Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  * * *

  Holmes waited until the dock worker had left the room and the man’s dejected tread had disappeared down the stairs before he spoke again. “Do come in, dear boy. Some may consider it poor manners to eavesdrop on a private conversation, you know.”

  “You don’t mind,” I said as I pushed the window open and clambered in.

  “Oh?” Holmes raised an eyebrow. “And what has brought you to this conclusion?”

  “Well, for one you’ve had the rusted bolts replaced so that the drainpipe is less likely to break. You wouldn’t need to do that, I don’t think, unless there was going to be something heavy hanging from it. Something like me, perhaps.”

  By the detective’s thin smile, I knew that I’d passed a test of sorts. He likes to set me such exercises; to sharpen my mind, he says.

  “Alas, I have little to task you and the Irregulars with today,” said the detective. “Everything that has come to my door has been excruciatingly dull. As dull as the untrained senses of the average man about town.”

  “That Macrain fellow’s story didn’t sound dull,” I pointed out. “There are plenty of ways that man could have died other than a concussion.”

  “Such as?”

  I fell silent.

  “You are a smart lad, Wiggins, but a master detective you are not just yet. Nonetheless, even if the victim was murdered, he was a man whose professional stance was unpopular with tens of thousands of men, all of whom had the same motive to kill him; blood runs hot when livelihoods are on the line. I have little inclination to begin the interview process that would be required to rule out every man who worked that dock regularly, as it would, to be frank, bring very little intellectual stimulation. If one of those men did it, it may as well have been another of them. Or all of them, for that matter.”

  “But figuring out which of them… the search for the truth of the matter. That’s the kind of thing you do.”

  “Truth?” Holmes almost spat. “Truth is utterly secondary. What I do, young Wiggins, is stave off the darkness of inertia.” I wondered whether Holmes knew how much the average man on the docks, his fingers scarred with rope burns and splinters, would dream of the stability and comfort that a life of inertia brought with it. That life for them was not a series of games to be won or lost without repercussion. I thought it best, however, not to ask in case he went into one of his moods.

  “You could at least go see the crime scene.”

  “A scene that will no doubt by now have been well contaminated by the clumsy stomping of police boots and the eager hands of grasping officers.” Holmes sank back irritably, then lurched out of his chair, suddenly cheery. “But why would I, when I could send you in my stead?” He stepped towards the mantel before turning and pressing a shilling into my hand.

  “Consider this your first true task as a detective in my employ, lad. Report back anything from the scene that Mr Macrain may have missed or thought unimportant. Keep a watchful eye for anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, however negligible it may seem initially. The devil is, as always, in the details. And, Wiggins, do feel free to leave by the front door, there’s a good chap.”

  * * *

  I thought it was pertinent, in order to be successful in my enquiries, to alert the others – those whom you may know from one or two of Dr Watson’s stories as the Baker Street Irregulars. It was Mr Holmes who started calling us Irregulars, which we all found pretty funny if I’m honest, for the way we see it there’s nothing irregular about us at all. We’re poor people, and there’s always been poor people, and there always will be. We’re only irregular to the likes of Mr Holmes, as he lives in a way that most could barely dream of. But it’s the people who live like Mr Holmes and Dr Watson who write the papers and the books and run the government and so on, so they think that the way they live is the regular way, even though they’re far more irregular than someone like me if you really think about it. This means that they can’t see the world properly and don’t know how it really works. I don’t think this makes them altogether stupid, just unfortunate. And I wondered if the truth of Holmes’s disinterest in the case that Mr Macrain had brought before him was that Mr Holmes knew he wouldn’t be able to understand it properly on account of his being irregular, and that he was going to need my help on account of my being all too regular.

