Becoming Holmes

by Shane Peacock

  “Yes, someone should.” Sherlock’s voice is shaking.

  Bell turns back and observes his charge. He can see the color changing in his face. He notices his hands twitching by his sides, turning into fists.

  “You, my young knight, could make enquiries. Just enquiries, mind you. You are at a unique advantage to do so, with your brother holding an inside position, as it were.”

  “I suppose I am.” Sherlock’s mind is racing. “Just enquiries,” he says quietly, his hands now so tightly clenched that the bones show through his knuckles.

  If I let Malefactor do this, he will soon infest everything. This is his way in. He will then destroy everyone who dares to oppose him, including me.

  4

  GRIMSBY’S RISE

  When Sherlock gets to Whitehall Street very early the next morning, he sees a long line of people, going west along the thoroughfare, starting on the far side of the Treasury building and growing by the minute. The sun is just peeking over the foggy streets. Folk of all stripes are in the line, no one pushing or shoving. They are rich, middle class, and poor, but mostly poor. People of such different incomes never gather together in England. Many carry flowers, and all look sad. Some are shoeless and ill, clutching wilted weeds tied up with rags. The line stretches out of sight, half a mile into the distance toward Westminster Abbey. They are lining up to walk past Charles Dickens’s coffin in the great church. Many of the poor are crying so hard that their shoulders are shaking.

  Sherlock would like to join them, but there are things he must do today, an evil he must immediately root out. He wonders if Malefactor would kill so soon after inserting Grimsby. It doesn’t seem like a smart move. But he is likely flushed with excitement and anxious to act. How long until he strikes? Will it be weeks? Or just a few days?

  Sherlock waits anxiously on the front steps of the Treasury. He knows exactly when to be here, this time. Sure enough, just before six o’clock, Mycroft Holmes appears, coming from the same direction as yesterday, glancing at the snaking Dickens line-up, and just as shocked as before to see his sibling awaiting him.

  “Ah,” he says with a suspicious look in his eye, “what a pleasure to see you on two consecutive days. What an absolute pleasure.” His younger brother looks as if he hasn’t slept.

  “Dispense with the lies, sir. I have come to tell you something and ask you a few questions.”

  “And they are?”

  “I must admit that I was shaken by the sight of the new Treasury employee, whom you referred to at tea with some concern, who then miraculously appeared on these very steps.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I know him.”

  “You know him? Then I was indeed correct about his hiding his low accent. Does a rather poor job of it, I must say. His origins are as a working-class man, or am I deceived?”

  “You are not. He is working class, indeed!”

  “You say that with some feeling.”

  “He is a scoundrel and thief. He has somehow raised himself from –”

  “My! There he is now! Goodness, he is coming even earlier today. It is as if he were trying to compete with me.”

  Mycroft is looking over Sherlock’s shoulder as he speaks. “Ronald?” he calls out and waves for the Treasury’s new employee to join them.

  “Ronald?” says Sherlock. He turns and sees Grimsby coming to a halt. Their eyes meet.

  “Yes, Ronald Loveland.” Mycroft lowers his voice. “I am sure he is not as bad as you say. Perhaps you and he had some disagreements in the past, but calling him a scoundrel and a thief, my boy, that is rather dramatic. One must get over one’s personal squabbles. I have reservations about him too, as you know, but he will likely do fine. One must not disparage one’s colleagues. It isn’t good form.”

  Grimsby isn’t moving.

  Mycroft calls out. “Ronald, you must come forward and meet my brother, Sherlock Holmes.” He leans toward Sherlock and lowers his voice again. “I am glad you have washed your horrible frock coat since yesterday, my boy, though by its condition, it looks as if you wash it most every day. You should get more sleep too. You must say hello to my colleague right here, out of doors, and I am afraid that you must then depart. Thank God it is still early. There aren’t too many others around yet. Let us do this quickly.”

