The Great Game continues for Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. In ‘The Gravesend Gryphon and other Sherlock Holmes stories’, the great detective encounters a wounded old soldier, Baroness Orczy’s old man in the corner, H. G. Wells’s Sea lady, and a household with a troublesome family member. He helps a failure to become a hero, assists in a search for hidden treasure, and counters human trafficking in North East England. He even helps a ‘Saint George’ to defeat a dragon. The game is definitely afoot.
The Great Game continues for Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. In ‘The Gravesend Gryphon and other Sherlock Holmes stories’, the great detective encounters a wounded old soldier, Baroness Orczy’s old man in the corner, H. G. Wells’s Sea lady, and a household with a troublesome family member. He helps a failure to become a hero, assists in a search for hidden treasure, and counters human trafficking in North East England. He even helps a ‘Saint George’ to defeat a dragon. The game is definitely afoot.
A cloud was hanging over the people of London. The year 1901 had begun with the passing away of the old Queen, and the whole Empire was currently in mourning. With the age of Victoria now at an end, the future looked as uncertain as the gloomy weather.
Ned was sitting at his usual place, on the bench on the Victoria Embankment, looking out across the River Thames. The diffused light of that spring morning was fighting against the murk that hung over the city and its people, and it showed no sign of winning that battle.
Wrapped up against the cold, and lost in the mists of his own thoughts, Ned failed at first to notice a tall figure come to stand directly in front of him, and he only looked up when a voice interrupted his meditations.
“A military man, I see,” said the stranger.
“Ex-military,” replied Ned, raising his eyebrows in surprise. It was unusual for anyone to stop and take the trouble to speak to him.
“You have the bearing of a soldier,” continued the stranger. “Those ribbons on your chest stand testimony to a distinguished career. Your skin still shows the vestiges of a suntan, which you undoubtedly acquired in warmer climes. South Africa would be a safe assumption. Perhaps serving as a non-commissioned officer.”
“That is very perceptive of you, sir,” said Ned. “You are, of course, quite right. I returned from the war in South Africa only a couple of months ago. Edmund Hunter is the name, but now people just call me Ned. I was a sergeant, serving with Her Majesty’s forces in the Transvaal. And I would still be out there now, fighting for my new king and country, if some Boer hadn’t taken it into his head to explode a bomb which deprived me of my lower left arm.” He looked down at the empty left sleeve of his coat and uttered a sigh of tired resignation. “Now I have neither dignity nor any means of earning a decent living. Instead, I now have to rely on the pity of others. It is utterly humiliating, sir.”
“I can well imagine. But I have need of a man like you, Ned.”
“Me? Whatever use can I be to a gentleman like yourself?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said the man, “and I am currently assisting Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard in his search for a certain villain. A small-time, persistent but illusive criminal who goes by the name of Owen Kencraig. In his own small way, he is a spider at the center of a web of crime. The recent spate of robberies from wealthy West End homes are the work of his gang. Extortion, blackmail, kidnapping, murder. They are all down to him. But neither Gregson nor I can locate this villain, to arrest him and bring him to justice.”
“In that case, how do you imagine I can help?”
“A man like you can move around London without arousing much in the way of suspicion.”
Ned sat up straighter. A light of interest now shone in his eyes. “You have a point there, Mr Holmes.”
“And a small allowance might be arranged in payment for your services.”
Ned scowled. “I have no wish to depend any further upon charity, Mr Holmes.”
“I can assure you, Ned,” continued Holmes, “that if you help apprehend this man, you would certainly have earned every penny of it.”
“Very well,” said Ned. “In that case, tell me more about this man, Kencraig. How could I recognize him?”
“From the few who have survived his clutches, and are not too scared to tell, we know that he is about five-foot three, two-hundred pounds, with dark curly hair and a black beard as thick as a jungle. He invariably wears a green jacket, corduroy trousers, and a bowler hat.”
“And you want me to find this bloke for you. Is that it?”
“That is exactly it, Ned. But beware of his colleagues. They are a dangerous pair.”
“My days are not as full as they used to be,” mused Ned. “So, if you need somebody to help Scotland Yard out of this difficulty, then I am at your service, Mr Holmes.”
“Good man,” said Holmes. “But it might prove to be a dangerous assignment.”
“I’ve faced worse in South Africa and survived it, too. Just about. But how can I get in touch with you again?”
