Neuburry nodded in acknowledgement. “Yes, sir. But how could you know that I work in Islington?”
“Your trouser cuffs have multiple mud splashes on them. As a flower seller, you need to go to a busy intersection is order to attract the most clientele. The intersection at Islington is notoriously known for being bustling with pedestrian and vehicular traffic. It is also notoriously wet and muddy. Many carts have turned the corner quickly, causing you to jump away, while not quite escaping the splash of distinctive Islington mud.”
“Oy, they told me you was a clever one, and they wasn’t wrong, sir. I hope you can help with my sorrows, sir.”
“Yes, we’ll see. Pray tell what your sorrows are.”
“I’ve been arrested three times, sir. Public nuisance is what they’s saying ’bout me. I ain’t no nuisance, sir. I don’t make much money, barely more than to force a smile over an extra shilling. But I am a hardworking man, sir.”
“Three times you’ve been arrested, you say?”
“Yes, sir. It happened once last week, once the week before that, and another time two weeks before that. I seen the constabulary there just today looking at me funny from ’cross the street, so I ain’t waited for them to come nab me again. I ran away and sent a message here to you.”
“Each charge was for being a public nuisance?”
“Right you are, sir.”
“What has been the outcome of your arrests? What has the jury decided on each of these charges?”
“There’s never been no jury for me, sir. I just stand before the magistrate ’imself.”
“The same one each time?”
“Yes, sir, each time. Blackborn is his name, sir. Though ‘Black Heart’ be more fitting for him.”
“And what is the outcome when you stand before him?”
“He tells me I’s guilty of being a public nuisance and fines me two shillings and four pence. That don’t sound like much money, but it’s a whole week’s wages for a humble man such as me self.”
“Are you aware of others in the same circumstances as yourself?”
“Aye. All the lads working the street vending has been telling stories of their own plights, sir.”
Holmes clapped his hands together so suddenly that we both jumped in surprise. He launched out of his chair and across the room to stack of newspaper clippings. He dug through them until he found the article for which he was looking. He scanned it quickly and then stuffed it into his pocket.
He turned to face Neuburry. “Be of stout heart, dear fellow. I will have a chat with the magistrate this evening, and I can assure you that you will not be molested further.”
Neuburry’s countenance changed from a man distraught to one filled with new strength. “Are you certain, Mr. ’Olmes?”
Holmes took his hand a shook it vigorously. “Have every confidence that I will be successful.”
Neuburry began to pat down his pockets. “I don’t have any shillings, sir, but bear with me and I’ll pay you your wages.”
Holmes waved him away. “Do not worry over it. I will handle this for my own personal satisfaction.”
Neuburry smiled, but shook his head. “No, sir, an honest man I am. I am in debt, and so I will pay.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cluster of tulips that had likewise seen its better day. He handed it to Holmes. “It’s all I can offer you, sir, but surely it will go over well for you with your misses downstairs.” He then left the flat.
After his departure, I could not restrain myself from a laugh at Holmes’s expense. “I say - to think that you... and Mrs. Hudson could be-”
His irritated gaze was enough to reprimand me into silence.
A moment went by before he again spoke.
“We will go before Justice Blackborn this evening, Watson, and clear the matter up.”
“You believe that you can insist upon an audience on such short notice?”
“He’ll see us. After we’re arrested, that is.”
* * *
That evening, after Holmes had spent several hours out on errands of his own, he came walking out of his room. He had made himself up in his usual theatrical makeup. He looked like a recently dispatched sailor that was down in his luck and searching for some honest work. He had a thin wispy beard, two blackened teeth, and a severe squint to his left eye. Had I not known he had been in the room preparing himself, I wouldn’t have recognized the man who walked out and now stood before me.
He held out a fish wrapped in paper. “Mackerel, guv’nor? Fresh from the boat today, it is,” he said in a Cockney accent.
“I say, Holmes. You’ve outdone yourself this time.”
Holmes tossed the fish upon the table. “It’s time that you were prepared as well,” he said, and before I could protest, the warm theatre adhesive of spirit gum began to be brushed upon my own chin.
Within a span, I myself looked the part of Holmes’s assistant, a low-ranking sailor who sold fish when in port.
In short order, we were walking the streets approaching Islington. A telegram received just before we left told us where we needed to be this night.
We walked up Hampstead Road towards Downshire Hill and all became clear as we rounded the corner and came upon Wiggins, the leader of Holmes’s band of street urchins that he refers to as his Irregulars.
As he laid eyes upon us, he looked sharply left to right and, with a learned discretion, he made his way over to us. “Evening, Mr. ’Olmes,” he said.
Holmes returned the greeting. “Have there been any arrests tonight?” he asked the boy.
Wiggins nodded. “Yes, sir. There’s been three so far since we got ’ere.”
“Excellent. Thank you,” he said to the boy. He took four shillings from his pocket and handed them to him. “Here is one for each of you for your work tonight.”
