The Solitary Witness: A Sherlock and Lucy Short Story (The Sherlock and Lucy Mystery Series Book 20)

by Anna Elliott

“What happened then?”

  “I took a cab to Gare du Nord and then the Wagons-Lits express to Calais. Then the Dover Ferry.”

  “Did you observe your fellow passengers?”

  “Yes. But no more than usual. I had no sense of being followed or being observed.”

  “None at all? No one looked at you?”

  “My normal travels are best when they’re lonely. When I get a pretty young woman anxious to be telling me of her sick brother or maiden aunt, well, that’s when I get the wind up. My wife would be the first to object and she’d object pretty strenuously, too.”

  “Pray, describe your journey from Dover.”

  “I had a first-class compartment to myself.”

  “Were you interfered with?”

  “Not once. Not on the train, at any rate.”

  “Describe the parcel. The packet of documents.”

  “The usual diplomatic bag. A cloth canvas affair. Locked on the outside with a rope drawstring and a small metal padlock. Largely ceremonial, for the rope or the canvas could easily be cut. The lock is merely a seal to demonstrate that the bag has not been opened. The port inspector knows not to break the seal when I show them my Queen’s Messenger identification.”

  “Which you did in Calais, and again in Dover.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Who was round you at those moments?”

  “Ordinary passengers. Men of all shapes and sizes. No one unusual.”

  “And again, no one interfered.”

  “No one.”

  “You arrived at Victoria Station. You left your compartment.”

  “That’s when the trouble began.”

  “We will come to that. For now, please describe the packet.”

  “The size of a business folder. Perhaps a foot square. Perhaps an inch thick.”

  “What did it feel like? Its weight, the texture of the contents?

  “The weight was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but papers, I would have said.”

  “Was the packet visible at all?

  “No. I carried it in my leather valise. A very ordinary Gladstone bag.”

  “Nothing else inside the bag?”

  “Only my shirt and shaving kit. And my underwear. My wallet and cigarette case are in my coat pocket.”

  “So you were carrying your bag, with the papers inside, when you left Victoria Station. When was this?”

  “I had the last train of the day. Around midnight.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I got into the cab.”

  “The first one in the rank?”

  “Yes. Just ordinary procedure, as I always do.”

  “What sort of cab?”

  “A four-wheeler. Ordinary growler.”

  “So before you got in, you gave the cabman your destination.”

  “Why yes, I suppose I must have.”

  “Your exact words, if you please.”

  “Whitehall, cabby. Foreign office.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I stepped up and was seating myself. There was a door on the other side. It opened and there was another gentleman. I thought he just wanted the cab. But then another chap came in behind me. We had a bit of a dust-up.” Hobbes looked ruefully at his knuckles, which were bruised and scraped. “But in the end the second fellow held my arms while the first fellow clapped a chloroform pad over my face.”

  Holmes turned to me. “Doctor, could you please take a look at Mr. Hobbes’s face and hands.”

  I did so. “Bruising. Abrasions,” I said.

  “It could have been faked, of course. What happened then?”

  “I woke up on a bench in St. James Park.”

  “Your wallet, your money – those were still on your person?”

  “My suitcase as well.”

  “Only the parcel was missing.”

  “Yes.”

  Mycroft said, “The police are interviewing people around the park. But since there was no daylight, little was seen.”

  “Nevertheless, an interesting point, Mycroft,” Holmes said. “No attempt to disguise the robbery as an ordinary one. So now, Mr. Hobbes, let us return to the parcel itself. You did not open it?”

  “Break the seal? Not likely. Worth my job. My pension too.”

  “You said the bag was canvas. Only canvas?”

  “It has a lining. India rubber with linen. Like a mackintosh fabric. To protect the papers.”

  Mycroft said, “The weather can turn inclement. Someone could spill a drink, soup, coffee. Not good for documents.”

  “Indeed. And, Mr. Hobbes, was there anything about this particular parcel to distinguish it from any of the hundreds of others you have carried?”

  “No nothing different.”

  “Except that someone thought it important enough to waylay you and steal it.”

  “And I still don’t see why, sir.”

  “More questions, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft.

  Holmes gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Dr. Watson?”

  “I should like to know if you discussed your mission with anyone on the way to the embassy in Paris or otherwise. Or with your wife.”

  “Lord, no, sir. I tell my wife I am working for the army, acting as a courier of personnel records. Which sounds perfectly dull and uninteresting even though it is not far from the truth. I bring her back souvenirs from some of the cities. Something in a reasonable price range, you understand.”

  “Quite. So, to summarize, you took the evening train to Dover, and then the evening ferry to Calais, where you stayed the night?”

  “Yes, in a small hotel, without incident.”

  I wanted to be sure that I understood the sequence of events. “The morning train brought you to Paris, where you acquired your parcel. On your return journey, you took the afternoon train from Paris, the evening ferry to Dover and then the last train to Victoria. So, it was dark when you arrived.”