  Grimsby still hasn’t moved. Sherlock can see his villainous black eyes looking unsure beneath his disguise – under his glasses, his black bowler hat, slicked hair, and fancy suit. Holmes thinks of others like Grimsby he has dealt with, how this one is among the worst, a sort of symbol of evil for him, a cowardly little devil but capable of so much painful mischief. He remembers the beatings Grimsby tried to inflict upon him, his desire to hurt him, break his bones, and disfigure him. He is a little sadist with dark ambitions.

  Sherlock turns and quickly advances toward him.

  “Sherlock?” says his brother.

  Holmes almost runs to the little man. Grimsby flinches.

  “You will keep your distance, sir.” He points his walking stick at him.

  It is Grimsby’s voice, indeed, though he is struggling to make the accent sound respectable.

  “You will keep your distance!”

  Holmes seizes him by the lapels.

  “SHERLOCK!” cries Mycroft.

  “I do not know how you came to this employment,” whispers the tall, thin boy, inches from his enemy’s ear, “but I know it is for no good. I know what you are planning. I shall discover how you got here and use that to put an end to it!”

  Mycroft begins running toward them.

  “You, ’olmes, shall do naught of the kind,” hisses Grimsby as quietly as possible, turning his face so his lips are an inch from Sherlock’s. “Things is in motion now that is well beyond you, well beyond the little games we used to play. HE is making plans. They is developing. If you do not cease this ’ere scene, it is you who will be in grave danger in a wink.”

  “I am quivering in my hobnail boots.”

  “If you lays a finger upon me, you will be murdered before you reach your little apothecary shop.”

  “I don’t care what –”

  “And your apothecary with you. Perhaps I shall do that myself?”

  Sherlock hesitates. Mycroft arrives.

  “What is this about, Sherlock? My God, unhand him!”

  Sherlock releases Grimsby’s lapels.

  “No worries,” says Grimsby in his awkward new voice. “This is just a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity.” He smiles at Sherlock. “Isn’t it, sir?”

  Sherlock says nothing.

  “Well, Ronald, my brother is rather impulsive, shall we say, and not as serious-minded as those in our profession. You may see this by his dress. But he is a good lad, inside.”

  “I am sure. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Grimsby extends a hand. “Ronald Loveland, at your service!” He keeps his lips closed when he smiles, hiding his pointed, yellow teeth.

  Sherlock hesitates again. He looks down at the ugly little hand. The fingernails aren’t groomed as they should be. In fact, he sees dirt under them and wretched red cuticles that look as though they are still being gnawed, just as they were when the two first met.

  “Well, Sherlock, take his hand.”

  Sherlock shakes it as limply as possible. It feels wet and cold. The fingers are short and stubby. Grimsby is still smiling at him. “Good day,” he says, lifting his bowler and bowing slightly. He has used too much oil in his hair. He rushes up the steps to the Treasury.

  “Sherlock!” cries Mycroft as soon as Grimsby has gone. “You cannot do this to me!”

  “He is who I say he is. He has designs you cannot imagine. They will be enacted soon.”

  “I shall repeat: one must get over one’s personal squabbles. It is beneath even you to carry a grudge and to manifest it in such words as ‘thief’ and ‘scoundrel.’ ”

  “I know him to be, quite literally, what I say he is. Just a year or so ago he was upon t
he streets running with a gang, getting his living by criminal means, one of two lieutenants to the most heinous and successful young thug in London, a regrettably brilliant villain who has now left the sewers to further his career of crime by hiding his true intentions in a cloak of respectability. That leader, who calls himself Malefactor, has ambitions of a leviathan sort. He has the faculties and the passion to someday dominate this city’s, perhaps this country’s, perhaps this continent’s, criminal world. At this very moment, he is trying, via this ugly little man, to lay his hand upon the police.”

  “But this is preposterous. Ronald Loveland? You can’t be serious … can you?”

  “There is no doubt. Under that bowler hat, those spectacles and suit, he is an animal named Grimsby.”

  “Grimsby? But how could this happen?”

  “An excellent question.”

  “Perhaps he isn’t associated with this chap you mention anymore? Perhaps he has reformed?”

  “Grimsby does not reform. Had you heard what he said to me under his breath, you would know that to be true.”

