Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 16 Read online

  In Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A Life of The World’s First Consulting Detective, Baring-Gould speculated that Adler’s flight was in response to the arrival of Colonel Sebastian Moran in Cettigne. This prompted Adler to flee to the United States. Before her departure, she left Holmes instructions that would lead him away from Montenegro towards London.

  When Adler departed London in “A Scandal in Bohemia,” she was married to the lawyer Geoffrey Norton, who was a member of a “respectful profession in a conformist age.” Upon learning of his wife’s previous criminal career, the marriage ended. As a result, the marriage lasted no “longer than two or three years.” This freed Adler to become romantically involved with Sherlock Holmes. It also freed her to perform with “one of the smaller companies that toured through Eastern Europe” as an opera singer. This brought her to the opera house at Cettinge with the company, where she met Holmes.

  After its publication in 1962, Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A Life of the World’s First Consulting Detective revived warm praise from both literary critics and Sherlockian Scholars. The book was also a financial success. The success of this book led to the publication of The Annotated Sherlock Holmes in 1967. It also inspired Baring-Gould to write a second biography of a fictional character entitled Nero Wolfe of West 35th Street: The Life and Times of America’s Largest Detective. It was released two years after Baring-Gould suffered a fatal stroke in 1967.

  William S. Baring-Gould was a man who possessed great literary talent. He also possessed a deep passion for the world inhabited by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. This led him to develop an extensive knowledge of both the Sherlock Holmes Canonical stories and the scholarly studies that they inspired. His passion is evident in the creation of his most influential work: Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street: A Life of the World’s First Consulting Detective.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Daniel DiQuinzio is a freelance writer residing in Essex County, New Jersey. He is a contributor to Spotlight on Recovery magazine along with Foxtail and Unvealed magazines. He is also a contributor to Visionaros magazine and a freelance correspondent for The Patriot Times, the newspaper of Springfield, New Jersey. He has worked as a freelance correspondent for The Alternative Press of Maplewood and South Orange and The News Record of Maplewood and South Orange. He is a graduate student at Seton Hall University. His nonfiction is forthcoming from Visonarios magazine and Spotlight on Recovery magazine.

  A MEDIEVAL MYSTERY, by Peter James Quirk

  Being the monarch of a modern European country is usually a secure, hereditary position. This, however, was not always the case. Czar Nicolas of Russia was assassinated with his entire family less than one hundred years ago. Queen Elizabeth of Great Britain, by contrast, is much respected and after more than fifty years on the throne, remains comfortable in her role as Britain’s titular head of state. She sits down to her meals without fear of being poisoned and she sleeps at night without the remote possibility of being awakened by hostile troops and dragged off to the Tower of London.

  Of course, life on the British throne was not always so harmonious. History informs us that during the Middle Ages, being the king of England was somewhat akin to being head of the Gambino crime family. Fortunately, Elizabeth’s ancestors were up to the task. Indeed, the guiding principles of the Plantagenet kings, who presided over England for approximately three centuries (from 1215 to 1485), were remarkably similar to those of Lucky Luciano or John Gotti.

  Their routine savagery peaked spectacularly in the late fifteenth century with a mysterious episode that could easily be the worst atrocity of the entire Plantagenet Dynasty: the disappearance and subsequent murder of the young Princes in the Tower. [The family tree on the following page shows only those members relevant to this narrative.]

  The principal suspect in this medieval mystery is their uncle Richard (King Richard III). However, there is a compelling case, supported by a great many people, including eminent historians, for his innocence.

