kept there, never to be seen again.

  Now, however, with everyone involved – bar myself – long since deceased I find myself often sitting in my favourite bay window in the weak winter sunlight, with the same tin box open on my lap. I read the collection of notes and asides, summaries and complete manuscripts, and am transported back to my younger days, when Holmes tackled any mystery that came his way, and I stood at his side, his faithful chronicler to the end.

  But the world has changed immeasurably during my long life, and matters that seemed scandalous to us in the old century appear commonplace as we navigate the second third of the new. If a king may abdicate his throne and choose love over duty – and be applauded for doing so – then perhaps the time is right to bring these last few cases of Sherlock Holmes into the light? At the very least, the case I find recorded in my notes as ‘The Albino’s Treasure’ has surely lost all power to rock the nation, and yet several elements contained therein may prove to be of interest to a modern readership.

  The tale which follows occurred in the year 1896, when the new National Portrait Gallery had just opened its doors, and I was back in Baker Street, sharing rooms with my old friend.

  One

  It was never the habit of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, to rise early in the morning. Though he was more than capable of remaining awake and alert for days on end if the need arose, his preference was always to breakfast late if he possibly could. As I was by no means an early bird myself, this suited us both admirably, and Mrs Hudson knew better than to allow anyone to call before a reasonable hour of the morning. A heavy knocking at the door to my room, therefore, and Holmes’s voice calling gruffly for me to rouse myself came as something of a surprise.

  Responding to the urgency in his voice, I barely took the time to pull on my dressing gown before moving through to the sitting room we shared, and was already asking questions of Holmes before I took one step into the room.

  ‘What on earth is going on, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘And what time is it?’

  In reply, Holmes – who I saw was as poorly dressed for company as I – gestured first to the mantel clock, which stood at a little after five a.m., and then to the long figure of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who stood just inside the door, directly in front of us.

  The Inspector at least had the grace to appear momentarily embarrassed, before the obvious seriousness of his mission overcame whatever reticence he felt. He laid his hat on the table beside him and, as Holmes waved an irritated hand in his direction, began to speak, evidently continuing a discussion curtailed by my arrival.

  ‘Yes, Mr Holmes,’ he said firmly, ‘anarchists it is.’ From his tone it was apparent that Lestrade was as impatient to progress with matters as Holmes, though it remained to be seen if their motivations were equally well matched. Holmes said nothing and, after a small pause, Lestrade continued. ‘Now, before you say another word, complaining about politics and the like, I should tell you that we have reason to suspect an anarchist plot aimed at the very top of English society – possibly even threatening the safety of Her Majesty, the Queen.’

  As he spoke these last few words, Lestrade favoured first Holmes then myself with a look; his small eyes narrowed even further than usual, stressing the importance of this last statement, as though that were at all necessary.

  Holmes – who had until that point remained slumped in his chair – sat forward as the Inspector named our sovereign, suddenly as alert as a man well rested rather than one roused from sleep in the early hours. ‘Her Majesty, you say, Lestrade?’ he asked, eagerly. ‘You are certain of this?’

  Lestrade nodded once, s
harply. ‘I’d hardly be standing here at five in the morning otherwise,’ he said, straightening his shoulders and letting his fingers rap on the crown of his bowler.

  Holmes was suddenly all energy, gesturing for the Inspector to sit as he reached for his favourite pipe and the Persian slipper in which he kept his shag tobacco. Standing in front of the empty fire, he filled the bowl and applied a match to it. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ he said, ‘and be sure to miss nothing out.’

  Lestrade shifted himself forward in his seat and pulled a small notebook from his pocket. Flipping through its pages, he seemed unsure where to begin but, after a brief interval, he evidently satisfied himself and began to speak.

  ‘Are you aware, Mr Holmes, of a group calling itself the Brotherhood of Ireland?’ he asked first, glancing from Holmes to myself.

