Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  As the irritated policeman wandered away, Mr Holmes said softly, “I recognised the fellow on the roof. It was Parker, one of the Professor’s men. Dropping stones is not his normal method – he usually prefers to carry out his killings much closer to the victims.”

  “If you recognised him, then why did you bother examining the roof?”

  “To see if there was evidence of anyone else. It would appear that Parker is working alone. The Professor may have mobilised his troops, but so far they are rather disorganised. I believe that I owe you a debt of thanks, Mr Smith.”

  “You do? For what?”

  “You’ve done me a good deed. For getting me out and about today, after all.”

  I recalled what my mother used to say about good deeds. “But why? It has only placed you in danger.”

  “Not any more than I would have been in Baker Street. And if I had remained there, I would have been gradually outnumbered and bottled up until there would have been nowhere to go, and no way to even summon assistance. No, by presenting your problem when you did, I was able to slip through their net before it was quite fixed. And I intend for that to remain the case. Shall we continue on our errand?”

  We walked east until we reached Rathbone Place. Mr Holmes knew as well as I did where we were going, leading me around the corner. I wondered what he could tell me about Mr Parnell, and how much he’d found out about the man in the commonplace book beside his fireplace.

  Not far down on the left was a doorway opening onto a stairwell. I had been here a week before, and nothing had changed. We started upstairs, and I was very happy to let Mr Holmes lead. I had the sense that my presence there wouldn’t have made any difference one way or another.

  We stepped into the room where I had been turned away before. The man behind the desk was lean and dangerous-looking, and he half-stood before sinking back down, a look of recognition and – possibly – fear on his face. He half-heartedly said something to the effect that we could not go inside, but it was too late, for Mr Holmes had already opened the door.

  Inside, a fat man rocked back in a chair beside a tall roll-top desk along one wall. There was only one high window behind it, apparently opening onto some court behind the building. I hadn’t met Mr Parnell before, but my father had described him, and I knew that we were in his presence.

  He started to speak, but then collapsed into a rheumy cough, much like those of the old workhouse men. I knew that if he tried to stand, he’d probably have the workhouse legs as well. How could a man like this have ended up in an office, carrying out important business for someone? For the Professor?

  “Mr Holmes,” he finally wheezed. “I didn’t expect you.”

  “I am certain of that. Has the word gone out that the inconvenience I’m causing will soon stop, one way or another?”

  “I have heard something along those lines, although there isn’t any question about who will be the victor.”

  “That conclusion is premature. Tell me about Mordecai Smith.”

  Parnell’s eyebrows rose like those of Punch – at least, the way they do on some of the fancier puppets I’ve seen. His surprise was sincere. Then, for the first time, he looked past the detective and saw me. His eyes narrowed. “You’re the son,” he sighed. “I’d heard you were here.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what has happened to my father?” I blurted out. Mr Holmes held up a hand.

  “My friend’s question stands,” he said.

  Parnell coughed and shook his head. “He had an attack of conscience. There is some important business about to take place, and he objected to it. He threatened to tell the police if we didn’t desist.” He laughed, and then collapsed back in his chair in a fit of wheezing. “If the fool felt like that,” he said when he caught his breath, “why didn’t he just tell the police? Why warn us ahead of time, as if his puny threat would make us change our plans?”

  “I take it you are referring to the arrival of the Lydia McGraw, from China.”

  Parnell’s eyes widened. “Maybe you really are as good as they say.”

  “I suspect my sources are better than yours. In fact, it was diverted in Marseilles four days ago, and the ladies held within have been freed.”

  “Impossible! I would have heard.”

  “You only knew what I wanted you to know. You wouldn’t know now if I wasn’t interested in Mordecai Smith’s whereabouts.”

  “The Professor should have killed you years ago.”

  “Speaking of life and death, is Mr Smith still alive?”

  Parnell waved a wrinkled hand. “He is. I hadn’t decided yet what should happen to him.”

  “I have decided for you. Have him at Baker Street by eight tomorrow morning. Unharmed. I assume that you’re keeping him in the warehouse in Whitstable. That allows you plenty of time to retrieve him.”

  Parnell laughed. “And why should I do what you say, Mr Holmes? You’re a walking dead man.”

  “Need I remind you of Helen Silsoe of Stoke Mandeville?”

  Never have I seen a man lose his colour so fast. In fact, considering the man’s condition, I’m surprised that Parnell didn’t die on the spot. He swallowed twice, and then fumbled to open one of the drawers in his desk. He brought out a bottle of brandy and drank from it. He coughed, closed his eyes, drank again, and then set the bottle down. “Eight, you said? I can have him there in four hours.”

  “Eight o’clock tomorrow is fine,” said Mr Holmes. “And in perfect condition. I have other business to attend to today.” He looked around the office, as if memorising its features. “I do trust that Mordecai Smith is still in pristine condition.”

  “He’s well enough,” said Parnell, a whiny tone now in his voice.

  “Good day, Mr Parnell,” said Holmes, turning to pass through the door. My eyes met those of Parnell, and for one brief instant, I saw the fire of hate in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. No doubt he feared that the power held over him by Mr Holmes might also pass to me. Far be it from me to disabuse him of the notion.