He then handed him another. “And here is an extra shilling for your troubles,” he added.
Wiggins crammed them into his pocket and speedily fled the scene.
“Why are we here, Holmes?” I asked him.
“We’re at Hampstead Road and Downshire Hill. What is near our current location?”
I took in the scenery. I had not often frequented this side of London, so nothing immediately leapt upon me; however, slowly I put the location’s importance into perspective. “There is Parliament Hill.”
“And there have only been three arrests tonight. Not so many that suspicions would be aroused, and yet enough to satisfy the greed of he who is issuing the arrest warrants.” Then, in a loud voice, he called out, “Mackerel for sale! Only the freshest from the port! Mack-e-rel!” he stretched the word out to all three of its syllables.
We were watched closely by a few men of various professions on the street. Though it looked as if some might wish to enquire about the fish, they kept respectful distance.
“Do you find this odd?” I asked Holmes as he continued to announce our wares for sale. He didn’t bother to respond with more than a quick shake of his head.
A few more minutes and a bobby approached us, his baton held firmly in hand as he meandered his way towards us.
“What have we here?” he asked.
Holmes held the fish up for his inspection. “We’re just selling a few o’ the fish we caught on our last ride, officer,” he said.
The police man looked sternly at him. “Let me see your selling license.”
Holmes patted the coat pockets on his left side. Then, transferring the fish to his left hand, he patted the right side down. “Sorry, Officer. I seems to have left it on the boat, I did.”
“Then you had better come with me.”
I began to protest and dispute the arrest, stating that we were hard-working men and deserved to be treated with respect. I was likewise g
rabbed up and herded off, along with Holmes.
In less than a half-an-hour, we were in a small, cold, holding cell that wasn’t intended for more than one occupant. I was sitting on one side of the bench with Holmes on the other.
“What will become of us, then?”
Holmes continued his troubleless stare at the side of the cell. “That is not nearly as important as what will become of Blackborn.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, but before he could answer, the heavily rusted metal door creaked open. Two guards reached in, collected us, and shuffled us down the cobbled corridor leading to an adjacent chamber.
Holmes leaned in to me and barely above a whisper said, “The game is afoot!”
* * *
When presented, I did not feel that this was the atmosphere of a game.
The room was as cold as the holding cell, grey stone comprising the walls and dark mahogany comprising the benches, witness stand, and everything else.
We were shuffled to the defendant’s bench and heavily sat down, the jolt of it reminding my leg of the time that I had I spent in Afghanistan.
The magistrate entered the room and sat down behind the opulence of his desk and reached out towards the court clerk, who quickly stuffed a slip of foolscap into his hand. He opened it and read aloud its contents. “You are charged with selling without a proper license and being a public nuisance. How do you plead?”
He stared down at Holmes and me. Holmes casually, crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap.
“I plead contempt,” he said casually as if asked about the current weather.
“I beg your pardon?” said Blackborn, for it was surely he, with heavy tones of irritation in his voice.
“Believe me, sir, it’s not my pardon for which you will be begging.”
The man’s face flushed a deep crimson. “I’ll ask you again, and I suggest you weigh your response carefully, sir. How do you plead against the charges brought forth against you?”
Holmes scratched the side of his long aquiline nose and centered his grey eyes into a deep stare. “I plead contempt. Contempt for you personally as one who abuses the office which you should hold sacred, and contempt for a likewise corrupt system that has ignored your misdeeds for far too long!”
Blackborn, now fully furious, slapped his palms out flat on the table, the heavy thud sounding throughout the room. He stood up, towering over myself and Holmes in a hope to intimidate us. His approach might have worked on me if I were guilty of something, but Holmes, as usual, sat unperturbed.
“How dare you!” Blackborn screamed at us.
Holmes also stood up and faced him eye to eye. He calmly and quietly reached into one of his pockets and pulled out several newspaper clippings. He began to lay them out on the bench, one at a time.
“You make many social appearances around town. For instance, you were seen at the Mayor’s Ball. Here is another describing a social event which you attended, Miss Marristown’s opening performance of That Which Calls only two weeks ago.
“According to witnesses from all walks of life, you were spotted in new suits from M. O’Neil and Company, a very expensive choice in haberdashery. And you’ve been seen all over town in a new carriage with an equally new steed pulling it - both much finer than a man with your finances should allow. I have researched your accounts. I know your salary, and what you should be able to afford. The carriage and horse were purchased by you just short of two months ago. I wonder where you found the funds?”
Blackborn was no longer of crimson countenance. Rather, his face had begun to pail as if drained of all blood.
Holmes continued. “I have a few more items to discuss if you wish, but I think the point is well enough made that you seem to be living entirely above your means.”
Blackborn was unable to speak. He feebly cleared his throat.
“There have been a substantial amount of arrests for all types and varieties of petty ‘crimes’ for the past three months, and not without irony, all of the increases in such arrests happen during the evenings that you hold court.”
