The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories, Part VI

by David Marcum

  The Exorcism of the Haunted Stick

  by Marcia Wilson

  Inspector Stanley Hopkins (Second Class, NSY) jumped out of his cab and straight into the watery path of a groaning four-wheeler. His walking-stick flailed and he swayed, bright-cheeked with the effort of surviving so soon off his sickbed. Not having the luxury of a uniform’s respect, he faced the derisive hoots of sailors before PC Hickey sent them off with a swing of his truncheon.

  “I was going to show them my warrant card.” Hopkins smiled reproachfully. “But thanks for the rescue.”

  Hickey chuckled. “Best they see me and not you - you might have to go in mufti and sort ’em out at the wharves later. Headed to the show?”

  Hopkins patted his coat pocket. “Ticket’s safe and sound.”

  “You’ll tell us how it went?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Fair enough! Give Mr. Holmes a salute for me, as I have my duty here for Hallowe’en.” And with cheerful resignation to his responsibilities, the old Bobby continued on his slow, long-legged stroll through his twenty-mile patrol.

  Hopkins yanked down his bowler until it was headache-tight. Thus armed against this dying day, he turned his back on the kerb and hurried down a crippled looking alley, glass-smooth from generations of furtive foot-pads. As he’d suspected from his mental map of London, this had been a fine old road back in its heyday and the quarter-sections were still tight. He aimed for the crowned centre where the wet was least likely to threaten his shoes, nimbly skipping from high spot to high spot through a muddy sea of water with all the skill of his pluvian childhood in the marshes. He was panting by the time he came out of the alley to the open courtyard on the other side, for this was a sport of the hale and hearty, not a fellow just out of his sick-room.

  Tiny charcoal fires smoked his nostrils. Here the beggars lived meekly in cleverly contrived rags, selling food and drink and being a part of the “authentic” sights of London. Amongst these folk, the older Nutcracker Night was chosen over Hallowe’en, and its proofs steamed in the heavy paper bags of filberts. Children lolled before their elders with amazing wares: Root-crops too woody for even the donkey’s tooth had been painfully hewn into leering lanterns, a farthing each with an extra farthing for a candle. (Tuppence for enough severed vegetable heads to decorate your house.) Hopkins shook his head at a mangel-wurzel cut to look like John Bull, smirking around a toy cigar at a stack of grinning purple Moorish carrots as large as anything from the farms at home.

  Ten minutes later he was wheezing and leaning on his stick for more support than his poor holly’s wont. Too much weight from the top made the bottom slip and he had to catch himself from falling into the filthy street. Foolish Crane, he thought to himself. Keep the stick on level or above with your own feet if you don’t want to spill like milk! There would be no justice if he was sent straight back to the Crow.

  His new freedom threatened to go to the young man’s head. The weather had been rotten for weeks and London had decided to trade all the sun with cold, and he wanted nothing more than to leave it all for a warm, dry room and the hope of a hot drink. Night was coming fast and he’d misjudged his driver’s ability to get him here on time. Not his fault, really, and he couldn’t blame the man for sticking to the High Street. On Hallowe’en Night, it was better to lose a fare than risk a mischief. He couldn’t see it, but he could smell the choking reek of rotten eggs.

  At last his way took him to a crumbling flight of concrete that marched with some awkward success into a weighty stone building, past which a petitioner must appeal to the good graces of a sour-looking concierge inside a tiny stone kiosk upon the top of the steps. Far overhead loomed in heavily-painted lettering:

  DANISH LECTURE HALL

  This was almost forty years defiant of fashion, and flaking at its tips and the oblong splotches of the ornate tittles and diacritics. In concession to the offered lecture, hollowed lanterns piled at the bottom and smiled with a false impression of kindliness. Ivy swarmed up the sides of the poorly-aged architecture with a surly enthusiasm. In the cracks and crannies gaped dour craters where the vines had been ripped out by the roots to allow the opening of the double doors.

  It was the sign above the doors and below the hall’s painting that had Hopkin’s attention:

  MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES

  Consulting Detective

  Investigator of Crimes

  Dispeller of Superstition

  “Well!” thought Hopkins. This Hall wasn’t about to turn down any chance of sensationalism.

