Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  He weighed his next words very carefully. “And are you allowed to have visitors there?”

  She gave him that smile again, and it quite warmed him to see it. “Not usually. But exceptions can be made. I needn’t tell you of all people where to find me, should you ever travel that way, should I, Mr. Holmes?”

  He smiled. Another test.

  “It has been my pleasure to have made your acquaintance, madam. I expect we shall see each other again someday.” He bowed. There was no need to wish this woman safety in her journey—she carried her own well enough.

  She nodded. “Until we meet again, Mr. Holmes, farewell.”

  She slipped out of the room like a shadow, like a wraith, and was gone.

  Holmes sat back in his chair and attempted to return to his reading of crop statistics in South Africa, but his concentration was less than it should be. After a moment, he heard Watson’s snoring stop abruptly. A few seconds later, his friend padded into the doorway, dressed in his nightcap and gown, ratty slippers shuffling over the wooden floor. He stuck his head into the room, glanced about, and frowned.

  “I say, Holmes, did I hear you talking to someone in here?”

  He tugged the shawl about his shoulders again; despite the fire, the room had grown much chillier. There were a few adventures—a very few—over the years that had not found their ways into Watson’s catalogs. Usually for reasons of national security, for the safety of the realm. And, even more rarely, for the safety of mankind.

  He answered his old friend’s question. “Only the woman of my dreams, Watson.”

  “Humph.” Watson eyed him a moment, then yawned, turned, and shuffled back to his bed. “Well, good night, then, Holmes.”

  Holmes smiled. Yes. A very good night, indeed.

  A Case of Royal Blood

  STEVEN-ELLIOT ALTMAN

  It all began with a curious cable that found me one damp February evening as I lounged at my favored haunt, the Turkish baths at 33 Northumberland—one of the city’s more discreet and solicitous establishments. Instructing the valet to fetch my clothes, summon my coach, and remove a shilling from my coat for his service, I towelled off and reread the cable, striving to believe its content and origin. It read:

  Dear Mr. Wells,

  Your attendance is requested in an investigation of grave importance to the Royal Family of the Nederlands. Please consult S. Holmes posthaste regarding your willingness to participate.

  Sec. to H.M. Emma of Waldeck-Pyrmont

  As we rumbled across the poorly tended stones toward Regent’s Park, in the flickering glow of the gaslight, I read the note yet again, wondering what could possibly require my attentions in relation to the notorious Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man famed throughout Europe for his keen investigative prowess. I, a mere teacher and author of fiction, barely knew the man, save for the few occasions on which we’d suppered together with our mutual friend, John Watson, and the knowledge I shared with all Londoners regarding his casework as detailed in the Daily Press. Watson’s recent marriage and homeownership had demanded he take up his civil practice once more, and I wondered if Holmes was simply desirous of company—the cable a mere fabrication.

  The coach ground to a halt before the illustrious lodging at 221B Baker Street and I leaped out with a wave to my man to await my return. I rang the bell and was admitted by Holmes’s housekeeper, who’d been informed of my probable arrival. She led me to the study, where I warmed my hands by the fire and took note of the man’s desk, cluttered to the point of overflow. The room held the stale scent of pipe smoke and the heavy drapes gave one the impression of a funeral parlor. On the table by an armchair, beneath a precariously balanced candle, was a bound edition of my latest novel, satisfyingly dog-eared and well thumbed—placed to flatter and conciliate, I suspected, but not distastefully so.

  A light footstep announced the arrival of my host: gaunt of frame, hair tousled, adorned in a purple dressing gown and Persian bedroom slippers. The keen eyes and sharp features of his face were exactly as I’d recalled, though there was now a weariness about him I attributed to a lack of sleep. “Wells,” he exclaimed, in a tone at once familiar and matter-of-fact, “it’s quite good of you to come ’round so quickly at such a late hour.” He shook my hand firmly, then drew forth a case of Burns & Hill and offered one to me.

  “What the devil is going on, Holmes?” I demanded, accepting the offer.

  “Come, come, Wells,” he responded, striking a match and lighting both our cigars. “I know you well enough; you must be brimming with curiosity. And it may be the devil indeed. Please sit.”

