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  Holed up at Charing Cross during the Blitz in London, Frank Thomas discovered a battered tin dispatch box crammed with papers. Here were Dr. Watson's records of unpublished cases by the world-famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. After years of legal battles, Frank Thomas has now brought to light.

  SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE TREASURE TRAIN, adapted from the memoirs of John H. Watson, M.D.

  Chapter 1

  The Refusal

  WHEN MY FRIEND Sherlock Holmes and I were finally ushered into the conference room of the Birmingham and Northern Railroad, I must have shown surprise. The building that housed the great transportation company shared the yellow-brick sameness of its neighbors in the Waterloo area. Its nerve center was, however, a far cry from early nineteenth-century architecture, being reminiscent of the great hall of an ancient feudal keep. Stucco walls soared better than two stories to a curved ceiling of stout timbers joined by cast-iron straps. The door to this impressive chamber was of carved oak. A massive fireplace into which I could have stepped without bending my head dominated one wall. Around it, flintlock muskets and swords of various ages hung vertically. In their midst, on a short staff, was a regimental banner, which I judged to be Russian, a captured memento of the Crimea. In front of the fireplace was a long trestle table flanked by benches. A large Jacobean armchair was positioned at each end. The oak gleamed of oil and the flickering light of burning logs threw dancing shadows on the table and adjacent artifacts. Twin lighting fixtures hung from chain hoists over each end of the table and provided the only modern touch to a scene that provoked an immediate impression of solidity and grandeur.

  Under different circumstances I might have been prompted to pose questions regarding the many obviously authentic mementos that were the warp and woof of the room's character, as might Holmes, as he had indulged in a flirtation with medieval architecture at one time. However this was not to be, for things took a different turn—and not one for the better, I should add.

  The whole affair had gotten off to a bad start, beginning with the somewhat peremptory summons to the B & N building. At the time I had been surprised when the master sleuth abandoned our chambers at 221B Baker Street to come to the headquarters of the rail empire, though its president, Alvidon Daniel Chasseur, was a potential client of acknowledged solvency. Upon arrival at the formerly select residential neighborhood, now destroyed by the coming of the railways, we had been allowed to cool our heels in a drafty outer office while news of our arrival was relayed through a chain of command. Holmes, accustomed to being welcomed with red-carpet gratitude, adopted an imperious attitude toward the entire proceedings, which was not soothed by the manner of Mr. Chasseur or his board of directors, for such is what I judged the others seated at the table to be.

  The rail tycoon, hunched in one of the armchairs, waved us toward a free space on the bench at his left while concluding some words with a grizzled man on his immediate right. Facing him, at the other end of the long table, was a fair and youngish-looking chap who had the grace to rise at our arrival. His face was clean-shaven and rugged. I judged him to be in his early thirties, which made him the youngest man in the room.

  Having concluded his comments to his nearest employee, Chasseur now deigned to devote his attention to Holmes.

  As he brushed back an errant wisp of white hair, the tycoon fastened large, rather myopic eyes on Holmes in an abrupt manner, which I was sure had struck terror in friends and adversaries as well on numerous occasions. Holmes, his face impassive, returned the stare without a flicker of emotion. The financier never so much as favored me with a glance. I was part of the furniture, as were his associates around the table, though he did single one out at this point.

  "Mr. Holmes, we wish to discuss the matter of the gold shipment stolen from the Birmingham and Northern's special flyer but a short time ago. It was our security chief, Richard Ledger, who brought your name to my attention."

  A flick of a bony forefinger indicated the youngish man I had noted at the other end of the table. Chasseur paused as though expecting an expression of gratitude from Holmes and, when none was forthcoming, continued, his voice dry and rather grating.

  "My first impulse was to enlist the aid of the world's foremost detective, Monsieur Alphonse Bertillon, since the French have some involvement in this matter. My second thought was one of our Scotland Yard inspectors, like Lestrade, who do involve themselves in problems other than their official activities on occasion."

