Mycroft and Sherlock

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  Sherlock considered his options. He might be quick enough to grab the short staff out of Juju’s hands, and he could probably attack one of the two henchman and sail out the door, but what then? Surely Ned was standing outside. And even though the right side of his body was weak, the left looked hale enough, and Sherlock would still be outnumbered three to one—four to one, if Gin made it down the stairs in time. Possibly even six, if the women could do battle—and he did not doubt they could.

  No, overpowering them would not do, and neither would flight. As with the lads at Nickolus House, he would simply have to outsmart them.

  “Guv, last time I ’ad two mates wiv me,” he said desperately, “you can ask them old women if I din’t! One mate were keepin’ it for me, but they’s not ’ere now, is they, guv? I ain’t bricky,” he added, indicating his own body with his chin. “You can see ’ow it is with your own peepers! What do I protect meself wiv, then, if not that?”

  “Yes, I do see. But here is another point that puzzles me,” Juju said, slapping the short staff on his open palm with an unpleasant thwack. “Before Charles perished so unexpectedly, and of course so tragically, I did not need another boy. I did not desire another boy. And so Charles would have been alerting you to a position that did not exist, and that would have left him quite without employment…”

  Juju’s henchmen seemed to be breathing inside Sherlock’s eardrums in unison.

  “I see ’ow that could give you pause, guv,” Sherlock responded, staring into Juju’s malicious and unsparing eyes, and struggling to stay focused. “But does you know Georgie, guv?”

  “The brother,” Juju said flatly. “What about him?”

  “Well now, guv, if you knowed Charlie, then you knowed Charlie ’ad a big ’eart for little Georgie. And ’e knowed ’is bruvver was ’appy at Nicklas ’ouse. So ’e was torn, you see? He’d got ’im outta Beeton’s, an’ now they was safe, but Georgie, ’e knowed that if old Smythe got wind of what Charles did for a livin’, they’d both be out on their ears! And so Charlie swore to Georgie ’e was done wiv it. I don’t know if ’e was or wasn’t, but when Charlie died, I thought about wot ’e said, and so I come ’ere to see about work! I din’t mean nothin’ by it! Please don’t beat me brains in, guv!”

  Juju stepped back. “Remove his jacket and roll up his shirt cuffs,” he ordered his henchmen.

  They did so, and Roly-Poly inspected the needle marks. “Old,” he said to his employer. “Weeks. Maybe months.”

  Moon Face pulled a morocco case out of his pocket, and from it a hypodermic syringe. Within its opaque glass was a substance that looked brownish in color.

  Sherlock assumed that either they would kill him immediately, or that he had passed the latest test. Juju’s next statement seemed to indicate the latter: “One final examination, young Basil. This is the newest concoction. I would be gratified to hear your thoughts.”

  With Roly-Poly holding Sherlock’s right arm, Moon Face expertly felt for a vein in the crook of his arm. Having apparently found one that met his specifications, he removed his tie from his neck, tied it firmly above the point of entry he had found, tapped the desired vein to make it stand out, and inserted the needle.

  When a droplet of blood rose into the barrel, he pressed down upon the piston.

  Sherlock felt burning. He began to count and reached seven before he experienced a euphoria like a wind rushing through him. He lost all presence of mind to continue his counting but knew only a feeling of ecstasy and peace, and a moment after that of falling forever into a dark, bottomless abyss that brought to his wavering consciousness Alice’s adventures through the looking glass, or what he had seen when looking into Juju’s eyes…

  And after that, nothing.

  39

  AT FOUR P.M., VIELLE CASE IN TOW, MYCROFT AND DOUGLAS made their way through the noisy, bustling walkways of the St. Katharine Docks, which lay on the north side of the Thames and downstream from London Bridge and the Tower of London. Unable to accommodate more sizable crafts, St. Katharine’s nevertheless had its share of activity with midsized vessels, for the lock had been sunk so deep that ships up to seven hundred tons’ burden could enter at any point of the tide, with warehouses built on the quayside and the latest hydraulics, so that merchandise could be loaded and unloaded directly onto the vessels.

  “They have accidentally created the perfect location for contraband,” Douglas said.

  “Or deliberately,” Mycroft replied.

