The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [234]
“I am delighted to see you again, Mr Holmes – Dr Watson,” said our visitor, settling himself into an armchair.
“And we, you”, replied my friend cheerfully. “It was only last evening that we were speculating on the effects, beneficial or otherwise, of the new Literary Supplement on the fortunes of publishing houses such as yours, and on those who, like Dr Watson, supply the grist for your mills.”
“It certainly introduces a new element into the novelist’s equation,” commented Garrison Bolt, with a wry smile, “the effects of which will be felt throughout the world. Indeed, there is an international aspect to this singular and tantalizing matter that has come up in our offices, which I believe will be of interest to you.” Holmes and I leaned forward. Both paused, as though seeking the words that would best secure our attention. “It appears to me that the matter already does relate to you!”
“How so?” asked Holmes, laying aside his pipe.
“I have had in my employment, head of one of our departments, a Mr Musgrave,” the publisher explained. “Some years ago he died.”
“How?”
“Of natural causes.”
“What type of man was he?”
“A hard-working person, of a religious bent but with no other special feature in his character. I have had no occasion to think of Newman Musgrave since – until a month ago, when we received a letter addressed to him care of ourselves. I have it with me now.” Garrison Bolt handed an envelope to Sherlock Holmes. It appeared thus:
“As you see, the letter has been addressed not to Newman, but to Norman, Musgrave. We have had no other Musgraves in our employ so I feel sure that the letter was intended for Newman. It has been registered, carries Canadian postage and has the note ‘CONFL FILMS’ upon the outside of the envelope, with the words ‘REPORT SY’ in the top left hand corner, in the position where the sender’s return address is usually given. No such return address, or any indication as to the sender, however, appears. The postman, after some demur, agreed to leave the envelope with us.
“As we had no note of the dead man’s relatives we naturally opened it. To our surprise we found inside only these two blank pieces of paper.” He handed these to me. I passed them to Holmes, who glanced at them cursorily and returned them to our visitor.
“Thinking that the sheets might have some connection with ‘films’, or perhaps ‘confidential films’ ”, he continued, “and not trusting them only to my own examinations, I employed the best expert advice I could secure by submitting them to Scotland Yard for analysis by every possible chemical and heat test – all without any result.”
“Tut, man,” cried Holmes, glancing at the envelope. “You surely received the letter at least a month ago. Have you not been tardy in submitting it for testing?”
“I fear so, sir. I had not read any emergency into the matter. It was only when the police laboratory failed me that I realized that if the mystery was to be solved more specialized advice was needed. It was then that I thought of you, Mr Holmes. Like all Londoners I am aware of your extraordinary ability to solve the insoluble, and to bring light into darkness. You will recall that our house had the pleasure of publishing one of Dr Watson’s first accounts of a tour de force in your astonishing career. I was struck, too, by the postmark ‘Baskerville’ on the envelope, mindful that the name is associated with another of your recent adventures. The name of my employee, Musgrave, of course is to be found in yet another of Dr Watson’s accounts.”
I interjected, “How the correspondent could have something so secret to say to Mr Musgrave and yet not be aware that this person had been dead for several years is very