  On the street, I found myself somewhat shaken. Had it really been that easy? Of course, it wasn’t over yet. My father still had to put in an appearance.

  I looked up as Mr Holmes pressed something into my hand. It was his card, upon which he’d written a man’s name, along with a well-known shipping company in the East End. “This fellow owes me a favour or two,” he said. “If you think that you can straighten your father out, then take him there and let this man know that he needs a job. Show that card. It should be enough.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to express my thanks, but he waved them away. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning in Baker Street,” he added, starting to turn away.

  “But—” I said, then stopped. He turned, looking back expectantly. “But it isn’t safe for you. Can I help?”

  He smiled then, the first time I’d seen him truly smile since meeting him. Shaking his head, he said, “No, although the thought is much appreciated. You should make your own way home for the night, being careful, of course, that you aren’t followed. You have, after all, spent a portion of the day with me, and that carries a certain amount of risk.”

  He glanced around, as if to spot the very danger of which he spoke. “I’m going to spend the day with my brother at his club, and then possibly visit Dr Watson.” And with that, he set off, back down Rathbone Place, and so into Oxford Street.

  I watched him go, considering his advice only long enough to realise that I was about to lose sight of him. Hurrying, I saw him step abruptly into the street, hailing a passing growler. I recalled his advice about not taking the first or second cab, but assumed that this one, chosen at random on the busy street, was acceptable. I still felt that I needed to provide some sort of assistance, however insignificant it might be. I couldn’t run after him, wherever he was going, and I didn’t want to try and follow in a cab of my own. Finally, hoping that I hadn’t grown too tall, or that my uniform wouldn’t attract too much attention
, and trusting that my old skills hadn’t completely deserted me, I dashed forward and secured a tenuous seat on the back of the vehicle.

  The cab headed south, finally reaching Pall Mall. When I felt the cab start to slow, I jumped off as I had learned to long ago. Not a moment too soon, it turned out, as the cab stopped in front of No. 78. Mr Holmes paid the cabbie and dashed up the front steps, leaving me to wonder exactly what I was doing.

  I stayed hidden in an alleyway for several hours. I was considering whether to abandon my post, when the detective appeared on the steps, pulling his gloves from his pocket. He had been there but a few seconds when he and I, from our different spots, both heard a cry. Mr Holmes tensed. A man was running toward him from across the street, carrying a club, and bellowing loud enough to wake the dead. I realised that I was not suited for this type of work at all, as I had not previously noticed the fellow. I was rising to render assistance when I saw that it wouldn’t be necessary. Mr Holmes had dropped his gloves and settled into a crouch. Even as the man reached him, a quick move that I couldn’t even describe afterwards was all that it took to leave the attacker stretched on the pavement, clutching a clearly broken jaw. Mr Holmes called for the elderly doorman to summon the police. Then, turning toward where I was hidden, Mr Holmes called, “You can join me, Mr Smith.”

  I sheepishly walked up the street, where he was binding a handkerchief over two bleeding knuckles. “I suspect that the driver of the cab that brought us here – oh, yes, Mr Smith, I knew when you joined us – told the Professor where I was. I suppose that I’m quite lucky that he only sent Devereaux to kill me and not a whole pack of them.” He glanced up and down the street. “They must not have ready access to Von Herder’s air gun at the moment,” he said softly, almost to himself. “But they’ll get it soon enough.”

  He finished wrapping his hand and said, louder this time, “I observed you move to defend me just now. It is much appreciated, but I assure you that I can take care of myself. You should return to your family. I’ve finished making my plans with my brother, and I go now to inform Dr Watson. I shall be safe enough.”

  I could tell that he wouldn’t take no for an answer. And, as I was uncertain as to what assistance I could provide in any case, and as there was no way that I could follow him without his knowing, I agreed. I left him there, wondering if I would myself be attacked on the way home for simply having been in his company.

  * * *

  The next morning, I was at Baker Street fifteen minutes before the appointed time. There was a cluster of idlers standing in the street, and a fire wagon was nearby, the firemen rolling up a long hose.

  I hurried forward and slipped through the lingering firemen and loiterers without waiting to learn what had happened. There were faint smoke stains on the wall above the windows of the sitting room. Had the Professor’s men succeeded after all? Had Mr Holmes been killed, in spite of his confidence and many abilities?

  I dashed through the open door and pounded up the steps to Mr Holmes’s rooms. His door was open, and I lurched to a stop, seeing a couple of men standing there. One was a tall fellow with very blonde hair and large hands. Everything about him proclaimed that he was a policeman. The other, with his back to me, was some sort of priest. He was in a long black robe, and hanging from his hand was a wide, round parson’s hat of the sort that I’ve sometimes seen the Italians wear when aboard my ship. The policeman looked up and scowled when I entered. The priest turned more slowly, and my jaw dropped when I saw that it was Mr Holmes.

  “Ah, Smith,” he said. “The inspector and I were just discussing last night’s fire. Luckily, the damage was only superficial.”

