In a voice loud enough for all to hear, Mycroft Holmes said, “Colonel Sir Ralph Richards, I would like to present to you a good friend of my brother’s, and our host for the evening, Doctor John H Watson.”
The Colonel and I shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. I looked carefully at this military man and was perplexed. He could be Holmes in disguise. He was tall and lean, but the uniform covered much. The cap and longish black hair, the large moustache and mutton-shop whiskers all seemed to disguise him quite well. If it was Holmes. I was not quite sure, especially after my run-in with the Reverend James, who was nearby and watching me closely as if I were some escapee from Bedlam about to go on the bonkers without a moment’s notice. I saw the Reverend take a careful step back. I sighed.
I was considering the possibility that the Colonel might just be Holmes in disguise when that party-crashing oaf, apparently fully drunk and now disorderly to boot, lost his balance and bumped me hard, pushing me with a wild fall into that Rafferty fellow. Well, that fellow got angry and pushed me back even harder. I lost my balance. There was a tussle, a confusion of arms and legs. I tried to apologize for my clumsiness, but just then other men got involved and curses and fists began to fly. I cannot explain how it all happened, but the Colonel, the large labourer, Rafferty, the Reverend, myself, and even Mycroft ended up in some confused mêlée of kicking feet and flying fists. When it was all over, the Colonel lay upon the floor apparently stunned. I immediately ran over to offer him medical attention—one military man to another. Mycroft quickly called over the men from Scotland Yard. I was shocked. Certainly as gentlemen we could work out this little mix-up among ourselves without bringing in the police?
I helped the Colonel to his feet, but just then the large labourer and that Rafferty lout firmly pushed me aside, away from the poor man.
“What is the meaning of this!” I barked.
“We’ll take it from here, Watson.” The voice of Sherlock Holmes spoke suddenly, though I did not see him anywhere. I looked quickly into the faces of the men around me but did not see him.
Mycroft just smiled.
The Reverend James glared at me.
Then I saw the Colonel briskly being handed over to Gregson and Lestrade by of all people that Rafferty fellow, who was holding up a wicked-looking knife that he had apparently found concealed in the Colonel‘s uniform. Rafferty held up the knife and gave it to Lestrade, saying, “’ere you go, the knife he planned to plant into Mr ’Olmes’s ’eart!’
I looked at him, aghast. What was the meaning of this? Rafferty was aided in this action by that large oaf, the party-crashing labourer. I barely knew what to make of it all. Then I heard the voice again.
“Over here, Watson.”
“Where?” I said and turned to look upon Rafferty. He smiled at me, showing blackened teeth, then he pointed to the large oaf beside him. The labourer. I did a double take.
“Hello, Watson,” the man said simply.
“Hello. Holmes? Is it truly you?” I asked in awe, watching as a miraculous transformation quickly took place before my eyes. The man I thought to be some heavy drunken labourer who crashed Holmes’s party for the food and rum, began to shed his disguise. I watched with astonishment as he suddenly withdrew multiple wads of padding from his waist to slim down appreciably. He became rail thin.
“Yes, good old Watson, it is I,” the man said. I watched with astonishment as he took off a fake nose, removed his faux whiskers, and withdrew something from his mouth that had distorted his entire face. The man before me was, in fact, my friend Sherlock Holmes.
“How? Why?” I stammered, full of questions. “And the Colonel?”
“Not the Colonel, but Miles Abercrombie come here to murder me,” Holmes explained. “I put the man away years ago and upon his escape he came here to pay me back in kind.”
I looked at my friend in awe, “I can’t believe it is you, Holmes!”
“Believe, Watson,” he said with a wry smile.
“And—that Rafferty fellow? Who the blazes is he? For a while I even thought he might be you in disguise,” I stated, now watching Lestrade and Gregson busy putting manacles upon the Colonel—I mean Abercrombie. Then two stout bobbies came to escort the man out of 221B and back to prison.
“Ah, yes, Mr Rafferty…” Holmes mused thoughtfully.
