The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  I noted that Mary had used “our” rather casually, assuming that her role would continue in this little drama. I have never given a second thought to standing by Holmes’s side in times of danger, but the idea of Mary being in harm’s way was not something I could easily accept.

  “I think you’ve done quite enough, Mary,” I said, perhaps a little too over-protectively.

  “Nonsense, John. I’ve taken up a role in this case and I intend to see it through.”

  “But - ”

  “No, Watson, she is quite right,” interjected my friend. “As unlikely that their conversation may have been overheard through a window, or by some unseen person in the shop, we still must let it play out. She will return to the store tomorrow with money for the medications which she will retrieve.”

  He quickly arose and went to the writing desk, taking up a pencil and jotting out a quick note. Rejoining us, he handed it to Mary.

  “You must give him this with your payment and list of drugs. Hopefully he will be able to comply and slip the items in with the medications. I shall arrange for John to pick you up at the same time tomorrow morning, if you will also please dress accordingly as you did today.”

  I looked over at the note he had written, once again in Latin. It seemed a strange request, but I knew that Holmes’s cases often turned on such trivial matters.

  “But why not go back today?” Mary implored. “To think of that poor woman and her son in the clutches of those fiends for another night...”

  “I sympathize, Mrs. Watson,” he replied. “But, we cannot rush into this situation blindly. Should our intercession be discovered too quickly, the results could prove devastating for Burbage’s family. We must set our plans and prepare our contingencies for the best chance of success if we are to rescue them unharmed. We also need to ensure the capture of these culprits so as to guarantee the future safety of our apothecary and his household.”

  Holmes saw us off, stating that he had several plans to arrange, and assuring us that he would again be on the scene in the morning. As Mary preceded me out the door and down the steps, my friend held my arm a moment and whispered in my ear, “Do be good enough to bring your pistol tomorrow, Watson.”

  Chapter Five

  The next morning John picked us up and we proceeded as we had done the day before. I was dropped off short of our destination while Mary continued on to Burbage’s shop. She later reported to me that her conversation went thus:

  “Good morning, Mr. Burbage, sir,” she greeted, with that same Cockney tone. “I’ve got sufficient funds now, and a list of them medicines from the doctor for you to prepare for my poor mum.”

  She handed over Holmes’s latest note and he read it carefully. Looking up at her, he nodded. “I’ve only one of this particular item,” he said, pointing to a specific request of Holmes’s. “The rest of that stock has been discontinued by the distributor, but you’re welcome to it.”

  Mary frowned, for she knew this was a critical piece of evidence Holmes wished to examine. Playing her part, however, she merely answered, “Well, I’ll take what you’ve got, along with the rest, and pray the doctor can make do.”

  Burbage stepped into the back and put his bundle together. When he emerged he handed it off to Mary and accepted her payment.

  “Good luck to you and the doctor, Miss,” he offered, with pleading in his eyes.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied. “I’ve no doubt the doctor and his staff will do their very best.”

  With an encouraging smile, she turned and began to leave the shop when our tweed-suited suspect walked in and bumped into her, knocking her bundle to the floor.

  By this time I was in a position across the street to see what had occurred. I started to cross but was waved off by John, the cab driver, who stepped down from his perch and strode into the shop.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” he said, taking the bundle away from the suspect who had retrieved it. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, bloke?”

  I should explain that John is not a man to be trifled with. He is nearly six-and-one-half feet tall, and a well-muscled specimen of mankind. Holmes says he used to be a prize fighter and I’ve no doubt of it.

  Our tweeded gentleman started to raise his cane at this rough treatment, but then thought better of it and apologized.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. My fault entirely,” he said grudgingly.

  Just then John snatched at the man’s hand which was slipping into his pocket and brought his arm up sharply. He took the note with Holmes’s message upon it from the fingers that were red from the pressure of the cab driver’s grip on the man’s wrist.

  “I’ll not have no one stealing from my passengers! I’ve a mind to call a constable. What say you, Miss?”

  Mary retrieved the note from John’s hand and spoke sharply as she waved it in front of the man’s face, “These are the doctor’s instructions for my mum’s medication. Why would you want this?”

  The man, now thoroughly cowed, stammered, “I was j - j - just curious. I’d never seen writing like that before.”

  “It’s just that fancy doctor’s language they use for medicines. And none of your business!”

  I’m afraid that Mary’s outrage at the whole kidnapping scenario got the better of her at that point. She slapped the fellow a solid backhand across the face and walked out, calling behind her, “Come, driver, Mum needs her medicine, and the doctor’s waitin’.”

  John, still holding the man’s wrist, shoved him roughly aside, followed Mary out and drove off.

  As we learned later, the suspect, thoroughly angered by now, walked over to the counter where Burbage had witnessed the exchange and smacked his elephant cane hard upon the top, rattling the merchandise laid out on display.

  “Who was that and what did you give her?” he demanded.

  Burbage, to his credit, stood his ground and answered.

  “Just who she said she was. A lady come to buy medicines recommended by her mother’s doctor.”

  Tweed-suit punched Burbage in the stomach with his cane. “Why the fancy writin’? What did he say?”

