The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  Holmes’s eyes glittered with triumph. “A shilling for each of you, then, if you take us there now.” At once the boys were in motion and we hastened to follow.

  “Holmes, how did you know?” I asked him as we ran after the two lads.

  “I did not actually know. Merely testing a theory. A very long shot,” Holmes admitted. “But there had to have been something of the sort, for otherwise the kidnapping would have been seen. Since there has been nothing in the morning newspapers, not even talk of a mysterious wagon crash in this area, it follows that the diversion worked.” He smiled. “But you will recall from our experiences with the Irregulars that, though these street urchins are largely invisible to adults, they miss nothing. Even something as trivial as a tipped wagonload of goods was bound to have attracted their notice, especially since they spend most of their day scavenging.”

  By this point, we had caught up to Rusty and his companion. “Right here is where it happened, guv’nor.” The redheaded boy pointed. “Scattered fish every which way.”

  Holmes thanked them, gave each the promised shilling, and sent them on their way. Then he turned to examine the street and surrounding buildings where we stood. “The street narrows here,” Holmes mused. “The bridge is that way, behind us. So they must have been approaching from the south end of the street and forced to turn - Ha!” He straightened and smiled in triumph. “That alley, gentlemen.”

  Bellwether and I followed Holmes to the alley’s entrance. The buildings on either side of us were set closely enough together that hardly any light penetrated to the cobbles, despite the early afternoon sun. “The darkness will aid us as much as it would our quarry,” Holmes said quietly. “Here, now, stay close to the wall, out of sight of the row of windows above.”

  Bellwether looked ahead of us. “But look, the alley extends all the way to the docks. How can we be certain they did not meet a boat, or-”

  “We cannot be certain.” Holmes shook his head. “But I think it unlikely. Why add to the complexities of the plan? The further they transport the hostages, the greater the risk of discovery. As it was, they took a dangerous chance moving the empty coach from here to the Diogenes. No, I think they must be very close by.”

  “Even so, I cannot see how you hope to trace them further, Holmes,” I said. “The afternoon is warm and dry, there is no way to follow their footsteps on these cobblestones. Were we in the country, there would at least be the possibility that they left tracks. But here in the city-”

  Holmes shook his head again, dismissing the objection. “There are other methods. For example, there are seven different gates along this row, but only one of them has a newly-installed Saunders and Haddon padlock.” He strode to the gate and knelt before it, taking a small set of tools out of his pocket.

  I was surprised. “You brought your lock-picks?”

  “I generally do. As you can see, they proved necessary.” I could not dispute it, and Holmes went on, “I believe this model can be sprung without too much difficulty. Watson, have your revolver at the ready. Bellwether, now would be the time to summon the authorities. I assume you have men at the Diogenes Club still?” The young man nodded. Holmes said, “Off with you, then.”

  The young attaché ran back the way we had come. Holmes let out a small grunt of satisfaction and bent to his work again. “Watson, if you would be so kind as to move to your left, so that I may use what little light we have - Ah! There it is.” The lock sprung open and I followed him in.

  The interior of the building was musty and damp, despite the sunny afternoon outside. “Step carefully on these old boards, Watson,” Holmes murmured. “Keep close to the wall. Any creaks will lose us the advantage of surprise.” I nodded and gripped my revolver, determined to be ready for anything.

  We ascended a short flight of steps and rounded a corner, and there we beheld Mycroft Holmes, bound and gagged. His eyes widened and he ducked his head toward us. I could not grasp his meaning, but Holmes grasped my shoulder and yanked me bodily to one side as a gunshot exploded from behind us. I whirled and beheld a dusky-skinned man with a black beard raising his pistol to fire again, but my own revolver spoke first. I got him in the shoulder and his gun went flying. He moved to retrieve it and I fired again, barely missing his head. Realizing the futility of further resistance, he slowly sagged against the wall, clutching his wounded shoulder. He glared at us, his eyes glittering with hatred.