“Just Rafferty, if you please, Mr ’Olmes,” he blurted with a lopsided grin.
“Yes, Rafferty. Well, Watson, perhaps you remember Shinwell “Porky” Johnson from the Illustrious Client Case of two years previous? I did a bit of disguise work on his face as well but I am sure he must have looked familiar to you.”
“Indeed he did, Holmes, but I could not place him. So Mr Johnson was your partner in this case?” I asked, somewhat hurt by the realization.
Sherlock Holmes laughed gently, put his hand firmly upon my shoulder and said, “Good old Watson, no one can ever replace you, but I could not allow you to be placed in such jeopardy with Abercrombie running lose. In any event it was hardly a case at all. Porky is a hardened street tough and a good stout fellow in a brawl. I was sure I might have need of his skills to take down Abercrombie—before he took me down.”
“You were playing a dangerous game, Holmes.”
“Indeed, Watson, Miles Abercrombie is a deadly fellow, but your party scheme proved to be the ideal cover for what I had in mind. It all worked out quite well, allowing me to smoke him out of hiding where he could be recaptured,” Holmes stated. Then he added, “But I apologize for being so difficult with you about the party. Please be assured it was all done for your own protection. The less you knew about this little problem, the better for your safety—always a matter paramount in my mind, old friend.”
Holmes’s words touched my heart and they did much to assuage my anger over his actions the recent month. Now that he had taken off all of his disguise, he was the fellow I always recognized.
“Sorry, Watson, but when Mycroft sent me this intelligence I went to Lestrade to invite these men here. I do not like parties at all, but this one certainly went as I would have wished. By the way, I did rather enjoy your little speech, though it rang a bit too much like a eulogy for my taste. I thank you for your kind words, but I am not quite ready for retirement yet—permanent or otherwise.”
“Of course.” I smiled, then looked at my friend and asked, “Well, now that it is done, will you at least have a glass of rum punch with me to celebrate your fiftieth birth year?”
Holmes’s smile was broad and warm, “Why, I would be delighted, Watson. You know, you really have done a fine job on this party.”
“Well, Mrs Hudson helped,” I said as we clinked our glasses together. Then I said, “Happy birthday, Sherlock.”
“Thank you, John,” he said, and we downed our drinks.
There was then a brief moment of silence between the two of us, just two old friends, sharing a drink together.
Holmes smiled broadly. “I really must commend Mrs Hudson on her rum punch, it has quite the kick.”
“I had her make it especially for you.”
“Well, Watson, you and Mrs Hudson excelled with this party—in all of its aspects. I thank you sincerely.”
“It is nothing, my friend,” I replied, grasping his shoulder in good fellowship.
“No, it is very much something, and I truly thank you for it.” Holmes spoke softly to me, then in a much firmer voice he added, “Especially since this is the last time I will ever allow you to throw me a birthday party.”
“We shall see about that!” I replied with a laugh.
“Yes, we shall,” Holmes gently chided, “but for now let us eat a piece of that delicious-looking cake. I swear you have put Mrs Hudson’s homemaking abilities to the test this evening, but she has come through with flying colours, as usual.”
“Why thank you, Mr Holmes…” Mrs Hudson broke in with evident delight. For once it appeared she was getting the last word as she quickly passed my friend a plate with a large piece of ch
ocolate cake upon it. Then she gently kissed his cheek and said, “…and a very happy birthday to you, Mr Holmes.”
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ECCENTRIC INVENTOR, by Eugene D. Goodwin
It was early in 1891 when my friend Sherlock Holmes and I met one of the most unusual persons we’d ever encountered. That he was a genius is undeniable, though he was indeed an eccentric one. By now, all the world has heard of him; he invented many significant things that have had enormous impact upon modern society. His name: Nikola Tesla. When he entered our parlour at 221B Baker Street, he was just thirty-five years old, though we did not find that out till much later.
Mrs Hudson announced him. A tall man entered. He had the piercing, reflective eyes of one used to self-communing. He had a neatly-trimmed mustache and a smile replete with irony. His clothing was dapper and, I surmised, rather costly. “Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,” said he, “I am Nikola Tesla.”
