My Sherlock Holmes

by Michael Kurland

  “It is only the timing that gives me pause for thought,” the detective replied. Then, lowering his voice, so that none of the constables hovering about the scene would be able to hear, he said: “The reason for coming to your home was far more commonplace: I came to return your dress.”

  I stared at him for a moment, and then burst out in loud, nearly hysterical laughter. “Mr. Holmes,” I gasped, “you may keep the dress.”

  He regarded me with a startled expression, and then likewise broke into an explosive laugh. It was the first time I had ever seen such a sign of mirth coming from Sherlock Holmes.

  A moment later, he regained control of himself. “I have no wish to detain you further, Mrs. Watson,” he said, a sardonic smile curling his thin lips. “That is the job of the police. Good evening.” With that, he turned around, strode almost invisibly through the crowd that had started to collect on the street, and disappeared into the night. The next thing I knew, Harry, who had finished regaling the police with the story of his abduction, came to my side.

  “Gor, ducks,” he said, looking into the milling crowd, “was that him you was talkin’ to?”

  I nodded. “That was Sherlock Holmes.”

  “So you found out a way to contact him?”

  “Yes, from now on I shall leave a note for him at my cleaners,” I said, and then I began to giggle helplessly again, much to the puzzlement of my old fried

  After being fully questioned by the police, I was finally allowed to go home. It was nearly midnight by the time I returned to Queen Anne Street, where I was welcomed with open arms by Missy, who had come home early from the music hall, found the house empty, and spent the last two hours working herself nearly to distraction over my unexplained absence. After offering slightly more assurance than I actually felt that I was fine, I retired to my bed, where I slept well into the next morning.

  Not surprisingly, Harry turned up at our door that day. The fancy dress suit was now gone, and instead he wore his more familiar threadbare brown jacket and battered bowler hat. I expected him to report that he had been let go by the firm of Chippenham and Co., which by now must have learned the details of his deception, but instead he told me that he had resigned. “Hobnobbin’ with them upper class toffs’ll land you in trouble every time,” he said, with a grin.

  The story of the Ramsays received little press coverage until the body of Jane Ramsay was uncovered inside their Lambeth home, two days later. After that, the story was on the front page of every newspaper—the head line in the Illustrated London News read, The Man Who Would Be King, with no apologies whatsoever to Mr. Kipling—and reporters began collecting and swarming in front of our home. Despite my best attempts to minimize it, they naturally played to the hilt my association with my ultimate savior, Sherlock Holmes. Reporters will write what they will write, of course, though I cannot say that Harry was much help to my cause. Reveling in the spotlight, like any good actor, he took every opportunity to publicly characterize me as the natural successor to Mr. Holmes, whom, he was quick to point out, became involved in the case only after I had done the crucial work involved in solving the puzzle. What Mr. Holmes thought of all this I have no idea.

  Within a week, the furor had died down sufficiently to allow Missy and me to go about our normal routines without being accosted by packs of men carrying notebooks and pens. But I could not divest myself of the memory of Mr. Holmes’s words. Had, indeed, Providence become involved? Had it somehow chosen the exact moment for Sherlock Holmes to come to our home, knowing that either a minute earlier or later would have meant that both Harry and I would now be lying in hidden graves? Were we, as human beings, engaged in some kind of grand design that was beyond our comprehension?

  Or was Mr. Holmes’s sudden arrival merely a fortunate happenstance of chance? Were we, after all, simply slaves to the random acts of every other human being? How different would all of history, indeed, all of civilization, be if any one of the million tiny, individual acts and decisions that are carried out each day, had been carried out differently? It was staggering to contemplate.

  I was not able to push the riddle of the Young Protestor out of my mind until John’s arrival back from his lecture tour (and while I still intended to take up the matter of his providing Mr. Holmes with a key to our home with him, it somehow seemed less imperative to do so at once). I had striven to completely banish it from my thoughts, and for the most part had succeeded. Or so I believed.