“You will be contacted by a small boy. A street urchin by the name of Flax. He will remain our means of contact.”
Before Ned could ask any further questions, the man had gone.
*****
As Ned mulled the matter over and considered how he might best set about his quest, he became aware of a small boy standing a few feet away. The child was barefooted and wore ragged clothing. The boy was watching him.
“You must be Flax,” said Ned. “You have the right color of hair, anyway.”
“That’s me, mister.”
“Who exactly was that man I was talking to just now? He said his name was Sherlock Holmes.”
“Him? Don’t you know nothing, mister? That there is the one and only Mr Sherlock Holmes. He’s the greatest detective in all of London. And the entire world.”
“He wants me to find this criminal mastermind for him. And it seems you’re going to help me do it.”
“That’s the idea, mister. Mr Holmes’s idea, at any rate. You see, people don’t take much notice of street kids like me. They think we don’t matter. That we don’t know what’s going on. But we know more than they think.”
“In that case,” said Ned, “where do we start looking for this man, Kencraig?”
“He’ll be difficult to pin down,” said Flax, “but his cronies might be easier to find. Perhaps we could start by looking for them.”
“Do you have their names?”
Flax held out a small card.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a photograph,” said Flax. “Mr Holmes told me to give it to you. You see, it’s the only picture he has of Kencraig’s two mates.”
Ned studied the small two-tone picture. It showed a couple of men standing in an urban street, clearly unaware that they were being photographed. It was not the clearest photograph ever taken, but the men’s features were distinctive and memorable enough.
“The one on the left is Reggie Braningham,” said Flax. “He organizes things for his boss. Then there’s the fellow on the right. That’s Karlin Pikeman. Be careful of him. He’s what you might call an assassin. He kills people.”
“They sound a nasty couple. But how can I find them, let alone Kencraig?”
“You have to ask people.”
“But that could be dangerous. For them and for me.”
“Don’t worry,” said Flax, with a broad smile. “Mr Holmes will keep an eye on you.”
*****
Giving his small companion a doubtful look, the disabled veteran soldier stood up and ambled his way along the Embankment, toward his other haunts. He had to start somewhere, but he was unhappy about putting his own friends in danger.
He began by visiting a man he thought might help. Harry the Hawker. But, as soon as Ned mentioned the names of the men he was looking for, Harry turned on his heel and walked briskly away.
Next, Ned turned his attention to another veteran soldier he knew, but this one flatly said that he couldn’t help.
Ned realized he had to be more cautious about how he approached people. His next contact he found sitting at a table at the far corner of a dark and dingy bar. This was a Scotsman he knew, by the name of Angus.
“I’m looking for a couple of criminals, Angus,” Ned began. “But I need some idea of where to find them. So, I’m hoping you can help.”
Angus continued to sip his whisky, and to look into the unfocused distance. Ned wondered if the man had heard him at all.
“Braningham and Pikeman.” Ned slipped the photograph onto the table in front of Angus.
The Scotsman continued drinking, until finally he turned his empty glass upside down on the top of the table and looked up at Ned. The message was clear.
Ned bought another scotch and placed it in front of Angus. It had cost him most of the cash he had to last him through the day.
The Scotsman gave Ned a long look. “So, you want to find Braningham and Pikeman, do you?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to locate their boss. Owen Kencraig.”
At the name of Kencraig, Angus reached for the glass, and drank down the entire contents in a single swallow.
“Ned,” he continued, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I am greatly obliged to you for the drink but listen to what I tell you. And listen carefully. You would be wise never to mention that name to anyone. And to stay as far away from him and his crew as you possibly can.”
“I don’t want to meet him,” Ned explained. “I’m just helping somebody to find him. That’s all.”
Angus looked around, with an anxious expression on his face. After pulling a scrap of paper and a stubby pencil from the inside pocket of his jacket, he wrote something down and passed the paper to Ned. “This fellow might be willing to help you,” he said. “Take this, and then take your leave. Good day, Ned.”
Outside, and away from prying eyes, Ned looked down at the paper. It carried a name. George Coalfield. And an address which Ned recognized as one of the side-streets that ran almost literally under the shadow of St Paul’s Cathedral.
He looked around for his young companion. But Flax was no longer anywhere in sight. So, he continued on his way alone to look for this man, Coalfield.
