For the Sake of the Game

by Laurie R. King

  Sherlock picked his jacket up from the ground and donned it, then folded his bloodied handkerchief neatly and tucked it into the pocket.

  “What about Bill?” he asked, pointing to his cellmate.

  “You know his name.”

  “Bill Sparrow. When he fell, the earth shook. If I’m not being charged, then he shouldn’t be, either.”

  “Very even-handed of you. Is it wise?”

  “We made up after our arrest. He invited me for a round sometime.”

  “It’s good that you have one friend in this cell,” said Mycroft. “Very well. I will advise them that you’ve decided not to press charges.”

  He rapped on the bars. The sergeant returned, unlocked the cell door, and held it open for the brothers.

  “My compliments to your men,” said Sherlock. “They were very professional.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell them,” said the sergeant. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  “Good night, Sergeant,” said Mycroft. “Thank you for everything.”

  They emerged from the precinct. Sherlock looked at the driver briefly, then at the horse, then at the brougham itself, letting his fingers trail across the doorframe as he passed through and sat.

  “Well?” said Mycroft as the brougham lurched forward.

  “Well what?”

  “How did you find yourself brawling—”

  “Defending myself.”

  “Brawling in St. Katharine Docks?”

  “I was following a lead.”

  “Ah. A lead. That’s good. That means someone finally hired you.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Explain.”

  “Do you remember the case I told you about involving Victor Trevor’s father and his involvement with the disappearance of the Gloria Scott?”

  “Where you brilliantly decoded a message that any English schoolboy could have solved, and the rascal at fault disappeared before you could bring in the authorities?”

  “Well—”

  “Which was the sole justification for your decision to come to London and set yourself up as a consulting detective?”

  “Fine, belittle me.”

  “No, no. Go on. What was your lead?”

  “The blackmailer was a man named Hudson. I had been searching for him. I saw him last night.”

  “Where?”

  “Heading towards St. Katharine Docks. But before I could locate which ship he had signed onto, I encountered Bill Sparrow and five of his drunken friends. They sought to relieve me of my wallet.”

  “Of course they did,” Mycroft sighed. “So. You lost your lead, who is now no doubt aware of your pursuit. You have no client, no payment for your expenses, and your nose looks horrendous. All you had to do was summon the nearest constable once you saw the man, but that would have been too practical. You have nothing. We should call this misadventure, ‘The Case of the Missing Case.’”

  “Are you finished?” asked Sherlock.

  “I’ve barely started. You were thrown out of university after only two years . . .”

  “I left.”

  “You were thrown out. You blew up the chemistry building.”

  “Just one corner of it. And I licensed that formula to a munitions manufacturer and assigned the income to the university. It’s already paid for the damages.”

  “Nevertheless, you didn’t finish your education.”

  “They had nothing left to teach me.”

  “You arrogance is appalling,” said Mycroft. “Our parents allowed you to embark on this mad venture on two conditions, one for you and one for me. Yours is that you not put yourself at risk of your life. Mine is that I not let you put yourself at risk of your life. We have both failed miserably tonight.”

  “I am an adult.”

  “You are twenty-two. The milk isn’t even dry.”

  “You are not my minder.”

  “Oh, but I am, Sherlock, and you need one, clearly. You know much about chemistry, and little about the real world. There are skills necessary to survive in your proposed line of work that you do not possess.”

  “I can train in more useful street-fighting techniques.”

  “I would be happier if you never fought at all. Our parents would be happier. Your nose would be happier.”

  “Are you telling Mother and Father about this?”

  “Certainly not,” said Mycroft, noting with amusement the look of relief on his brother’s face. “But you must now follow my advice. You are on thin ice. I will send you to someone who will teach you how to skate.”

  “Very well. But let me ask you this—are our parents aware of the danger that you are in?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mycroft.

  “This is no ordinary brougham,” said Sherlock. “And that’s no ordinary brougham driver.”

  “It is not, and he is not,” agreed Mycroft. “How did you know?”