  Chasseur again paused to allow the fact to sink in that Sherlock Holmes was but a third choice foisted on him. I took the moment to bid an adieu to the matter of the B & N Railroad. This despite the fact that we had not been involved in a profitable case for some time. Neither the pursuit of the Golden Bird nor the adventure involving the Sacred Sword had resulted in a fee, while incurring considerable expense. However, Chasseur had effectively shunted my friend from the gold robbery and he might better have been occupied waving a red flag in a bullring in Toledo. Had we been in some earlier time, when men were prone to vent their spleen with violent action, I could easily picture Holmes tearing one of the swords from the wall and carving Chasseur up like a Christmas goose. Instead, he placidly viewed the aged financier. The silence became nerve-racking and those around the table stirred uneasily. Finally Chasseur had to give in to the mood of the moment and added to his comments, though in a slightly more conciliatory tone.

  "Ledger has considerable faith in your ability, Mr. Holmes. He was formerly with the army of India and is the finest big-game hunter in the world."

  By this time, I was as nervous as a cat and denied, with effort, the impulse to cross my legs or make some movement that would relieve the tenseness that had crept, nay galloped, into the scene. To my relief, Holmes finally contributed to the conversation, and in an even tone of voice, which must have cost him dearly.

  "It has been said that one should follow first impulses, and relative to that, I shall make some mention of matters which might prove helpful. Gratis, of course."

  Unable to divine the direction of the wind, the financier was now gazing at Holmes with the first shadow of surprise infiltrating his large eyes.

  "The esteemed Bertillon's forte is identification based on his Bertillonage system. He is not an 'in the field' operative. Lestrade is no doubt already involved in your affair since he seems to have a way of getting assigned to the most newsworthy cases. If you consider additional Scotland Yard assistance, you might think of Hopkins or Gregson or Alec MacDonald, who gives evidence of becoming the best of the lot. I know of all their work, being a consulting detective."

  "I am not familiar with that title," said Chasseur quickly.

  "No surprise since I am the only one in the world. A consulting detective has his services solicited by other professionals when they arrive at dead ends. I have but recently solved a little matter for Francis le Villard, a compatriot of Bertillon. A matter, I might add, which the Sûreté Nationale was completely incapable of dealing with."

  Chasseur made as though to comment, but Holmes was in full stride now and I relaxed, somewhat gleefully, anticipating the chips to fall from the tycoon's oak under the blows of Holmes' verbal ax.

  "In dealings with whatever investigatory means you choose, I suggest accuracy in your reports."

  Chasseur's eyes grew even larger with a combination of amazement and anger. "I am scrupulous in that regard," he said, and would have said more if given the chance.

  "A statement made in haste, sir. But a moment ago you referred to Mr. Ledger as the finest big-game hunter in the world. The gentleman would, I'm sure, agree that Colonel Sebastian Moran occupies that niche."

  Ledger rapidly confirme
d the sleuth's contention. "Moran, of course, is unique," he stated with a deferential nod of his head toward Holmes.

  "Was," corrected the sleuth. "May I remind you that the infamous colonel some time back abandoned big game for different prey. I was his target, which is why he now languishes behind bars, where I put him."

  Holmes must have felt that this dramatic announcement was as good an exit line as any, for he rose to his feet and I hastened to match his movements. There was a humorous touch to the moment. The directors of the railroad and their president resembled a school of guppies, every man regarding us with a slack jaw.

  "Now, gentlemen, my associate and I bid you good day."

  Chasseur almost choked trying to find words. No fool, he knew what was happening but still didn't quite accept it.

  "Mr. Holmes, do you expect me to believe that you are refusing to act on behalf of the B & N Railroad?"

  "I expect nothing from you," stated my friend, making for the door. Suddenly Holmes came to a halt, and I almost stumbled on his heels. He fixed the financier with his steely glance and the strength of his commanding personality was a tangible thing in the great room.

