The Return of Sherlock Holmes

by Maxim Jakubowski

  After dinner, Emily remained with the ladies for hot cocoa, while Holmes and I skipped brandy and went to our room.

  “We leave in the morning, Holmes. What shall we do? Sneak back upstairs with your magnifying glass or ask his lordship outright?”

  “We shall discuss it when Miss Topping comes tonight.”

  “You are certain she will come?”

  “Shortly before midnight, Watson. Shortly before midnight.”

  I looked at the clock when the soft knocking came at our door later. It was almost midnight.

  “Come in, Miss Topping,” said Holmes.

  Emily peeked in, then stepped in.

  “I’ve reconnoitered,” she said. “We should go up the back stairs.”

  Holmes stood with his magnifying glass in hand.

  “Come, Watson. We shall need a lookout.”

  Emily put her hands on her hips and said, “The robes.”

  We left our robes, and Emily led the way up the narrow staircase. I kept my head down, as her rear end was at face level. I did not see her stop and turn at the top of the stairs, and I almost bumped into her bush right in front of me. She put a finger over her lips and tiptoed, and we followed her down the hall to the room. We went in, and Emily told us to stay still as she skipped over and opened the curtains, letting in enough moonlight for us to see. I whispered for her to stay by the door while Holmes and I carried a cushioned chair over and took down the painting. We took it to a table, and I switched places with Emily.

  “Dr. Watson,” Emily said. “Bring us the torch.”

  “What torch?”

  “The one ten feet to your left, in the nook next to the encyclopedias. I hid it after dinner.”

  I brought it to them.

  “Where did you find the torch?”

  “It was in the nightstand in my room. Do you not have torches in your nightstands?”

  I never looked.

  “Watson.” Holmes nodded to the door and I returned to guard it as he examined the painting. Three minutes into the examination, he and Emily turned the painting over and he inspected the back side. They turned it over again and he studied the painting once more, moving around it until he stood and shook his head.

  “It looks genuine from a distance, but, I am afraid, this is not a Gindick.”

  Emily stood with her mouth open.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Quite.” Holmes bent over the painting with his glass again. “I am sure you are aware your ancestor used light brush strokes and never used raw paint, undiluted paint, as in this painting. Even the signature is incorrect. Gowan Gindick always dotted the first i in his name, but never the second i. One of his peculiarities.” He stood. “And the canvas is not from the seventeenth century.”

  The door opened and struck my arm, and I turned as Lord Alfred and the black dog I’d seen on the lawn came in, followed by a young footman. His lordship and the footman carried torches, the dog bounding over to Holmes with a wagging tail.

  “Good boy, Brutus,” his lordship said. “You’ve sniffed them out.”

  He turned to the footman. “Take Brutus into the hall, Geoffrey.”

  The footman, whose torch lingered on Emily, led the dog into the hall, and Lord Alfred closed the door.

  “Mr. Holmes. I am disappointed in your taking advantage of my hospitality.”

  Holmes stood stiffer as his lordship crossed to them.

  “I am astounded at myself as well, sir. I apologise for my conduct and surrender to whatever reproach you feel necessary.”

  His lordship reached over and took the magnifying glass from my friend’s hand.

  “I know you are not here to purloin this painting.” He raised the magnifying glass. “We must reach an agreement, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Your lordship?”

  “You say nothing about this painting, and I shall forget what happened tonight.”

  Holmes nodded.

  “It is not a genuine Gindick, is it?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “As I always suspected.” His lordship turned to Emily, glanced down her body. Not subtle.

  “I always suspected it was not a genuine Gindick, which is why I would never sell it, never wanted anyone to examine it. I rather like people believing I have the lost Gindick.”

  Emily asked, “Where did you get it?”

  “Cairo. At a small shop off the main bazaar. Nearly twenty years ago.”

  He looked at Holmes now and it occurred to me again—this was why I was a good chronicler of Holmes’s adventures. I was present, but not involved.

  “I paid little for it, and it does look very much like the Gindicks in the Queensberry museum.”

  His lordship offered his arm to Emily and said, “How about a nightcap, darling?”

  Emily stepped to Holmes and wrapped her arm through his.

  “Thank you, but no, milord.”

  Holmes tried his best to keep his face expressionless, and I was not about to lower my gaze.

  A London rainstorm greeted us upon our return. Holmes, dressed in his travelling suit and deerstalker, hired us a coach. He instructed the driver to drop us on Baker Street and take the lady on to her house. Baker Street was clogged with traffic. Holmes grew impatient as the rain slackened to a light drizzle a block from 221B and insisted the coach driver turn off and take Emily Topping home.

  “I shall come see you soon,” said Emily. “Settle up what I owe you.”

  She smiled and touched our arms as we climbed out, and I was relieved to see the smile return to her lovely face. She had been unsmiling on our return trip. Holmes climbed out and I followed, and we went around and grabbed our luggage. Holmes urged the driver on, and the carriage pulled away as we hurried off. It was not until we were in our rooms that I noticed Holmes had mistakenly taken Emily’s suitcase when we hurriedly snatched our luggage in the rain.

