by Nick Kyme
CONTENTS
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One: A Night at the Ballet
Chapter Two: The Haunted Guest
Chapter Three: The Thief of Regent Street
Chapter Four: A Gruesome Exhibition
Chapter Five: The Mysterious Demise of Reginald Dunbar
Chapter Six: Rendezvous at the Running Horse
Chapter Seven: Insalubrious Pursuits
Chapter Eight: On the Subject of Vermin
Chapter Nine: The Figure in Black
Chapter Ten: The Thrill of the Chase
Chapter Eleven: A Forbidding Discovery
Chapter Twelve: A Royal Engagement
Chapter Thirteen: The Faceless Man
Chapter Fourteen: A Hurried Departure
Chapter Fifteen: Leaving the Metropolis
Chapter Sixteen: The Confession of Mr Derrick
Chapter Seventeen: One for the Noose
Chapter Eighteen: The History of Saint Agatha’s
Chapter Nineteen: A Question of Motive
Chapter Twenty: A Matter of Public Record
Chapter Twenty-One: The Secret of Church Row
Chapter Twenty-Two: A Grave Confrontation
Chapter Twenty-Three: The Sincere Account of Damian Graves
Chapter Twenty-Four: Gregson Rallies the Troops
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Stage is Set…
Chapter Twenty-Six: The Fate of Arkady Laznovich
Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Lingering Mystery
About the Author
SHERLOCK
HOLMES
The Legacy of Deeds
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SHERLOCK
HOLMES
The Legacy of Deeds
NICK KYME
TITAN BOOKS
Sherlock Holmes: The Legacy of Deeds
Print edition ISBN: 9781785652066
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785652073
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: October 2017
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Nick Kyme. All Rights Reserved.
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SHERLOCK
HOLMES
The Legacy of Deeds
CHAPTER ONE
A NIGHT AT THE BALLET
There can be no doubt concerning the genius of Sherlock Holmes. His cognitive acumen and mental acuity are so well developed that most humble professors of Oxford or Cambridge would appear lack-witted by comparison. I have seen him often make them appear thus. But, during my years as his companion and friend, I have learned that such a gifted intelligence carries with it a most debilitating burden. For Holmes’s mind, arguably his greatest virtue, is also his gravest curse. It hungers for knowledge, sated only by the sustenance brought by cases. Indeed, whenever Holmes found himself without problems to solve, he would descend into the most profound malaise of spirit, one that often saw him reaching for the cocaine syringe.
It was in the winter of 1894 that such a bout of melancholy led me to procure two tickets for the Royal Opera House, in the hope that a cultural distraction might at least prove briefly diverting for Holmes. Two seats in the gods was the best my modest purse could afford, but our opulent surroundings more than made up for a slightly compromised view of the stage, which presently was obscured from view by a red velvet curtain bearing Her Majesty’s royal crest.
“Ballet, Watson,” remarked Holmes. “Had I known this was the planned diversion I should have locked myself in my room and not emerged until this farcical notion of yours had run its course. At most I am in the mood for opera. Something German.”
“Had I not, Holmes, you would be embracing oblivion in your dressing gown and slippers, bemoaning the stagnation of existence and ruing the distinct lack of mental stimulation that has seen you not leave our lodgings for these last three weeks!”
Holmes turned sharply, his eyes alight with indignation in the gloom. “There is nothing wrong with my dressing gown and slippers!”
I sighed deeply, ignoring the frowns and mutterings of nearby patrons. “Ballet might not be the diversion you crave, but it has got you out of Baker Street, man, and therefore I shall consider it a success!”
“I shall judge its success upon the interval, Watson,” said Holmes. “Swan Lake…” he muttered, narrowing his eyes, “… oblivion would be preferable.”
“Holmes, could you please at least—” I began, exasperated, only for a gentleman in a gaudy maroon jacket and a shirt with attendant silk puff tie to glare at my half-formed outburst.
“Yes, Watson,” Holmes chimed in, glancing at me askance with his attention now on the stage, “do be quiet. The performance is about to start.” He leaned over to address the unhappy gentleman. “A surgeon,” said Holmes, as if it were sufficient explanation, “too used to hearing the sound of his own voice,” to which the gentleman nodded, favouring Holmes with a smile and me a remonstrating shake of the head.
As the lights dimmed, I sat back in my seat and thought that oblivion would indeed be preferable. For whom, however, I had yet to decide.
Mercifully, my irritation at Holmes was short-lived, thanks in part to the fact I am used to such bouts of “playful” humour from my companion, especially during his less genial periods of inactivity, and because, unlike Holmes, I found Swan Lake to be amply suited to my tastes and current mood.