  It was not until some two months after the events had transpired, when the pleasant crispness of autumn had given way to the gray wetness of winter, that I suddenly lurched up in bed, having been thrust out of a particularly vivid dream in which I was once more studying the vellum page containing the riddle. The document in my dream was identical to the real thing, except that the phrase St. Andrews cross had been set apart in vibrant golden letters. “St. Andrew’s cross,” I uttered aloud in bed, hoping that my sudden rising did not awaken John.

  Unlike the Calvary cross, St. Andrew’s cross was in the shape of an X. Or, in Roman numerals—which was the style of number most likely to be found on a sundial—ten.

  The time at which the relick may be founde.

  It had to be the missing piece of the puzzle. When the sun struck the column precisely at ten o’clock in the morning—ten in the evening not having sufficient sunlight, even in midsummer—its shadow would point like a finger directly to the “relick’s” burial location.

  “I must inform Harry of this!

  But in the next instant, another vivid image appeared in my mind. I saw Harry bedecked in pirate’s garb, toting a shovel in one hand and a pickax in the other. “X marks the spot, my girl,” I could hear him saying, “And who knows what kind of bloodthirsty excitement we’ll find this time around?”

  I laughed and shuddered at the same time.

  John moaned and rolled over, but did not awaken.

  “I’m sorry, Harry,” I whispered, “but this secret will remain with me.”

  With that, I settled down and drifted back to sleep.

  REGINALD MUSGRAVE

  “Reginald Musgrave had been in the same college as myself, and I had some slight acquaintance with him. He was not generally popular among the undergraduates, though it always seemed to me that what was set down as pride was really an attempt to cover extreme natural diffidence. In appearance he was a man of an exceedingly aristocratic type, thin, high nosed, and large-eyed, with languid and yet courtly manners … . Now and again we drifted into talk, and I can remember that more than once he expressed a keen interest in my methods of observation and inference.”

  —“The Musgrave Ritual”

  by GEORGE ALEC EFFINGER

  The Adventure of the Celestial Snows

  My name is Reginald Musgrave. More than fifty years ago I attended Cambridge University, where I had the great privilege of forming a lifelong friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Dr. John H. Watson recorded one incident in our evolving friendship in “The Musgrave Ritual.” Although Holmes and I maintained our connection throughout the years, Watson never mentioned my name again in his accounts. I have a private theory about why this is so, but it has little to do with the present narrative and so I will leave it for another occasion. The events I am about to relate take place in 1875, before Holmes and Watson had their famous first meeting as recorded in A Study in Scarlet. The reader must bear in mind that Holmes and I were still lads at the time, and he had not yet become the Sherlock Holmes familiar to every reader of Watson’s writings.

  The episode began near the end of the school term. I recall that Holmes was in the boxing ring, sparring against a lad whose name I’ve entirely forgotten, but whose pugilistic style has stayed in my memory for half a century. He was not as tall as Holmes, but he was built more powerfully and seemed to be possessed of great speed. He was light on his feet and made rather a good show of dancing around the ring, bobbing, ducking, all that sort of thing. He may have been fast but Holmes was quicker, and in b
oxing, so I’m told, quickness counts the more. Speed is for running, which many of Holmes’s opponents over the years eventually took up to avoid his punishing jabs.

  Whatever this boy’s name was, he bounced about the enclosure with a rather queer grin on his face. I wondered myself what he was about. When he had impressed us all with his agility, he moved closer to Holmes, began a long, looping swing with his right fist that was destined never to meet its target, and caught a straight, powerful left full in the face. The fellow staggered back a step or two and then sat down heavily. Holmes looked inquiringly at the dazed lad, who massaged his face with one hand and waved with the other to indicate that he was not seriously hurt but had decided to bring the contest to an early conclusion.

  “What do you think?” Holmes asked me as he climbed from the ring.

  “I think you must have a difficult time finding adequate competition here,” I said.

  “No, not about the match. About that Chinese fellow I told you about. Ch’ing Chuan-Fu, in Caius College.”