  Behind me, Holmes had succeeded in freeing his brother, who looked wan and tired but otherwise unharmed. He regarded us with a thin smile. “I trust the authorities are on their way?”

  Holmes nodded. I asked, “But where is Teodoro?”

  “He was never here,” Mycroft Holmes said. He gestured at the wounded man on the floor. “Or, rather, this ruffian was playing the role.” he added. “His accomplice-”

  “At the Diogenes,” Holmes interrupted. “Posing as a concerned aide. He has probably fled, but he will not get far. We shall have him as well, when young Bellwether gets here with reinforcements.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, we had settled in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club, where Mycroft was looking much improved after a late-afternoon supper. He offered cigars along with brandy, and though Holmes declined, preferring his pipe, I permitted myself to indulge.

  “It was what we call a ‘false flag’ operation,” Mycroft explained. “A ruse designed to penetrate my department and collect the sensitive documents of which I am the custodian. It was deemed necessary for its success to take me off the board, so to speak.” He shook his head. “I had my doubts from the beginning about the ambassador’s authenticity but there was the chance it was a legitimate back-channel overture. The region he claimed to represent is a troubled one. I have conducted such negotiations before. I did not consider that the actual objective was the theft of my personal papers, and thought having Trumbull along was sufficient precaution. Certainly I did not expect the attack to come from the Ambassador himself - when the wagon-crash occurred, he demanded Trumbull steer us into the alley and then shot him dead without warning.”

  “I wonder that he did not shoot you as well,” I said.

  Mycroft smiled with wry humor. “I was still of use to them. No doubt they intended to sell me along with my papers. Fortunately, you read my cypher and...”

  “What?” Holmes said, baffled. “There was no cypher.”

  Now it was Mycroft that looked baffled in his turn. “But you said it was the note-”

  “Your allusion to the nonexistent treaty and the mention of the waterfront were sufficient clues,” Holmes said. “The rest was timetables, maps, and deduction. But-”

  “No, no!” Mycroft looked rather put out. “The cypher in the ransom note! First, then last! Do you mean to tell me that you did not see it? Do you still have the note?”

  Looking chagrined, Holmes fished it from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to his brother. Mycroft took the stub of a pencil from a nearby cribbage set and quickly underlined a few passages. Then he handed it back to Holmes. My friend flushed in embarrassment and then handed it to me. “I am as blind as a beetle, apparently, Watson,” he said.

  I looked at the note, seeing the words Mycroft had underlined.

  First, I implore you, Bellwether, to tell no one of this. You must follow these instructions to the letter; I fear our captor’s patience will not last. I need you to procure for me the Treaty of Montenegro and its various subsidiary contracts, discreetly, without letting anyone in the office see you. None must suspect. Teodoro must not be endangered; his life and mine depend upon your discretion. We have been given eighteen hours, and after that our fate will be in question. His constitution is more fragile than mine, though both of us are bearing up. There is nothing for it but to give them what they ask, there is no other aid. Seek no outside help. Further instructions will be coming by wire, but for th
e sake of authentication this is the only message they are permitting me to get out. Waterfront rendezvous likely forthcoming. We have no option but to submit if we wish to preserve the Montenegrin alliance we have been building.

  Yours,

  Mycroft Holmes

  “‘First, last,’” I read aloud. “‘I suspect Teodoro. Question his aid’-meaning the accomplice?” Mycroft nodded. I went on, “‘Seek out waterfront building.’ Well, I must admit that message would have saved us some time. But it all ended well anyway, did it not?”

  Mycroft merely shook his head. “Honestly, Sherlock,” he said. “We used that first-and-last cypher when we were boys. And to think I was worried about it being too transparent.”

  Holmes had turned beet-red. “Well...”

  I held up a hand. “Gentlemen!”

  They both turned to look at me.