I have no musical acumen per se, as opp
osed to Holmes who is an excellent violinist. Nor am I a follower of the ballet, but the art and narrative certainly ushered my thoughts towards a pleasant fiction.
Holmes, it seemed, had settled into silence at least, though I suspected his mind was engaged in analysis and observation rather than simple enjoyment of the arts. The tempo insisted by the conductor, and the adherence to it by his orchestra; the precise number of steps in each balletic movement; the true natures of the dancers, their relationships and vices; Holmes had an eye for such things, all of which would provide greater entertainment than the spectacle itself.
It was about halfway through the second act, and Prince Siegfried had encountered the Swan Princess Odette, when during a set transition the evening took a most unexpected turn. As the lights faded and a veil fell across the back half of the stage, there arose an almighty clatter. I thought at first I had imagined it, for the orchestra continued unabated, but when the veil began to lift again I saw the truth of it.
A woman, the White Swan herself no less, lay face down on the stage. Her limbs were splayed indecorously, and a slew of sand had spilled over the body from a burst hessian sack.
A steadily increasing hubbub took hold, until the orchestra fell silent by degrees and a stagehand who had run into the spotlight to investigate declared, “She’s dead! Miss Evangeline is dead!” prompting a rash of sudden exclamations from every onlooker.
In moments, the curtain descended so as to block the terrible scene from view.
Holmes had risen to his feet, a thin but certain smile turning his aquiline features. “Watson,” he proclaimed, “I do believe you were right about the ballet after all.” Then he shouldered his way towards the stairs.
I followed, as eager to lend my assistance in any way I could as Holmes was to learn of how such a tragic event could have come to pass. I suspected he hoped for something more heinous than simple misadventure. It is not that Holmes is a sadist, far from it—for he is as committed to justice and law as any man I have met—rather he anticipates the prospect of mental taxation succeeded by an act of foul play.
The backstage was in quiet uproar by the time Holmes and I had reached the stalls from the loftier heights of the gods, and we were only granted passage by the burly usher on duty by the virtue of my medical credentials.
“A doctor, man!” Sherlock Holmes exclaimed to the stunned usher. “Stand aside, sir!” Holmes gave me a near imperceptible wink, to which I could only sigh, as we passed beneath the curtain and into the shadows beyond.
A grim scene greeted us on the other side. A circle of performers, as well as numerous stagehands and hangers-on, partially surrounded the girl, who still lay prone. Her head turned slightly during the fall, I could see the poor girl’s face was decidedly slack and ashen. I needed neither my years of medical training nor my experience as an army surgeon in Afghanistan to know that she was almost certainly dead.
Once I had established my credentials I managed to breach the cordon and knelt down by the girl in the slimmest hope that I would detect some sign of life still clinging to her. Alas, the caved skull I felt beneath the scalp was as sure a testament to her demise as the lack of breath or a heartbeat. She could have been no older than sixteen.
As I did my perfunctory work, Sherlock Holmes observed from the shadows, both the body and those surrounding Miss Evangeline. Upon entering the circle, I had made my own cursory examination of the closest onlookers, for spending so much time around a man like Sherlock Holmes breeds almost subconscious observational habits. Three stagehands, I saw; two were younger men, one perhaps a suitor of the departed Miss Evangeline, for his face was whitest of all and riven with grief, and an older man who had clearly experienced such calamity before in what I assumed were many years of service to the house. He had an ill-favoured look, I thought, hard-bitten and inherently shifty. Also amongst the most immediate mourners were fellow dancers, those who had been about to take to the stage.
“She is dead,” I confirmed, somewhat unnecessarily, and yet still it drew gasps from the crowd, all except for the hard-bitten stagehand who could only muster a sneer. “A blow to the back of the skull,” I added, indicating the fatal wound. “Holmes…” I said, but when I turned to enquire as to his opinion my companion had already gone.
It was sometime later as the audience were sent on their way, in light of the tragedy that had taken place, that I came across Holmes again, waiting for me at a stage exit, smoke pluming from the bowl of his briar pipe.
“Murder, Watson,” he told me as I approached.
He leaned one foot upon the wall to support him, in quite the insouciant manner.
“Good lord, Holmes, should we not—” I began, half turning on my heel before Holmes raised a hand to arrest my return to the opera house.
By now, the well-heeled patrons were spilling out onto Bow Street, disgruntled at the impromptu curtailing of their evening’s entertainment but also titillated by the sudden macabre turn.
“I have already spoken with a passing constable who is,” and here Holmes made a show of checking his pocket watch, “I believe about to reprimand the culprit.”