  "You are forced," he continued in a measured tone, "to accept the fact that I have no intention of investigating the gold robbery for you."

  As the sleuth opened the oak door for our departure, leaving the group of astonished men in his wake, Chasseur rallied with a parting shot. "A moment, sir," he called. I turned, as did my friend, and noted that the rail magnate was now standing, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Subconsciously, I interpreted it as a gesture of defeat.

  "I pride myself on accuracy, Mr. Holmes. If Ledger here does not fill the bill and Moran is incarcerated, then who is the leading big-game hunter?"

  Holmes replied in a lighter tone. "I care not a fig for who is the finest heavy game shot or most wily shikari our eastern empire has produced, for man is the most dangerous game. If you ask me who is the greatest man-hunter, the answer is simple. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street."

  As he strode from the room and I hastened after him, my concern regarding our financial state fled like the dreams of yesteryears. Never could I recall an interview that came to such a gratifying conclusion. In the field of accomplishment, the entire incident contributed not one whit of good, but it had been so delightfully satisfying to that childish ego that lurks in all of us. If the boost to my morale proved costly, so be it. Such are the feelings of one living in reflected glory. A rebuff to Holmes was a slight to me, for I shared in his triumphs and defeats.

  As we strode from the Birmingham and Northern building and into the brilliantly gas-lit station bar nearby for a libation, I was ready to wager five against one that the pompous Alvidon Chasseur would not try and play fast and loose with the likes of Sherlock Holmes again.

  Chapter 2

  An Interesting Puzzle in Rural Surroundings

  AFTER HIS JOUST with the world of high finance, Holmes was not inclined to hail a hansom and return to Baker Street. Instead, the underground took us as far as Aldersgate. From there we walked to a vegetarian restaurant close by Saxe-Coburg Square, where we enjoyed a light lunch. By now I realized what he had in mind and was not surprised when we then made for St. James's Hall. Sure enough, there was a Sarasate concert and I spent the greater part of the afternoon wrapped in the subtle rhythms of the great Spanish musician.

  It was still daylight when we descended from the hansom that had brought us back to Baker Street. I had my latch key ready but was not allowed to use it for the front door burst open at our approach, revealing Billy. The page boy had evidently been watching for our arrival from within. His face mirrored concern as he extended a telegram toward the great detective.

  "Mr. 'Olmes—I'm that put out."

  "About a telegram, Billy? We receive lots of those, goodness knows." Holmes' voice was soothing.

  And send a few as well, I thought.

  "But, sir, I don't know when this 'ere missive came," responded Billy, closing the outer door behind us. "Mrs. 'Udson didn't 'ear the bell, bein' in back cleanin' the 'ole bleeding arfternoon and I was not on ta premises."

  Billy fancied words like missive and premises, which he had acquired via his close contact with Holmes.

  Our concerned page boy now picked up a bulky package from the hall table. "Then, just afore you come, this package arrived. The bloke wot brought it said it 'ad been sent by train from Shaw wiv instructions to be delivered by special messenger on arrival."

  "Perhaps the telegram will explain the package," said Holmes, mounting the stairs. "Best come up with us, Billy, as fast action may be called for."

  Within our sitting room, Holmes opened the telegram, which his eyes devoured rapidly. "No mystery here," he said. "Billy, have a hansom downstairs in fifteen minutes. Then hustle over to the cable office and send a message to Constable Bennett, Police Station, Shaw. 'Leaving five-thirty from Paddington. Holmes.'" The detective looked at Billy keenly. "You can remember that, I'm sure."

  Billy tapped his head with a forefinger. "Word fer word, Mr. 'Olmes. I'm on me way."

  Billy took what he called "the detectin' business" seriously.

  As the door closed behind our page boy, Holmes posed a question. "Can you throw some things in a bag quickly, Watson? I have had previous dealings with one John Bennett, who is the constable in Shaw. It is a little country town in Herefordshire. Bennett is experiencing difficulties relative to the Trelawney matter and requests assistance."