  Attempting to catch his breath, the apothecary gulped out, “Most medicine has a Latin name... and most doctors use the Latin when ordering. That way... common folk can’t come in and claim a doctor ordered something by giving me an order... in plain English.”

  “Well, you better not being trying to queer our deal, or your family will end up like this!”

  He pulled that day’s newspaper from his pocket and slapped it on the counter with the copy of a story written in Mrs. Burbage’s hand. The story started: “Family found dead in Soho flat...”

  The implication was plain and Burbage realized just how much he was betting on a detective that he had only read about in the pages of the newspaper.

  Having observed John’s interference on Mary’s behalf, I was relieved to find them on their way in his cab without being followed by the kidnapper assigned to watch Burbage. Following Holmes’s instructions, I passed through the back of the square, emerged on Elystan Place, and met Mary’s cab. She gave me the bundle which the apothecary had passed to her and I returned to the restaurant to join my friend.

  Holmes was again in disguise, but this time I was aware of it and sat down at a table with a gentleman in a grey stripe Mosely suit, with a brown waistcoat and brown felt derby sitting on an empty chair. His hair was of an orange-blonde shade with a walrus-like moustache to match. He wore a green four-in-hand tie whose knot was loose, allowing it to drape askew from his collar.

  We were in a dark back corner of the restaurant, unlikely to be noticed or paid attention to by the man in the tweed suit, should he drop in. I set Burbage’s bundle on the table and Holmes eagerly delved into its contents.

  “Only one,” he murmured in disappointment as he remo
ved a piece of paper from the package.

  “One what, Holmes?” I queried. “What is that?”

  “It appears to be the first note which the kidnappers had Burbage’s wife write to him.” Instantly he pulled a leather tool case from his breast pocket and began a minute examination of the paper, the writing, the ink, and all the peculiarities that might identify anything at all about it.

  Within ten minutes, he appeared to have gleaned all he could from this missive and I thought I saw a small grin of satisfaction appear beneath the huge moustache that he wore. He handed the bundle back to me and bade me to wrap it up again as he pulled a map from his other breast pocket and spread it upon the table. Even upside down, I could see it was of the area surrounding Battersea Park. His fingers splayed in the air above the picturesque rendering. At last, he tapped a specific point several times and said, “That’s it, Watson!”

  Turning the map in my direction, he told me where to meet our old friend, Scotland Yard Inspector Lestrade, who was waiting on the other side of Albert Bridge. He also gave me specific instructions to pass along and said to leave immediately while he awaited the daily rendezvous between elephant-cane man and his unremarkable partner.

  Holmes later described to me the steps he took when that brief encounter occurred. As the men sat together, Holmes emerged from the restaurant. This time he spoke to a nearby constable, then he staggered toward a cab at the same time as the tweed-suited man got up off the bench. Apparently the men were switching roles, but that had no effect on Holmes’s plan. Putting on his best drunken, slurred speech, with a bit of an Irish brogue, Holmes walked up to the cabbie’s horse just as our suspect boarded.

  “Miranda!” he cried, seizing the horses’ bridle and patting her nose. “Miranda, how’ve you been, old girl? I hain’t seen you since I left home for university.”

  “Hey, you!” yelled the cabbie. “Get away from my horse!”

  Ignoring the man, Holmes suddenly took off his necktie and tied it round the horses’ neck.

  “There, old girl, that be better. Now you look like my Miranda.”

  “His name’s not Miranda,” the cabbie cried. “That’s Prince Charlie and he is my horse. Now get off with you, you drunken fool.” He gave his whip a crack and the horse shied away from Holmes, necktie still in place, as the detective fell to the ground.

  The constable came over and helped Holmes to his feet, brushing him off. “I think you’ve enough to drink for one day, sir. Time to go home now or I’ll have to take you in.”

  “But that man drove off with my horse!” cried Holmes. “She’s was my horse all the while I was wee lad in Cork.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” replied the officer kindly. “That was a young colt, not an old mare.”

  He turned and signaled for another cab and talked to the driver quietly as he bundled Holmes into the passenger seat, apparently happy to be rid of another drunk off his round.

  Chapter Six

  In the meantime, I was rendezvousing with Lestrade on the Battersea Park side of Albert Bridge. He was easy enough to spot, being at the corner of Anhalt Road where Holmes had told him to wait. He was standing under a lamppost and smoking a cigarette when my cab approached. I bid the driver to stop and disembarked there.

  The inspector greeted me with a handshake. “It’s good to see you, Doctor. It appears Mr. Holmes has bitten off a bit much this time, to be asking for the Yard’s assistance.”

  I rankled slightly at the air of superiority shown by the inspector. Time and again Holmes had solved his cases for him, or kept him from serious error. Yet, still Lestrade could not acknowledge Holmes to be any more than an amateur.

  “Holmes, as in most cases,” I replied, “has chosen to bring to bear all the resources at his disposal, especially since lives are in danger and an arrest must be made. Do you have men at hand?”

  In answer, the Scotland Yarder pointed behind him to a Black Maria. “I’ve three constables, and they’re all armed per your friend’s request. Where is he anyway?”

