Sherlock Holmes

by Cavan Scott

  I didn’t wait for Geller to show me the way. I ascended the creaking stairs. The walls were bare and the entire place reeked of damp. My chest tightened. Why would Holmes come here? What had happened?

  On the landing were two doors.

  “The one to the right, Doctor,” instructed Geller, coming up behind me. Harkness stayed at the bottom of the stairs, lighting a cigarette.

  I gripped the door handle and, finding it unlocked, pushed my way into the room.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  The room was bare, save for a poor excuse of a table, on which sat a bowl of water and a pile of bloodstained rags. Sitting on an equally unsteady chair was Sherlock Holmes. His jacket was gone and his shirt collar was undone; there was a dark red stain on his chest from the blood that had dripped from a laceration on his cheek.

  “Good Lord, man, what has happened?” I said, rushing over to examine the wound. There were no other chairs, so I was forced to stand over him, gently taking his chin in my thumb and forefinger to angle it away from me. Close up, his injury was less severe than it had first appeared; nothing more than a deep graze across those sharp cheekbones, although it needed to be thoroughly cleaned before it turned septic.

  “A minor inconvenience,” Holmes said, swatting my hand away. “Nothing more.”

  I rested my medical bag on the table, which wobbled precariously, slopping dirty water over the side of the bowl.

  “Minor? You left for the gallery hours ago, and that’s not to mention all this.” I indicated Geller, who was standing by the still open door, maintaining a respectful silence. “What is this place? One of your boltholes?”

  “It is, although I am aware it hardly reaches the standards to which a Harley Street doctor is accustomed.”

  I poured disinfectant onto a ball of cotton wool. “I’m a Queen Anne Street doctor,” I reminded him. “And we can discuss the conditions of your hovel after you tell me what really happened.”

  Before he could respond, I pressed the cotton wool onto the graze, perhaps with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

  “Watson, have a care!”

  “Says the man who obviously took none himself.”

  “If I explain all, will you desist from torturing me?”

  “No, but do it anyway.”

  He sighed, wincing as I attacked a further portion of the wound.

  “Very well. As I told you, I went to see Woodbead, who was delighted to see me. To be fair, I think he would have been delighted to see anyone, surrounded as he was by nothing but paintings all day.”

  “Get to the point, Holmes. You showed him the painting.”

  “Yes, and he thought it pretty unremarkable, although he said he would investigate.”

  “You left it with him?”

  “I did.”

  “Mrs Sellman won’t like it being out of your sight.”

  “She will if he helps me find her sister.”

  The application of further disinfectant brought another sharp intake of breath. “What’s in that bottle, sulphuric acid?”

  “So, Woodbead took the painting…” I prompted, preparing a dressing.

  “And invited me for lunch. I agreed, assuming that you would be able to occupy yourself for a few hours.”

  “How kind of you to think of me.” I applied the dressing to the now clean graze. “Where did you go, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “The Ritz of all places. It appears art historians are paid well.”

  “As are retired consulting detectives.”

  Holmes ignored the jibe. “We ate a pleasant lunch – I can recommend the halibut – and Woodbead imbibed more than a little wine.”

  “While you abstained?”

  “I may have enjoyed one or two glasses. The food was good, as, I admit, was the company.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we said our farewells. Woodbead headed rather unsteadily back towards the gallery, while I decided to walk off my meal before calling a cab.”

  “What happened to Geller?” I asked, shooting an accusatory glance at the former Irregular.

  “I needed to clear my head,” Holmes cut in, saving the cabbie from embarrassment. “The afternoon had stretched on and I admit that I have less tolerance for alcohol than I possessed in my youth.”

  “You make it sound as though you were a drunk,” I said, applying the dressing to his cheek. “If I remember rightly, drinking was one of the few vices you omitted to embrace with vigour.”

  “Still, a walk was required.”

  “Even after you had been followed for the last few days.”

  “A man is allowed to make a mistake.”

  “Not you.”

  I stepped back, admiring the dressing. Yes, it would do for now.

  “None of this explains how that happened,” I said, pointing to his cheek.

  “I walked along Piccadilly, enjoying being back in the city, when it veered across the road, dazzling me with its headlights.”

  “It? A motorcar?”

  “The motorcar, Watson. The Morris Bullnose that trailed us earlier. Now it was doing more than trailing; now it was trying to sandwich me between its grille and the wall.”

  “It tried to run you down? What did you do?”

  “There was no time to think, let alone react. Fortunately, a passer-by had faster reflexes than I did. He pushed me aside before I ended up beneath the Bullnose’s wheels. I hit the wall, giving me this.” He gave the dressing a tap, flinching slightly. “Safe to say, if it had not been for my guardian angel, a scraped cheek would have been the least of my worries.”

  “And the car?”

  “Ploughed into Swan & Edgar’s latest window display. The dresser will have a nasty surprise waiting for him when he arrives for work tomorrow.”

  “You could have been killed.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? From what you have described—”

  “Watson, Watson, Watson. Once again, you fail to ask the pertinent question, focusing instead on the trivial.”

  “And your well-being is trivial now, I suppose?”