  “More difficult for me to see. But easier to blend in. I am just another forgettable figure. An ordinary traveler. No one notices me. That is one of my chief qualifications for my position. And I must repeat, it has stood me in good stead for two decades and several thousand successful missions.”

  He paused and looked at the three of us, as if seeking approval, or forgiveness.

  Holmes roused himself. “And you had no inkling in any way that there was anything unusual about this parcel.”

  “None.”

  “What do you think it contained?”

  “I never guess about such things.”

  “Very wise, too. But what if you were to guess, now that someone has taken it?”

  “Don’t like to say.”

  “Say anyway. Your opinion will go no further than this room.”

  Hobbes shook his head.

  “I give you my word it will have no consequence to your personal situation,” Holmes said.

  “Well. I would imagine it contains pictures. Or letters. Or perhaps both. Something quite scandalous. Since they called you gentlemen in straight away.”

  “The nature of the scandal?”

  “Well, Paris, sir. Some high-born people get into scandalous situations in Paris.”

  I immediately thought of Prince Albert, the heir apparent, and the many stories about his activities amid Parisian night spots. I wondered if Holmes would pursue this line of inquiry.

  But Holmes, who appeared to be watching Mycroft, gave one of his quick little smiles. “Well Mycroft, I think that concludes our questions.”

  “If we need to find you, Mr. Hobbes?” asked Mycroft.

  “If I am still employed, the Foreign Office will find me.” Hobbes managed a weak smile before he left the room. The door closed behind him.

  “Where is the coachman who allowed Hobbes to be set upon in London?”

  “He was found unconscious near Victoria Station. Evidently the attackers subdued him and left him behind before driving his cab to where they abandoned it near the park. T
he police are searching for anyone who may have observed the attack last night. Lestrade has been placed in charge.”

  Holmes said nothing.

  “Conclusions, Sherlock?”

  “I have two. First, you have a traitor in the embassy in Paris.”

  Mycroft nodded. “Obviously, a traitor identified Hobbes. But why do you believe he is in Paris? The Foreign Office in London also knew Hobbes had drawn the assignment as courier.”

  “London was where the robbery occurred. The traitor would want the maximum time to flee before the inevitable discovery of his treachery. Therefore, the traitor was in Paris. He will likely be gone by now.”

  “Quite so. I thought along the same lines and now have his name,” said Mycroft. “He did not appear for work at the Paris embassy this morning. Now, your second conclusion?”

  “That I wish to have nothing to do with the matter.”

  2: WATSON

  I drew in my breath. It was unlike Holmes to take such a position at the onset of a case, particularly one that appeared so baffling. Normally this was just the type of case that would stimulate his intellect and cause him to eagerly set upon the trail. I could not understand his reluctance.

  Mycroft waited for a long moment, watching his brother. Then he nodded, as though he had expected that very response. “Was I that transparent?”

  “Your actions speak for you. You roust yourself immediately after a midnight theft. You send for me and join the courier here, early in the morning and amidst foul weather. You show relief when the courier speculates that the parcel involves a Parisian social scandal. And you request that Dr. Watson join us. I could hardly fail to notice those points. I also am aware that institutions more serious than the Folies Bergère are located in Paris. The Pasteur Institute, for instance.”

  “Let us waste no more time. What do you believe to be in the package?”

  “Something shameful, since you are determined for the matter to remain secret. Something you cannot allow others to possess, since otherwise you would not be so keen to recover it. Something involving medical risk, since you specifically asked for Dr. Watson to be present.”

  Mycroft nodded. “The packet itself is a true abomination. It ought never to have been permitted to exist.”

  “Yet Her Majesty’s Government Embassy arranged it to be brought to the Foreign Office here in London.”

  “Those involved were misguided. They have been dealt with.”

  “But you and Her Majesty’s government now wish me to recover it.”

  Mycroft gave Holmes a long, searching look. “I understand your feelings, Sherlock. But unless you recover it, those who have stolen it may use it against us, with catastrophic consequences.”

  I was losing patience. “Gentlemen,” I said. “I must ask you to speak plainly. Precisely what is in the stolen packet?”

  Mycroft hesitated.

  “You must know,” said Holmes.

  “Lord Branford is the person in the Foreign Office who ordered the package. He has resigned.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Prime Minister required him to do so. The Prime Minister was unaware of the entire enterprise. He is as appalled as I am. Yet I cannot stand by and allow a wretchedly bad situation to grow even worse.”

  “I must ask you again,” I said, “what is in the packet? What did Lord Branford order?”

  “He had obtained what he believed to be reliable information that the Germans were working on a process to produce a highly toxic substance in a massive, one might say, industrial scale.”

  “What toxic substance?”

  Mycroft lowered his voice. “Anthrax. In powdered form. Anthrax spores.”

  I shuddered involuntarily. Anthrax! I had seen patients suffering from the disease during my medical school term. The symptoms were excruciating, and there was no cure. A healthy man, once exposed, would be dead within a week.