  The bored-looking concierge stamped and dated his ticket and returned the stub with a stern reminder not to lose it if he wandered “outseed” during the show and wanted to return. “No stub, no exceptions,” was the finish and Hopkins didn’t doubt it.

  On the other side of these doors lounged a white-faced, flaxen block of a man with icy blue eyes and a stubborn jaw. He was discoursing smugly to his complete opposite, a square-shouldered beanstalk with long jowls under bright yellow muttonchops. These were London’s Scotland Yard Inspector Gregson and the rurally-bred Morton, in his self-avowed “unofficial tweeds”. The rencontre parted and let the younger mate nip inside just barely ahead of an autumn gust. Leathery dry ivy spades and black needles from the yew settled upon freshly waxed floors.

  “Mind your step!” Morton called. “You could roll a store’s worth of candles offa this floor with a twist of twine!”

  “Bradstreet nigh broke his leg right just where you stand.” If something could make another man nervous, Gregson was helpful about voicing it.

  Hopkins coughed into his handkerchief and stuffed it far out of sight. “I’m not about to let a spill stop me,” he promised. “My thanks to whomever sent me the ticket!” He held up the stub like a trophy. “I’d just been cleared to leave my bedroom.”

  “Would you let that stop you?” Morton was genuinely curious.

  “Miss the chance to see Mr. Holmes explain away a ghost story? I’ll never be too sick for that!”

  Gregson sniffed. “Almost time. Let’s get to our seats.”

  “Almost time” meant Gregson wanted first pick, and the lecture hall echoed. The few already present were mostly plainclothes beat coppers, but they had taken the time to change into proud clean uniform coats and trousers. Hopkins saw a furtive sleeve-swipe across already-shining buttons and smiled to remember his own days of furtive final-touching-up before inspection.

  “Up here, gents!”

  The three twisted their necks to find Bow Street’s Mr. Bradstreet clad within his best frogged coat, looming over the polished rail of the balcony seats. A thin cigarette perched inside a gloved hand. “The view’s just as good up here. And we can smoke.”

  “Sold,” Hopkins breathed.

  “Who said we could smoke? We’ve never been allowed.” Gregson eyed the expensive brass ash trays in suspicion at their sudden promotion into a higher society.

  “Oh, that was one of the conditions for using the property.” Bradstreet rumbled. “They must be desperate to bring in some revenue.”

  “That’s just daft,” Morton sniffed. “Who wouldn’t be glad of Holmes as a speaker? I’m betting you the tickets were sold out as soon as they were printed.”

  “If you’re a betting man, I’ve got a more sportsmanlike stake for you.” Gregson grinned until his lips threatened to connect his ears.

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, yes. A pound says the Yard finally stumps Mr. Holmes with this case.” And he held up a freshly minted note to seal the challenge. “Fenwich’s holding the numbers. Odds are 2:1 in the Yard’s favour, and Holmes has been stove up. Barely out of his sickbed longer than you, you old Crane.”

  “That’s... awfully tight.” Hopkins protested.

  “I think we’ve got decent odds.”

  Morton joined
the deal. Bradstreet rolled his eyes and said things but finally threw in his share.

  “Well, Hopkins? Care to show your loyalty to the Yard?”

  Sweat perched upon the younger man’s brow, and he thought hard about either possibility. He also wondered about the fairness of betting against someone who had just recently recovered from a severe illness (not unlike himself). Loyalty challenged, loyalty won. He slowly pulled out enough from his purse to make the bet... and with a great deal of luck he could still find enough left in his pockets to pay for his trip home if he lost.

  “I’m not sure about this.” Hopkins muttered to Bradstreet on his right as they settled. “The advertisement just said we would watch Holmes dispel or prove a supernatural case within the Yard. There weren’t any more details than that.” He fidgeted with his hat in his lap. “What started all this?”

  “Our very own Assistant to the Home Secretary. The Old Maid himself.”

  “Eh? Braddon?”