  “Only a Mycroft Holmes could have conceived such a clever coded message under the very noses of his captors,” I said. “And only a Sherlock Holmes could have divined the whereabouts of the criminals without reading it. Can we not concede that you are both brilliant and then leave it at that?”

  For a moment the Holmes brothers were silent, and then both of them dissolved into helpless laughter.

  The Adventure of the Perfidious Partner

  by Jayantika Ganguly

  It was a pleasant evening in the summer of ’97 that my friend Sherlock Holmes and I found ourselves in the company of several of my acquaintances at a rundown private club near the Tower Bridge, being subjected to an endless litany of complaints about the hardships of setting up one’s own business. Holmes shot me an accusing look, for I had begged him to accompany me and lured him out with the promise of a superb steak. The club was small and ill-kept, but their steaks were good enough to rival the Langham’s. The promised meal had yet to arrive, however, and I could see my friend’s growing annoyance with the company.

  I offered Holmes a weak smile and the club’s best tobacco. Slightly appeased, he glanced longingly at the door. I looked at the wall-clock and decided that if our steaks were not served in the next ten minutes, we would depart. I had persuaded Holmes to leave the flat for the evening because he had been in a post-case slump, and I had thought that a good meal would cheer him up. My plan, however, did not seem to be working. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  “You would not understand our dilemma, Mr. Holmes,” young Roberts whined. His nasal voice grated even on my nerves; I could imagine exactly how irritated Holmes must be. I willed Roberts to stop speaking, but it was futile. The young businessman had imbibed a glass too many, and continued without pausing for breath. “You are quite famous. You do not need to go out on the streets to find work. I would bet that you get cases by the dozen, and you can afford to refuse the ones you detest. You never have to step out of the house to grab a client for yourself, do you?”

  I was incensed. I knew, better than anyone, how hard Holmes had worked over the years. His fame had been won through talent and diligence. I opened my mouth to speak, but Holmes stood up abruptly and winked at me. His keen grey eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Let us see if I can still ‘grab a client’, Watson,” he declared and dashed out of the club, without collecting his coat or walking stick. I ran after him, vaguely aware of some of our dinner companions following us.

  Holmes had reached the edge of the Tower Bridge. He grabbed a young man who was dangerously close to the railing and pulled him back.

  “Let me go, damn you!” the young man screamed, but Holmes had locked his arms securely around the boy.

  “What happened?” I asked Holmes, finally catching up with him.

  Holmes did not reply. The young man thrashed about, spewing forth a string of colourful invective directed at my friend, but Holmes did not let go.

  “Please... please let me die. I deserve it. Please,” the young man begged, his slight frame trembling with sobs. Tears spilled down his face, and he finally stopped struggling.

  I stepped closer, and noted the comely face and expensive clothes of the young man. He was hardly more than a child - perhaps eighteen or twenty years of age, with wide green eyes and floppy blond hair. He was as underdressed as Holmes - clearly he had run out of somewhere without pausing to wear his coat or hat.

  “Have you calmed down?” I asked gently. “Would you like a drink?”

  The young man nodded and then shook his head. I glanced at Holmes, who had not yet relinquished his grip on the boy.

  The others reached us.

  “Why, that is The Duke of Mannington’s youngest, is it not?” Roberts exclaimed, his nasal voice louder than ever before. “Why is Mr. Holmes...?” Several passers-by stopped and stared at us.

  “Do not cause a scene,” I warned Roberts.

  “Holmes?” the young boy cried. “Sherlock Holmes? The detective?”

  “Consulting detective,” Holmes corrected.

  The boy sighed. “So this is how it ends,” he muttered. “Well then, if you would not let me die, you may as well turn me over to the police. I have killed my fiancée, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes loosened his grip, but did not let the boy go. “How?” he asked quietly.

  The boy stared at him, confusion written on his tear-stained face.

  “How did you kill her?”

