The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures - Mike Ashley [67]
“Nellie Coram,” the landlady said. “I have two visitors for you, Mr Smith.”
The door opened a crack, and I saw a single piercing blue eye regard Holmes and me for a second. “Come in,” said the voice, stronger now, and its owner moved back and opened the door for us.
Holmes and I went in. I looked around and saw a small but tidy room: bed, wash-stand, armoire, and a single straight-backed chair by the window. A copy of The Times lay open on the bed.
Pendleton-Smythe closed the door before Mrs Coram could join us, and I heard a muffled “Humph” from the other side and the sound of her footsteps as she returned to her tasks downstairs. The colonel himself was a man of medium height and strong build, with iron gray hair, blue eyes, and a small moustache. He wore dark blue trousers, a white pinstripe shirt, and a blue jacket. But it was the service revolver in his hand that most drew my attention. Pendleton-Smythe held it pointed straight at Holmes and me.
“What do you want?” he barked. “Who are you?”
Holmes, who had already taken in the room with a single glance, crossed to the window and parted the drapes. “Rather,” he said, “I should ask what you want, Colonel. I am here to keep our appointment. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr John Watson.”
Holmes turned and stared at Pendleton-Smythe, and after a second the colonel lowered his revolver. His hands were shaking, I saw, and I steadied his arm for a second.
“I am glad to have you here, Mr Holmes,” he said. Nervously he crossed to the bed and sat down, tossing the revolver beside him. He cradled his head in his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, and took a deep breath. “Truly, I am at my wit’s end. I don’t know if you can help me, but if any man in England can, it’s you. Your presence here is proof enough of your remarkable abilities.”
Holmes sat in the straight chair, steepled his fingers, crossed his legs, and said, “Begin at Eton, with your involvement in the Amateur Mendicant Society.”
He started violently. “You know about that, too? How is it possible?”
“Then he’s right,” I said, “and the Amateur Mendicant Society is involved?”
“Yes–yes, damn them!”
“My methods are my own,” Holmes said. “Please start at the beginning. Leave out no detail, no matter how small. I can assure you of our utmost discretion in this and all matters.”
I sat on the bed beside the colonel. Suddenly he looked like a very tired, very old man. “You’ll feel better,” I told him. “They say confession is good for the soul.”
He took a deep breath, then began.
“Everything started with one of my professors, Dr Jason Attenborough. He taught second-year Latin as well as classical history, and one day after class six of us stayed late to ask about the Secret Mendicant Society, which he had mentioned in passing in that afternoon’s lecture. It was thrilling in its own way, the idea of spies among the ancient Romans, but we found it hard to believe any noble-born person could possibly pass as a beggar. Dr Attenborough said it was not only possible, it had happened for several centuries.
“Later, at a public house, almost as a dare, the six of us agreed to try it ourselves. It seemed like a rum lot of fun, and after a few rounds at the Slaughtered Lamb, we set out to give it a go.
“We went first to a rag merchant – he was closed, but we pounded on his door until he opened for us – and from him we purchased suitable disreputable clothing. Dressing ourselves as we imagined beggars might, we smeared soot on our faces and set out to see what news and pennies we could gather. It was a foolish sort of game, rather stupid really, and the prime foolishness came when we decided to visit Piccadilly Circus to see what sort of reception we got. We were pretty well potted by this time, you see, so anything sounded like fun.
“Suffice it to say, we terrorized several old women into giving us pennies and were promptly arrested for our trouble. The next day, after being