  The inspector’s eyes kept looking at me with suspicion, something that has happened to me – and any boy growing up in Southwark – upon any number of occasions. Mr Holmes noticed it and said, “Nothing to worry about, Gregson. This is another matter entirely. Just a bit of last-minute business before the game begins.”

  “If you say so, Mr Holmes,” replied the other man. He glanced toward a desk in the corner. “Will the papers be all right there?”

  “They will. In pigeonhole ‘M’, and done up in a blue envelope, just like we agreed.”

  “I still don’t know why you can’t just give them to Patterson or me right now.”

  “We’ve discussed that.”

  The big man shrugged and put on his hat. “As you say, Mr Holmes. We’ve discussed it. But I’m not sure that I agree with it. Luring him to the Continent? What will that accomplish?”

  “It will serve to leave his train without a conductor, right at the most crucial turn in the track. With him distracted, the train will fly off the rails, and you and your men will be there to pick up the pieces.”

  “It sounds dangerous.”

  “It is.”

  They looked at one another, and then the big inspector stuck out his hand and shook Holmes’s. “God speed, then,” he said with quiet sincerity, and then departed.

  Before I had a chance to speak, Mr Holmes turned away and began fussing with a suitcase on his chair. He added some tobacco and, after careful consideration, an oily black clay pipe. Then he snapped it shut. It was then that I heard a cough. Turning, I saw my father standing in the door. Somehow he’d silently climbed the stairs. In the old days, when he was drinking, he could never have been so quiet.

  I ran to him, feeling like a child in spite of my twenty years. He threw his arms about me and gave a sob. We stood like that for a moment, and then he took a deep breath and backed away. He smiled. There was apology in it, but also an unspoken promise.

  “They—” he began, turning to the door, and then had to clear his throat, “they told me that I’m free because of you, Mr Holmes. How can I – that is to say, how can we thank you?”

  “If you don’t mind just a little more danger, Messrs Smith, I could use some camouflage,” Holmes said.

  And so, fifteen minutes later, we were in a four-wheeler headed for Victoria Station. After we had agreed with Mr Holmes’s seemingly painless scheme, he had directed us towards the door. Then, placing the flat priest’s hat on his head, he had picked up his suitcase and followed us. Turning, he looked back into the sitting room for a long minute. Now, after knowing what happened later, I wonder if he had a premonition, and was taking a last look around to say goodbye. But I suppose that I’m simply remembering it that way to make it a better story. In any case, he pulled the sitting-room door shut, led us downstairs, and out through the back of the house.

  We walked to Dorset Square, where he hailed a cab. As we boarded, I hurriedly showed my father Mr Holmes’s card with the name of a man who would give him a job. My father started to thank the detective once again, but Mr Holmes impatiently waved it away.

  “They will be looking for me,” he explained, changing the subject, “and I’m not certain that my disguise will pass muster. I wore something of this sort a few years ago, when I needed to fool a woman into showing me where she had hidden a photograph. I had hired a number of people to stage a fight in the street as a distraction, and some of them had also done work for the Professor in the past. They may very well remember this disguise and be looking for it. However, it seemed like one of the best that I could assume in order to pass relatively unnoticed on the boat train. If they are looking for a priest, maybe it will be less conspicuous if I’m traveling with two other men. At least, that’s what I hope. Both of you are known, one way or the other, to the Professor’s people, and that could cause difficulties. We’ll have to make a few minor changes to your appearances and hope for the best.”

  My father hung his head, looking ashamed for a moment while Mr Holmes adjusted his and my clothing. But then, remembering his second chance, he looked up with a new determination that I was happy to see.

  As we made our way to Victoria, Mr Holmes watched all sides from the cab windows. He seemed satisfied that we weren’t being followed. We reached the station, and he offered to pay the cabbie to take us wherever we wante
d to go, but my father demurred, stating instead that, if I didn’t mind, we would prefer to walk and enjoy the new day. Mr Holmes thanked us again for our help, and then vanished into the crowds streaming into the station.

  My father and I stood there for a moment amidst the bustle. We were preparing to leave when I saw Dr Watson arrive in a small brougham, driven by a massive driver in a dark cape and a scarf pulled over his face. No sooner had the doctor stepped to the ground and retrieved his bag than the driver whipped up his horse and vanished into the distance.

  Dr Watson watched him for a puzzled moment and then went inside. I was explaining to my father who it was that we had just seen when another carriage arrived, also in great haste. It skidded to a halt, and I was shocked to see who its passenger was: the very man that had loomed so large in my thoughts for the last twenty-four hours: Professor Moriarty.

  He turned his head this way and that, in that curiously snake-like fashion, clearly looking for someone – Sherlock Holmes, perhaps, or the doctor, whom he had apparently followed. Then, not seeing them, he began to make his way into the station, cursing and swinging his stick when the crowd inadvertently blocked his way.

  Telling my father to stay where he was, I followed. Over by the Continental Express, I could see Dr Watson looking anxiously this way and that. Behind him, Sherlock Holmes, dressed as the Italian priest, was climbing into the first-class carriage. Who could they be waiting for? And was it possible that Dr Watson was looking for Mr Holmes, not realising that the man was right behind him?