Robin Hood's Revenge (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 7) Read online

  Robin Hood’s Revenge

  A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale

  Steven Ehrman

  Copyright © 2014 Steven Ehrman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1500230502

  ISBN-13:978-1500230500

  DEDICATION

  To Jean.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CONTENTS

  Works by the Same Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  special note

  WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tales

  The Eccentric Painter

  The Iron Dog

  The Mad Judge

  The Spider Web

  The Lambs Lane Affair

  The Rising Minister

  Robin Hood’s Revenge

  The Frank Randall Mysteries

  The Referral Game

  The Visible Suspect

  The Zombie Civilization Saga

  Zombie Civilization: Genesis

  Zombie Civilization: Exodus

  Coming Soon:

  Zombie Civilization: Numbers

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was an August day of oppressive heat. Summer in London could be a glorious thing, but the brutal temperatures had the entire city wishing for an early fall. My companion, Sherlock Holmes, had turned our humble rooms into a laboratory. Beakers and test tubes fueled by bunson burners filled the air with noxious fumes. It was only through my vigorous protestations that I convinced my friend to allow the room to ventilate for several hours that afternoon.

  “Very well, Doctor,” he said with resignation. “I suppose the air in here has become a bit close.”

  “Agreed, Holmes,” said I, as I looked at the clouds of vapor that hung from the ceiling.

  A freshening breeze coming through the open windows soon cleared the room of contaminants. Holmes had no case at hand, and in times such as that his vigorous mind searched for new challenges. The experiments he was presently engaged in had filled the void for the time being. Holmes would not deign to tell me the subject of his experiments and would only relate that a successful conclusion would revolutionize detection of crime. As he would not enlighten me, I took him at his word. It was an unwise proposition, I well knew, to underestimate the great detective.

  As I sat in an armchair, Holmes curled up on the sofa and lit his pipe. He dreamily puffed away, staring at the ceiling. I picked up our copy of The Times. The King of Norway was expected to visit our Queen soon and the city was abuzz with anticipation. Presently, there came a knock at the door and our page-boy entered. He carried in front of him a brass salver with what appeared to be a telegram on it. Holmes accepted the message and the boy withdrew. Holmes scanned the sheet of paper with some growing excitement, I thought. He quickly finished reading. He handed me the message and leaned back in his chair again. The telegram read as follows:

  Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

  It has recently come to my attention that I may need a man of your capabilities. I have the word of Sir Alexander Mayfair that you are a man of vigor and discretion. A serious matter has come up and I dare not go to the proper authorities as I wish to avoid a scandal if at all possible. I daresay that it is possible that I have imagined the danger, but I think not. If you would be so good as to come to my estate at one o’clock tomorrow I will lay the matter before you so you can advise me of the proper course of action.

  Xavier Thornton

  “What can this mean, Holmes?” I asked.

  “At the very least it means that a case is at hand, Doctor,” he said, clapping his hands together.

  He retook the telegram from me and scanned it once more.

  “I see that the address given is just outside of the city,” said he. “What say you to a drive to the country tomorrow, Watson?”

  The very idea brought the thought of cool breezes to mind, and I eagerly acquiesced.

  “I do not recall a case involving Sir Alexander Mayfair, Holmes.”

  “Ah, that is because it preceded our meeting. It was an elementary business, but the good knight was quite appreciative that I could set the matter straight. Evidently he still sings my praises.”

  “Evidently so,” I returned. “The name of Xavier Thornton seems vaguely familiar, but I cannot recall any details.”

  Instead of answering, Holmes arose and walked to his shelves.

  “Perhaps my index can tell us what we wish to know,” said he, pulling down a large red volume.

  Over the years, Holmes had taken to cutting out articles from various newspapers and periodicals upon personages and events. He had been diligently at this effort for many years. It had come to the point that hardly a famous name or subject in the islands was not at his fingertips.

  “Let me see,” he said as he thumbed through the edition. “Ah, Thornton, Xavier, here we are. Son of Roger Thornton. Apparently is also quite wealthy. Has two brothers and was the sole inheritor from his father. He is a Robin Hood scholar and author.”

  “Holmes, I have read his work,” I cried.

  “Indeed, Doctor.”

  “Half a moment,” said I, as I hurried to my bedroom.

  After several minutes of searching through old trunks I found my quarry. Once back in the sitting room, I presented my prize. It was a leather-bound book with gilded pages.

  “Here it is,” said I. “Xavier Thornton’s Robin Hood: Prince of Sherwood. I read this many years ago. It had quite run from my mind until your index put the name and the subject together. Are you familiar with the work, Holmes?”

  “I have little time for children’s fables, Doctor,” said Holmes airily.

  “Holmes, those are unworthy words towards an English hero,” I protested.

  “Doctor, please. You are a man of science,” said Holmes. “Robin Hood lives only in the imagination of adolescent boys.”