  Mycroft pauses. “Well, we Holmeses may be many things, but we are not liars, not mendacious sorts.”

  “I am not lying.”

  “That is what I am saying. I believe you.”

  “Thank you.” Sherlock almost smiles.

  “Or at least I believe that you believe it to be true. And if you are right, even somewhat right, this must be looked into.”

  “A crime is being planned, Mycroft, and after that, there will be many more. If we do not put a stop to this, Grimsby will be just the first invisible germ – much like the kind the queen’s physician Dr. Snow speaks of and Sigerson Bell believes in too, that gets into people’s physical systems and destroys their health – that will infect not just our police force but our very government for many years to come. We must cure it now!”

  “Not we, my dear Sherlock; perhaps you, but not we. This is not my game. But I will tell you what I know. Father always said the most important thing to do at the beginning of a scientific problem –”

  “Was to ask the right questions.”

  “Absolutely. And the question you must answer at the outset is: Exactly how did this young thief, if he indeed is so, come by this job? That is your first move.”

  “I have no doubt that Malefactor is behind it.”

  “Well, I do not know of anyone by that name making decisions for the Chancellor of the Exchequer,” quips Mycroft.

  “No, I am sure it did not work that way. He has done it in some brilliant and secretive manner, behind the scenes.”

  Mycroft glances up and down the frontage of the Treasury. There are still few fellow employees about. He speaks more softly.

  “I can tell you that appointments in the Treasury are made by upper civil servants; the lower the position, the lower the civil servant who does the hiring. The upper positions, the important jobs, are filled directly by a committee, rather than the Chancellor.”

  “Mr. Robert Lowe.”

  “Yes, the albino genius himself, a favorite of Prime Minister Gladstone’s and said to be ruthless.”

  “But is he crooked? Could he be bribed?”

  “I doubt it, not Mr. Lowe. He is too ambitious and in love with himself. He would not allow a stain upon his character. And as I say, he employs a committee to make the highest appointments anyway, so there is no appearance of favoritism. The hiring of Loveland is a middling one, but not insignificant. The committee might or might not have done it.”

  “Who serves on that committee?”

  “A small roster of respectable financial figures.”

  “Chaired by whom?”

  “The Governor of the Bank of England, Sir Ramsay Stonefield.”

  “Could he reach his hand down as far as the position that our little Grimsby holds and see to it that a certain someone had it?”

  “I don’t see why he would.”

  “But could he?”

  “I suppose, but again, why would he?”

  “Yes, why would he?” says Sherlock, deep in thought. Then he shakes himself awake and takes his brother by the hand. His eyes are brighter than they have been for almost a year. “You have been most helpful. I wish you good day, sir, and hope to have some news for you before long.”

  Mycroft smiles. “You have little to go on from what I can see, Sherlock, mostly an inchoate theory, but I wish you well. I must admit, this problem of yours amuses me. I shall betray nothing of my knowledge to one Ronald Loveland, since he may ask about you. In fact, I shall put him off your scent entirely. I shall tell him that I have browbeaten you unmercifully for confronting him and you are going home at this very instant with your tail between your legs, which is a falsehood in every detail, since you, sir, are chuffed and heading east, I deduce. All the best to you!”

  The brothers part and don’t look back – Mycroft up the steps to the Treasury building and his office, and Sherlock back along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and then east to the Old City and the Bank of England’s magnificent headquarters on Threadneedle Street.

  I must discover what got him that job, and then the rest will unfold.