  “You stated earlier that it had tried to run me down, as if the automobile itself was in control of its own destiny.”

  “Well, the driver then,” I snapped. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do indeed. Would you like to know who she was?”

  “She?”

  “None other than Elsie Kadwell.”

  “The singer from the Mallard?”

  “Formerly of the Mallard. It appears that she and Albert’s nephew have parted company.”

  “I’m not surprised after what she tried to do to the poor fellow, but shouldn’t she be behind lock and key for her part in Pritchard’s scheme?”

  “It appears that she was released; that she made a deal.”

  “With whom?”

  “That is the question. I’m afraid I couldn’t get much sense out of her. Not only was her leg quite broken, there was no mistaking the gin on her breath as she was pulled from the wreckage.”

  “So she followed us from Hampstead.”

  “I doubt it, from the state she was in. She had obviously been drinking for many hours.”

  “Dutch courage, to take her revenge for her ruination.”

  “Most likely. She wasn’t driving the Morris earlier today, as she would have had at least two opportunities to finish me off. I spotted the car on my arrival at the gallery and on our walk to the restaurant.”

  “A different driver then,” I suggested, “with orders to observe rather than intervene?”

  “Which raises the question of how and when my would-be assassin clambered behind the wheel of the car.”

  “You said she struck a deal to escape prosecution.”

  “If I can believe her drunken rambling. ‘He told me to do it,’ she said over and over again. ‘He wanted to scare you, to warn you off.’”

  “The intention was not to kill you then?”

  “I
f Mycroft is behind our surveillance I would certainly hope not. Perhaps this was a warning, like that given by Burns and Hartley.”

  “Surely they weren’t sent by Mycroft?”

  “At present, we have no evidence to the contrary. At least they were professionals, rather than a frightened girl manipulated by those who should know better. First Pritchard and now the mastermind of tonight’s entertainment. Unfortunately, Miss Kadwell will pay the price for their machinations.”

  “So, what happened? The police arrived, I take it.”

  “In large numbers. Thankfully, I lost myself in the confusion, slipping away.”

  “And the man who saved you?”

  “He vanished.”

  I attempted to perch on the edge of the table, before thinking better of it. Holmes immediately sprang to his feet, offering his chair.

  “Sit down. Your need is greater than mine. Besides, I have been patched up by the greatest doctor in London.”

  I didn’t contradict him. “But how did you end up here? Piccadilly is two miles away.”

  “That’ll be me,” Geller piped up. “I didn’t like leaving Mr Holmes alone, not after all that’s happened, whether he’d dismissed me or not.”

  “Quite right. Good man.”

  “I heard what happened, and went looking for him.”

  “I admit that I was a little confused. I may have had the wits to avoid the police, but the events of the last forty-eight hours were starting to catch up with me.”

  “I am not surprised.”

  “And that’s not all,” Geller added.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Tell him,” Geller said, drawing a withering look from Holmes.

  “I remember when I was the one in charge.”

  “Long time ago, Mr Holmes. Long time.”

  Holmes relented. “As I blundered into Soho, I once again picked up a shadow, one of the individuals who have dogged our footsteps these last few days. And then he made his move.”

  “He attacked you?”

  “An old man, befuddled by too much wine and a near-fatal accident? Of course he did. There would never be a better time.”

  “And what happened?”

  “For that we need to go into the next room.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Holmes walked towards the door and Geller, limping slightly. “You have the key?”

  Geller pulled a chain from his pocket. “He’s not going to like it,” he told Holmes.

  “Who isn’t?” I asked, before realising the former Irregular was talking about me. “What am I not going to like?”

  Holmes simply stared at me. “I trust you brought your revolver?”

  “Shall I need it?”

  “There’s every chance. If you wouldn’t mind?”

  Shaking my head at his theatrics, I fished the gun from my coat pocket and released the safety catch. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or should I use this on you?”

  Geller unlocked the other door. “I told him this wasn’t a good idea, Doctor, I promise I did.” Without another word, he pushed it open.

  The room was as bare as the first, this time boasting no table, decrepit or otherwise. It did, however, contain a chair, on which sat a man in his late twenties, glaring at us with murderous eyes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  QUIS CUSTODIET IPSOS CUSTODES?

  Instinctively, I raised my gun, but thankfully the fellow stayed where he was.

  “Who the devil is this, Holmes?” I asked, not sure that I wanted to know.

  “My attacker,” came the reply. There was a creak on the stairs, and I realised Harkness had joined us. “There may have been gaps in my story, Watson, which is why you will always be the better author.”

  “You need to let me go,” said the man, a Scottish burr to his voice. As he spoke he ran his fingers nervously against his chin, revealing a nasty graze on the side of his large hand. “You can’t hold me here against my will.”

  I had to agree. “He’s right, Holmes. Whatever he’s done, taking a man prisoner—”

  Holmes cut me off. “I didn’t dismiss Geller, not really. I had already told him what I had planned; to persuade Woodbead to go to lunch, to over-indulge, or at least to give the impression that I had done so. Granted I never expected the car, but that only added to my performance. I knew that if I wandered into the side streets, I would be too great a target to resist. They would finally make their move, and so would I.