  I was reminded of this crime while researching Richard’s career and accomplishments for a novel. And I found that the record of his relatively short life—he was thirty-two when he was killed—is completely at odds with the universally-accepted version presented by William Shakespeare in his iconic play, “The Tragedy of King Richard III:”

  “Now is the winter of our discontent

  Made glorious summer by this sun of York” (I.i.1-2)

  House of Plantagenet

  Unquestionably, the most monstrous of all the crimes attributed to him in that monumental work were the murders of his two young nephews, King Edward V and Richard, Duke of York—the Princes in the Tower:

  “Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead,

  And I would have it suddenly performed.” (IV.ii.18-19)

  This grisly double murder was even the subject of a crime novel written in 1951 by the distinguished Scottish mystery novelist Josephine Tey. In Tey’s novel, her protagonist, Detective Inspector Alan Grant lies in a hospital bed with a broken leg. With nothing else to do, Grant mulls over pictures of historical figures brought to him by a friend to help alleviate his boredom.

  When Grant draws up a favorable psychological study of one of the portrait’s subjects, he is astounded to learn that this stately individual is no other than the arch-villain of English history, King Richard III. Grant then proceeds—with the timely assistance of nurses, friends, and an American student, who obtains research materials for him and discusses the case with him at his bedside—to prove that Richard is completely innocent of all charges. The title of the novel, “The Daughter of Time,” is taken from a quote attributed to Galileo: “The truth is the daughter of time, not of authority.”

  So let us examine the known facts of this heinous crime beginning with the political situation: In the waning years of the Middle Ages, England was suffering through a series of fratricidal conflicts called the Wars of the Roses. During these wars, two branches of the Plantagenet family, the House of York (white rose) and the House of Lancaster (red rose), opposed each other for the throne.

  The seeds of this struggle were sown a century before, when the Black Prince, the eldest son of King Edward III, died a year before his father. Edward III’s death in 1377 placed the Black Prince’s young son on the throne. This boy, King Richard II, was surrounded by envious and covetous uncles, notably John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster (third son of Edward III) and Richard, Duke of York, (fourth son of Edward III). Edward III, it must be remembered, was the fun-loving Plantagenet who, in 1338 declared himself the rightful king of France, thus precipitating the Hundred Year’s War.

  During Richard II’s short unhappy reign, amongst other ill-considered decisions, he banished John of Gaunt’s son, Henry Bolingbroke, from England. And when Bolingbroke gathered an army around him and returned to England in 1399, he defeated Richard II’s forces in battle, imprisoned Richard and declared himself King Henry IV—much to the irritation and envy of his Yorkist cousins.

  Flash forward to 1460 when Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, (great-grandson of Edward III) took advantage of the then Lancastrian king’s (Henry VI) mental illness, raised his standard and declared himself the rightful king of England. He was killed almost immediately, unfortunately, along with his second son Edmond, at the Battle of Wakefield.

  Richard’s eldest son, the eighteen-year-old Edward, immediately took up his father’s cause and proved to be a military genius. He defeated the Lancastrians in a series of battles and assumed the throne as King Edward IV in 1461. Edward was forced to flee England briefly in 1470, when some of his key allies switched to the Lancastrian side. When he returned some months later, however, with his young brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester (the future Richard III) at his side, he defeated the Lancastrians, executed Henry VI and ruled England in relative peace until his sudden death in 1483.

  We now return to the Princes in the Tower, King Edward IV’s sons: twelve-year old Edward (now King Edward V) and Richard, Duke o
f York (nine). Their uncle Richard was named Lord Protector under the provisions of the late king’s will and as the Lord Protector, the loyal Richard had already begun preparations for the coronation of the young king when an influential bishop raised a crucial objection.

  This bishop testified that King Edward—a notorious womanizer—had entered into a religious ceremony called “Troth Plight” with a young noblewoman before he married the boys’ mother. This ceremony, which was legally binding, especially when followed by consummation—the noblewoman in question was still alive and able to testify—put King Edward’s marriage to the Princes’s mother in doubt, and thus the legitimacy of the Princes. This accusation, if substantiated, would make their uncle Richard, under the English rules of royal succession, the legal king.

