The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [120]
“So you came all this way, Mr Mackleworth, on a matter of honour?” I was somewhat impressed.
“You could say so, sir. We set high store by family loyalty in my part of the world. Sir Geoffrey’s estate, as you know, went to pay his debts. But that part of my trip has to do with a private matter. My reason for seeking you out was connected with it. I believe Sir Geoffrey was murdered, Mr Holmes. Someone was blackmailing him and he spoke of ‘financial commitments’. His letters increasingly showed his anxiety and were often rather rambling accounts of his fears that there should be nothing left for his heirs. I told him he had no direct heirs and he might as well reconcile himself to that. He did not seem to take in what I said. He begged me to help him. And he begged me to be discreet. I promised. One of the last letters I had from him told me that if I ever heard news of his death, I must immediately sail for England and upon arriving take a good sized bag to 18 Dahlia Gardens, Willesden Green, North West London, and supply proof of my identity, whereupon I would take responsibility for the object most precious to the Mackelsworths. Whereupon I must return to Galveston with all possible speed. Moreover I must swear to keep the object identified with the family name forever.
“This I swore and only a couple of months later I read in the Galveston paper the news of the robbery. Not long after, there followed an account of poor Sir Geoffrey’s suicide. There was nothing else I could do, Mr Holmes, but follow his instructions, as I had sworn I would. However I became convinced that Sir Geoffrey had scarcely been in his right mind at the end. I suspected he feared nothing less than murder. He spoke of people who would go to any lengths to possess the Fellini Silver. He did not care that the rest of his estate was mortgaged to the hilt or that he would die, effectively, a pauper. The Silver was of overweaning importance. That is why I suspect the robbery and his murder are connected.”
“But the verdict was suicide,” I said. “A note was found. The coroner was satisfied.”
“The note was covered in blood was it not?” Holmes murmured from where he sat lounging back in his chair, his finger tips together upon his chin.
“I gather that was the case, Mr Holmes. But since no foul play was suspected, no investigation was made.”
“I see. Pray continue, Mr Mackelsworth.”
“Well, gentlemen, I’ve little to add. All I have is a nagging suspicion that something is wrong. I do not wish to be party to a crime, nor to hold back information of use to the police, but I am honour-bound to fulfil my pledge to my cousin. I came to you not necessarily to ask you to solve a crime, but to put my mind at rest if no crime were committed.”
“A crime has already been committed, if Sir Geoffrey announced a burglary that did not happen. But it is not much of one, I’d agree. What did you want of us in particular, Mr Mackelsworth?”
“I was hoping you or Dr Watson might accompany me to the address – for a variety of obvious reasons. I am a law-abiding man, Mr Holmes and wish to remain so. There again, considerations of honour …”
“Quite so,” interrupted Holmes. “Now, Mr Mackelsworth, tell us what you found at 18 Dahlia Gardens, Willesden!”
“Well, it was a rather dingy house of a kind I’m completely unfamiliar with. All crowded along a little road about a quarter of a mile from the station. Not at all what I’d expected. Number 18 was dingier than the rest – a poor sort of a place altogether, with peeling paint, an overgrown yard, bulging garbage