  * * *

  We moved the way we do, in a group but not all together, so you wouldn’t notice us, across the city from west to east and into Tower Hamlets. It’s not a short way on foot, but if you’re looking you can take in plenty on the way, especially on this day. It was a warm day towards the end of August, and all of London seemed to be out on the streets, lazy in the heat. There was a lot more chatter than work, but it was easy to detect an undercurrent of hostility, eyes catching one another for a little longer than is generally deemed polite, or avoiding one another altogether. Everything seemed to centre around the docks, as though the river was emitting a pull. Everyone was waiting to hear whether the trading companies or the workers were going to break first. You didn’t hear anyone speak it, but it seemed to sit unbidden on the tips of tongues; if the dock workers could improve their lives, why not the factory workers? The day labourers? The entire city was watching from the corner of their eye, but nowhere yet did I hear any whisper of a murder.

  We arrived at the docks presently, and I have to say I’ve never seen the like before. Dozens of ships blotted out the sun, jostling for position, unable to unload their cargo. Sailors sat around playing cards, drinking or merely waiting, on and off board, unable to abandon their cargo. It was easy to locate Mr Gail’s overseer hut on account of all the police and sailors and dock workers who were crowded around it. I knew that, unlike Mr Holmes, I was unlikely to be let in to see the crime scene. So the others and I moved amongst the crowd, keeping our ears open for gossip. I heard little of interest myself beyond what Mr Macrain had told me, and hoped the others had fared better; but when we reconvened, I was to be disappointed.

  “There was one sailor there who said he saw the whole thing,” Jonesy told me. “He said that a few of his fellows had come up to the door early this morning on account of seeing the lamp still burning in the window. They didn’t suspect anything amiss, just wanted to harass Mr Gail as to when the strikes were going to be over – some of the produce on board was fresh, and has already spoiled. They said that though the country’s other docks were overcrowded on account of London, they were about at the end of their patience and willing to try their luck unloading elsewhere. They panicked when they saw Mr Gail through the window, slumped over his desk, but couldn’t get into the office. One of them ran back to the ship to get a crowbar, while another went for the police. They were talking about it an awful lot; they were worried that they were gonna be suspects themselves, I think.”

  I nodded, mulling over the situation.

  “Odd that there was no crowbar in the overseer’s tool shed,” Ollie said. “Would’ve thought that was one of the most important tools you might need for unloading and checking crates.”

  “Perhaps it’s in the office itself?” Alex piped up. “Perhaps it kept getting nicked from the shed so Mr Gail kept it with him.”

  An idea of what might have happened was beginning to formulate in my mind, but I knew that to find any evidence at all, to be able to work without obstruction, we were going to have to wait until after dark.

  * * *

  At night, the sailors took turns to keep watch above deck, protecting their precious cargo from thieves. It is astounding, however, how prone people are to only look at what is at head height, and how easy it is to avoid detection in the dark if one is simply able to stay low and quiet. As the others silently scaled the ladders to the nearby ships to conduct a search as per my instructions, I returned to the overseer’s cabin. A new padlock had been put on the jimmied door, but the pick I keep in my cap took care of that in short order. As it clicked open, I heard a grunt from behind me that sent my heart near enough in
to my hat. I wheeled around and saw no one, until I followed my own advice and looked downwards. A rough sleeper was leant against the wall behind me, which separated the docks from the street. He appeared at first glance to be fast asleep, but I caught a sparkle from under his hat brim that suggested he was watching me. Confident, however, that this man was unlikely to rush off to tattle to the constabulary, I proceeded into the cabin.

  I had to count myself lucky that there was a full moon in the sky that night, for I could not risk lighting the lamp, nor leaving the door open. Even so it was hard to make everything in the room out, and I knew that if my hunch was in any way correct, I’d have to proceed in my search with the utmost caution.