  “His bearing is military, and the pockets of his greatcoat both sag under the weight of something I’m guessing has more stopping power than your Webley. I also spotted the butt of a shotgun protruding from under the seat. The brougham itself sits lower than a normal one on its wheels, and your poor horse is sweating mightily even though the air is cold. Even allowing for the exertions of dragging your enormous bulk around—”

  “Come now!”

  “—this suggests that the weight of the brougham itself is heavier than normal. I also noticed the thickness of the doorframe as I got on. This vehicle is armored. Given that you came from your club, it must have been waiting for you, so it and the bodyguard driving it are available to you on a constant basis. Which can only mean—”

  He hesitated.

  “Say it,” said Mycroft.

  “That you are under threat of assassination,” concluded Sherlock.

  “Your reasoning is sound,” said Mycroft.

  “How may I be of help?” asked Sherlock.

  “By staying out of danger and giving me one less worry,” said Mycroft. “Not to mention one less reason to expose myself.”

  “Then I am sorry that I put you at risk,” said Sherlock.

  “Oh, it was worth it to see you behind bars,” said Mycroft, chuckling. “I would have gladly paid to see that, and there it was, gratis. Here we are. Montague Street. We’ll drop you at the corner, if you don’t mind.”

  “One more thing. This club—”

  “Yes?”

  “Why Diogenes? Wasn’t he the fellow with the lamp?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What does searching for an honest man have to do with silence?”

  “Because in my experience, the only honest men are the ones who never speak. Good night, little brother.”

  Sherlock stepped down. The driver closed the door, climbed onto his seat, and flicked his reins. The horse dutifully trotted away. Sherlock noted the click of the lock on the door as it did.

  He walked to his tiny office and rooms and spent the rest of the night scrubbing the blood from his clothes.

  In the morning, he staggered to his feet and looked in his mirror. His nose was swollen, and a large, dull purple bruise had taken up residence under his left eye. He sighed, then walked into his sitting room. A bit of white poking under the door caught his attention. He reached down to find a plain envelope addressed to him with neither stamp nor seal to indicate its origins.

  He brought it over to the window to inspect it more closely, then sniffed at it. Neither sense provided him with any information, so he slit it open.

  Inside was a folded note and a small, thin piece of cardboard.

  “You need to have a night out. M,” read the note.

  Below was an address in Wapping and the time of eight o’clock. The cardboard was a printed ticket, reading, “ADMIT ONE BRETT’S VARIETY.”

  Either a joke, or his brother’s whimsical invitation to skating lessons, thought Holmes. Well. It wasn’t as if he had other plans.

  Despite the Dock Street address, Brett’s Variety
was as far from the Thames as one could be while still being in Wapping. Access to the venue was gained through a tavern called the Admiral’s Rest, the sign mounted on a ship’s wheel over the entryway.

  In front of it, a boy was passing out handbills.

  “Come one, come all, to Brett’s Variety Show!” he shouted. “See Captain Ferdinand and his amazing talking parrot, Chu-Chu, who speak seventeen languages between them! Laugh at the knock-about antics of the Condolini Brothers as they put life and limb at risk for your amusement! Wonder at the miracles of that master illusionist of the Orient, Doctor Thaddeus Wang! Let your auditory senses bask in the beauteous voice of Signora Flavia Trattelli, direct from the great opera houses of Italy, and that sensational, scintillating songstress, Mademoiselle Susan Brett, singing her popular comic ditty, ‘The Boy Who Rows on the River!’ All under the hilarious supervision of Chairman Piggy Watts with the frequent and uproarious interjections of Tyrone Brett, the Man of a Thousand Disguises! Sixpence for the floor, nine for the gallery, where anything can happen! Come one, come all!”

  Holmes made his way through the crowd milling about the entrance. A man sat a a table, yelling, “Tickets! Getcher tickets here!”

  Holmes held his up and the man waved him through and turned his attention back to the entryway.