The official tried to reclaim his bluster and his dignity. He balled up his fists and clenched them tightly. “I’ll remind you, sir that you are under my jurisdiction, and it is yourself who stands accused!”
Holmes actually chuckled at this. “I believe that I have done a very sufficient job in making my own accusation towards you, sir.”
Blackborn bristled. Without waiting, Holmes pushed forth in his final assault. “You and your officer have been arresting hard and honest working men and women for months now on trumped-up charges. Your ‘fines’ equal a week’s wages for these citizens. You have no thought or care for the turmoil you place upon them and their families. You only care about lining your own pockets with shillings!’
Holmes was speaking in terse, firm tones. In the time that I had known him, this was one of the closest occasions that I had seen that he had ever come to an expression of rage.
Regaining his wits, Blackborn stood to his full height. “You will have trouble proving any of this from your cell, you... you... you worthless vagabond!”
Holmes tore the whiskers from his face and chin. He opened the squint from his eye and drew a handkerchief from his pocket, which he used to wipe away the blackened teeth. “Vagabond? Indeed not, sir. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes, independent consulting detective. You may not know me. However, I am quite sure that you will know my brother...”
As if on cue, the doors burst open and the rotund form of Mycroft Holmes walked in, accompanied by a police constable. He tapped the floor heavily with his walking stick with each step. He walked up and glowered at the magistrate.
Blackborn was reduced to a jumble of nerves. “Mr. Holmes. You honor me with your presence.”
Mycroft stared deeply into the man’s eyes, never once breaking away from his stare. Slowly and wordlessly he shook his head side to side. “You are a disgrace to the King,” he admonished.
Blackborn fell heavily into his chair, unable to speak.
Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “Thank you for coming, brother mine.”
Mycroft sighed. “Next time, don’t send a street urchin into my club as a messenger.”
“Desperate times.”
“Times were so desperate that you sent a street waif to the Diogenes Club?”
“I was on my way to being arrested.”
Blackborn remained quiet during the interchange. Mycroft turned to the constable. “Arrest Blackborn and that officer with him and put them into a cell.”
Blackborn began frantically to protest. “You cannot arrest me! I am a magistrate! I demand to be heard!”
“Heard, as if by trial?” Mycroft asked.
“I demand it!” Blackborn stated.
Mycroft turned to stare directly at him. “Then I find you guilty! Constable, take him to an especially damp cell. I’ll come and check on him in six months... perhaps.”
Blackborn began to plead for mercy but it fell upon deaf ears. The constable grabbed hold of him as Mycroft led Holmes and me outside.
As we stepped out into the street, Holmes turned to Mycroft, “Dinner?” he enquired casually, as if nothing of significance had just happened.
Mycroft nodded and turned to me. “Doctor, where do you recommend we eat tonight?”
I admit to having been taken completely off guard by the question. One moment we were being sent to a prison cell, and then the next we were casually making dinner plans. However, flattered to have my own opinion heard, I said, “I believe there is a new Polynesian restaurant that has opened a few streets away,” my head still spinning from it all.
Mycroft turned to Holmes, who nodded his approval of the suggestion. Mycroft nodded as well and walked on in silence towards the eatery.
> I determined that later I would chastise him, telling Holmes that I find such instances of his leaving me in the dark utterly unacceptable. But I knew that my words would fall upon ears that, while not deaf, were completely unable to distinguish anything wrong in the manner in which he conducts business towards me.
With that, my determination faded and I consigned myself to letting it be.
All in all, it was fine with me. Such is the cost of being in collaboration with so honorable a man.
The Case of the Dirty Hand
by G. L. Schulze
Before retiring to Sussex, I became involved in a most baffling of cases. I contemplated whether to put to pen the events that transpired over the course of a mere two days. But as Watson would have reminded me, “The world needs to know!”
He accompanied me less often upon my cases, having taken upon himself a new practice situated in Queen Anne Street, the front sitting room of his residence serving as his office. We saw one another on occasion, but as life has a tendency to move forward and away, so did our association of old.
I do not have his flair with vocabulary, but I do yet retain a keen observation and memory of all the facts. It was a Thursday evening, the eleventh of June, 1903. I sat with my pipe, staring into a cold fireplace, the weather being much too hot for a flame. I had no case to ponder, no villains to pursue, no scoundrels to apprehend. It was, in fact, a most boring evening.
This had been the circumstance for several days. But on this evening, late as it was, I heard the wheels of a carriage on the street below, the slamming of the downstairs door, and a thunderous stomping of hurried footsteps on the stair.
“A-ha!” I thought. Boredom alleviated! I rose, for immediately there was a pounding upon my door. As I opened it, a great bulk of a man breathing heavily pushed passed me and cried out, “Good heavens, Sherlock! It’s about time! And close that bloody door!”
I was somewhat taken aback but recovered quickly. It was not an angry look that I first observed on my brother’s face as he rushed passed me. On second glance, I saw it to be anxiety - even fear - such as I’ve never encountered from Mycroft before.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 47
