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- [00:01]
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- [00:32]
Hugh Bonneville
Welcome to Sherlock Holmes Short Stories. I'm Hugh Bonneville and from the Noiser Podcast Network, this is the Adventure of the Greek interpreter, part 2. Last time, Dr. Watson was surprised to learn that Sherlock had a brother, Mycroft Holmes, whose intellect surpassed even that of the great detective. The pair met Mycroft at the peculiar Diogenes Club, where members are forbidden from speaking, except for in a special chamber called the Stranger's Room. There, Mycroft told them of a perplexing mystery he'd recently come across and introduced them to Mr. Milas, the Greek interpreter. At the centre of it all, Mr. Milas began recounting a disturbing tale that started with him being forcibly taken from his home by a man named Latimer, threatening him with violence. Latimer led Milas into a carriage with blacked out windows so that he could not see where he was being taken. When they arrived at a mysterious house outside London, Milas was placed in a room with a pale, emaciated man with a plaster over his mouth which kept him from speaking. The interpreter was then ordered by a mysterious older man to translate his questions into Greek while the captive wrote his responses on a slate. Through clever additions to his translations, Milas learned that the hostage's name was Crateides and he was from Athens. The interrogation was interrupted when a woman entered the room. Upon seeing the captive, she cried out in a thick Greek accent, Paul. And the pair briefly embraced before being forcibly separated. Milas was then dismissed. As he left, the older man told Milas that if he ever spoke a word to anyone about what he had seen, he'd have him killed. Now the frightened interpreter is continuing his story as Mycroft, Sherlock and Watson listen in amazement. I cannot tell you the loathing and horror with which this insignificant looking man inspired me. I could see him better now as the lamplight shone upon him. His features were peaky and sallow and his little pointed beard was thready and ill nourished. He pushed his face forward as he spoke and his lips and eyelids were continually twitching like a man with St. Vitus's dance. I could not help thinking that his strange catchy little laugh was also a symptom of some nervous malady. The terror of his face lay in his eyes, however, steel gray and glistening coldly, with a malignant, inexorable cruelty in their depths. We shall know if you speak of this, said he. We have our own means of information. Now you will find the carriage waiting, and my friend will see you on your way. I was hurried through the hall and into the vehicle, again obtaining that momentary glimpse of trees and a garden. Mr. Latimer followed closely at my heels and took his place opposite to me. Without a word, in silence, we again drove for an interminable distance with the windows raised, until at last, just after midnight, the carriage pulled up. You will get down here, Mr. Milas, said my companion. I am sorry to leave you so far from your house, but there is no alternative. Any attempt upon your part to follow the carriage can only end in injury to yourself. He opened the door as he spoke, and I had hardly time to spring out when the coachman lashed the horse and the carriage rattled away. I looked around me in astonishment. I was on some sort of a heathy common, mottled over with dark clumps of furze bushes. Far away stretched a line of houses with a light here and there in the upper windows. On the other side, I saw the red signal lamps of a railway. The carriage which had brought me was already out of sight. I stood gazing round and wondering where on earth I might be when I saw someone coming towards me in the darkness. As he came up to me, I made out that he was a railway porter. Can you tell me what place this is? I asked. Wandsworth Common, said he. Can I get a train into town? If you walk on a mile or so to Clapham Junction, said he, you'll just be in time for the last to Victoria. So that was the end of my adventure, Mr. Holmes. I do not know where I was, nor whom I spoke with, nor anything save what I have told you. But I know that there is foul play going on and I want to help that unhappy man if I can. I told the whole story to Mr. Mycroft Holmes next morning, and subsequently to the police. We all sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock looked across at his brother. Any steps? He asked. Mycroft picked up the Daily News, which was lying on the side table. Anybody supplying any information to the whereabouts of a Greek gentleman named Paul Kratides from Athens who is unable to speak English will be rewarded. A similar reward paid to anyone giving information about a Greek lady whose first Name is Sophie x2473? That was all in the dailies. No answer. How about the Greek legation? I have inquired. They know nothing. A wire to the head of the Athens police then? Sherlock has all the energy of the family, said Mycroft, turning to me. Well, you take the case up by all means, and let me know if you do any good. Certainly, answered my friend, rising from his