After several minutes, Ned reached the street where George Coalfield was supposed to live. The thoroughfare was busy, with people coming and going. One man was pushing a handcart covered with a tarpaulin sheet. Another was carrying a heavy stick and swaggering along with a gait that would have been more appropriate to somebody on the high seas. A tall man was leaning against the wall of a nearby building, holding a half-empty bottle of gin. Ned ignored them all, and carefully examined the doorways as he passed them.
Then, everything happened at once.
The carter drew back the tarpaulin cover and took out a heavy revolver from inside his cart. As this man turned and raised the gun, the drunk launched himself toward Ned, knocking him to the cobbles just as the gun fired and a bullet tore a chunk out of the brick wall behind them.
Noticing the other man’s failure to kill his target, the seaman raised his heavy stick and advanced to where Ned was picking himself up again.
The man with the bottle, obviously not as drunk as he had pretended to be, hurried Ned along to the corner of the next alleyway. They looked back but could see nothing of the two would-be assailants.
Ned relaxed. “Thank you for coming to my aid,” he said to the drunk.
“Glad to be of service, sergeant,” said the other man.
“Mr Holmes,” cried Ned. “I didn’t recognize you in your disguise. But it’s good to see you again, especially as you just saved my life.”
“My irregulars have been keeping an eye on you,” said Holmes.
“Your irregulars?”
“The street children. They are spread out all over London.”
“Then you’ll know that I’ve been looking for Kencraig’s companions.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, “and I think you just found them.”
“Those two in the street just now?”
“Of course. But they were also heavily disguised.”
Ned took out the paper that Angus had given him. “I’ve been given the address of a man who might help me track them down. He lives down here, somewhere.”
“Then let us hope we are in time,” said Holmes.
It turned out that George Coalfield was a cobbler, who made and mended shoes at his workshop farther along the street. But the shop where he worked was now empty.
“It is as I feared,” said Holmes. “Those men in the street just now must have taken him. He was probably lying in the cart, unconscious and trussed up like a turkey.”
“If those men were Braningham and Pikeman, then we must follow them and find out where they’ve taken him.”
“I think we are too late for that,” said Holmes. “They will be well away from here by now.”
“Then my search must begin again,” said Ned.
“No,” said Holmes. “This business is becoming far too dangerous. You will have to keep a lower profile from now on, Ned. Keep out of sight and leave it to the professionals.”
“But you told me the professionals are failing to make any progress.”
“True.”
“Then remember this, Mr Holmes. A soldier on an assignment never gives up on his mission.”
*****
Sergeant Ned Hunter felt that the job of helping Scotland Yard to find a criminal mastermind was important to him. Finding the man would bring a much needed boost to his self-respect. How difficult could it be? He shrugged off the very idea of failure. It was true that his quest had nearly cost him his life. But he would keep on going.
When he returned that evening to the Salvation Army hostel which was to be his lodging place for yet another night, he talked with some of the men there. And showed them the photograph.
One man, by the name of Webber, a bargee laid off work with an injury, took the picture and studied it closely.
“I recognize the man on the left,” said Webber. “My work has been mostly on the river, and from there you can see all sorts of things you could never notice from the land. I’ve seen this man, more than once, hanging around a boat moored at the Melavian Wharf.”
“Can you take me there?”
“If you like. But you need to be careful.”
“Tonight?”
“Certainly. As soon as the bloke in charge here locks the front door, I’ll show you the way through the back entrance. We can be at the Melavian Wharf and back again in less than half an hour. Are you game?”
“Let’s do it.”
*****
In the night-darkened street outside the hostel, Ned was surprised to find Flax emerge from a dark corner.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the boy explained. “I knew you wouldn’t give up so easily and that you’d surely be out again tonight.”
Ned introduced Flax to Webber, as his personal minder. “He probably knows the docks as well as anyone.”
“But not the whereabouts of those villains,” said Flax.
Webber led the way to the entrance to a wharf a little way downstream from London Bridge.
The man on duty there stepped out in front of them. “What business do you have here?” he demanded.
But before Ned could come up with a convincing reply, Flax kicked the man in the shin, and ran away, laughing.
The man on guard chased after him, but by the time he’d given up looking for the boy, Webber and Ned had reached the far end of the jetty.