  He pulled his armchair to face mine and, with the firelight flickering across his brow, grinned a sardonic smile. “I see you’ve been hard at work on your next novel, and well paid on the last. You’ve also been to the baths on Northumberland within the hour.”

  “Talking to my publisher, I assume? And employing your usual network of irregulars?”

  “No,” he replied. “I simply took note of the fresh ink on your shirt cuff and the Glenfiddich on your breath. Not a poor man’s drink. I’ve only smelled that brand of talcum used in two places here in London: one a brothel in Camden—the sort you’d steer clear of—and the baths at 33 Northumberland. Your fingernails are impeccably clean.”

  He retrieved two short glasses and a silver flask from the mantel and placed them on the table between us. I motioned my disinterest, as I’d already imbibed my fair share for that hour and expected soon to be in the company of my wife.

  “I’m adequately impressed, Holmes. Now do please explain the contents of the cable before I burst into flame with anticipation.”

  Holmes sat back and steepled his fingers. “As I’m sure you’re aware from Watson’s rather elaborate dramatizations of my casework, I do not accept cases which do not fit my own personal criteria. They must be of an unusual or fantastic circumstance not readily solvable by even the most experienced investigator, and the nature of the crime must fall within the higher order of darkness. Petty crimes are always tediously boring to solve, and invariably commence from poverty, greed, or unrequited love. I am only interested in purer evils, the ones that at first appear to defy logic or morality, crimes that trickle down from an arcane, yet quite mortal source, that I’ve yet to unmask.”

  “I applaud your purpose, Holmes. And I presume that this business in Holland presents such a case?”

  “Yes,” Holmes replied.

  “And what is the crime?” I asked.

  “Attempted murder on a member of the royal family, reportedly facilitated by a poltergeist.”

  I sat forward in my chair and requested the drink I’d refused. Holmes poured a double scotch. “Poltergeist, you say? Do tell me you disbelieve in such things.”

  He fixed me with a sobering stare. “Do you believe in such things, Wells?”

  “No, I do not, though as you know well from our conversations, the study of occult sciences and myths constitutes the foundation for much of my fiction.”

  “Ah!” Holmes exclaimed, the firelight dancing across his gray irises. “Exactly the point, my dear Wells, and the first on the long list of the reasons I wish to recruit you: your thorough knowledge on the subject matter and your simultaneous skepticism as to its validity. I do believe, from the details I’ve received thus far, that a murder has been attempted and a second attempt is imminent. All participants believe a haunting is involved—and that belief is enough to color every aspect of the aforementioned crime. Our job is to expose and undermine the falsehood of the claim and apprehend those responsible. Not to mention, the young Princess Wilhelmina is apparently a fan of yours. Will you come to Holland?”

  “Are you quite sure that my knowledge will be of use?”

  “What is a poltergeist, Wells?”

  “As I’m sure you’re aware by picking up your Britannica, poltergeist is a German term, polter meaning ‘noise’ and geist meaning ‘ghost.’ A poltergeist is a disembodied spirit with malicious intent. However, your
studied occultist would find this an appallingly meaningless and generic term, with little use for taxonomic purposes and of no use whatsoever in application. I myself could list over two dozen varieties of dark denizens specific to the mythos of Holland, but first I’d need to know a great deal more regarding the events witnessed. What did they see? Who saw it and when? Could be anything from a mischievous Kobold to a charnel-house Fetch. What events were recorded prior to—”

  “Yes,” he said, cutting short my explanation. “I’m quite sure you’ll be of use. Pack enough for no less than a week. And be sure to bring rain gear; the weather in Holland makes London look positively balmy. We depart tomorrow morning from the port of Harwich for Rotterdam.”

  And with that he rose, shook my hand vigorously, added, “Thank you, Herbert. I believe you shall find this a most inspirational journey,” and bid me good night.

  Upon reentering my coach, I glanced back toward his window as someone began playing the violin with tremendous fervor—a somber work by Liszt. My coachman snapped the reins and we careened east toward Whitechapel. I had little time to contrive how I’d explain this sudden venture to my wife.