  “But he is a symbol of-”

  “Exactly,” Holmes interrupted. “Robin Hood is a symbol, much as John Bull is a symbol. The fact that the former is in romantic books and the latter is in political cartoons makes little difference to me. I do not look to the Tales of Scheherazade for a literal history of the Arab countries.”

  “But you cannot deny that the Robin Hood legend is based upon real people and real events.”

  “Oh, but I can, Watson,” he returned. “As far as I can tell, Robin Hood is based upon a myth of a century of secondhand stories. Now, were there highwaymen during the days of yore? Of course, but I doubt very much if they showered the peasants with gifts stolen from the landed.”

  “You cannot deny that many scholars, such as Xavier Thornton, have spent their lives in the investigation of the men of Sherwood Forest.”

  “Yes, and the progeny of King John have spent an equal or greater amount of time attempting to restore his good name.”

  “So you believe that King John was a worthy sire?”

  “I will not make a judgment upon that, Doctor, but I will say that every myth needs a protagonist and an antagonist. King John made an easy target for the minstrels from which the Robin Hood legend undoubtedly sprang.”

  I would have argued further, but I could see the trace of a sly smile cross Holmes’s face. It was obvious that he was enjoying my exasperation of his slandering an Engli
sh hero. I decided to no longer let him goad me and I turned the conversation back to the potential client.

  “What sort of problem do you think the gentleman fears?” I asked Holmes. “The letter is rather vague upon that issue.”

  “I must disagree, Doctor. Mr. Thornton makes it quite plain from where the danger arises, though he does not tell us the precise danger.”

  “What clue, Holmes? I discern no clue.”

  Holmes studiously avoided answering my question and again consulted his index.

  “This is a lengthy listing for Roger Thornton as well,” said he. “Member of Parliament, Arctic explorer, and a widower four times over. Inherited a great deal of money from third wife and settled down to the life of country squire in his latter years. Seems to have led a fortunate life.”

  “Such cannot be said for his wives,” I observed dryly.

  “No,” agreed Holmes. “Matrimony to the gentleman certainly was not a harbinger of long life to his wives, but I was speaking of the man himself.”

  “I vaguely recall his Arctic expedition. Wasn’t it a bit of a disaster?”

  “Yes. Virtually the entire group of explorers was wiped out. That is my point, Doctor. Disaster struck the expedition, yet Roger Thornton lived. Four wives die and yet, again, he lives. Not to mention that his wealth is inherited wealth from one of the wives. Quite a fortunate life, I say again.”

  “And now it appears that the son of the man is troubled,” said I. “Could it be that the luck has run out for the next generation?”

  “Remember, Watson, that Xavier Thornton has had a fortunate life as well. He received his father’s entire estate, yet he has two brothers.”

  “That seems distinctly unfair, Holmes,” I said.

  “Ah, the pot begins to boil, old friend,” said Holmes clapping his hands together. “Unless I am very much mistaken, we shall find an interesting problem to solve at the Thornton estate tomorrow.”

  “Then you have definitely decided to acquiesce to his request?”

  “It is hardly worded as a request, Doctor. Mr. Thornton does not even ask for a return telegram in answer. He simply assumes that I will arrive when summoned. Since at present I am at sixes and sevens, I will most certainly do so. You will, of course, accompany.”

  “Willingly, Holmes,” said I eagerly. “A drive into the country to escape this wretched heat is welcome, whatever the errand may be.”

  “Then it is settled,” said he. “However, as I have the rest of the day to fill, I believe that I can finish my experiments before we begin our new adventure.”

  At those words I threw up my hands in dismay and resolved to leave Holmes to his noxious fumes. Grabbing my hat, I ventured out onto the streets. Presently, I found a convenient music hall and spent the rest of the afternoon, and into evening, in the stalls listening to some very pleasant chamber music.

  Upon my return, Holmes had already retired. To my surprise, he had cleared away his lab equipment and the sitting room was once again habitable. Mrs. Hudson had laid in a cold dinner for me and I partook with gusto.

  Once finished with my meal, I lit a pipe and read for an hour or so. The windows of the sitting room were closed once again, and I opened them so as to let the breeze in. I finally decide to turn in. My pipe had died out, and I was much fatigued. I retired to my bedchamber and passed an easy night.

  At some point during the night I was awakened and heard what I thought was a dull thud. The city was noisy, even in the small hours, so I dismissed it from my thoughts and fell asleep once more.

  It was past nine when I awoke. I dressed quickly in anticipation of breaking my fast. As I walked into the sitting room, I saw that Holmes was already there. His eyes were focused on the wall opposite the windows. I followed his eyes and was amazed to find an arrow embedded in the wall.

  “My goodness, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “It would appear that someone is sending a message to me,” he said blandly. “I must admit I prefer the telegraph to this.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “How can you joke about this, Holmes?” I said with exasperation. “This is a murderous attempt on your life.”

  “Hardly that, Doctor,” he replied. “You observe that the arrow nearly hit the ceiling first. Even had I been sitting in my chair I would have been in no danger.”