chair. I'll let you know. And Mr. Milas also. In the meantime, Mr. Milas, I should certainly be on my guard if I were you, for of course they must know through these advertisements that you have betrayed them. As we walked home together, Holmes stopped at a telegraph office and sent off several wires. You see, Watson, he remarked, our evening has been by no means wasted. Some of my most interesting cases have come to me in this way through Mycroft. The problem which we have just listened to, although I can admit of but one explanation, has still some distinguishing features. You have hopes of solving it well, knowing as much as we do, it will be singular indeed if we fail to discover the rest. You must yourself have formed some theory which will explain the facts to which we have listened. In a vague way, yes. What was your idea then? It seemed to me to be obvious that this Greek girl had been carried off by the young Englishman named Harold Latimer. Carried off from where? Athens perhaps. Sherlock Holmes shook his head. This young man could not talk a word of Greek. The lady could talk English fairly well, inference the that she had been in England some little time, but he had not been in Greece. Well then we will presume that she had come on a visit to England and that this Harold had persuaded her to fly with him. That is more probable. Then the brother, for that I fancy must be the relationship, comes over from Greece to interfere. He imprudently puts himself into the power of the young man and his older associate. They seize him and use violence towards him in order to make him sign some papers to make over the girl's fortune of which he may be trustee to them. This he refuses to do. In order to negotiate with him they have to get an interpreter and they pitch upon this Mr. Milas, having used some other one before. The girl is not told of the arrival of her brother and finds it out by the merest accident. Excellent, Watson, cried Holmes. I really fancy that you are not far from the truth. You see that we hold all the cards and we have only to fear some sudden act of violence on their part. If they give us time, we must have them. But how can we find where this House lies. Well, if our conjecture is correct and the girl's name is or was Sophie Kratides, we should have no difficulty in tracing her. That must be our main hope, for the brother is of course a complete stranger. It is clear that some time has elapsed since this Harold established these relations with the girl. Some weeks at any rate, since the brother in Greece has had time to hear of it and come across. If they have been living in the same place during this time, it is probable that we shall have some answer to Mycroft's advertisement.
- [10:33]
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- [11:12]
Hugh Bonneville
We had reached our house in Baker Street. While we had been talking, Holmes ascended the stair first, and as he opened the door of our room, he gave a start of surprise. Looking over his shoulder, I was equally astonished. His brother Mycroft was sitting smoking in the armchair. Come in, Sherlock, come in. Sir, said he blandly, smiling at our surprised faces. You don't expect such energy from me, do you, Sherlock? But somehow this case attracts me. How did you get here? I passed you in a hansom. There has been some new development. I had an answer to my advertisement. Ah, yes. It came within a few minutes of your leaving. And to what effect? Mycroft Holmes took out a sheet of paper. Here it is, said he written with a J pen on Royal cream paper by a middle aged man with a weak constitution. Sir, he says, in answer to your advertisement of today's date, I beg to inform you that I know the young lady in question very well. If you should care to call upon me, I could give you some particulars as to her painful history. She is living at present at the Myrtles, Beckenham. Yours faithfully, J. Davenport. He writes from Lower Brixton, said Mycroft Holmes. Do you not think that we might drive to him now, Sherlock, and learn these particulars? My dear Mycroft, the brother's life is more valuable than the sister's story. I think we should call at Scotland Yard for Inspector Gregson and go straight out to Beckenham. We know that A man is being done to death and every hour may be vital. Better pick up Mr. Milas on our way, I suggested. We may need an interpreter. Excellent, said Sherlock Holmes. Send the boy for a four wheeler and we shall be off at once. He opened the table drawer as he spoke, and I noticed that he slipped his revolver into his pocket. Yes, said he in answer to my glance. I should say, from what we have heard, that we are dealing with a particularly dangerous gang. It was almost dark before we found ourselves in Pall Mall at the rooms of Mr. Milas. A gentleman had just called for him and he was gone. Can you tell me where? Asked Mycroft Holmes. I don't know, sir, answered the woman who had opened the door. I only know that he drove away with the gentleman in a carriage. Did the gentleman give a name? No, sir. He wasn't a tall, handsome, dark young man? Oh, no, sir. He was a little gentleman with glasses, thin in the face, but very pleasant in his