  As a fine mist of rain continued unabated, porters with fraying jackets and holes in the knees of their trousers grunted and strained under gargantuan traveling bags, while beside them bowler-hatted gentlemen in tailored suits wielded nothing weightier than an umbrella.

  Like every other dock that Mycroft had ever set foot on, it was a smelly, egregious affair. Worse still, St. Katharine’s specially fitted steam engines—meant to keep the water level at approximately four feet above the tidal river—were not functioning to capacity. Water sloshed onto the walkways, so that the mere act of walking became treacherous.

  Even so, Douglas took it all in fondly, every so often calling out the names of ships he recognized or upon which he had sailed, until he walked into the customs office, with Mycroft following.

  * * *

  The head officer, Martin McMullah, was a sour sort, with rheumy eyes and a good-sized paunch. He located the volumes of public records on the ships coming into port and scanned the entries until he found Deshi Hai Lin’s steamship, Orion’s Belt.

  “There be nothin’ out of sorts,” McMullah said, volume open to Orion’s Belt’s arrivals and departures. “Except she come into port ten days ago but is not yet at quayside,” he added.

  “But that is not illegal,” Douglas muttered as Mycroft scanned the crew list.

  “’T’isn’t,” McMullah agreed. “They can sit at dockside until they rot; ain’t none of our affair ’til they unloads.”

  “Anything else you can tell us about her?” Mycroft asked.

  “Pays her fees on time,” McMullah said with a shrug. “No accidents at dock, the rest ain’t my business. When you’re finished with the logs, I’ve arranged for you to see a man by the name of Kang Chen. Boatswain on The Temptress. Like you, Cyrus, he worked the ships from a tyke, ’ceptin’ he’s a Chinaman. Speaks like a grandee, but a good sort. No one’ll be botherin’ you there, not on a heavin’ day like this.”

  * * *

  On their way to The Temptress, Mycroft and Douglas paused some hundred yards from Orion’s Belt, still heavy in her slip. They had no way to draw nearer without provoking undue attention—for a ship filled with cargo was well guarded by men who tended to be suspicious of onlookers. Even as they tried to sidle closer, a rumble of thunder let them know that heavier rain was soon to come, creating yet another obstacle in an already tenuous situation.

  “Does she look the sort,” Mycroft asked, peering through the mist and the drizzle, “to reach Shanghai in thirty days at most?”

  “Not easy to make out, but I would say so. She appears to be sleek and well cared for.”

  “Let us fathom a connection between Mr. Lin, the symbols, and Charles’s death,” Mycroft continued. “Let us say the symbols are meant to reveal which items will be unpacked. Is it then conceivable that the entire operation is shut down over the death of one boy?”

  “Highly doubtful,” Douglas replied.

  Mycroft nodded. “So, what would cause someone to allow their contraband—if indeed that is what it is—to remain aboard ship for ten days? Mutiny, perhaps?”

  Douglas shrugged. “If there is malfeasance,” he replied, “if the crew is creating a stir or being disruptive, the owner might cease all labors until he ferrets out the malcontents, for any weakness could eventually bring down the whole affair. But he could only do so if the cargo has no expiry or fixed delivery date. Otherwise, the loss would not be worth the discovery.”

  “The driver of the landaulet works for Deshi Hai Lin. I believe he was t
rying to warn us. Might he be a malcontent?” Mycroft suggested.

  “He might be, but he is not crew,” Douglas protested. “He would not be privy to his employer’s business aboard ship.”

  “But in this case, the driver would have to know only the nature of the contraband, how and where it is hidden, and how it is removed.”

  “Is that all?” Douglas teased.

  “It is a bit much,” Mycroft admitted.

  With no more to discover about Orion’s Belt, he followed Douglas along a makeshift walkway towards The Temptress, as the temporary walkway buckled and rolled beneath them. The whole venture was proving more treacherous by the moment.

  “When we return to terra firma,” Mycroft said, “might I borrow a dozen of those sovereigns? I should like to have them tested.”

  “I thought you said they were not counterfeit,” Douglas replied.

  “No, I said they were good, meaning I believe they are worth what they say they are worth,” Mycroft corrected.