Not a moment later, a constable ushered out the pale-faced young stagehand I had seen only a few minutes ago and escorted him into the back of a waiting Black Maria.
“Jilted lover,” explained Holmes, as he took a deep draw of his pipe before releasing a heady grey cloud of smoke.
“But the lad looked grief-stricken,” I replied, unable to countenance that this poor soul had committed such an act.
“And was,” said Holmes, “but unlike his fellow theatricals, our man here was not in the least surprised. He was grieving before that sack of ballast ended the life of Miss Evangeline.”
“But how can you know that, Holmes? We arrived after the deed had been done.”
“A supposition, I’ll admit, but one supported by fact.” Here, Holmes’s eyes appeared to flash as if some fire within had been briefly rekindled. “His hands, Watson, in the course of wringing them together, I saw a small nick between thumb and forefinger, the kind of insignificant wound one might suffer by the blade of a blunt knife, especially if said blade was being used to cut a rope. Further, his grubby shirtsleeves were up around his elbows and upon his left forearm I noted a long red weal, a recent injury I judged, and one brought about by a rope burn. Consider also the small amount of sand that had accumulated in his turned-up trouser legs. I can therefore only conclude that the lad laid a hasty trap for the object of his former affections in reply to some perceived slight or rebuttal.”
“Remarkable,” I said, impressed as ever by my companion’s swift deduction. “I did, I admit, notice the cut rope and considered foul play but I thought surely—”
“The old stagehand,” Holmes replied. “A grim and embittered individual, of that there can be no doubt, but hardly proof of guilt. However, did you notice the way he slightly favoured his left side in the sloping of his shoulder? What about the way he held his left leg rigid as a board, whilst he gave a slight bend of the knee in his right?”
“A leg injury,” I realised, recalling now what Holmes had seen instantly.
Holmes nodded. “Just so, Watson. Something related to his profession, I’d warrant, since I cannot imagine anyone hiring a stagehand that was unable to perform every conceivable aspect of his duties. To climb a ladder and cut the ballast rope, the saboteur would need to be agile, quick and certainly foolish. Hence our young hand.” At this last remark, Holmes detached himself from the wall and appeared to slump. “You were right, Watson,” said Holmes, heading towards the nearest hansom, “a fine distraction, but all too fleeting and with little in the way of mental taxation.”
I made to reply, but Holmes had already boarded the hansom and secreted himself within the cab. I opted for silence, since I knew no further words of mine could lift my companion’s self-inflicted torpor.
It was not to last, however, for the coming days would bring sufficient intrigue and horror to engage eve
n the mind of Sherlock Holmes.
CHAPTER TWO
THE HAUNTED GUEST
Despite the excitement of the previous night, I slept soundly. My only concern was for my erudite colleague who, upon turning in, had appeared to still be suffering from the malaise of inactivity that had precipitated our visit to the ballet in the first place.
Any hopes I had harboured, however macabre, that the death of the young ballerina would stir the mental weariness of Sherlock Holmes were quickly dashed by my companion’s swift deduction and the matter’s almost perfunctory resolution.
It was, then, when I was roused from slumber by a hammering upon the street door that my hope for a mystery to dispel the enervation of my friend was rekindled. I caught snippets of a muted conversation from below between Mrs Hudson and whoever it was at our door, before emerging from my room in my dressing gown and slippers, only to find Holmes sitting in his armchair, pipe in hand, seemingly in anticipation of the visitor.
“Good morning, Watson,” he offered genially. “I trust I did not wake you. It appears we have a guest. I have already instructed Mrs Hudson to send them up.”
“Am I to greet him in my dressing gown then, Holmes?” I asked, gesturing to my attire.
Holmes smiled, but despite his bonhomie, I saw the yearning for a case that would stimulate his cognitive faculties. After the previous night’s disappointment I shared my friend’s fervent desire. “Why, Watson, you are the very picture of refinement!” he said, and signalled for me to take a seat.
I heard muffled footsteps ascend the stairs and a few moments later there came a second knock.
“Would you mind, Watson?” asked Holmes, looking at the door through a heady plume of smoke.
I would have scowled in Holmes’s direction but for the fact that his attention was fixed solely on the identity of our mysterious guest outside. I did as requested, admitting a short, thin gentleman wearing a smart grey suit and bowler hat, which he removed when Holmes beckoned him to enter.
“Good morning, sirs,” he began, and I could tell from his demeanour that whatever he had come to impart was of some dire import. In fact, so shaken and haunted did the man appear that I immediately suggested he sit down.