We leapt to our feet, exclaiming encomiums to his undeniable genius.
With a smile, he thanked us. “I have not come here to dwell upon my achievements, though I think I may be excused for showing some little pride in various of my accomplishments. But the reason that I have wished to meet you both—yes, Dr Watson, I did say both! Your splendid histories of Mr Holmes’s adventures in The Strand are why I have elected to come here today. You see, gentlemen—now isn’t that an interesting word? It’s meaning is, of course, obvious, yet Shakespeare also equated it with ‘Gentile.’”
“Indeed, yes,” Holmes replied. “That would be in the fourth act of The Merchant of Venice. I’ve played the Venetian Duke, and it is he who speaks that line.”
Tesla nodded. “Correct. But I digress. The reason I am here—”
“Is because you believe something has been stolen from you.”
A bit of a gasp. “You are indeed this good doctor’s protagonist! Then you know—”
“Not all that much,” Holmes continued. “Merely that you do not live in London, but in New York—not the state—oh, sorry! Of course you do. What I meant—”
“Is that I make my home in Manhattan.”
“Thank you. Yes, at the New Yorker Hotel at—I believe—34th Street at Eighth Avenue.”
Tesla turned to me and said, “As delightful as your accounts are, they hardly do Mr Holmes justice.”
I laughed ruefully. “He has pointed that out to me on more than one occasion.”
“Well, sir,” Tesla said to Holmes, “I venture to suppose that you might be able to tell some other things about me?”
“Let’s see.” Holmes ticked off points on his fingertips. “One, you were born in Serbia. Two, you have invented—or, rather, discovered—alternating current. Three, you adore pigeons. Four, you live a spartan existence. And fifth and last, you seem to have acquired a formidable enemy.”
Our guest blanched. “Right on all counts. Of course, it is common knowledge where I was born and where I now reside. It is equally well known that I have brought about what is commonly referred to as—”
“A C,” I said.
“Yes, my good doctor. But to proceed, while my love for pigeons has often been noted and reported, my spartan existence, as Mr Holmes calls it, is not all that well known, for I am a rather private person. Yet I suppose some hint of my habits has appeared in print.” He took a deep breath. “But as for my enemy—”
Holmes held up a hand to forestall him. “Before we get into that, Mr Tesla, may I offer you a glass of wine or something stronger?”
“Thank you, but I do not drink. I used to once, but now I regard alcohol as unhealthy.”
“In that case,” Holmes said, “I doubt that you smoke, either.”
“Great Heavens, no!” He shuddered. “I would sooner take a shot of scotch. It is a habit surely injurious to one’s lungs and I think it can and has proven fatal.”
Holmes sighed. “Would it discomfit you if I lit my pipe?”
“No, not at all,” he replied, though I suspect he was not pleased at the prospect. As Holmes lit up and began to puff, he suggested we return to the question of Tesla’s enemy.
“It is a man whom I have known for perhaps five or six years. We began as friends, which he still pretends to be, and he—”
“—is Thomas—”
“Please, Mr Holmes, do not speak his name. But since you know who we are dealing with, how should we proceed?”
Holmes said, “Before I answer that, it would be helpful if we knew the nature of what has gone missing.”
“If I tell you this, may I be assured of your discretion?”
“Watson and I will never say a word about it, not even to Mrs Hudson.”
“Very well. It is a formidable secret weapon; it is not theoretical, it already exists.”
With a slight shake of his head and a deep sigh, Holmes said, “I am afraid that I must now inform you that your enermy is not the person you think he is. It is someone much, much worse. By comparison, your former friend is a bit of puff pastry.” He turned to me. “Yes, Watson, you are correct in your assumption.”
“Then both of you are aware of him,” Tesla observed. “What is his name?”
“For your own protection, I must not reveal that. The most that I may tell you is that he is a mathematics professor with the initials J M.”
“That tells me almost nothing.”
Holmes dashed out the contents of his pipe and somewhat acerbically replied, “You must trust me, sir.”