  At that very moment, Grimsby is summoning a boy to his desk. He is writing him a note to be delivered to an educational institute a good distance from London. It begins with the words, “Sherlock Holmes …”

  5

  THE GOVERNOR

  Sherlock, of course, has already formed a plan. He will arrive at the great bank about half an hour before it opens. That will be perfect. He isn’t tutoring at school today, so he can do as he pleases. He moves quickly. When he reaches Fleet Street, passing by the offices of famous newspapers, all with black Dickens headlines displayed in their windows, pedestrian and carriage traffic has picked up considerably. The air smells of horse manure and burning coal, human sweat and urine. Wagons and hansom cabs and omnibuses jam the street, reins jingling, wheels grinding on cobblestones, thousands of hoof beats clacking, pedestrians somehow finding their way through a flowing crowd of vehicles, while drivers shout at their steeds. Up the hill ahead sits St. Paul’s Cathedral, where he once secretly met Irene during the Whitechapel murder case. He dashes that memory from his mind, concentrating on making his way through the river of people. It is a weekday, and London is about to truly hum. Partway up Ludgate Hill, he passes the remnants of the London Wall and enters the Old City. This is where the Romans lived and England now operates its financial institutions. Sherlock straightens his second-hand frock coat, runs his hand through his black hair to make sure it is in place, and swings north to Cheapside. From here he soon sees the Lord Mayor’s home at the intersection of three ancient City streets. These arteries are narrow and tight with wonderful old buildings towering along the little foot pavements, built during another time when people were smaller, transportation slower, and vehicles far fewer in number.

  And there on the north side near the Stock Exchange sits the building he is seeking, the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. It is three stories high, interminably long and fronted with pillars, taking up an entire block. Inside these walls, in its elegant rooms and under its impressive domes, grinds the engine of the Empire’s finances. The Bank of England is the most important bank in the world, setting the standard for the nation and the pace for all other countries too. The value of the pound, it is said, is based upon the amount of gold in its vaults.

  Sherlock’s mission is not to speak to the Governor or even have someone do that for him. That is not remotely possible. He merely wants to see him. From that, other things can unfold. One must start with something, anything, and build from there. Observation, both his father and Sigerson Bell have taught him, is the alpha and the omega of confronting a problem. But one must do it thoroughly and correctly.

  He knows that he is in pursuit of a secret. The employment of Grimsby at Her Majesty’s Treasury has come from one, perhaps from a series. He is sure of it. It is a move begun in the shadows. Holmes has deduced that the in
sertion of an unqualified unknown into a position of some power, however elementary, had to have come through one of two men: the Chancellor of the Exchequer or the Governor of the Bank of England. The former, Mr. Robert Lowe, as Mycroft has informed him, is not the sort to be bribed or used, no matter the circumstances. But what of the Governor?

  Holmes is here to use his already consummate powers of observation, born of his genetics and honed by his father and his brilliant (though decidedly eccentric) apothecary master, to find clues evolving from mere glances, seconds of observation. Over the past three years, he has been training his talents to a fine edge. He senses that the time has come, as Malefactor’s lieutenant stands just a man or two away from influence in police and financial affairs, to use all of the skills and the knowledge he now has at his command. He hopes that they are enough because, almost overnight, a pivotal moment has arrived.

  But secrets must be cleverly approached: by cover of crowds, distance, or disguise.

  Big Ben had chimed eight just as he reached Fleet Street, so he is guessing it is nearing half past the hour. He walks to the front of the majestic building and up to the oval opening within which are set the mammoth front doors. It is guarded by liveried men. A crowd has formed. It is too early for customers to be queuing. These people are waiting for something else, for someone else. Sherlock surveys them. They are all men. He concentrates: they are all businessmen too. He observes their clothing, the expressions on their faces. They are dressed to impress, many uncomfortable in Sunday clothes they seldom wear, hair over-groomed, top hats too high and rented for the day. He zeroes in on their eyes, their lips. He sees the latter moving slightly, rehearsing lines like actors. Sherlock turns to the street. Hansom cabs and carriages were lining the front of the building as the boy approached, but now he sees a half-dozen Bobbies moving vehicles from the area directly in front of the doors.

  Sherlock smiles. He has timed it perfectly. He knows what is about to happen. He must wait here for as long as it takes. The Governor of the Bank of England is about to arrive for the day. The great man will descend from his carriage in this very spot cleared by the police and will be deluged by requests for help from these businessmen. He will respond to none. But Sherlock Holmes, now moving into position, will see him, up close, even if just for a fleeting moment. He hopes that is all his developing powers will need.