  “He’ll be along shortly,” I answered. “In the meantime, these are our instructions.”

  I repeated what Holmes had told me before leaving the restaurant. Lestrade looked at me askance when I mentioned what we were to watch for.

  “A cab pulled by a horse wearing a green necktie?” he cried. “Are you sure he wasn’t overplaying his role and into his cups?”

  “I’ve known the man nearly ten years, Inspector,” I stated. “I’ve never known him yet to be incapacitated by drink. It is also very rare for him to be unable to bring about a situation which he desires. So I suggest we board your conveyance and keep our eyes peeled for just such a horse.”

  “Well, I never...” began the man. “All right, Doctor. We’ll give it a look for an hour, but if I find he’s wasted the Yard’s time, there’ll be hell to pay!”

  Lestrade climbed up next to the driver and I stood by the side door of the wagon, waiting as its pair of chestnut horses heavily sighed their steamy breath into the cool morning air.

  Not fifteen minutes later, a sight I’d wager was never before seen in London came into view. A cab with a black-as-coal colt wearing an emerald green necktie trotted across the bridge and passed in front of us. Lestrade was so taken aback that he hesitated several seconds before instructing his own driver to follow the hansom, but not too closely.

  The cab was already turning left onto Carriage Drive North, into the park, when the Maria pulled out onto the main road. By the time we made that same turn as the cab, it was out of sight on the winding roads which led to all parts of the park. We stopped at the first set of fountains, unsure of how to proceed. The inspector was all for going on, whereas I suggested it may be sensible to wait for the cabbie to return and simply require him to tell us where he dropped his fare.

  We agreed to proceed slowly, hoping for some sign of the cab. However, we were soon overtaken by a hansom with its horse at full gallop. The driver pulled up next to the Maria and Holmes disembarked, sans his wig and moustache.

  “Lestrade!” he cried out, “What are you doing here? Where is the cab you were to follow?”

  The inspector admitted that we’d lost the cab during the turns in the road and Holmes frowned. “That is most unsettling. I believe I know where they are going, which is why I was able to catch up to you. But that is based on data from several days ago, and the hostages may have been moved.”

  “How do you know where they were several days ago?” queried Lestrade.

  In answer, Holmes pulled a paper from his inner breast pocket. “This first note from Burbage’s wife has distinct clues as to the whereabouts of the paper. There are indications pointing to both a freshwater lake and a railway station in the smears, soot, sap, folds, and ink. I believe that she and the boy were being held in an outbuilding near the Rosary Gate, between the boating lake and the train yard at Battersea Park Station.”

  “Then let’s proceed,” said I, anxious for the safety of Burbage’s family.

  “We must approach carefully, Doctor,” said the great detective. “If the kidnappers sense danger, they will have the upper hand by using their hostages as shields.”

  He leaned against the hansom and steepled his long thin fingers to the bridge of his nose, thumbs tucked under his chin and eyes closed in deep thought for several seconds. At last he stood straight and cried to his cabbie, “Sir, I will require your cab for the next hour. Here is a sovereign for your trouble.” He tossed the coin up to the driver, who deftly snatched it out of the air. “You must stay with these officers and remain in safety.”

  He outlined a plan for us. He would drive the cab with Lestrade and me as passengers. The constables would follow a hundred yards or so behind in the Maria. When we approached the suspected building, one of Lestrade’s men would stay back with the cabbie in the Maria while the other two
would position themselves out of sight between the building and Battersea Park Station, so as to thwart any attempt to escape by train.

  We proceeded thusly, and within ten minutes we were approaching the Rosary Gate. Holmes slowed the hansom to a halt and pointed with his whip. “See there, gentlemen. That appears to be a storage shed for the railroad. Yet there is a steady plume of smoke rising from its chimney. It is not a likely building to be occupied, especially at this time of day, and in all other parameters it fits our criteria. Let us start there.”

  We signaled the constable driving the Black Maria behind us and the officers took up their assigned posts as we approached the building from a windowless side. Holmes pulled his bulldog pistol and I followed suit with my army Webley revolver. Rounding the corner to the front of the building, Lestrade and I placed ourselves on one side of the door, with Holmes on the side closest to the handle. Being an old-fashioned lock, my friend was able to kneel down and peek through the keyhole. After a few seconds, he stood again and signaled to us that the mother and child were by the chimney to the left and their captors were at a table in the center of the room. Holmes then slowly turned the handle and found the door unlocked. Nodding to us we readied ourselves and followed as he burst into the room.

  Holmes and Lestrade took up positions of confrontation to subdue the kidnappers while I placed myself between them and the mother and son, assuring them that we were there for their rescue.

  Our tweed-suited culprit had stood up quickly upon our entrance but froze when he saw our guns. His dark eyes darted about the room, which was filled with not only railroad supplies, but several boxes, likely containing the drugs that Burbage had been manufacturing.

  The other man remained seated at the table. He was stoutly built and wore the garb of a railyard worker. He was obviously the kidnapper’s connection to the use of this building and the shipment of the illicit drugs to destinations unknown. While he started at our entrance, his demeanor remained calm. His hands, however, had slid under the table, and did not bode well for the confrontation to follow.