  The captain of the Dutch steamship Dordrecht gave us free run of the vessel, assuring us his personal service. The pound sterling was then high against the gulden, but the discrepancy was of small consequence, for we were now guests of the Crown, and I had to prod Holmes to allow us to be treated as such. Holmes appeared to know little of earthly pleasures, and to be disinterested in the fineries that wealth could provide. I envied him his bourgeois contentment. The trip across the Channel was calm-weathered and uneventful, leaving us a good deal of time to lounge on deck and discuss a host of Dutch political intrigues.

  “Holmes, I must admit that I’m not at all familiar with the current royal family, aside from King Willem and his—ahem—somewhat younger bride, Emma,” I admitted with some embarrassment. “Please do identify the players.”

  “Understandable, Wells—it’s not until the world is at war that we look past our own doorstep. Her Majesty Emma of Waldek and Pyrmont, our gracious host, is indeed forty-one years the king’s junior, and she is in fact his second wife.”

  “Ah yes, the first one was Sofia. Rumor had it he beat her,” I said.

  “Never trust conjecture, my dear Wells, especially with the Dutch. They’re a proud and protective lot.” He motioned me to observe an elderly couple who had overheard my comment and now proceeded to cast angry glances our way.

  “Point taken, do carry on,” I said.

  “Queen Sofia bore Willem three sons: Prince Nicolaas, Prince Frederik, and Prince Alexander. Frederik died at age seven—meningitis. He was reportedly misdiagnosed by the court physician, and when Sofia requested a second opinion the king refused her. When the child died, Sofia left the king quite hastily and returned to her native Württemberg.”

  “Bully for her,” I cheered. “But surely there must have been some reconciliation—there was a third child.”

  “Indeed, Wells, there was: Alexander, one year later. Her Majesty was known to be rather ill-tempered, vengeful, and capricious, alienating the children from their father. It’s also a little-publicized fact that she was King Willem’s first cousin.”

  “Scandalous,” I said, a trifle louder than necessary, to Holmes’s chagrin.

  “The surviving princes gave Holland their fair share of scandal as well,” he continued, “before their mother died of an undiagnosed illness in the summer of seventy-seven. Then the king took up with young Emma, which deepened the rift between himself and his sons. Nicolaas took up residence in Paris and Alexander left for Switzerland. A year later, Emma gave birth to a daughter.”

  “Pretty little Princess Wilhelmina. Must be eight or nine by now.”

  “See that, Wells—you’re not as uninformed as you’ve let on.”

  “And it is this young princess who is the subject of our attempted murder and alleged haunting.”

  I rose and stood by the ship’s railing, rows of windmills now apparent in the distance like blackened pinwheels lined along the shore. I recalled from my grammar-school lessons that over half the country lay curiously below sea level; the Dutch engineers having masterminded the colossal system of canals, dikes, and mills to bleed the excess water from the pilfered soil and raise the sunken earth. Now they waged constant war to keep the sea from reclaiming the country.

  “All right, Holmes, I’ll take the bait and surmise that it’s one of the princes who has promulgated this fictitious haunting, the obvious motives being jealousy and revenge.”

  “And you’d be quite wrong, my dear Wells.” Holmes joined me at the railing. “At least in the choice of culprit. Both the princes are already dead—Nicolaas in a duel over a woman and Alexander of typhoid fever.”

  Arriving in Holland was like stepping backward in time some ten years, both in the fashion and the overall lack of facilities. Of Dutch culture I knew little, save they were known to breed the shrewdest businessmen and they purchased a great deal of English literature at bulk discount. Though Holmes spoke a fair amount of Dutch, it became clear that the majority of locals were quite fluent in the Queen’s English and, unlike the French, were willing to exercise this facility in our presence.

