Mycroft and Sherlock

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

Sherlock noticed that Ai Lin’s expression had softened, and wondered if Mycroft had inquired about the landaulet so as to alter the mood, to leave Ai Lin with a positive image of her father as a counterweight to what she had just learned.

  It was a thoughtful gesture, though perfectly useless. And once again Sherlock thanked whatever divine powers there might be that he was not the sort to be so bamboozled by sentiment.

  * * *

  Mycroft’s carriage arrived at the Lins’ to find Douglas, Huan and Ai Lin’s bodyguards seated on the front steps, much worse for the wear. One bodyguard had a broken nose and the other nursed a mangled right arm. Huan’s left eye was swollen, he and Douglas had stripes of dried blood across their cheeks and under their eyes, and all four were covered in cuts and contusions.

  Still, they are alive, Mycroft thought, greatly relieved.

  As usual, Huan smiled and waved as if they had just returned from high tea.

  “How many were there?” Sherlock asked, wide-eyed as he bounded out of the carriage.

  “Nine,” Douglas replied wearily. “Able fighters all.”

  “But trained in China! So, we knew their tricks in this Year of the Monkey, yes?” Huan exclaimed jovially.

  Mycroft emerged from the carriage, then turned and waited for Ai Lin, as William Angel lent her a hand to disembark.

  “Nine men were sent to dispatch a man of middle years, a boy, and two dullards?” Sherlock muttered to his brother. “Quite the show of force.”

  “Or of loyalty,” Mycroft opined quietly. “Someone wanted to show Lin that men who worked for him, that he counted on, are now solidly on the opposing side. Your father shall need more than two bodyguards that he shares reluctantly with you!” he added full-voiced to Ai Lin as she joined them. “I would hire them this very night, four at least.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but my father would never allow it,” she replied. “He would rather die than show weakness, which is how he would perceive that sort of protection. Bodyguards are to protect a woman’s honor; they are not for strong, capable men.”

  The “strong, capable” men on the steps rose to their rather wobbly feet as she made her way to them.

  “I do not know how I can ever repay any of you for keeping my father alive this night,” she told them. “Mr. Douglas, Mr. Huan, if you are ever in need, if there is anything I can do, please know that I am now and forever in your debt.”

  “And I in yours, Mr. Holmes,” Angel whispered to Mycroft before returning to her side.

  With a small bow of farewell, Ai Lin hastened up the steps. At the top, she waved to Mycroft and Sherlock, then stepped through the door that Angel held open for her, the two bodyguards shuffling painfully behind.

  “It is a death sentence for Lin,” Douglas said, his voice hoarse.

  “Yes,” Mycroft said. “Unless we can track down the head villain before his minions have a chance to heal. Douglas, I believe Nickolus House is the closest to us. Might you consider three bedraggled guests?”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  “Two bedraggled guests,” Sherlock declared, “for I shall go to the Quinces’. They are expecting me and besides, it is a fine night for a stroll.”

  “It is no such thing, and no,” Mycroft told him. “I shall send Mrs. Quince a note that you are safe and will see the boys back in Cambridge.”

  With that, he pointed to the carriage, with Sherlock sighing like a martyr as he climbed back inside.

  Mycroft was certain that Nickolus House would be best, for the quicker Douglas and Huan could get to bed and recover, the better off they would be. Besides, he wanted to keep an eye on his brother. Soon Sherlock would be escorted back to Cambridge under Huan’s scrutiny, there to remain until this whole “sordid affair,” as Mycroft had first referred to it, was over.

  “One thing I find curious,” he muttered to Douglas, who was about to embark.

  “Only one?” Douglas said with a sardonic smile, his fingers on the door handle.

  “Deshi Hai Lin said there were a ‘dozen’ devils against him. So where were the other three…?”

  “Mycroft, there is such a thing as overthinking,” Douglas muttered back.

  “Huan?” Mycroft called out as his coachman hobbled past them towards the box seat. “Might you allow me to take the reins so you can rest?”

  “Oh no!” Huan exclaimed, offended. “Mr. Mycroft will not do my work, I shall do my own work, thank you!” He hobbled off.