  The young aristocrat blinked. “I... there was blood... Oh, God, so much blood! Lisa was on the floor... I... I must have stabbed her?” he babbled incoherently, ending with a question.

  “Do you not remember?” Holmes asked sharply.

  The boy shook his head, tears pouring down his face. That a young man old enough to be engaged could weep in such a heart-rending manner was a revelation to me. He must have truly adored his fiancée. Could he have killed her?

  Holmes’s eyes gleamed. He was excited. He must have sensed a mystery. He released the boy, but kept a hold of his wrist.

  “You could not have stabbed anyone. There is no blood on you except the bottom of your shoes,” Holmes told him firmly. “Therefore, unless you washed up and changed your clothes prior to fleeing the scene of the crime - which is unlikely, given your state of undress - you could not have committed the murder you think you did.”

  “But...”

  Holmes peered into the boy’s face. “You have been drugged,” he declared. He turned to me and released the boy. “My dear Doctor, would you kindly confirm?”

  “Certainly, Holmes,” I replied, and checked the boy quickly. “You are correct, as usual.”

  “But I only had one glass of wine!” the young man protested. “And I didn’t eat anything either!”

  “In that case, we can only surmise that something was slipped into your drink,” I told him. “Did it taste strange?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. It was a vintage I had never sampled before. Lisa said her friend brought it from South Africa.” His emerald eyes welled up with tears again and he wobbled unsteadily. “Lisa...”

  Holmes caught him swiftly as he fainted. We carried the boy back to the club, and I administered some brandy. Holmes wrapped his own coat around the boy.

  “How did you know?” Roberts asked Holmes as soon as the detective sat down.

  Holmes smiled slightly. “I saw him through the window.”

  “But how did you know he was going to commit suicide?” Roberts pressed.

  “That is a trick of my trade I would rather not disclose,” Holmes replied. I looked at him, surprised, for he usually explained his observations whenever asked. I glanced at the unconscious boy and realised why Holmes had deflected the question. The boy was stirring, and almost as soon as my gaze shifted to him, he opened his eyes.

  The young man blinked at us, confused, and sat up slowly. Then comprehension dawned and his eyes filled with tears again.

  “I
would be happy to look into what happened with your fiancée,” Holmes said gently. “If you are feeling up to it, Lord Alistair, could you lead us to the scene?”

  “I am not titled anymore,” the boy whispered despondently. “My father disinherited me when I announced my engagement to Lisa yesterday.”

  “Why?” Roberts asked rudely.

  Holmes stepped in, uncharacteristically. “We will determine if that is relevant to our investigation later. For now, how would you like to be addressed?”

  “Just Alistair,” the boy said, his voice quavering. “I doubt if I will be permitted to retain the ‘Drake’ surname, either.”

  “Well, then, Alistair, shall we?” Holmes asked, springing from his seat, grabbing his hat and stick, and holding out his hand. Alistair took his hand and stood up gingerly. I followed them to the door.

  “Wait! Should we not call the police first?” Roberts cried, just as we were about to step out of the door.

  “If you would be so kind, Mr. Roberts,” Holmes said, without turning back, and strode out of the door, pulling Alistair and me with him. We hailed a hansom cab quickly and were already on our way by the time Roberts appeared on the street, looking bewildered. Holmes waved merrily at him and even as we rode away, I could see the young businessman’s cheeks redden with anger.

  To diffuse the situation, I turned to our “grabbed” client. “Could you tell us whatever you remember?” I asked gently. “Could you talk about your fiancée?”

  Alistair blinked. “I met her in the West End last month. She was a lady of the night. We met every day for a fortnight, and I knew then that I loved her. She felt the same, and she left her establishment immediately when I asked her to. She found modest but decent quarters, and I helped her with the payment. Yesterday, I asked her to marry me, and she agreed. We visited my family, but my father... my father...” The young nobleman dissolved into a fit of tears.

  “Your father was suspicious of her intentions, I surmise?” I asked softly.