  A first-rate coach with an armed escort of five men awaited us at the docks. Holmes was immediately recognized and greeted by a giant of a man, nearly seven feet tall and nineteen stone, called Jan Gent, with a short beard and a short line of patience. Although Captain Gent was the very pinnacle of military courtesy, it was clear by his tone and manner that he was distressed. “Welcome to the Nederlands. Your presence is immediately requested at the palace. Please come this way,” (my approximation of his full greeting to Holmes). Our luggage transferred, we clambered into the coach and were away from the port in minutes with the soldiers seated at their stations above. Passersby stopped and stood agape in wonderment; I deduced that soldiers bearing rifles were not usually seen in the thoroughfare.

  “Captain, is the general public aware that the princess has been threatened?” Holmes inquired of Gent.

  “We have done our best to keep the information close,” he replied in his coarse English. “However, I must assume there are rumors. Over half a dozen servants have quit the employ of the palace since this began.”

  Holmes nodded. “I’ll need a list of their names and particulars.”

  “Of course. Do you wish them all brought in for questioning?”

  “Bit premature for that,” Holmes said. “But I’ll keep that possibility in mind.”

  Holmes directed my attention to several key landmarks as the pungent wharf odor and rough cobblestones of Rotterdam quickly transformed into the pristine and well-manicured architecture of Den Haag, or The Hague, as we Englishmen call it. Noordeinde Palace, current home to the royal family, appeared on the terminus of a beautiful length of road, and rivaled the monumental splendor of any British royal’s accommodations. Huge arches of marble, fashioned in the style of the Romans, served to support the structure, while shielding the men and women who scurried below them from a cluster of gray-black clouds looming threateningly above.

  The coach ground to a halt at the front gate, and as the good captain unlatched the door for Holmes, a young girl of perhaps twelve broke away from the shadows and dashed toward us, a bundle of something outstretched in one small hand. In an instant our guards cocked their rifles, ready to discharge, and the captain drew his saber and held its blade edge threateningly close to the child’s throat. Dropping the bundle, the child burst into tears and lamentation. Holmes knelt, and retrieved a bouquet of tulips wrapped in linen. Once the guns were down, the saber sheathed, and the apologies made, the child was led away.

  “Certainly on edge,” Holmes whispered as Gent brought us up through the gates. At each twist and turn through the building, guards snapped to attention at our passing, their eyes fierce and weary from what Holmes surmised to be a lack of sleep, admitting he was well aware of the sy
mptoms.

  Our quarters were two adjoining rooms, the splendor and finery of which you can well imagine. We freshened ourselves and prepared for our audience with the queen. Gent reappeared soon after to convey us through the royal hall to the tearoom—a plush chamber unlike any other I’d spied as we passed, with fine European silk carpets, bookcases filled with well-worn volumes, a fireplace, crystal chandelier, and several comfortable chairs and settees. While we waited, the captain posting additional guards at each end of the hallway, Holmes and I silently observed the room.

  “Quite the atmosphere for a haunting, eh, Holmes?”

  “Indeed,” came a soft, commanding voice from behind us. We turned to face H.M. Emma of Waldek-Pyrmont, a raven-haired beauty of some thirty years, with rose cheeks and sensitive green eyes, adorned in a timeless gown that bespoke great wealth. She seemed to glide, not walk, as she came to stand before us.

  “Forgive us if we do not bend our knees, Your Majesty,” Holmes said respectfully.

  “No apologies,” she responded graciously, apparently pleased by the presence of Holmes. “You are subjects of an English queen. And now our honored guests.”

  “Dankuwel.” Holmes kissed her hand. “Wij zijn hoogst vereerd.”

  “U bent meer dan welkom, Mr. Holmes,” the queen replied. “Uw Nederlandsch es uitstekend.” Then, seamlessly switching to English, she added, “But do let us include your countryman, Mr. Wells. Sir, you are also quite welcome. And as you’ll soon see, my daughter is a tremendous admirer of your tale of The Chronic Argonaut. And as to our haunted atmosphere, I quite agree. Please sit.”

  Holmes and I sat in opposing chairs. The queen stepped before the fireplace, leaving her back to us, as if the story she was about to relate had offered her a sudden chill.

  “It was in this very room, gentlemen, that my daughter, Mina, was attacked. It was just past nightfall and she sat in the exact chair you’ve selected, Mr. Wells, reading alone by candlelight. The door was locked from the inside.”