  Enter the English Parliament. Parliament had just witnessed several years of relative peace after more than a decade of civil war, and they were understandably fearful of placing a twelve-year-old boy upon the throne. So, given the opportunity to bypass the unproven boy for a tested warrior and administrator—Richard had fought loyally and successfully at his brother’s side and governed the North of England prudently in his name—Parliament wrote Troth Plight into law and handed Richard the crown.

  According to the Richard III Society—a group dedicated to restoring Richard’s good name historically and theatrically—this law eliminated any motive Richard might have had to assassinate his nephews. It was certainly enough evidence to satisfy Josephine Tey’s bed-ridden detective. However—and this is a big however—the fact remains that Richard sent the two boys to the Tower (of London), which at the time, was a royal residence and not a prison, but after August, 1483 they were neither seen nor heard from again. Richard, of course, had ample opportunity during his two-year reign to show they were alive and well and had never done so. (Their bodies were discovered a century later, buried under a staircase, during a renovation at the Tower.)

  There is another leading suspect, however: Henry Tudor, a distant illegitimate Lancastrian with huge ambitions, who defeated and killed Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field:

  “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse” (V.iv.7)

  This battle ended the Wars of the Roses and Henry claimed the throne as King Henry VII.

  In order to unite the country and consolidate his position as king, Henry undertook to marry the Princess Elizabeth, oldest daughter of Edward IV and elder sister of the Princes in the Tower. But under the parliamentary Troth Plight law, Elizabeth was as illegitimate as her two brothers, so Henry had the law abolished, returning Elizabeth to her status as princess. They could now safely marry and reunite the two opposing Houses.

  There was, of course, an inherent problem with that move: striking down Troth Plight not only legitimized Elizabeth, but the Princes too, and gave them both a more direct claim to the throne than that of Henry. This gave him a clear motive to have them removed—if indeed they were still alive.

  So there you have it: two suspects, both members of an extremely bloodthirsty and ambitious clan and both with plenty of opportunity and motive to commit the crime and seize the prize—the prize being:

  “This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,

  This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,” (King Richard II.II.i.40-41)

  You be the judge!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Peter James Quirk is an author, freelance writer, and outdoorsman who spends his winters skiing and snowboarding and his summers hiking, biking, and playing tennis. His novel Trail of Vengeance has a strong ski theme; indeed, the villain of the story is a disgraced ski instructor. Many of his stories, however, cover World War II and its aftermath. It is a fascinating if tragic period to explore, and the villains and heroes are so easy to find.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIRTHDAY GIRL! by Richard A. Lupoff

  She didn’t look so bad, she thought, peering at the image of herself in the back-bar mirror. The cobalt-blue coloring and the bottles of vodka and whiskey didn’t hurt, and neither did the two, going-on-three, Lemon Drops that the bartender, what the hell was her name, not Mildred, Mildred’s was the name of the bar, so not Mildred, no, Cissie, that was it, the Lemon Drops that Cissie kept serving up and Dorothy kept drinking down.

  Not so bad for a broad observing her fortieth birthday. Observing, not celebrating, God no, not celebrating. The cake in the office with the big plastic 4-0 on top, everybody else seemed to be celebrating but Dorothy merely observed.

  Still, look at the dame in the mirror. Face was still pretty good. Hair could use a bit of touching up, especially the roots, but she had that under control. Pretty much under control. Body could use a little work. She looked down at her chest. Not bad. Could use some trimming down. She had to admit that she was starting to sag just a little bit. She figured she’d only added a pound. One lousy pound. But a pound a year, starting when she was at her best, when she was twenty. Oh, the body she’d had then, the skin, the face, the hair…

  She could get back to that or close to it anyway. She promised herself as much.

  She lifted her glass and took a swallow of Lemon Drop. Man, that was delicious. Who invented these drinks, anyway? She opened her purse and searched for her wallet. Found it underneath her little Nikon. Nothing like the big Canon EOS she favored at work, or the Vivitar Waterproof she took on vacation last winter, but it was fun. She fished a twenty out of the wallet and dropped it on the bar.