  “You told me someone’s taken a brass box from him and he desperately wants to get it back. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that this mysterious box is worth a small fortune in whatever they use for money in China.”

  Holmes and I walked to the athletes’ dressing room. “You may be doing him an injustice, Musgrave,” he said.

  “No doubt.”

  “I received the impression that Mr. Ch’ing is not overly concerned about his finances, despite all appearances.”

  I shrugged. “Then finding his precious brass box may well be worth your while.”

  Holmes considered for a moment. “Will you wait? I’d like to talk with you some more about this. Perhaps you’d care to accompany me when I call on Mr. Ch’ing in London.”

  “Certainly, Holmes. I had no real plans in any event.”

  And just that innocently I stepped into the deadly web of a Chinese fiend. How could we, mere students, know of the perilous trail this blithe decision would force us to follow? From the safety and security of the university’s medieval walls across the continents to the ancient strongholds of the Orient—such a journey as I never in my most fevered moments wished to make. Seeking a brass box we would go, feeling the destinies of two mighty empires on our shoulders, knowing that lives, perhaps uncountable lives, depended on our actions. In retrospect it was indeed better that we didn’t know what waited for us in London. Perhaps Holmes would have gone regardless, but I am forced to wonder about myself. I think I might have found a more restful occupation for those summer months.

  The remainder of the school term passed without incident. I took my degree and Holmes successfully concluded the year’s studies. On the third of July we met in London, where I hired a cab to take us to Ch’ing’s house in Great Bowman Street. When we arrived, before Holmes could rap upon the door, it was opened by a young Chinese woman. Behind her stood a gigantic man. He looked like nothing so much as a court eunuch, the sort of creature who populates fairy tales of mysterious lands. He towered over me, over Holmes as well, and was dressed only in loose black trousers. His massive chest was bare and his glistening arms looked strong enough to lift us each with one hand. His sallow face was plump and soft-looking, and perspiration shone on his bald, shaved head. His great black mustache and the ferocity of his black eyes suggested that, should we prove so lacking in sense, he would be quite capable of suppressing whatever small annoyance the two of us together might create.

  The young woman held a small silver tray, and Holmes had already placed his calling card upon it. I did the same, and as she turned to deliver the cards to her master, by some misadventure she lost her balance and dropped both tray and cards. As closely as thunder rolls upon a lightning flash, the bare-chested giant struck the young woman with enough force to send her sprawling to the floor.

  I was shocked, but I was not powerless to respond. When the huge man raised his hand to hit her again, I caught hold of his wrist. He turned his menacing gaze on me, and for the space of several dismaying heartbeats we glared at each other.

  I felt Holmes’s light touch upon my shoulder. “Have a care, Musgrave,” he murmured. He was correct to caution me, of course. My outrage was not yet spent, but I released the man’s hand and turned to help the young woman.

  “Forgive me,” I said to her. “I apologize for my clumsiness, for striking the tray and causing you to drop it. It was my fault, not yours.” That was not strictly true. I was only trying to shield her from further punishment.

  I helped her to her feet, but then she glanced at me with such savage anger that something within me, something vulnerable that had never before been touched, was wounded in the most agonizing manner imaginable. She turned quickly away and hurried from the front hall. Holmes and I were now alone with the strongman who guarded the door. The giant moved one immense hand to indicate that we should follow him, and follow him we did, into the oddly scented interior of that foreboding place.

  We were led to a sitting room that was decorated in keeping with the tastes of the Orient. The furniture was low and of a non-English sparseness, as if Queen Victoria and her era had never been permitted within this house. Painted scrolls hung upon the walls, depicting tigers and groves of bamboo, laughing monkeys or odd, fat, bald men. These themes were often repeated in the rich embroidered hangings that dominated the spaces unadorned by scrolls. There were porcelain vases and carved ivory figures; gods and sages and beasts of bronze, jade, and silver; idols of cunningly worked wood decorated with glittering red and blue stones; and here and there the unmistakable, untarnished glow of gold.