  Douglas pulled the door open and stepped into the carriage, only to announce in alarm: “Sherlock is gone!”

  50

  SHERLOCK HAD SPIRITED HIMSELF AWAY, AND THERE WAS nothing anyone could do. Huan and Douglas could not go gallivanting after him, for both had already taxed their poor, beaten bodies to the limit; and Mycroft with his skipping heart and uncertain breath was an abysmal third candidate, particularly since Sherlock had a few minutes’ head start, and would be hidden by the fog and the darkness.

  Having lost that battle before it had begun, Mycroft did the only thing he could. He went back to Nickolus House, waited until his friends were sound asleep, then purloined his own carriage and crept off like a thief in the night to try to find his brother—for if Douglas or Huan had awakened, they would have insisted on accompanying him. And, since trying to find Sherlock when he did not wish to be found was a fool’s errand, Mycroft preferred to be alone in playing the fool.

  His first stop was the Quinces’ residence. As her sons peered around her back like two whey-faced specters, their whey-faced mother let him know that no, Sherlock was certainly not there, and that in fact she and her boys had seen neither hide nor hair of him since early Monday morning.

  As he wondered where Sherlock could have bedded down for two nights running, Mycroft traversed Baker Street and environs, though it was an act borne of desperation, for he could not imagine what his brother would have yet to find there. He even went to the National Standard Theatre, scouting Shoreditch High Street multiple times, as he recalled Parfitt’s research and the rooms that Professor Cainborn had kept there for the past five years. Mycroft would not put it past Sherlock to visit John Cainborn to discuss “the case” and have him render an opinion.

  Cainborn.

  The name continued to plague him.

  * * *

  In the twilight before dawn of Thursday, Mycroft and the horse, both ragged from wear, returned to St. John’s Wood—the animal for hay, water and rest, Mycroft for a nice hot bath, a change of garments, and perhaps a few hours’ sleep.

  The objective was to calm his frayed nerves and rid himself of the fear that something untoward had happened to his brother; and, in case it had not, the impulse to strangle him with his own two hands.

  He found a note from Parfitt sticking out of his letterbox. Edward Cardwell had come down with a miserable cold… as Mycroft had predicted he would from the moment he’d noticed Cardwell’s scarf draped across his coat rack.

  With Cardwell indisposed, Mycroft could go to the office unhindered, and peruse tomes of various and sundry businesses that had been established in Britain during the past five years—tomes too jumbled for even Parfitt to decipher. Perhaps Cainborn had made investments that would not jibe with his rather pitiable salary as a university professor.

  Just like that, the idea of a few hours’ slumber went gamboling off. In lieu of sleep, he would make himself a cup of tea. He briefly considered stirring in a pinch of Ai Lin’s herbs… but perhaps not yet.

  He dug his hand into his overcoat pocket and clutched the little tin like a lifeline.

  * * *

  Sherlock’s plan for escape from Mycroft’s well-meaning but ill-timed clutches had been executed even more quickly than he had conceived of it. In a move purloined from the commedia dell’arte, it had been in one door, out the other.

  He blamed this impulsivity at least in part on the after-effects of the Vin Mariani, which had made him irritable. Yes, there would be hell to pay when he saw Mycroft again, but h
e could not think of that now.

  He knew where Cainborn’s pied-à-terre was located, though he had never been invited there: for no matter how often or how well they had worked together, Cainborn had always kept their burgeoning friendship at arm’s length. Sherlock had not resented that divide between student and teacher; he had always understood and honored it.

  But now, it was proving sinister indeed.

  Sherlock knew Cainborn was at home, for he had seen the good professor enter his lodgings a few moments before midnight. Twice he had almost knocked upon his door. Twice he’d had to duck out of sight as Mycroft had swung around the corner like a keen young lion stalking his prey… provided said lion were outfitted in Savile Row finery and driving a hansom.

  By the time Sherlock was ready to knock upon Cainborn’s door a third time, the chimes of the bell tower were sounding one in the morning, the streets were emptying, and Sherlock was feeling drained, weak, and irritated.