  “But still you must admit that there is the potential from danger. Who would do such a thing?”

  Holmes reached up and grabbed the shaft of the arrow. Although it was deeply embedded in the wall he pulled it forth with seemingly little effort.

  “I daresay that there are well over thirty-five men in London presently free who would like to do me bodily harm. Surely you realize that I have made many enemies, Doctor.”

  “Of course, Holmes,” I replied. “Shall I send word to Scotland Yard that an attempt has been made upon your life?”

  “I think not, Watson,” he replied as he examined the arrow. “Has it occurred to you what a singular coincidence it is that we were discussing Robin Hood yesterday in connection with Xavier Thornton, and during the night an arrow is shot into this room?”

  “What had Robin Hood to do with this, Holmes? He is not the only archer in English history.”

  “True, but he is the only one that has been discussed in this room, and Xavier Thornton is a Robin Hood researcher. I would say that someone has gone to some trouble to make the association obvious.”

  “Why do you say that it is obvious, Holmes? I see only an ordinary arrow.”

  “Then you do not see all, Doctor,” Holmes replied. “I have made a study of arrows. I have even written a slight monograph on the subject. Modern arrows are thirty-six inches in length at most. In fact, most arrows are now between thirty and thirty-two inches. I judge this one,” he twirled the arrow in his hand, “to be thirty-eight inches. The precise length of an arrow a medieval archer would have.”

  “Are you saying this is a medieval arrow then? Such a thing would be hundreds of years old.”

  “That would indeed be a find, Doctor, but this arrow is undoubtedly of modern construction. The shaft shows the touch of machining tools.”

  Holmes took the arrow and looked down the shaft.

  “As a child could see, the shaft is perfectly round and straight.”

  “Are not all arrows meant to be straight?”

  “Certainly they are meant to be,” said Holmes with a grin, “but the medieval English archer lacked ability to make one so perfectly straight and round as this specimen. I would say, however, that the arrow is meant to be a reproduction of a medieval type. That is of interest.”

  “So you believe that this ties in with the telegram you have received from Xavier Thornton?”

  Before Holmes could answer, there was a knock at the door and our page-boy came in and announced that we had a guest. Close behind the lad was Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Holmes dismissed the boy and greeted the Inspector.

  Lestrade was a dapper, terrier-like man of some thirty-odd years with a bristling mustache. He was thought to be one of the top men at the Yard. I had a less generous view of the detective. We had worked with Lestrade many times, and even when he had been unable to unearth the culprit of the crime, he usually managed to corral the majority of the credit. Holmes himself cared not for the limelight, but it did irk me somewhat as his friend.

  “Inspector, what an unexpected pleasure,” said Holmes suavely. “Will you join us for breakfast?”

  “I am afraid that I have already had my breakfast, Mr. Holmes, several hours ago,” returned Lestrade. “The Yard believes in the early worm, don’t you know.”

  “Well, we are not inclined for worms in this home. I believe Mrs. Hudson has set out ham instead.”

  “Oh but you’ll have your little joke as always, sir,” said Lestrade. “Still, I believe in an early start to my day as a rule.”

  “And a fine policy it is, I am certain,” replied Holmes.

  “Wh
at brings you here, Inspector?” I asked, as we all sat down. “Or is the visit purely social?”

  “It is official business, I am afraid, Doctor,” said Lestrade. He refused the offer of a cigarette from Holmes and lit a cigar of his own. “It concerns the threats to Mr. Xavier Thornton.”

  “The Robin Hood scholar?” asked Holmes innocently.

  “Now do not toy with me, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade with a grin. “I happen to know that Xavier Thornton has reached out to you for aid.”

  “And how do you happen to know that, Lestrade?” asked Holmes. “The telegram arrived only yesterday.”

  “I have sources of my own, sir,” said Lestrade with self-importance. “I know a telegram was sent. What I do not know is what it contained. Can you share that with me, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I would gladly do so, Lestrade, if you will likewise share and tell me of your investigation.”

  The Inspector looked at Holmes shrewdly for a few moments and narrowed his eyes. Finally, with a sigh he pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket.

  “The facts are these, Mr. Holmes,” he began. “Mr. Thornton is a scholar on the legend of Robin Hood. He has written several works extolling the archer. These books have been popular sellers in part because Thornton has always insisted that Robin Hood was based upon a real person and that his adventures have a basis in fact. His latest book refutes his earlier work and is in fact an attack on the idea of an actual Robin Hood. His new theory is that it is entirely myth. He has already given several speeches to that effect and has consequently received several unpleasant letters from Robin Hood admiration societies.”

  “It is amazing the amount of vitriol that can be expended upon a children’s fairy tale,” said Holmes with a shake of his head.

  “I warned you, Holmes, that Englishmen do not take attacks upon their heroes lightly,” said I.

  “I tend to agree with Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade, “but the letters are menacing, without being explicitly threatening.”