  “Branford wished to keep up with the Germans,” Mycroft continued. “That was his rationale. He used his own personal funds to finance the activity in Paris, done, as Sherlock has deduced, at the Pasteur Institute by persons more interested in their own advancement than in the greater good for our two nations, and indeed, mankind.”

  “Disgraceful,” I said, “to think that our government would even consider such a project.”

  “The packet contains the full specifications and directions for manufacture of the spores using centrifugal filtration,” Mycroft said, his distaste evident in his expression and his tone of voice. “It lists the manufacturing equipment, the arrangement, and the order for the process. Once set up, the equipment can manufacture, in a single hour, sufficient anthrax to kill a thousand men on the battlefield. More, if wind conditions are favorable.”

  “A military weapon, then.”

  “Or,” said Mycroft, “the powdered spores might be employed against civilians, in an enclosed area such as a meeting hall. The particles are smaller even than the pollen we breathe in the springtime air of the country, so small that they could be inhaled without the victim ever noticing the agency of his doom.”

  I shuddered once more. “Then no one would be safe,” I said.

  “Blinded by his own ambition,” Mycroft went on, “and anxious to keep the project secret, Branford employed what he thought was a clever, undercover, manner of transportation, sending the packet by diplomatic courier. He failed to account for the risk of betrayal and subsequent interference. He bears sole responsibility for this grievous error.”

  Holmes had sat back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Are the Germans really working on industrializing the production of anthrax?”

  “We have reliable information that they have made attempts, but as yet those attempts have all proved unsuccessful.”

  “Then the Germans may be behind the theft of the packet.”

  “If so, the plans may be on the way to Berlin and we have already been defeated.”

  “But there is another possibility,” said Holmes. “A third party may have arranged for the theft of the packet in order to sell it.”

  “I believe that is the most practical assumption. In fact, Sherlock, we both know a man who would have the connections for such an enterprise. If you recall, we considered him as one of three suspects in the case of the Bruce Partington plans.”

  “His name is Adolph Mayer,” Holmes said. “I have his photograph in my files, though they are nearly five years old. A gargantuan fellow. Do you know his present whereabouts?”

  “I telephoned the police commissioner just after I was awakened at midnight. Mr. Mayer has been under observation by the police since dawn.”

  “He will doubtless notice and be on his guard.”

  “Nevertheless, we must allow him to pursue his normal activity. There will be no evidence to have him arrested unless the packet comes to him. But we cannot let him escape.”

  “A very pretty conundrum.”

  “Indeed. Will you help us, Sherlock?”

  “Lord Salisbury condemns the use of anthrax?” Holmes asked.

  “Assuredly.”

  “He will not permit the plans for its production to be put into action?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “Then if Watson is willing …” Holmes looked at me, expectantly.

  “I agree,” I said.

  “We will take on the task. Lestrade will report to me daily, and his reports may cause us to change our tack. But for now, we will begin with the assumption that Adolph Mayer knows of the existence of the packet and has not yet been able to take possession of it since he is being carefully watched. We will make the further assumption that he is planning a clever way to procure the packet. We will further assume that, once he has taken possession and is assured of his ability to deliver, Mayer will follow his usual procedure and create a clandestine auction of sorts, and that the German government will make the winning bid.”

  “Why Germany?” I asked.

  “Because the Germans can assu
re Mayer of his own personal safety during the necessary inspection and payment process, which can be done within the confines of the German embassy. No other bidder would be able to offer that assurance.”

  “So our task is to prevent Mayer from taking delivery of the packet.”

  “Quite right, Watson. Mayer can do nothing unless he has the packet in his possession.”

  “Might he simply ask the thieves to go into the German embassy with the packet?”

  “I think it unlikely. Mayer would not let the Germans have direct access. They might simply take the packet and cause the thieves to disappear. Even if they agreed to pay, they would not pay top price if they knew they were the only bidder. No, our task is to stop the delivery to Mayer.”

  “What will you do, Sherlock?”

  “I shall consult my file on Adolph Mayer. Then I shall consult Lucy.”

  3: LUCY

  “Have you seen this man?” I held up the photograph where the pretty young bookstore clerk could see it plainly. “His name is Adolph Mayer.”

  To read more, look for “The Body at the Bookseller’s” on the Sherlock and Lucy series page on Amazon: http://amzn.to/2Aglqj7

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Anna Elliott is the author of the Twilight of Avalon trilogy, and The Pride and Prejudice Chronicles. She was delighted to lend a hand in giving the character of Lucy James her own voice, firstly because she loves Sherlock Holmes as much as her father, Charles Veley, and second because it almost never happens that someone with a dilemma shouts, “Quick, we need an author of historical fiction!” She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and four children.

  Charles Veley is the author of the first two books in this series of fresh Sherlock Holmes adventures. He is thrilled to be contributing to the series, and delighted beyond words to be collaborating with Anna Elliott.