Webber led the way to a long and narrow vessel lying there. “This is the boat,” he whispered to Ned. “A converted barge. You can see inside by looking down through the skylight. But be cautious.”
Ned looked down into the saloon of the barge. In the light of an oil-lantern hanging from a beam, he could see a man lying on a couch. Ned recognized him as one of the men in the photograph. Reggie Braningham. The only other person there was a man tied to a chair. That had to be George Coalfield. Ned had never met him before, but he already felt responsible for the man’s entrapment here. But at least he was still alive.
Webber moved closer. “That man you’re looking for, is he in there?”
Ned shook his head. There was no sign of Owen Kencraig. And it was clear that the other man, Karlin Pikeman, was missing as well.
“All we can do is go back to the hostel, and come back again another time,” said Ned, feeling disappointed.
On their return to the hostel, Ned and Webber found the place in an uproar. Everybody was now awake, and the warden in charge was in a state of anguish. They had had an intruder. Webber found his mattress cut to ribbons, the result of an apparently frenzied attack. And Ned found a dagger plunged deep into his own mattress, its handle just about visible.
Ned realized that one of the men in the hostel had betrayed him, and that somebody had come here to kill both him and Webber.
*****
With no chance of sleep that night, Ned made his way back down the stairs, and out into the fresh night air once more.
“I thought I might see you again,” came a child’s voice from the darkness. Flax.
“Why do you say that?”
“While you were at the wharf, I came back here. And that’s when I saw him. That other fellow.”
“Karlin Pikeman?”
“That’s him. I saw him coming out of this very entrance. Anyway, I followed him back to where I’d left you and the other bloke. And I watched him go along to the boat at the far end. I knew he’d been up to no good, so I came back here to tell you.”
“So, he’ll be there now.”
“That’s what I said.”
“They’re holding George Coalfield on that boat,” said Ned.
“That makes sense.”
“But I can’t help wondering where he fits into this business.”
“He’s one of their network of informers,” said Flax. “Like I keep Mr Holmes informed of what’s happening on the streets.”
“One of the men in the hostel was an informer as well.”
“Stands to reason.”
“So why did they kidnap Coalfield?”
“They didn’t trust him. They thought he was going to tell you where they were hiding out. Perhaps somebody heard you talking to the Scotsman.”
“In that case, why is he still alive?”
“They’re waiting for something to happen.”
“Or for somebody else to arrive.”
“Kencraig.”
“Must be. In that case, we need to go back there and wait. See if their boss comes to join them. He’s the one the Yard are really looking for.”
Ned and the boy returned to the quayside, overlooking the Melavian Wharf. There they sat down and made themselves comfortable.
“Many a night I’ve gone without sleep,” said Ned. “Keeping watch against those who would murder me and my colleagues. I had to stay alert and listening.”
“Same as me,” said Flax. “It’s only at night that the backstreets of London really come alive, and we can see and hear things that Mr Holmes wants us to tell him about.”
“And will he know what’s going on here?”
“He will when I tell him.”
At first, as the night dragged on, few vessels moved up or down the river, and nobody drew near to the Wharf.
Then, as the hour of four struck from a nearby church clock, Ned spotted something on the river. A small dinghy, with a square sail, set to catch the gentle pre-dawn breeze. He watched it draw closer to the wharf. And to the boat at the far end.
Ned turned to Flax, who nodded that he had seen it as well.
From where they were sitting, Ned and the boy watched a man step out of the dinghy and climb up onto the wharf. In the darkness, it was difficult to make out much about the man, except that Ned could see he had a beard, and that he was wearing a jacket and a bowler hat.
“Stay here until I get back,” said Flax, as he hurried away into the night.
Life on the river was beginning to stir into action by the time Ned next heard Flax sit down beside him.
“Mr Holmes says you’re to go and arrest the lot of them,” came the boy’s voice.
Ned was horrified. “Me? On my own?”
“Here,” said Flax, pushing something heavy into Ned’s hand.
The soldier looked down and recognized it as a service revolver.
“But I only have the one hand.”
“No need to worry, mister. It’s loaded, and they say you’re a good shot.”
Ned nodded. “I used to be. Very well, but I hope Mr Holmes knows what he’s doing.”
Holding the firearm in his right hand, Ned stood up from his place, stretched his stiff limbs, and strode off toward the wharf.