  Holmes nodded. ‘The name is familiar,’ he replied. ‘I would need to consult my notes before going any further than that, but they are, if I recall correctly, a political group dedicated to the cause of Home Rule in Ireland?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lestrade. ‘And until recently that’s all they appeared to be. However, we have been hearing rumours of a growing militancy amongst their membership, and last evening those rumours bore a most unfortunate fruit. At a little after two o’clock this morning, we were alerted to a disturbance at the newly built National Portrait Gallery at St Martin’s Place. The night guard at the Gallery discovered a man in the section devoted to political portraits, engaged in an act of vandalism on the painting of Lord Salisbury—’

  ‘Vandalism?’ Holmes interrupted, his tone making it clear that a vandalised painting, no matter how august its subject, was not, in his opinion, of sufficient import to warrant an interruption of his rest.

  ‘Yes, Mr Holmes. Slashed with a knife, right across, and the letters “BOI” daubed on the wall beside it in red paint. The guard intervened, of course, and a chase ensued before a colleague, alerted by the noise, arrived and the two of them managed to subdue the intruder.’

  Lestrade paused in his narrative for a moment, allowing Holmes once again to interrupt. ‘This is all very interesting, Lestrade, but I confess I remain at something of a loss. That a likeness of the former Prime Minister has been so egregiously attacked is certainly disturbing, but I fail to see either what you believe I might do to help in the matter, or the link between this crime and the safety of Her Majesty.’

  I admit that I too found myself confused by Lestrade’s obvious urgency. It was, granted, not yet a decade since the disturbances dubbed ‘Bloody Sunday’ by the press, in which a mob, thousands strong, led by socialists and republicans had marched on Trafalgar Square and been rebuffed only by the intervention of some two thousand policemen. Irish Home Rule was a subject seemingly designed to foster strong opinions, but it was hardly a new problem, nor did the attack on Lord Salisbury’s portrait seem to be anything more than the sort of grand gesture so beloved of republican agitators. I was on the verge of making this very point to the Inspector, when he held up a hand to forestall me.

  ‘Nothing on the surface, I admit,’ he said. ‘But when the man was brought in for questioning, he refused to say anything beyond a single statement. “Next time it won’t just be a painting,” he said, and then clammed up, refusing to say another word. It may be nothing, Mr Holmes, but my superiors fear that this is the start of something bigger – the first salvo in a new campaign of terror, as it were.’

  With that, the Inspector sat back in his chair and allowed his notebook to fall shut. ‘We’d be grateful, Mr Holmes, if you’d speak to the man, see if you can’t discover something useful from him. Even his name would be a start. All we know for certain is that he entered the Gallery in the late afternoon, spent some time admiring the royal portraits on the top floor, and must have secreted himself somewhere before closing, only to emerge in the early hours bent on destruction.’

  While Lestrade had been speaking, Holmes had finished his pipe. He laid it down and rose from his seat. ‘I am not entirely convinced that this matter is one which requires my presence, but I am awake now, and it would be churlish to refuse, I suppose. What do you say, Watson – shall we take an early morning trip to Scotland Yard?’

  I held my hands out in agreement. ‘I think we should, Holmes. Perhaps the threat is a hollow one, but perhaps not. And if anyone can discover this man’s secrets, it is certainly you.’

  Holmes turned to Lestrade. ‘We will need to dress, Inspector. If you would care to go on ahead, we shall be with you within the hour.’

  Lestrade stood and replaced the bowler on his head. ‘Thank you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ he said as he opened the door to leave. ‘I’ll expect you then.’

  After he left, Holmes pulled a volume of newspaper clippings from a bookcase, and stood for some time in contemplation. ‘I had hoped for something more challenging from the good Inspector,’ he said, finally. ‘Perhaps some interest can be garnered from this gentleman and his unwholesome activities, but somehow I doubt it.’ He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. ‘In any case we must first make ourselves presentable for Scotland Yard’s finest!’

  I watched him disappear into his room and repaired to mine. For all Holmes’s dissatisfaction, I was keen to witness his interrogation of the suspected anarchist. The man might believe that there was safety in silence, but I knew of old that my friend rarely required a dialogue in order to draw his conclusions.