  I was astonished. “The brass box that was stolen must have belonged to Confucius himself.”

  “What did you say, Musgrave?” Holmes asked.

  I looked up, surprised that he had heard me. “I was only thinking that if someone stole something from this house, he might have chosen better than a small brass box.”

  “Quite so. However, until we have more information, there is no use in wondering about the thief’s motives.”

  Our huge guide showed us to European-style chairs in a dimly lighted room, facing a set of pale green damask draperies. A serving girl brought us tea and cakes—the tea was English, but very weak—as though we had been invited to enjoy an evening’s entertainment at the home of a good friend.

  It hadn’t yet occurred to me that we were helpless. No one knew where we were should we be in need of rescue, and we didn’t know how many others in the house might be arrayed against us should we need to escape. To me this was still but a curious interlude, an interesting experience before I took up the serious responsibilities of adulthood. I had no inkling of the danger that waited nearby.

  There was a bright, reverberating stroke of a gong, and the draperies parted. I stifled a gasp. Seated on a magnificent raised chair was a man dressed in a long coat and trousers of yellow silk. On his feet were simple black slippers, on his head a mandarin cap with a ruby button. The coat’s sleeves were long and the man’s hands were hidden within. As I watched, he reached out slowly and rested his long, bony fingers upon the heads of the ornately carved Chinese dragons that formed the chair’s armrests.

  I looked at Holmes. He nodded. Yes, this was my first glimpse of Ch’ing Chuan-Fu. He had a high forehead and domelike head, blazing green eyes, and the serenity and indolence I would soon learn to recognize as a sign of the habitual opium user. When he gestured to us, I saw that on a few of his fingers he wore long artificial fingernails of hammered gold. “Mr. Holmes,” he said in a low voice.

  “Mr. Ch’ing, please permit me to introduce my companion—”

  “Mr. Holmes, at the university I was quite at the mercy of your people and your customs. I was obliged to use the name by which you knew me. Ch’ing, the surname I chose to use, is the name of the ruling dynasty in China, often referred to in the West as the Manchu Dynasty. They have been in power for two hundred and forty years. Here in my modest house, however, I prefer that you address
me by my true name and title—a trifling whim of mine, but you will do well to humor me in it. You will call me Fu Manchu. Doctor Fu Manchu.”

  It is impossible to explain how, but the moment he pronounced those words I knew that he was mad.

  “Now, Mr. Holmes,” he went on, “as to your friend. Perhaps I ought to be vexed that you brought someone with you uninvited, but it means nothing. A hostess at one of your wearying English dinner parties would be fatally inconvenienced, but I am rather pleased to make his acquaintance.” He directed his attention towards me, and when he gave me his fearsome, humorless smile, I felt my heart rate increase. “Your name?” he demanded.

  “Musgrave, Doctor. Reginald Musgrave.”

  “Of the Sussex Musgraves?” he asked. “You are recently graduated from the university, are you not?”

  “Why, yes.” I was seized with a great foreboding. I had come along with Holmes expecting to meet an interesting foreign gentleman and perhaps learn a little about the exotic ways of the East. I had not anticipated this robed bedlamite seated on a fantastic throne. I felt then, as ever I did in his presence, that he would take from me what he wanted and I was helpless to resist.

  Not so Holmes. “I suggest, Mr. Ch’ing, or Dr. Fu Manchu,” he said, “that you tell us what you expect of us, and speedily. We are not Chinese, nor are we in China. This is England, and if we are to conduct business we must do it in the English manner. Both Mr. Musgrave and I have other matters that need our attention.”

  Fu Manchu smiled and waved an indolent hand. “Insolent puppies,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know that what you say is not true, but little matter; it will be as you wish, Mr. Holmes. Since our last meeting my small problem has almost resolved itself. Even this morning my servants brought to me the man I suspect of removing the brass box from this house. It was too late for me to send word to you that your visit was no longer necessary—I hope you will forgive me. I do have some amusement prepared for you nonetheless, and I am sure you will find it most edifying.”