  “What troubles you, then?” Douglas asked.

  “Their perfection,” Mycroft replied. “It bothers me a great deal.”

  * * *

  By the time Mycroft and Douglas climbed aboard The Temptress, the rain had begun to fall so hard that sky and sea had blended into one. Lanterns swayed in the gale, illumining the downpour with an eerie yellow cast. Douglas had the vielle case hidden in his overcoat as they gave their names to an inscrutable Chinese guard stationed on the bridge and made their way to the dining hall.

  Even had the day been splendid, there was little tempting about The Temptress. She was certainly not the Sultana, the large steamer that had transported them to Trinidad, with its stately saloon, fine linen and china, soft upholstered chairs and softer lighting. The Temptress was a working cargo ship that ferried few passengers, none of whom expected, or received, first class accommodation. The room they entered had more the look of a military mess hall, with a low ceiling and a few paltry wall lamps putting out more smoke than light, thereby adding to the sense of claustrophobia.

  Thankfully their contact, Kang Chen, was already waiting, and he rose to his feet to greet them. Smiling, hand extended, he was a slight man in his late thirties or early forties, with a shaved head and a graceful bearing. And although he wore British-made apparel, he did not have the nonchalance that Western clothes could sometimes impart but seemed self-contained, almost constricted—as if freedom were not something he took lightly. When he walked, he shuffled his feet along the ground, as if shod in slippers and not hard-soled shoes.

  When he drew closer, the dim light revealed a rather prominent scar across his neck that even a good-sized cravat could not hide.

  “Mr. Chen,” Douglas said, taking his hand. “I am Cyrus Douglas, and this is my associate and friend, Mycroft Holmes.”

  “Mr. Douglas. Mr. Holmes. Our mutual friend told me that this was a delicate matter,” Kang said in fine, lightly accented English, “and so I thought a meeting here would be best, for we are quite alone. Please, have a seat, won’t you?”

  Mycroft and Douglas took a seat across from him at one end of the long, bare dining table.

  “We are very grateful to you,” Douglas said as he pulled the vielle case out from under his coat. “Our mutual friend assured me that you are quite skilled.”

  “Ah, he is too kind. I am your humble servant,” Kang Chen said, bowing slightly, his smile intact. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pair of blued steel wire spectacles with lacquered ends. Putting them on carefully, he peered at the markings on the instrument.

  At first, he seemed to not comprehend what he was seeing. With the tiniest hesitation, he leaned in closer, and every bit of color drained from his already sallow cheeks.

  “Mr. Chen,” Mycroft said gently. “Are these copies of what you drew in the Underground stations?”

  Mr. Chen rose abruptly, as did Douglas, who was every bit as surprised as Chen but prepared to block his escape, if need be.

  “That won’t be necessary, Douglas,” Mycroft said, holding up his hand. “Please sit, Mr. Chen, if you would be so kind, for we wish you no harm.”

  Chen sat reluctantly, as did Douglas.

  Mr. Chen stared at Mycroft with haunted eyes.

  “It was your expression, Mr. Chen. Too much, for symbols that denote nothing more dire than common flowers. Or for an unfamiliar instrument covered in marks clearly made by a laowai. No, you reacted because you created the originals. At least half, for your touch is light. There are small stains on your fingernails made by calligraphy ink. You have calluses on the thumb, index and middle finger of your right hand from holding a brush for too many hours at a time. They give you away as the artist you are, as do your spectacles. I recognize the brand: specially made in Venice, prized by artists because the lenses magnify with little distortion, and they have no shading that can interfere with the ability to discern color.”

  “I compliment you on your knowledge of art and artists,” Chen said, licking his lips. “But I still do not comprehend—”

  “Do not fret, Mr. Chen,” Mycroft interrupted. “For we are not here to foment trouble, neither are we the law. Indeed we did not know until this very moment that you had any information for us, other than to translate what we brought. And so, whatever your involvement was or has been regarding the symbols, we shall leave that alone, and ask that you merely reveal to us what they mean in English.”

  Mycroft ignored the rather pointed look that Douglas sent his way, along with a baffled one from Kang Chen.

  A moment later, Chen sighed, and his shoulders slumped. He removed his jacket a bit stiffly, revealing sweat stains on his shirt.