ways, for he was laughing all the time that he was talking. Come along. Cried Sherlock Holmes abruptly. This grows serious, he observed as we drove to Scotland Yard. These men have got hold of Milas again. He is a man of no physical courage, as they are well aware from their experience the other night. This villain was able to terrorize him the instant that he got into his presence. No doubt they want his professional services, but having used him, they may be inclined to punish him for what they will regard as his treachery. Our hope was that by taking the train we might get to Beckenham as soon or sooner than the carriage. On reaching Scotland Yard, however, it was more than an hour before we could get Inspector Gregson and comply with the legal formalities which would enable us to enter the house. It was a quarter to 10 before we reached London Bridge and half past before the four of us alighted on the Beckenham platform. A drive of half a mile brought us to the Myrtles, a large dark house standing back from the road and its own grounds. Here we dismissed our cab and made our way up the drive together. The windows are all dark, remarked the inspector. The house seems deserted. Our birds are flown and the nest empty, said Holmes. Why do you say so? A carriage heavily loaded with luggage has passed out during the last hour. The inspector laughed. I saw the wheel tracks and the light of the gate lamp. But where does the luggage come in? You may have observed the same wheel tracks going the other way, but the outward bound ones were very much deeper. So much so that we can say for a certainty that there was A very considerable weight on the carriage. You get a trifle beyond me there, said the Inspector, shrugging his shoulder. It will not be an easy door to force, but we will try if we cannot make someone hear us. He hammered loudly at the knocker and pulled at the bell, but without any success. Holmes had slipped away, but he came back in a few minutes. I have a window open, said he. It is a mercy that you are on the side of the force and not against it, Mr. Holmes, remarked the Inspector, as he noted the clever way in which my friend had forced back the catch. Well, I think that under the circumstances, we may enter without an invitation. One after the other, we made our way into a large apartment, which was evidently that in which Mr. Milas had found himself. The Inspector had lit his lantern, and by its light we could see the two doors, the curtain, the lamp, and the suit of Japanese mail as he had described them. On the table lay two glasses and empty brandy bottle and the remains of a meal. What is that? Asked Holmes. Suddenly we all stood still and listened. A low moaning sound was coming from somewhere over our heads. Holmes rushed to the door and out into the hall. The dismal noise came from upstairs. He dashed up, the Inspector and I at his heels, while his brother Mycroft followed as quickly as his great bulk would permit. Three doors faced us upon the second floor, and it was from the central of these that the sinister sounds were issuing, sinking sometimes into a dull mumble and rising again into a shrill whine. It was locked, but the key had been left on the outside. Holmes flung open the door and rushed in, but he was out again in an instant with his hand to his throat. It's charcoal. He cried. Give it time. It will clear. Peering in, we could see that the only light in the room came from a dull blue flame which flickered from a small brass tripod in the center. It threw a livid, unnatural circle upon the floor, while in the shadows beyond we saw the vague loom of of two figures which crouched against the wall. From the open door there reeked a horrible poisonous exhalation which set us gasping and coughing. Holmes rushed to the top of the stairs to draw in the fresh air. And then, dashing into the room, he threw up the window and hurled the brazen tripod out into the garden. We can enter in a minute, he gasped, darting out again. Where is a candle? I doubt if we could strike a match in that atmosphere. Hold the light at the door and we shall get them out, Mycroft. Now, with a rush, we got to the poisoned men and dragged them out into the well lit hall. Both of them were blue lipped and insensible, with swollen, congested faces and protruding eyes. Indeed, so distorted were their features that, save for his black beard and stout figure, we might have failed to recognize in one of them the Greek interpreter who had parted from us only a few hours before at the Diogenes Club. His hands and feet were securely strapped together, and he bore over one eye the marks of a violent blow. The other, who was secured in a similar fashion, was a tall man in the last stage of emaciation, with several strips of sticking plaster arranged in a grotesque pattern over his face. He had ceased to moan as we laid him down, and a glance showed me that for him at least, our aid had come too late. Mr. Milas, however, still lived, and in less than an hour, with the aid of ammonia and brandy, I had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes and of knowing that my hand had drawn him back from that dark valley in which all paths meet.