  “I did not take it mistakenly. She will come for it in a few minutes.”

  I professed I did not understand.

  “Lift it.”

  I did, and it felt heavy.

  “You recall when we boarded the train at Bushly, I carried Miss Topping’s suitcase into the station, put it on the shelf on the train.”

  “Yes.”

  Holmes cleared a small table and placed the suitcase in the chair next to it. He opened it and pulled out the blouse and jodhpurs Emily wore to Halmouth Abbey—she had worn black jodhpurs with a pale pink blouse for the return trip. He drew out a black silk sack, which jingled. He poured the contents on the table and four gold bracelets tumbled out, as well as gold rings, silver rings, and necklaces. Holmes reached into the bottom of the suitcase, withdrew another black silk sack, and took out Lord Thelemgotten’s most prized possession, the nine-inch Saracen dagger in a solid gold scabbard encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

  “It is a heavy item,” he said, placing it next to the other jewelry. He went into our bedroom and came out with a pillowcase, which he draped over the booty. He put the clothing and sacks back into the suitcase and closed it, filled a pipe, and sat in his chair.

  “Miss Topping’s small suitcase doubled in weight on our journey.” He lit his pipe.

  I sat in my chair.

  “Holmes. That is how you solved this…caper? The suitcase weighed more.”

  “From the beginning I thought this was much ado about little. While you focused on Miss Topping’s lovely body, I paid attention to her eyes and felt something amiss there. Her nudity was an eager distraction for everyone save Sherlock Holmes. Standing next to the glass case, while you were looking at the jewels and glancing at her abundant and exquisite bosom, I watched Miss Topping’s eyes and saw lust there, more lust than the looks the men were giving her. It was merely keen observation on my part.”

  Presently, a knock
on our door produced Mrs. Hudson and Emily Topping.

  “Come in, my dear.”

  I nodded a thank-you to Mrs. Hudson, who withdrew.

  Holmes cut off Emily as she started to talk, waving a hand at the suitcase.

  “Here it is,” he said.

  “Oh, I am so relieved, Mr. Holmes.”

  She crossed the room, smiling toward me on the way, and reached for the suitcase.

  “But that is not all you came for, is it, my dear?” Holmes took a puff.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Holmes rose and stepped to the small table and lifted the pillowcase.

  Emily let out a gasp, took a step back, and looked at me. She took another step back.

  “How?” Her voice sounded scratchy. “How did you know?”

  “Years.” Holmes dropped the pillowcase atop the loot and smiled. “Years of careful observations.”

  Emily turned to the door and I moved to cut her off. She pulled a small, nickel-plated handgun from her purse and pointed it at me, a steely look in her eyes, as she backed toward the door.

  “Let her go, Watson.” Holmes sat and raised his pipe. “Goodbye, Miss Topping.”

  Emily continued to the door and then out.

  Holmes chuckled.

  “No sense taking a bullet, my dear Watson.”

  “But she is getting away.”

  “We have recovered the loot for Lord Thelemgotten.”

  “But Miss Topping.”

  “We’ve seen enough of her, wouldn’t you say?”

  The Adventure of the Red Dress

  By Ana Teresa Pereira

  John had dreamt of the tower again. He was going up the narrow staircase. The image was repeated on the cover of a book he hadn’t yet written, and the ending of a film nobody had yet directed. It happened sometimes, these strange connections, in the endless world of his nights. Same as the idea that red hair and blue eyes were characteristics of vampires.

  Like the men in his books, he liked to walk along London streets at night. So many times, when he was not sure how to begin a novel, there was a man walking near Regent’s Park. A man who looked like him, perhaps taller, with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. The streetlamps, like signs in the fog, were his only direction. There was rain, too, not heavy rain, the never-ending rain that accompanied him all his life.

  Suddenly he realised where he was. The narrow street, the dark shops—why didn’t they leave some light in the windows?—the old trees, and the silence that always made him feel, even though he was in the centre of the city, that he was in a solitary lane in the countryside.

  He had convinced himself he needed a quiet place to work, but it wasn’t true. There was the library at home, his paintings, his books, the familiar disorder, and a dinner the cook had left for him in the kitchen—she took care of him like a mother when his wife was away. And there was Fay’s apartment and the corner she had arranged for him, just a table near a window, a lamp, a watercolour of the Thames discovered in one of the antique shops she liked to visit. But, even if she was on the other side of the room revising some screenplay, he could feel her presence, that kind of warmth, though her skin was always cool. And her scent, that mixture of orange and flowers she ordered from Paris. Are the red hair and the blue eyes characteristic of the vampires?

  The building was old and, since he rarely went there during the day, he had no idea who lived in it. He opened the door. The entrance was illuminated by a single bulb, and the flight of stairs was always in the dark. No smell of food, no sound of children’s voices.

  His room was at the end of the corridor. The smell of his pipe. The window opened to an even narrower and darker street. He lit the ceiling bulb and the lamp on the table. As usual, he looked around, wondering what he was doing there. It was as squalid as could be. A narrow bed, a table with a typewriter he had bought second-hand, two chairs. He had thought of buying a cheap painting to warm it a little, but instead had put some theatre bills on the wall. Two shelves where he had some books, a bottle of whisky, and two glasses. There was a bit of whisky left in a glass, and he washed it in the tiny bathroom. He had a drink and only then took off his overcoat and hung it behind the door. The room was freezing, as always, so he left his scarf on.