  Mr Gail’s body had of course been moved to the morgue, away from gawking eyes, early that morning, but evidence of the kind of man he’d been was strewn around the place. Sweet wrappers and smoking papers were scattered on the desk, and the shelves were full of large books, most of which appeared to be unread. There were no photographs of family, and there was little one might have construed to be of value. Staying away from the window, I moved from the back of the office around to the front of the desk. I opened its drawers, and then opened them again – as I had half suspected, Mr Gail’s desk drawers contained a false bottom, allowing for a shabby cubbyhole beneath them. I gasped as the drawer’s contents sparkled brilliantly in the pale moonlight.

  And then a creak of the step outside the door.

  I ducked down under the desk as the door swung open, and a man, heavy set by the sound of his foot and his breathing, entered the room. A gruff voice – a policeman’s voice – barked out. “Lad. You were seen coming in here by one of my men. Come out and don’t make this worse for yourself.”

  I peered around the desk. Vague fantasies flashed through my mind of managing to creep around the room and out the door as the policeman searched for me, but I knew these were folly. My only chance was to make a break for it, to wait until he was far enough into the room that I could dash past him and into the docks, and only hope that the rest of his men weren’t waiting outside. He’d left the door wide open, and I could see him silhouetted against it, and behind him… a further silhouette – the silhouette of the murderer, confirming my worst fears, behind the policeman. With a yell of horror, I leapt upon the constable.

  The policeman let out his own yell as I landed on him. The murderer – the spider I had seen dropping from the ceiling towards his collar – tumbled to the ground, where I just had time to stomp on it before the constable – whose stern features I could now make out and revealed him not to be a constable at all but rather Inspector Lestrade – grabbed my ear.

  “Are you a madman?” he yelled. “Attacking an officer of the law? Who are you? You could very well hang—”

  “Inspector Lestrade.” A voice came from the door. There stood the rough sleeper whom I’d spotted on entering the hut, but his stance was no longer that of a down-and-out. I realised who he must be before he removed his hat. “The boy is with me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “and I believe he may have just solved your case for you.” Lestrade, dumbfounded, released my ear.

  “Mr Holmes? What on earth is going on?”

  To neatly compound the confusion, Alex chose that moment to drop from the ladder of a nearby ship and come running into the cabin. “Wiggins!” he yelled, “Wiggins I found it just where you said it’d be!” He cut off short as he saw me standing with two adults, one of whom was clearly, by his demeanour, a police officer.

  “And what is this now?” Lestrade despaired. “Breaking into ships, too? Really, Holmes, your methods tend to be unorthodox, but—”

  “Unorthodox?” Holmes said. ”I’d say there’s little more unorthodox than not thanking a man who’s just saved your life, wouldn’t you, Inspector?” He nodded towards me. “Good work and a keen eye, lad. You’ll make a fine detective yourself one day.” He bent to examine the crushed spider, and then looked up at Lestrade. “A Brazilian wandering spider, I believe they call this breed. Enjoys hiding in dark places – say, oh, shipping crates, for example, and quite deadly. If young Wiggins here hadn’t spotted it behind you, I don’t think I’d have reached you in time, and you may have been quite dead, Inspector.” He turned now to Alex. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Alex nodded, straightening his posture, pleased to be addressed by the great man. “I did, sir. One of the crates on the ship had been jimmied open… but there was nothing in it but a brown sludge. Sickly smelling, too.”

  “Bananas, before they were stuck on a dock for weeks and rotted. Meaning the ship was from Brazil too, I would care to wager?”

  Alex nodded.

  “So,” Lestrade clearly wished to be included. “Mr Gail must have opened the crate himself, and found himself unwittingly ferrying this murderous passenger back to his hut before being bitten. But why would a supervisor be opening crates himself?”

  “Wiggins?” Holmes’s eye sparkled at me again. I crossed the room to Mr Gail’s desk, and began to remove the objects that were inside the hidden compartment: two gems, near as big as my fist, a somewhat hefty block of opium wrapped in a handkerchief, and a pile of crumpled slips of paper.

  “What are these?” Inspector Lestrade began to rifle through the papers. “Betting markers. My goodness, all of these? There must be hundreds of pounds of debt here, if not thousands!”