“Yes, but—”
My friend shook his head, but then added, “Mr Tesla, did you ever hear of a master criminal of many years back whose name was Jonathan Wild?”
A nod. “He was the inspiration for Mr Peachum in John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera, as well as the title character of Henry Fielding’s novel, Jonathan Wild.”1
“Correct. London thought Wild was on the side of the law. The man who arranged to steal your plans patterns himself on Jonathan Wild. He has organized nearly all crime in England, as well as Scotland and Wales, though not Ireland.” [Holmes didn’t explain how he knew this, but it is because Moriarty has an Irish brother who is a Catholic priest. Details are in “The Revenge of the Fenian Brotherhood,” transcribed by Miss Carole Buggé, elsewhere in this issue. –Ed.]
Holmes continued. “This professor covers his traces so well that even my brother Mycroft, who knows all that goes on in England, never heard of him till I gave him warning.”
Tesla shuddered. “How may we combat such a formidable foe?”
“We don’t. Anything that we do must be on as hushed a level as we can manage, and as inconspicuously as possible. Now I need you to provide further information regarding your secret weapon.”
Tesla did so (I cannot report the details), and then told us that he must leave for an appointment. “But before I do, there is one more thing I should like to know, Mr Holmes.”
“And that is?”
“However did you know that I came to you because something was stolen from me?”
With a smile, Holmes answered, “You place me in the position of a magician who must tell his secrets. When he does, the inquirer is almost certainly disappointed. I promise to answer you at a later time, if only to preserve the mystery a bit longer.”
Tesla accepted that and after shaking hands with us, our new client departed.
* * * *
Once we were alone, I said that I could have answered Tesla’s last question. “You learned that he was coming and why from your brother.”
“True, Watson.”
“Therefore you also know where to look for the stolen plans.”
“I am afraid not. Mycroft is working on it, but encouraged me to do so as well.”
I poured myself a cup of tepid tea. “This business is quite serious. You’ve told me—well, you practically threatened me about Moriarty.”
“But fortunately, Watson, so far I have only crossed his path once—I think it was during that business of the Naval Treaty, though I could be mistaken—but though my effor
ts frustrated the professor, he does not realize that it was I who was responsible.”
We later learned that this was one of the few times that Sherlock Holmes was mistaken.
* * * *
The next morning, Holmes disguised himself as a brick-layer, but before setting out he found little Jimmy Stuart, one of the most reliable of the Baker Street Irregulars (the ragamuffins who serve as Holmes’s secret eyes and ears).
“Master James,” he said to the lad, “I want you to scour the landscape for any rumours of offers to sell plans for secret weapons.”
“But, Mr ’Olmes,” said Jimmy, “that’s too big a job for me to do meself.”
“Quite right. Gather any of the other Irregulars you require to assist.”
The boy smiled. “Right-o, guv! We’ll report back as soon as we can.” And with that, he scampered off with more energy that I’ve had since I was a field doctor.
“Holmes, may I inquire where you are off to?”
“I have no idea.” He left and I did not see him until the following morning, when he appeared, hungry and in need of a shave.
“Good morning, Holmes. Were your efforts successful?”
“Too much so, Watson. There are at least seventy-five secret weapons on the market.”
Just then, in walked Jimmy. “Mr ’Olmes,” he said, “we’ve found seventy-five weapons up for sale.”
Holmes nodded. “So did I.”
But when they compared their efforts, Holmes learned to his dismay that not one of Jimmy’s seventy-five secrets were the same as the other group!
“This means,” Holmes groaned, “that we must compare all one hundred and fifty.”
They did so, and to our mutual relief, nearly all of them not only canceled each other out, but were clearly not Tesla’s weapon. This left only three secrets for Holmes to investigate.
He devoted himself to that labour all day. When he was finished, it was about 6:30 in the evening and he made the first order of business a request to Mrs Hudson for dinner. Well, she’d been waiting for him to say so and quite patiently, I might add—I have no idea how!
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 15 Page 12