  He thought perhaps it might be best to wait until light, when the narcotics were fully out of his system and his wits had returned in full force. But a lad of his age and status could not very well loiter on the corner without drawing the wrong sort of attention.

  He placed a protective hand over the pocket of his jacket, for that was where he had hidden Madame de Matalin’s “rainy day” cache, and made his way back to the National Standard Theatre. He had attended several performances there with Mycroft and had noticed the transom window that led directly into the theatre’s storeroom.

  It could come in handy at a time like this.

  * * *

  At Cumberland House, Mycroft had set Parfitt on the hunt for details of an uprising in Canton in 1859: ten volumes marked China Extraterritorialities and Treaties 1857–1860.

  As Mycroft scanned his Business Archives 1860–1870 he spotted something of note. One John Aloysius Cainborn, aged forty-three, had a one-third interest in a fledgling company that sought and promoted medical discoveries. Not yet profitable, and indeed a losing proposition, it had been christened Mundi Morphi, adulterated Latin for “the world of dreams”…

  “Mr. Holmes? I found him!”

  Mycroft marked his place and hurried over to Parfitt.

  “The first part is n-nothing you are not aware of, Mr. Holmes…”

  “Then kindly sum it up,” Mycroft replied.

  “Yessir.” He cleared his throat. “After many years of the Cantonese suffering under the c-coolie trade, it is noted here that in 1859 several kidnappers were caught, thrown into prison and w-would be made to stand trial. But then some of the local populace broke into the prison and took the k-kidnappers hostage. Eighteen were beheaded in a single d-d-day…”

  “Breathe, Parfitt, this is not an extreme unction.”

  Parfitt nodded, drew a breath and continued: “A woman who was said to be in l-league with them, with the kidnappers I mean, was dragged from her home into a public square and there m-mutilated. It documents here that her nose and f-female parts were excised.”

  Parfitt ran a finger underneath the offending line for seeming reassurance that it was indeed the book and not he that had broached the subject of female anatomy.

  Mycroft leaned his elbow against the desk and squinted down at the line in question. “I would say ‘excised’ is rather feeble, Parfitt. She was kept alive while her nose and breasts were sliced off.”

  “Yessir,” Parfitt agreed, swallowing loudly. “And several of the beheadings, as well as the s-slicing, were carried out… well, sir, you see there?” He pointed to another line in the open book. “Here they only identify the ring leader as ‘a chief officer.’ But then in this one, if you’ll p-pardon me, sir,” he added as he reached past Mycroft’s elbow to a second book, “it says ‘first mate of the commercial steamer Rivalry’! But ‘chief officer’ and ‘first mate’ are alternate titles for the same p-position, are they not? And so then, in this third book,” Parfitt went on, fumbling for it, “is written that in 1859, the chief o-officer of the Rivalry was Deshi Hai Lin, aged forty-one. That is one of the names you seek, is it not, sir?” Parfitt asked, staring up at him.

  Mycroft sprinted out of the office without another word.

  * * *

  The old rag-picker had eyebrows made of mouse fur. His cheeks were streaked like a drunkard’s, thanks to a bit of Spanish wool dragged across the skin. The veins on his neck stuck out purple and blue. A bit more lead paint sprinkled on his occipital bones had caused his eyes and nose to redden appreciably. A topcoat so rough that it could have been woven together from the hides of gutter rats covered the newly formed hump on his back. A wig of spare gray hair and a green felt hat completed the overall impression of penury and dissipation.

  The rag-picker appeared to be shaking off a night wasted in carousing and drink when the good professor passed him on his way to the omnibus. Sherlock saw Cainborn check his watch as he went, more likely out of habit than hurry, for the nearest church bell had just sounded eight a.m., and the omnibus was not due for ten minutes.

  With Cainborn waiting at the stop, the rag-picker had time to enter Cainborn’s lodgings, look about for anything of interest, and then catch up with him again before he was left behind.

  51

  AT NINE A.M., MYCROFT CAME CALLING TO PIMLICO, AND was ushered into the Lins’ drawing room. He well knew what he had to communicate to Deshi Hai Lin and (if the patriarch wished it) to his family. But he was not certain how best to go about it. His heart had been pounding furiously since he had left Cumberland House in Pall Mall, and the two-mile ride had seemed to take an eternity.