  “The only,” Bradstreet said back just as quietly. On his other side, Gregson and Morton were having a warm discussion about the use of superstition in persuading a criminal into confession. They’d be up with this fight half-the-night if allowed. “Leastwise, Dr. Watson said Lestrade and Mr. Holmes cooked all of this up to settle their own grudges against Thems in Office what lets policemen put sloppy faith in the way of hard facts. Lestrade came over to visit when ‘The Bakers’ were in a fettle with British Justice, and rumour says they plotted it out over their cigars. Lestrade got to pick the case, but Holmes gets to pick the question.”

  “Oh, Good Heavens.” Hopkins caught his breath.

  Mr. Charles E. Braddon, Assistant to the Secretary of the Home Office, was a good enough stamper and signer of documentation, and that was why his post had been created during an era of too much paper and not enough manpower. Regrettably, his approach to policemen was, to be polite, lazy. If there was something suspicious, as say, in the local graveyard, a lackadaisical copper could excuse himself for not stopping to investigate by saying things like, “I didn’t want to disturb the dead.” Lestrade had been disgusted that a nasty smuggling ring had thrived despite strange sounds and activities because these only happened once a week, and the Bobby’s whining excuse was, “I couldn’t go look at the tavern, sir. It were a Sunday morn!”

  Lestrade’s efforts to have the man dismissed for dereliction of duty lasted as long as it took to get the complaint to Braddon’s desk. It was promptly rejected, as the Assistant to the Secretary felt it a bad thing to punish a God-fearing man who respected the sanctity of the resting dead. Naturally, all equally lazy and un-inspired policemen were now pulling out this excuse every chance they got in order to get out of doing anything extra within a mile of a cemetery, place of worship, or historic battleground.

  And Braddon was accepting the excuses.

  If Lestrade had been disgusted at this dilution of quality in the ranks, Holmes had found a sympathetic kidney in the case of Inspector Baynes. The Inspector still had to live down his now-famous words, “If it were the devil himself a constable on duty should never thank God that he could not lay his hands upon him.” Pressure from society groups had inspired Mr. Braddon to scold Baynes about his language. Baynes had bravely endured the blow to his career with a smile but the damage was done. He had been scolded by the Home Office. Workmanship, including Bayne’s willingness to climb a tree to wait in filthy weather, had been ignored.

  Baynes was one of the least-liked men on the Force, but as Inspector Gaye said, it was a poor reward for honest work.

  Baynes was not alone. Braddon’s strong beliefs were letting poorly-drafted reports go through, only to be tossed out of court. The Met took pride in viciously weeding out its dross, but Braddon was making this much harder.

  “Wonder which case it’ll be?” Morton broke in.

  “I have no idea. There are plenty to choose from.”

  “Lestrade’ll pick an impossible one. You’ll see!”

  “We’re not in Scotland, old fellow. ‘Not Proven’ isn’t valid south of the Wall.”

  Bradstreet snorted. “Be that as it may, Lestrade plays fair. He’ll find the worst case on the books, but that’s what Mr. Holmes asked to get!”

  “I’d say Lestrade is thinking about Holmes’s state of mind. Off to the country and its waters for almost a month! What can happen to your brain-works?”

  “Ah, hush. ‘The Baker’ always says crime’s a simple thing to solve. Here’s his chance to prove it.”

  “That’s not quite what he says, gents.” Sergeant Booth leaned forward to throw his note into the pot: “He says it is all simple if you observe.”

  “So?”

  “So how many people observe? That’s like your old sexton telling you to use your common sense as a lad... but how many of us lads had any common sense to go around?”

  Hopkins listened to the good-natured chatter around him. He toyed with the notion of going home with something extra in his pocket. It was a nice diversion as they waited for the opening hour.

  The air grew thick as many warm bodies added to the atmosphere. Hopkins frowned. It reminded him of his recent bedroom confinement. And it smelled. The young Crane had heard the phrase, “reek to high heaven” many a day, but on top of the sweating wool and leather, his nose netted the rising fumes of beef tea, cheap tobacco in forms smoke-able, chewable, and sniff-able, not to mention camphor, asafoetida, and the usual cherry bark and birch syrups. Down below, it was doubtless much easier; odors tended to rise with temperatures.