  The bar was a good thirty feet in length, with two bartenders in a whirl of pouring and serving. Holmes reluctantly parted with enough coin to purchase a pint of porter, then followed the other customers to a door at the rear. A boy in a pale blue uniform looked at his ticket.

  “Main hall, table three at the right,” he said, handing him a programme.

  The hall was perhaps seventy feet across and crammed with small tables. Gaslights on sconces lined both walls underneath galleries that were divided into private boxes. There was a small stage with a red curtain embellished with gold trim, and a cordoned-off area for the musicians. An upright piano faced the stage; to its right was a trap kit containing not only the usual percussion but a variety of wood blocks, tiny cymbals and bells of varying sizes, and a set of black wooden castanets mounted on a tray. Behind the kit was a pair of kettle drums. An eight-foot high bronze gong hung ominously from an elaborately carved red lacquered frame. To the left of the piano was a solitary chair and music stand.

  Holmes sat at his table and sipped at his porter, which was watery. A barmaid immediately appeared.

  “Take your order, sir?” she said.

  “What’s on the menu?” he asked warily.

  “Cheese, mutton, kippers, meat pies—” she rattled off.

  “Cheapest, least likely to kill me,” he interrupted her.

  “Hard to have both,” she said, winking.

  “Cheese and bread,” he said.

  “Another?” she asked, pointing at the porter.

  “Might as well,” he muttered.

  The hall was filling rapidly. It could hold maybe three hundred on the main floor, and another seventy or so in the galleys. The private boxes held four seats that had actual cushions and upholstering, as opposed to the plain wooden bench on which he sat.

  Some gaudily dressed women were making their ways through the galleries, appearing in the boxes to whisper to the top-hatted gentlemen sitting in them. Holmes saw one of them nod, then lean forward and draw the curtains, concealing the box from view.

  Disgusting, thought Holmes. The shamelessness of them, to operate like that in full sight of all the world.

  One of the more brazen women actually had the temerity to ply her wares in the main hall. She was also older and less attractive than the others, but sashayed regally through the crowd in a dark red gown that was cut low over a more than ample bosom. Her neck was concealed by a choker whose many layers of pearls were no more real than her virtue, and her hair was of a red never found in any Nature known to this world. Her features, coarse and unattractive, were heavily rouged and powdered. Her lips gleamed blood-red, and her eyelashes would have been at home in a colony of tropical spiders.

  She must have been known to the regulars, for there were many saucy exchanges between her and the less inhibited. She gave better than she got, and her laugh when she was caught by surprise was raucous and hoarse, echoing through the entire theatre. The other patrons turned in their seats to watch her.

  Holmes, on the other hand, turned away, avoiding any inadvertent eye contact that might draw her attention.

  It had the opposite effect. Before he could say anything, she was upon him, plopping her not inconsiderable heft onto his lap.

  “A fresh one at last!” she cried. “You remind me of the first man who ever loved me, whose kisses brought me so much joy, whose caresses sent me into such flights of ecstasy that it was all we could do not to tumble out of the confessional!”

  “Madam, I am not interested,” he protested.

  “Not interested?” she exclaimed in disbelief. “Do you not know who I am? I am the Comtesse Scirroque de la Flamme, the greatest courtesan ever known. Why, Napoleon himself wrote me the highest references. He had to stand on a ladder to make them.”

  “Napoleon?”

  “Well, he told me he was Napoleon,” she sighed. “He was not the first who ever gave me that name. A plague upon these short men! Oh, good sir, will you not help me revive the passions of my salad days? Youth must be served, and I am your waitress.”

  “I am not—”

  “Let me at least show you the menu,” she growled.

  “Please, leave me alone,” he muttered.

  “Rejected once again,” she said, almost sobbing. “Oh, to be an aging beauty in these perilous times. Young sir, you have no idea what it is like to be me. If only you could truly feel what is in my heart. Wait—maybe you can!”

  And with that, she took his hand and pressed it against one massive breast. Holmes turned beet red as the crowd, fully absorbed in his predicament, howled.