  “I can translate for you, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “but even if I wished to, I could not tell you what purpose they serve, for I do not know.”

  “You are quite gracious, Mr. Chen,” Mycroft said, “and we are much appreciative.”

  Chen took a deep breath, as if diving underwater, and began. “Rose,” he said dully, pointing to the symbols. “Dahlia, lily, myrtle, anise. Underneath that is amaryllis, that one is… aster, then at the end of that row we have sage, holly, violet, tulip, poppy, tansy, rue, and finally… daffodil.”

  “Ah, so not simply flowers, then, but also herbs?” Douglas inquired.

  “Flowers and herbs, yes,” Mr. Chen said, sounding as exhausted as if he had run a marathon. “I can repeat them if you wish…”

  “No need,” Mycroft responded.

  “As you like,” Chen said, eyeing Mycroft. “And I have helped you, yes?”

  “You have indeed,” Mycroft replied.

  “Good. Please hear me now. Whatever your purpose, I will say in my defense that I did only what I had to do so as to protect a beloved mentor. And that, whatever else you unearth, and regardless of what anyone tells you, he is a good and kind man.”

  “Did he know what you were doing?”

  “I do not believe so,” Chen replied. “I was hired by someone who wished him ill…”

  “I take it he was fair to his workers on Orion’s Belt?” Mycroft asked.

  “Ah, so you know that too…” Mr. Chen rose to his feet. This time, his sigh sounded like a death rattle. “Yes, he was more than fair to us,” he added. “I am alive because of him. And now you will depart, as promised?”

  “Of course,” Mycroft said, rising. “As I said, we are accusing no one of perpetrating evil.”

  “Oh, do not misunderstand, Mr. Holmes,” Chen interrupted. “There is great evil being perpetrated. I mean only that he is not the source.” He shook his head. “Goodbye, Mr. Douglas, Mr. Holmes. I pray you will not be offended if I say I hope to never see you again.”

  40

  DOUGLAS AND MYCROFT CAREFULLY WALKED DOWN THE gangway back to the dock, where they could just make out the silhouette of the carriage and of Huan, patiently waiting under a pounding deluge. Mycroft turned up the collar of his overcoat while inwardly cursing his lack of umbrella. So much for my infallible
sense of smell, he berated himself as the sky opened up even more, seemingly out of spite.

  “Well, Douglas, we unmasked one of the two artists. And, he used to work—most likely still works—for Deshi Hai Lin!”

  “I give you that,” Douglas said, somewhat coldly.

  “What troubles you?” Mycroft inquired.

  Douglas sighed. “I realize no one makes deductions as rapidly as you, least of all I—but I must insist you not make unilateral decisions without consulting me.”

  “Such as?” Mycroft asked.

  “Such as? Such as not letting Kang Chen get off scot free, for surely there was more there to discover!” Douglas exclaimed.

  “Yes, forgive me for that,” Mycroft replied. “However, in my defense: his ankles had been weakened from months of being bound; he had been caned repeatedly on the bottoms of his feet; he has a vertical gash across his back that has never properly healed, and quite possibly a broken vertebra, for which he must still wear a truss.”

  “However did you see a gash on his back?”

  “When he rose to his feet, frightened and indignant, his shoulders did not pull back as yours or mine would. Then, when he turned, his shirt was damp at the scapula, no doubt oozing pus. And earlier, when I shook his hand, there was a rather foul-smelling odor emanating through the jacket…”

  “And yet, I noticed none of that,” Douglas said with some chagrin.

  “But you must have noticed that the thumb of his left hand was mangled, that he had what looked like a burn mark around the base of it. But that his right thumb was spared, notably because whoever held him captive was taking advantage of his artistic skills and so would not damage his right hand. He is used to torture, Douglas,” Mycroft went on. “And since we would have employed nothing of the kind, he would have revealed nothing. Besides, I believed him: he made the markings on the wall for Deshi Hai Lin’s sake, and has no notion what they mean.

  “One positive conclusion,” Mycroft added. “Deshi Hai Lin, whatever else he has done, was not responsible for torturing and nearly garroting Kang Chen—though I am curious as to who was.”