  What did Ai, or her brother Dai en-Lai, for that matter, know of their father’s past? Would they be able to comprehend and eventually justify his actions, or had he crossed a line too egregious even for those who adored him?

  Deshi Hai Lin appeared less agitated than the night before, though not so much calmer as resigned.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Mycroft began.

  “Mr. Holmes,” Lin replied, bowing slightly. “My daughter told me of your bravery on our behalf last night.”

  “There was no bravery on my part, Mr. Lin,” Mycroft protested. “It was my driver, along with my dearest friend, who ensured your safety, and that of your son.”

  “Please sit, for you are forever welcome here,” Lin replied, indicating a chair. “But I would be remiss if I did not warn you that this abode is not particularly safe. You see that my children are absent, for I cannot place them in additional jeopardy…”

  Mycroft, whose heartbeat was sounding like a dissonant gong in his eardrums, very nearly sank into the proffered chair.

  “You did well to send your children away,” he said, straightening his spine and catching his breath as Lin pulled up a chair beside him. For, as gratified as he would have been to see Ai Lin again, he was even more grateful that she was safe.

  “I know of your past in Canton in 1859,” Mycroft said the moment that the older man was settled. “That, in your zeal to eradicate the coolie trade once and for all, you took several lives.”

  Lin did not even raise an eyebrow in surprise. It was as if he had been waiting to be caught, and now there it was.

  “More than several, Mr. Holmes,” he confessed sadly, joining his hands and wringing them as if he were washing something away. “One a woman, whom I tortured to death. Had it surfaced when I made my way to this country, I never could have emigrated at all.”

  “I understand there are two brothers, Kang Chen and Ju-long Chen, who emigrated with you, whose lives you spared.”

  “Yes. They were innocent of any wrongdoing, and I knew they were. I would not permit them to be beheaded with the rest. Kang Chen is a good sort. But his brother Juju is another matter. For a long while I trusted him, and he was my second in command. Then he began to spend more time at his place of business in Limehouse…”

  “The opium den,” Mycroft said. “The Water Monkey.”

  “Yes,” Lin confirmed, “although it has never dr
awn the negative scrutiny that others of that sort have—mostly, it is a spot for immigrants to play si se pai. I did not know that behind the scenes he was recruiting my best workers! Enslaving some with the poppy, bribing others…”

  “At first, you believed them to be importing dolls?”

  “Yes, feigning they were French and not Chinese. Though less than honorable, I mistakenly justified it as a small, meaningless deception. I even had one made for my daughter. After all, these were men who had been enslaved! They deserved to make a living! But then Ju-long Chen, one of the two brothers I saved from beheading, concocted a scheme to export a new sort of powerful narcotic inside the dolls,” he said. “He found a partner and sold it in exchange for gold, which he had made into sovereigns, to spend whenever he pleased! I was given some of the money in return for the use of my ships. To my undying shame, I capitulated. From there, I was quickly marginalized to the point where now I do not even recognize my own crew!”

  “Threats of exposure kept you silent?”

  He nodded. “And the killings. They began several months ago; no doubt you have read of them. Ritual killings meant to keep Chinese dockworkers and seamen quiet about what they know… but mostly to keep me quiet. It is a constant reminder of my shame in Canton, and a warning of what they will do to me and to my children if I do not cooperate fully with their schemes.”

  “Their schemes?” Mycroft asked.

  Lin frowned. “Juju Chen is bright, but he is unlearned. He is not capable of this level of machination. But now they have pushed me too far! I am prepared to tell all, even if it costs me my children’s respect!” He rose to his feet, agitated, for clearly it was this consequence that he dreaded the most.

  “Mr. Lin,” Mycroft said, looking up at him, “I am certain any official testimony coming from you will be invaluable. But first, is the name of the man who came up with these ‘machinations’—the formula for the new drug, the composition of the sovereigns—Professor John Cainborn?”

  Lin peered about as though seeing ghosts.