- [20:46]
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- [21:11]
Hugh Bonneville
It was a simple story which he had to tell, and one which did but confirm our own deductions. His visitor, on entering his rooms, had drawn a life preserver bludgeon from his sleeve and had so impressed him with the fear of instant and inevitable death that he had kidnapped him for the second time. Indeed, it was almost mesmeric, the effect which this giggling ruffian had produced upon the unfortunate linguist, for he could not speak of him, save with trembling hands and a blanched cheek. He had been taken swiftly to Beckenham, and had acted as interpreter in a second interview, even more dramatic than the first, in which the two Englishmen had menaced their prisoner with instant death if he did not comply with their demands. Finally finding him proof against every threat, they had hurled him back into his prison, and after reproaching Milas with his treachery, which appeared from the newspaper advertisement, they had stunned him with a blow from a stick, and he remembered nothing more until he found us bending over him. And this was the singular case of the Grecian interpreter, the explanation of which is still involved in some mystery. We were able to find out by communicating with the gentleman who had answered the advertisement that the unfortunate young lady came of a wealthy Grecian family, and that she had been on a visit to some friends in England. While there she had met a young man named Harold Latimer, who had acquired an ascendency over her and had eventually persuaded her to fly with him. Her friends, shocked at the event, had contented themselves with informing her brother at Athens and had then washed their hands of the matter. The brother, on his arrival in England, had imprudently placed himself in the power of Latimer and of his associate, whose name was Wilson Kemp, a man of the foulest antecedents. These two, finding that through his ignorance of the language he was helpless in their hands, had kept him a prisoner and had endeavoured by cruelty and starvation to make him sign away his own and his sister's property. They had kept him in the house without the girl's knowledge, and the plaster over the face had been for the purpose of making recognition difficult in case she should ever catch a glimpse of him. Her feminine perception, however, had instantly seen through the disguise when, on the occasion of the interpreter's visit, she had seen him for the first time. The poor girl, however, was herself a prisoner, for there was no one about the house except the man who acted as coachman and his wife, both of whom were tools of the conspirators. Finding that their secret was out and that their prisoner was not to be coerced, the two villains with the girl had fled away at a few hours notice from the furnished house which they had hired, having first, as they thought, taken vengeance both upon the man who had defied and the one who had betrayed them. Months afterwards, a curious newspaper cutting reached us from Budapest. It told how two Englishmen who had been traveling with a woman had met with a tragic end. They had each been stabbed, it seems, and the Hungarian police were of opinion that they had quarreled and had inflicted mortal injuries upon each other. Holmes, however, is I fancy, of a different way of thinking and holds to this day that if one could find the Grecian girl, one might learn how the wrongs of herself and her brother came to be avenged. Next time on Sherlock Holmes Short Stories. Sherlock comes face to face with one of his greatest foes, a criminal he calls the worst man in London, Charles Augustus Milverton. This ruthlessly efficient blackmailer has slithered out of the law's grasp for decades, his prey preferring to remain silent rather than have their secrets aired in public. To catch him, Sherlock will have to learn not only how to think like a criminal, but how to act like one. Can the great detective catch Milverton without compromising his own moral code? Find out next time in the Adventure of Charles Augustus, Milverton can't wait a week until the next episode? Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus. Head to www.noiser.comscriptions for more information or click the link in the episode description.
- [26:42]
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Hugh Bonneville
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- [27:00]
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- [27:07]
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- [27:35]
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- [27:36]
Hugh Bonneville
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