  Cissie took something that looked like a felt-tip marker and ran it over the bill, held it up to the tensor light over the cash register, nodded and rang up the sale.

  When she slid Dorothy’s change to her, Dorothy asked what that had been about.

  Cissie said, “Checking for queer, m’dear. We got a bulletin from the Feds about phony bills, especially twenties. I found two of ’em last week, and even a fake Canadian twenty today. And we have to eat those, you know. So we’re being extra careful.”

  Somebody had left an out-of-town paper on the bar stool next to Dorothy’s. Paper had a headline about the Red Wings and the Bruins, whoever they were. She picked it up and looked at the weather forecast. Cloudy and warmer. Not here, it wasn’t. Cloudy all right. But hardly warmer. Snowflakes had been drifting down when she left the office and the breeze coming off the lake was like ice. A good thing Mildred’s was so close, she could walk there before she got more than a few stray flakes on her hair and the shoulders of her coat.

  Cissie the bartender—Dorothy had once heard a customer call her a mixologist and Cissie had practically had a fit—Cissie the bartender had turned on some music. It was a CD that Dorothy had heard before. All Gershwin tunes.

  Embrace me, you sweet embraceable you.

  Right.

  Some guy wearing a hound’s tooth jacket came out of the rest room and hoisted himself onto the stool next to Dorothy’s. He said, “You can keep it if you want it.” He wore thick eyeglasses with a bifocal line across the middle and boring-looking plastic frames. He smelled faintly of cigar smoke. A loser.

  She gave him a WTF look.

  “The paper,” he said. He tapped the newspaper with a stubby finger. “That’s my paper, but I’m through with it. You can have it.”

  Embrace me, you irreplaceable you.

  Dorothy half-turned toward the guy.

  He waggled a finger at Cissie. Cissie nodded encouragingly and he said, “Would you mind turning the light away?” He indicated the miniature tensor light on top of the cash register. “It’s—my eyes are sensitive and….” He made a vague, helpless gesture.

  Cissie said, “Sure.” She turned the light away from him.

  Dorothy started to say something about the newspaper, wondering if it was a pick-up line or if the guy was just being decent. If he was a pick-up artist he was the world’s most inept practitioner of the art.

  That was when she saw Carter sitting at a table with a woman. What a coincidence. Carter was supposed to be out of town on business, and here he was in Chicago sitting with a
frowsy blond bitch having a drink.

  Of all the gin joints in the world, Dorothy thought.

  That son of a bitch, she thought.

  She turned away quickly so her back was to Carter and the frowsy bitch. She could see them clearly in the back-bar mirror. The blond bitch wasn’t so frowsy after all. In fact she was classier than Dorothy had thought, well turned out and at least ten years younger than Dorothy. Old enough to have been around the block a couple of times but young enough to still have what Dorothy had misplaced somewhere along the way.

  You’d think the bastard would have had the decency to stick around for Dorothy’s birthday. They could have had a meal in a nice joint, gone back to her place or to his for a nightcap and some laughs. How often did a girl turn forty anyhow?

  Carter and the bimbo were leaning over their little table, laughing at something. They hadn’t seen Dorothy, that was obvious. They were holding hands like a pair of shy teenagers just figuring out which way was up. With their free hands they lifted their glasses. She couldn’t tell what the bimbo was drinking but it was in a Martini glass. She knew what Carter drank. Jack Daniels neat.

  They clinked glasses. The bimbo sipped at her drink. Carter, the son of a bitch, knocked back his JD like a desert rat getting his first taste of water in a week. They both put their glasses down. While Dorothy watched, Carter slipped his free hand under the table and reached for the bimbo. She was wearing a skirt, Dorothy could tell that. Carter moved his hand.

  Son of a bitch! That was too much. Bad enough what was going on, but rubbing her nose in it was more than any woman could take.