  Perfumes of humanity aside, Hopkins loved seeing things from above. The sea of shuffling men was mostly blue, but off the thumb he counted about one plainclothes copper for three bluecoats. The former had made as much effort to dress as neatly as their uniformed brethren. Helmets and hats perched on laps over piles of white gloves and thick winter scarves. Gregson was sipping from his little flask, which everyone knew held his tea, a much-stewed black leaf stronger than any liquor on the market.

  The last of the day slipped from the high windows, and the lecture hall plunged into gloom absolute against the puddles of orange candlelight in the lanterns. They were no longer in a building, but a cavern - and a poorly illuminated one at that. Grins, gibbers, and hand-cut winks in the jack o’lanterns cast living shadows against the solid matter, shifting and blinking.

  “This is just waiting to go up in flames,” Bradstreet grumbled for the fourth time.

  “But think of how much money the Hall saves,” Gregson teased. “None of those dangerous electric lights.”

  “Keep your taunts for Lestrade. He can appreciate them.”

  “Oh, he can not.”

  Everyone quieted as the lights by the curtain dimmed. The Assistant for the Secretary glided from behind the cloth and gently clasped his hands upon the podium.

  This was the first time Hopkins had ever laid living eyes on the man’s face. Perhaps it was the charged atmosphere of the Hall, but he thought the tiny photographs and newspaper-prints were too accurate: The man was so thin he looked stripped of flesh and stuffed in a suit. In concession to the importance of his station, he wore a dark blue the precise color of London’s blue clay. It set off the utter white of his face and hands.

  Dirty rumours whispered that Mr. Braddon had Marfan’s Disease. Hopkins had thought it an unkind thing to say about an unkind fellow, but he had to admit... that pointy head and those fingers knobbling around the sides of the podium fit the description. In this sea of flickering orange, Mr. Braddon was a candle himself: Dark-clad, thin, tapered, with the bone-white almond-shaped skull standing in for the shape of a white-gas flame.

  “Mary’s Gold, he looks like a corpse,” Bradstreet muttered. Hopkins hoped no one else heard.

  “Gentlemen of the Badge,” Mr. Braddon began. His pipe organ’s baritone rippled the nearby flames. “If I may have y
our attention please.”

  The silence rendered so absolute that anyone might believe they could hear the flickering of the candles inside the lanterns.

  Hopkins would later confess he didn’t remember much of Mr. Braddon’s speech. Despite the man’s hypnotic voice and measured tones, his words were in competition with the startlement of his appearance. Years after his retirement, the Crane would recollect this historic night. He would describe the contestants of the challenge and the lectern’s every detail... but poor Mr. Braddon’s carefully rehearsed words received barely a comment in his memory.

  Bradstreet elbowed the younger man hard in his ribs and Hopkins jumped in his seat. Everyone was leaning forward to see the rippling curtain.

  Applause took root as Mr. Lestrade stepped out and bowed to Mr. Braddon. Always determined to be his best, he was spruce in his finest suit. A leather notebook rested in one hand and a long, narrow bundle - such as one used to carry a billiards-stick - hung from its cord by the other.

  Only his closest compatriots knew Lestrade would really rather be elsewhere. A perfect Yarder was vain as a girl about his accomplishments, defensive of his mates to a fault, stubborn about closing a case, and reluctant to leave work for any reason, even if it meant collecting a medal.

  Lestrade tried very hard to be the perfect Yarder at all times.

  And Sherlock Holmes entered.

  Hopkins had heard the table-talk of his collapse. Everyone had, and they knew it was the real sickness, not something made up for a disguise. No actor could ape that pallor, or take those pounds off his bones. The barber and tailor managed to soften his skeleton under a dove grey suit and that helped... but Hopkins knew what “The Baker” looked like on an ordinary day, and what he saw held poor resemblance to that long-familiar figure that lounged by his fire as the copper gave his story.