  The editor of the Strand had commissioned a Sherlock Holmes story, perhaps remembering that he and Adrian had planned to write a collection. He had to deliver it the next day but wasn’t too worried. He was accustomed to deadlines. Besides, he had most of the story by now. It would be narrated by Watson. Still from the time he and Holmes shared the apartment on Baker Street. A new client. A young man who owned a bookshop specializing in poetry. A girl named Violet. Why were so many girls in Holmes stories called Violet?

  He took the small book of Shakespeare’s sonnets that Fay had given him from his pocket. He opened it on the first page. To John from F.

  He needed a verse. Something that would leave Holmes metaphorically at sea. A story of lost souls. Damn Holmes and his rational mind. The old fool was as lost as the rest of us.

  “For thy sweet love rememb’red such wealth brings—”

  I lifted my eyes from the newspaper and stared at Holmes. I didn’t know if he was speaking to me. He had a letter in his hands. I made an effort to remember.

  “That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

  We were sitting at the breakfast table, having a final cup of coffee. It was autumn, a dark autumn day, the continuation of a long dark night. The streetlights were on, and the fog muffled the sounds of voices and carriages.

  Holmes didn’t answer. I couldn’t help smiling. Apart from the Shakespeare plays we saw once in a while, and his favourite quote, “There are more things in heaven and earth…” Holmes didn’t seem much interested in our Bard. And I don’t even think he owned any edition of the sonnets. But then his library was a kind of labyrinth, where one could find the most surprising things: from old numbers of pulp magazines to some eighteenth-century treatises on vampires.

  “We’ll soon have a visitor, Watson.”

  He gave me a small card. “Lawrence Mason. Mason Bookshop. Specialist in Poetry.”

  I took a final sip of coffee.

  “So, Holmes, can we expect an old librarian, smelling of old books and pipe smoke?”

  “No, Watson. A young man, an aspiring poet, and probably very much in love.”

  “Come on, Holmes. That’s a wild guess.”

  “I never guess, my dear Watson. You should know that by now. Take a look at this envelope and this note.”

  I examined them.

  “Well, very absent-minded, I’d say. He addressed it to 220 Baker Street.”

  “Yes. It seems that I live in the shop next door.”

  “And he says he wants to talk to you about a red dress.”

  “And its owner, I presume.”

  “But…this is interesting…on the other side of the page, he had been scribbling. Squares inside squares, something resembling a maze. And a few words: ‘But thy sweet love.’ All right, Holmes. This doesn’t seem at all like a letter from an old librarian. A young man, rather absent-minded and thinking about a woman.”

  “We’ll soon know. Someone is arriving.”

  Two minutes later, Mrs. Hudson introduced a young man into our drawing room. He was rather tall and handsome; his suit, although perhaps too light for the season, was well cut and discreet.

  “Mr. Holmes, I presume.”

  “Yes, you got the right door.”

  My friend was having fun; he smiled the way he did sometimes, only with half his mouth, and only for a second. The young man seemed to realise that, too.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes. I am the kind of person who often gets lost in the fog.”

  “It would be worse had you lived before Turner.”

  �
�I suppose I would have fallen into the river a few times.”

  They were talking very seriously, and Holmes must have noticed that I looked perplexed.

  “You should read Oscar Wilde, my dear Watson.”

  “Fairy tales?” I asked defensively.

  “I understand you want to talk to me about a red dress,” remarked Holmes. “I must tell you I’m no expert in women’s dresses.”

  A sudden shadow passed over the young man’s face. He took a silver cigarette case from one of his pockets.

  “It’s a long story, Mr. Holmes. The strangest story you’ve ever heard.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. But please begin, my friend,” said Holmes. He had his fingertips together and his eyes on the ceiling.

  “My name is Lawrence Mason. My father died two years ago, just after I left college. I was planning to travel for a year or so. I’ve only been to Paris and Berlin, and I think a writer, a poet, should know the world. But my father owned a bookshop and I had to take care of it. I love the bookshop, ever since I was a child. I spent long hours there, and it was my idea of a magic place. The corridors full of books, the books on the floor, the mysterious visitors, my father holding a new book, smelling it, examining it with his magnifying lens. There is a small apartment upstairs, so I had a place to live. Apart from some money, my father also left me our family house in Hampshire. It’s a lovely cottage. Like something from a painting. The walls are a faint red, and almost covered with leaves, the porch has a few steps where I still like to sit in the evening. And the sounds…the birds, the water of a nearby spring, a kind of sigh when the fog surrounds it. I spent my childhood there until I went to a private school. And I always went back in the holidays.”

  He lit a cigarette and looked at the window.

  “For two years I led a quiet life. I have some friends from college days. I like to go to a pub and the theatre occasionally. But most nights, after dinner, I went to my room and wrote or read until dawn. I had a few liaisons, but nothing serious, until I met Violet last spring.