  “I stumbled, and so did our man here. He grabbed me from behind, his arm going around my neck.” Holmes turned to the prisoner. “‘Just drop it,’ that is what you said, is it not? ‘Drop all of it, if you know what’s good for you.’ Dialogue worthy of one of your stories, Watson. He must be another fan.”

  I winced at the dreadful Americanism. “And you fought back?”

  “Simplicity itself, even in my weakened condition. I arched forward, dragging him with me while delivering what I imagine was a painful kick to the shin. Not expecting an old man to retaliate, he was thrown off balance, long enough for Geller to rush to my aid.”

  Holmes regarded his prisoner with such pride that my blood boiled. This was too much, even for him.

  “What now, then?” I asked. “You torture him? Make him tell you everything?”

  Holmes looked appalled. “Torture? Please, you insult me, Watson.”

  “Says the man who kidnaps innocent folk in the street.”

  “Hardly innocent.”

  All this time, the fellow was watching us argue, no doubt waiting to see if he could make a break for it. I fancied that Geller and Harkness, Holmes’s accessories, would be enough of a deterrent, even if he could get past my gun. Like it or not, I was a part of this now.

  “What of the police?” I asked.

  “What of them? They have turned their back on us, Watson, after years of service. Besides,” he continued, “why would I need to torture someone to uncover the truth about him? Until yesterday this gentleman had a beard, for example.”

  “He did?”

  Holmes sighed. “Use your eyes, Watson. The skin above his cheekbones is lightly tanned, whereas his chin is pale. There is also a tan mark on the little finger of his left hand, suggesting he usually wears a signet ring, but that he removed it in order to remain as anonymous as possible. That he wears it on his left indicates that he is right handed, knowledge that helped me remove his wallet from his left breast pocket during our scuffle.”

  “His wallet?”

  With a flourish, Holmes produced the item concerned, a smart leather receptacle.

  “Barely used, and without any marks of identification. Another attempt to remain incognito, although to that end he has failed. This, Watson, is our bearded friend from the Underground. The bowler hat and black suit may have gone, but his cravat is fastened with the same gold pin. I would also suggest that if we had addressed him on the platform yesterday, he would not have used that awful Scottish brogue. The fellow has never been north of the border. If I am doing him a disservice and he has, then he failed to notice the subtle differences between Dundee and Glasgow, as he mashes both accents together with gay abandon.”

  Holmes turned to the man in question. “Am I correct?”

  The prisoner simply glowered at us.

  “I could go on, explaining how he recently bought his sweetheart a posy of forget-me-nots, but I think my point has been made.”

  “But, if he won’t speak—”

  “He can remain as silent as the grave for all I care. That is not his function here.”

  “Then what is?”

  There came a knock on the door in the hallway below. I started, and our captive used the momentary distraction to rise from his chair, ready to make good his escape. Even after all these years, my military training came to the fore, my gun arm stiffening. The fellow hesitated.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” said Holmes, letting Geller step in and pull the door shut, locking it tight. />
  I lowered my revolver. “Now what?”

  “Now we retire to what we can laughingly call the drawing room. Harkness, will you get the door?”

  Harkness grunted in response and headed downstairs. Holmes ushered me back into the first room, shutting Geller out on the landing.

  “You’ve gone mad, haven’t you?” I exclaimed, shaking my head, as Holmes rushed to his former chair to reclaim the jacket that was draped over its back.

  “I sympathise that it appears that way…” he replied.

  “Sympathise? Holmes, since when have you employed louts to do your dirty work? Or is this an aspect of your operations that I have hitherto been unaware of?”

  “Careful, Watson,” Holmes said, buttoning his jacket. “Geller will hear you. He’s a lot of things, but a lout he is not, as well you know.”

  “But what of that Harkness fellow? He lied to me, you know? Told me he hadn’t a clue what you’d been up to—”

  “Of course he did. We could ill afford the risk that someone was listening. I was unprepared to show our hand just yet.”

  “To whom?” I demanded, although Holmes gave no answer. Instead, he beckoned me to listen to the creak of the stairs. Someone was pulling heavily on the banister, puffing and wheezing all the way. I slipped my revolver back into my coat pocket, but kept my hand firmly around the grip as I moved to stand beside Holmes, who had his hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world as if we were back in 221B Baker Street, ready for Mrs Hudson to bundle in a prospective client.

  Even Geller seemed to keep the pretence going. Through the warped wood we heard him say, “He’s through here, sir,” before opening the door. I tensed, and then my mouth dropped open.

  An elephantine figure was squeezing his way through the doorframe.

  “Sherlock,” he growled.

  “Mycroft,” Holmes responded. “How good to see you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  HOLMES V. HOLMES

  The two brothers stood there, Mycroft scowling and Holmes returning the gaze with such indifference that one would think they had never met, let alone been raised in the same nursery.

  Mycroft’s plump face was flushed, but I found it impossible to tell whether it was the result of his laboured ascent or the anger that burned in his eyes. Bizarrely he carried beneath his arm a copy of The Times.