  “Mr Gail lived something of a life of vice,” I told the inspector, “one that he kept secret, for appearances’ sake, and one that certainly would be difficult to sustain on an overseer’s salary. That’s why he got into the smuggling business.”

  “Brazilian topaz.” Holmes smiled. “Each worth a good thousand pounds by the looks of them. A fortune.”

  I went on. “Mr Gail would have been tipped off by his contacts in the Americas, and then when the ships docked he would quietly “inspect” the crates’ contents, and pocket the gems that were secreted amongst the fruit, or other cheaper produce. But with the strikes, he was unable to get to the gems… and as a result, unable to cover his debts, leading to his being banned from all of the gambling dens in town. They really don’t like men who can’t cover their debts.”

  “Which is why,” Holmes noted, “he was so fiercely opposed to the strikes, and was trying to assist their end by any means necessary – so that he could get back to the gaming table.”

  “And,” I looked at Holmes, who did not immediately meet my eye, “also why Mr Holmes thought he displayed signs of a concussion after being struck down by Mr Macrain. They weren’t the symptoms of concussion, but of opium use. A man robbed of one addiction has a good chance of turning to another. I’m guessing that Gail missed his games so much that his opium intake was getting out of hand; I mean, look at the size of that block. He probably knew that such a habit was apt to get him the sack; from Macrain’s story, it sounds like it was already affecting his work.”

  “Knowing he needed to get back to his at least more presentable addiction,” Holmes picked up the thread once more, “Mr Gail decided to break into the crate himself, leading to the unfortunate circumstances you have already so kindly laid out for us, Inspector. Wiggins here has a keen mind, as I’ve oft said; it took me some mulling over to consider the similarity between the effects of drug use and concussion myself, at which point the fact that Mr Gail must be engaged in some sort of double life became immediately apparent.”

  “Then why the disguise?” I asked. “Why not go direct to Lestrade?”

  “I wanted to let you have your moment, lad. And a fine job you’ve done. You’re well on track to being one of the cleverest men in London, I’d wager.” If I didn’t know better, I would have thought I detected a hint of embarrassment or even contrition to Holmes’s posture at that moment; but know better I do.

  Everyone seemed in such jovial spirits that I said nothing of how it had not been the concussion that had tipped me off to Mr Gail’s opium addiction, but that what Mr Macrain had said about his speech being similar
to the detective’s when Holmes’s had been marred with the drawl of morphine.

  Nor (and I realise that this may make my story somewhat unpublishable but I feel compelled to write it nonetheless) did I say anything of the third gem that had been in the drawer, which I had secreted in my left sock, and it’s this that proves Mr Holmes wrong on at least one account. None of the fences I know knew what to do with such a valuable lump of topaz, so I have been left with a very pretty and expensive paperweight, which is currently hidden beneath my pillow. As such I am quite sure that I will never be one of the cleverest men in London.

  SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE BEAST OF BODMIN

  Jonathan Green

  Sir Henry Baskerville, Baronet, is the Canadian-born nephew and sole heir of the late Sir Charles Baskerville. Following the mysterious death of his uncle at the beginning of The Hound of the Baskervilles, Sir Henry is the next poor wretch to be hunted by the phantom dog. The way he is described by Dr Watson – a “descendant… of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men” and “a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it” – makes him seem like the type of character who would usually be the protagonist of many an adventure story, rather than merely the excuse for the plot.

  As well as being one of the good guys, a gentleman, and a brave soul to boot, Sir Henry is also a true romantic. Of course, this is the cause of his undoing in The Hound of the Baskervilles, when he falls for Beryl Stapleton at the drop of a deerstalker. Despite seeming to have it all – inheriting a vast fortune and the Baskerville estates – his good fortune leads to him being targeted by a ruthless murderer. And where it really matters, in matters of the heart, Sir Henry is what can only be described as “unlucky in love”.