The caretaker shone his lantern, took one look at the revolver and allowed Ned to pass. “It’s about time you was here,” he said. “Something bad is happening along there.”
Ned made his way quietly to the place where he could look down into the boat. Yes. Four men were there. George Coalfield was still tied to the chair, whilst the other three were gathered around him. Ned recognized Pikeman and Braningham. The other man standing there, he could now see in the light of the oil lantern, had to be Owen Kencraig.
Looking around, but unable to see anybody who might back him up, Ned Hunter, the injured veteran soldier, recently returned from South Africa, stepped down onto the deck of the boat, and pushed open the saloon door. The men inside were making so much noise with their shouts and threats that they failed to notice him at first.
“Owen Kencraig,” barked Ned, standing in the doorway and raising the revolver. “I am here to place you under arrest. You and your mates.”
In an instant, the atmosphere in the saloon turned from threatening shouts to stunned silence.
Kencraig turned and glowered at the intruder. “Who is this?” he demanded.
Karlin Pikeman laughed. “It’s that old cripple who hangs out on the Embankment. We tried to kill him yesterday, just like you said. But he got away.”
“Oh, so this is the man Sherlock Holmes is relying on to bring me to justice, is it?”
“That’s right. That other bloke at the hostel, Webber, must have brought him here when I went there to kill them. Otherwise, they’d both be dead.”
“In that case, you’d better finish off the job.” Kencraig’s face twisted into a nasty grin. “He isn’t going to shoot. The chances are the gun isn’t even loaded. Kill him.”
Pikeman reached into his jacket for his gun.
But Ned’s reflexes were quicker. The old soldier had the gun, and the nerve to use it as well. The moment Pikeman raised his gun toward him, Ned squeezed the trigger of his own revolver.
The bullet tore into the other man’s hand, causing him to cry out with alarm and pain, and to drop the gun onto the floor. The sight of the man’s injured hand gave Ned some consolation for the loss of his own lower left arm.
Before the others had time to recover from the shock of the gunshot, the door burst open, and the boat rapidly filled with armed Scotland Yard men. The reinforcements had arrived.
“You did a good job, Ned,” came the voice of Sherlock Holmes from close behind him. “Inspector Gregson will take charge here now.”
“They came at exactly the right moment,” said Ned, handing back the revolver.
“Now that he has Kencraig and his friends, Gregson will make sure to unravel the rest of the spider’s web within hours.”
As the first rays of sunshine forced their way through the early morning haze, Ned smiled. “But it took a one-armed soldier and a small boy to finally bring those criminals to justice.”
I have read more than a dozen of the 600 books from MX Publishing. Most have presented Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in cases with more twists and edge than The Gravesend Gryphon and other Sherlock Holmes Stories. That is not to warn readers away from the eight-tale collection. Be ready for difference.
Editors David Marcum and Derrick Belanger pulled together short stories that are sure to interest die-hard Sherlock fans. They introduce and develop some interesting, if not quirky, characters. The writing tends to be more elevated with less Victorian flavor in some tales, yet each piece is a quick read. I found, "The Gravesend Gryphon," of particular interest. That said, I expected more from its conclusion. I will not give away the end.
Readers should check out the story for its difference in style to so many other Sherlock (Watson) tales. If I were to cite a fault with this and many other stories in the collection is that the endings are relatively "happy." Holmes' nemesis, Professor James Moriarty, is foiled in a scheme to use the schooner named in the title to transport contraband. That is not so unexpected. The surprise is what happens to the other characters, such as Neville St. Clair, a highly skilled chef. Perhaps the story's conclusion is not a problem. It is just that none of the tales turned out to be as sinister as the titles suggest. That is not entirely bad.
For example, "Dead Man's Hand," is really about the severed hand of a French count that served in Napoleon Bonaparte's army. The tale spirals into a treasure hunt with a twist that is guaranteed to make many readers tense. The deadly trap ensnares several characters. Watson shares his experience.
In that blackness, I tried to remember everything I had learned from the years I’d spent with Holmes. I tried to examine the situation logically as I looked around at the solid stone masonry. I was now standing at the far end of the inner chamber, fighting the temptation to give up all hope....
Holmes affects a rescue, but that is not the story's end. I would suggest to curious readers check out its clever resolution. In fact, that story and the rest in the book will be time well spent.