  * * *

  I had never had cause to visit the Inspector in his office on the new Victoria Embankment, to which the entire Metropolitan Police force had decamped some five years previously. I was impressed, as Holmes appeared to be, by this re-born Scotland Yard, which loomed out of the morning fog like a minor European castle, studded with turrets and topped with large chimneys in stripes of red and white brick. The building combined an air of modernity with an aura of impregnability which, when seen close up, I found strangely reassuring.

  Even so, Lestrade’s office, into which we were shown by a helpful constable, was cold with the early morning chill in spite of the close-fitting windows. Lestrade rose from his desk as we entered and indicated two wooden chairs.

  ‘If you’d care to sit, gentlemen, I’ll have Constable Mann bring the suspect up.’ He nodded to the constable, who disappeared back into the corridor, closing the office door softly behind him. ‘The man has said nothing since I spoke to you earlier, Mr Holmes, but we’re hoping you can use your trickery on him, and give us something to work with.’

  I could feel Holmes bristle at this talk of trickery and to forestall an indignant reply, I asked Lestrade what he could tell us of the recent activities of the Brotherhood of Ireland.

  ‘To be frank, Dr Watson, there’s not a great deal that I can tell you. The Brotherhood are known to the police, but, until tonight, they seemed content to agitate peacefully in England. Pamphlets handed out in the streets, evening meetings with republican speakers, that sort of thing. Enough for us to have them under observation, but compared with certain other groups, harmless enough.’

  ‘Or so you thought,’ interjected Holmes with a frown. ‘Has there been any change in the behaviour of this Brotherhood recently? Has there been any indication that they have chosen to change their mode of operation, abandoning their peaceful campaigning for a fresh approach more akin to the current case?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade replied immediately. ‘That’s partly why I’ve brought you in tonight, in fact. My superiors are concerned that we’ve missed some vital element. They’re worried that this attack isn’t an isolated incident, but more by way of a first step. A marker, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘It would not be the first time that such a group moved from lawful protest to unlawful, that is certainly true. I am reminded of the case of the kidnapped Spanish diplomat last year in Madrid. The faction who took – and eventually murdered – him were believed to be a political reading club until that terrible incident, and the bombings that followed. Thirty-five dead in
total, unless I am mistaken, and the ringleaders never captured.’ Holmes paused for a moment, as though assuring himself that he had his figures correct. ‘No,’ he concluded as there was a sharp knock on the door behind him, ‘your superiors are not wrong to be concerned.’

  Lestrade did not seem reassured by Holmes’s words. He barked for whomever had knocked to come inside. As the door swung open, Holmes and I turned to examine the newcomer who shuffled in at a nudge from our helpful constable.

  The man was aged somewhere between thirty and fifty, and stared straight ahead as the constable ordered him to stop, giving no indication that he was aware of anyone else in the room. He was tall and spare, with a small round face dominated by a thick moustache, which curled down past the corners of his mouth. A thin scar on one cheek ran from beneath his left eye to a point just above his jawline, but other than that he was unremarkable. He was dressed in what I presumed were the clothes he had been wearing when apprehended: dark working man’s trousers and a loose shirt, ripped at the collar. There were no shoes on his feet, causing the chains which ran from his wrists to his ankles to rest on the top of each foot, rubbing them painfully red as he hobbled forward.

  ‘You can wait outside, constable,’ Lestrade ordered, then, turning to Holmes, announced, ‘This is the man.’

  ‘I had surmised as much,’ Holmes replied with barely concealed irritation. ‘An Irishman from one of the northern counties, who has lived in England for some years now, and who was, for a time at least, a member of our own armed forces. Any name he gives you will almost certainly be false.’

  ‘Oh come now, Mr Holmes, how can you possibly know that?’ Lestrade was on his feet, annoyance and incredulity plain on his face.

  ‘Trickery, Inspector,’ said Holmes with a tight smile. ‘Isn’t that the very thing you suggested, after all?’

  ‘Holmes…’ I warned, knowing his low opinion of Scotland Yard and its inspectors. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, inviting me to share his amusement, but this was not the time for such games. If there were even the most remote chance that this man was involved in a plot against the Crown and its ministers, every second could prove vital.