  I needed no urging. My army experience with the Northumberland Fusiliers had made me a prompt traveler and Holmes was certainly used to what sea-goers call "the pierhead jump." It was but a short time later that we were aboard the five-thirty at Paddington. Holmes, with his long gray traveling cloak and cloth cap, disposed of a small valise and placed the bulky package, which had just made the same trip in reverse, alongside him on the seat. I put a larger bag in the luggage rack, and we settled down for our trip to Herefordshire. Soon we were traveling westward at fifty miles an hour and far removed from familiar surroundings.

  "Perhaps you will explain the Trelawney matter," I suggested, "as well as that package evidently sent to us in some haste."

  "Fortunately, I have a grip on the essential facts of the Trelawney case," replied Holmes. "This parcel contains the recent papers from the area, which we can study on the way down. The London press made very brief reference to the affair. I can tell you that Ezariah Trelawney, a banker by trade, was murdered while alone in his house in Shaw. The cause of death was a severe blow by a blunt weapon on the back of his head. As I understand it, an adopted son, Charles Trelawney, is in custody now on suspicion of murder. Bennett's telegram made reference to the Silver Blaze affair but did not explain the connection. Since we are fortunate in having this carriage to ourselves, I suggest we go through these country journals and see what additional facts we can uncover. In the bucolic surroundings of Herefordshire, a murder is bound to capture a major portion of the newsprint."

  I was glad to bury myself in the contents of the package sent by Constable Bennett for our perusal on the lengthy trip. Naturally, I searched for some unusual fact that might excite an idea in Holmes' mind. My friend read at intervals, interrupted by pauses for reflection, as though arranging the facts. We were long past Reading when I broke the silence.

  "Here's something that might be of interest, Holmes. A complete coverage of Charles Trelawney's testimony before the coroner's court of inquiry."

  "I've already read another account, but let us see what your paper has to offer."

  As Holmes pored over the newspaper I handed him, it was pleasant to lean back for a moment to relax. Darkness had long since fallen. The train was steaming through the Stroud Valley and approaching the Severn River when my head jerked upward with a start and I realized that I'd dozed off. Holmes was gazing out the window at the passing darkness. There was little to see outside the speeding train and what there was Holmes was not conscious of.
His eyes had that deep, introspective look that signified that his mercurial brain was flitting over pieces of the puzzle and fitting them into a mosaic of the mind.

  Sensing my awakening, the master sleuth turned toward me with a slow smile. "Some sleep may prove of future benefit," he said. "We could very well have busy times ahead of us."

  I indicated the newspapers scattered around the compartment. "Has anything suggested itself to you?"

  "At the moment I'm suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. Let us see what we have been able to discover up to this time."

  Holmes leaned back in his seat, gazing at the ceiling, and his words wandered over the facts at our disposal.

  "Ezariah Trelawney was a widower who lived with his adopted son, Charles. There had been indications of a recent strain in their relations, a point which the coroner's inquest did not pursue to any appreciable depth. It was the banker's habit to sit before the fire in his study of an evening, reading the works of Thackeray. Death was definitely established as occurring between the hours of eight and ten. Constable Bennett evidently was able to secure a forensic medicine expert promptly. The body was discovered at eleven in the evening by Charles Trelawney, who stated that he had just returned from Hereford, where he had been on business. According to his testimony, his adopted father was seated in his customary chair, his head slumped forward from the fatal blow. The windows of the room were closed. The door leading into the room was closed but not locked. Now, Charles Trelawney contends that he had just arrived on the ten forty-five from Hereford. However, in counter-testimony, the stationmaster at Shaw states that he definitely saw him arrive previously on the six o'clock special. It was the testimony of the stationmaster and some other evidence that resulted in Charles Trelawney's receiving a verdict of suspicion of murder at the inquest. Pending further investigation, the case is to go before the magistrates in Hereford."

  "What other evidence do you refer to, Holmes?"