  There was a rapping noise from the stage. A corpulent man in a checkered suit with a purple waistcoat stood by a small desk, a gavel in his hand. He banged it again.

  “You, there,” he said, pointing at Holmes’ unwanted companion. “Cease these disruptions!”

  “No one has disrupted yet,” she called. “Must have lost me touch.”

  “My dear lady—”

  “I’m not so very dear,” she said. “My rates are more than reasonable.”

  “No matter how low, too much by half,” he said. “Now, I must ask you to leave so that the entertainment may commence.”

  “The entertainment will commence the moment you retire from the stage,” she sniffed, and she flounced out to the applause of the crowd and Holmes’ great relief.

  “I apologize, ladies and gentlemen,” said the Chairman, bowing. “You are here for the theatre, not to be the recipients of unwanted overtures. And speaking of unwanted overtures, Maestro Hardwicke, if you please!”

  The pianist, who with a trumpet player and a drummer had taken his place during the colloquy with Holmes’ tormentor, raised his arms high in the air, then brought them down into a thundering tremolo as the drummer crashed his sticks into every cymbal in sight. Then the trio launched into a rapid series of phrases that chased one another from the trumpet to the right hand of the pianist.

  Holmes found much to admire in the musicians, but there was something missing in the arrangement. An imbalance somewhere. They finished before he could put his finger on what bothered him, then played a fanfare.

  Captain Ferdinand’s parrot Chu-Chu turned out not to be a parrot at all, but a clever puppet whose squawking voice and language proficiency were provided by the captain himself, a skilled ventriloquist. Chu-Chu kept provoking his beleaguered master while throwing jibes at members of the audience.

  The Condolini brothers followed, four men dressed as dockworkers against a backdrop showing a dock by the Thames. With an assortment of barrels and a very rickety cart, they performed feats of tumbling and balancing, interspersed with pratfalls and blows from an artfully wielded
plank swung with seeming obliviousness by the youngest as he pivoted this way and that, ignoring the shouts of the others. The plank turned into a seesaw after he leaned it against one of the barrels. When he casually stepped on it, two of his brothers leapt onto the other end, flipping him into a double somersault before he landed on the shoulders of the remaining man.

  Holmes applauded enthusiastically, wondering if these were the skills he had been sent to acquire. Maybe if—

  “Shame!” cried a man coming down the aisle. “Shame upon all of you! Miscreants and sinners, idolators and wastrels!”

  Holmes turned to see an elderly, red-cheeked minister storming down the aisle, his prodigious mutton-chops shaking with indignation.

  “Reverend Sneerwich, must you continue to plague us?” asked the Chairman wearily.

  “If there will be a plague upon this house, it will be one sent by Our Lord Himself!” shouted the reverend as he stormed up the steps to the stage. “Look at you! Why are you not at evening prayers?”

  “It is not Sunday,” said the Chairman.

  “Every day is the Lord’s day. And many of you are imbibing, partaking of the Demon’s Rum—”

  “Demon’s beer for most of them,” interjected the Chairman.

  “That’s the Devil’s Beer,” said the Reverend. “The Demon’s Rum, and the Devil’s Beer—”

  “Who is responsible for the whiskey?”

  The Reverend took a deep breath.

  “Fine. The Demon’s Rum, the Devil’s Beer, the Archfiend’s Whiskey—”

  “And the wine?”

  “Look, confound you, I am trying to save their souls!”

  “Too late!” shouted someone from the galleries.

  “No, it is never too late!” cried the Reverend, pointing to him. “I am not pleading for abstinence, brothers and sisters. Why, I myself—”

  The audience chimed in with the “Why, I myself.”

  “Why, I myself occasionally will have a tiny nip, a wee dram, a flagon, perhaps an entire jeroboam as I did just before the show, to give me the courage, one might even say the Dutch courage, to set forth into this din of inequity . . .”

  “That’s den of iniquity,” said the Chairman.

  “Is it indeed?” exclaimed the Reverend, staggering and clearly drunk now. “That makes so much more sense. And you up there, with your loose women—”