Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  Wedding bells will ring so merrily,

  Ev’ry tear will be a memory…

  Seeing the sudden joy flowing from the faces of the four men, I could not burst their bubble of passing happiness and so joined them for the final refrain:

  So wait and pray each night for me,

  Till we meet again.185

  Blaikie applauded, and the other three followed. The clapping being directed at me, I playfully bowed to them all in turn, patted Blaikie’s shoulder, and bade all the officers a good day, wishing to be off before I let slip that I would be dining with Miss Cochrane that very evening.

  § § §

  The meal, however, was not unchaperoned. In addition to Martha and Scaife, who of course were present in the cottage during my last night there, Mary Lamington and Launcelot Wake, as well as the Jimsons, shared the table at this farewell dinner.

  “We will so greatly miss your company,” said Mrs. Jimson with regret.

  “That we will,” agreed her husband. “A better neighbour one could not hope for. Yes, your absence will leave a void, Colonel.”

  “And you will very much be missed by the patients of Isham,” said Vespera Cochrane over soup. “Missed most grievously.”

  “You will be missed by everyone,” corrected Miss Lamington, and Miss Cochrane nodded agreement as she stared into her bowl. “But duty is duty,” the younger woman added.

  “Indeed it is,” I said, and as Miss Cochrane looked up at me while Wake, the Jimsons, and Miss Lamington paid attention to their soup, I added, “But duty does not exclude all else.”

  “Speaking of duty,” said Launcelot Wake abruptly, “I have a confession to make to you all.”

  The three women and Mr. Jimson put down their spoons and turned toward the young man as he glanced at me before announcing, “I shall be joining the Labour Corps next month.”

  Miss Lamington gave a start and the Jimsons both gasped, while Miss Cochrane calmly returned to her soup.

  “Good for you, young man,” the latter intoned before taking a sip.

  “Thank you,” said Wake. “I’ve decided it is what I must do,” he added, speaking directly to his cousin.

  “But why?” asked Miss Lamington in disbelief.

  “Is it not something you might do, Mary, were you a man?”

  “But all that you have said about the war—”

  “Does not contradict the choice I have made,” Wake decreed.

  “Aye,” said Mr. Jimson thoughtfully. “I can see the philosophy in that.”

  “I believe you do yourself well,” Miss Cochrane interjected. “My own opposition to the war does not preclude volunteering at Isham, after all,” she explained. Her eye lingered on me for a moment, and then she turned to Wake to complete her thought. “And Mr. Letchford, as pacifist as I, has offered to hold regular literary gatherings at the hospital as well. Is that not correct, Colonel?”

  “Oh yes, he has. I believe the first of those meetings, which I will of course not be able to attend, concerns young Mr. Aronson’s recent novel.”

  “A pity,” said Vespera Cochrane as she again dipped a spoon into her broth. “I expect discussion of that travesty will set many patients back somewhat. I am certain, however, that you, Mr. Wake, will extract some shred of nobility from this awful conflict through your action. I say more power to you.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Mr. Jimson, patting the table with his hand while his wife smiled tearfully.

  “But will you not be amid the fighting?” asked Mary Lamington with concern. “While you do your vital work for the government here, Launcelot, you are at least safe.”

  “Sometimes, physical security should be the least of our worries,” the young man said. “In any event, I am signed up and will not back out, though I am leaving tomorrow for one last trek around Skye. I suppose I will miss that place, but there will be new vistas in France. You can attest to that, can you not, Colonel Watson?”

  I paused, uncertain how to answer, for though I could confirm that fresh panoramas would greet the new enlistee across the Channel, I also knew that they would, most of them, be desolate ones beyond the common imagination. And so I merely shrugged and finished my soup, still uncertain of my parting words to Vespera Cochrane later that evening.

  The following day, I left Biggleswick knowing that should I ever return in future, it would be as visitor rather than resident. I had, over the course of the previous week, bade farewell to those in the village with whom I had had any degree of real intercourse, including Letchford and Aronson, the three Weekes sisters and their mother, and the two Wymondhams—Miss Claire and Miss Doria. The Jimsons, Mary Lamington, and her cousin, Launcelot Wake, saw me off at the station, where Frederick Shaw and I caught sight of but did not acknowledge one another. At nearly the last moment, Nurse Williams arrived, scurrying onto the platform to present me with a bouquet of flowers from the staff and patients of Isham and, to no little embarrassment on both our parts, hold me in a farewell embrace.

  Martha accompanied me in the carriage, with Scaife to follow on a later train with the greater bulk of my luggage, and so I arrived in Queen Anne Street that afternoon burdened by only a single valise, the one that had flown with me in Cecil Harper’s aeroplane to Dumfries three years before.

  “Ah, you are a welcome sight!” exclaimed Sherlock Holmes as he greeted Martha, who still held Nurse Williams’s flowers, leaving me to enter relatively unnoticed with my baggage. “I trust you are ready to reassume command of this abode,” he told the returning housekeeper, “assuming that the colonel is still amenable. You have, I trust, no objection, Watson?” he asked, paying attention to me at last.

  “Was it not understood from the beginning?” I said wearily as I headed, valise in hand, toward my room. I stopped after but a few paces, immediately noticing the untidiness that had continued to blossom in Martha’s absence. Turning round to face Holmes, I said casually, “How long have you been maintaining this residence on your own?”

  “A bit too long, I fear.”

  “And the cook left as well, you said.”

  “Yes,” replied my friend. “That was the housekeeper’s fault entirely.”

  “And what have you done for meals?”

  “I have dined out with regularity,” the detective replied primly.

  “I see. Martha,” I declared, “you appear to face a most—”

  “It will take no time at all to whip this house into shape, Colonel,” the housekeeper declared cheerfully. “And as for meals, I expect I can find a suitable cook in little time, but until then, I will be happy to provide you with meals—for a proper temporary adjustment of wage.”

  “Done,” said Holmes without hesitation, and though formally the decision was mine, I voiced no objection.

  “You have no idea what a challenge I faced when I moved into his Sussex cottage years ago,” the woman said. She glanced round and sighed. “Granted, I was younger then. Still, as bad as all this looks at present, it will be child’s play compared to my earlier experience.”

  “Why, Martha,” said Holmes incredulously, “I had no idea—”

  “You never do, sir,” interjected the housekeeper. “Now go to your rooms, gentlemen—or take refuge in the sitting room, if you like. I wish to get an immediate start on this task.”

  We chose the latter course. I spent some time relating to Holmes my experiences at Isham after he had departed Biggleswick.

  “Allow me to once more express my condolences regarding Cecil Harper,” said my friend, who had written to me following news of the young man’s death. “Though I never met him, I am certain he was as fine an individual as you have described.”

  “It is the finest that this war is consuming,” I replied.

  “Then join me in stopping it,” said my friend.

  “That is why I have answered your summons,” I replied in an even voice.

  “And it is most appreciated, old fellow.” The detective leaned back in his armchair. “The third German s
py ring has still not made itself evident,” he said. “Yet I know in my bones it lies somewhere, dormant, on our island.”

  “Its hibernation must be very deep. Certainly, it has been very long.”

  “Indeed, Watson, and it is—”

  Just then the house bell rang.

  Moments later, Martha ushered Sir Walter Bullivant into the room. After greetings and casual talk, the spymaster discussed a few matters of business with Holmes and then unexpectedly spoke of my new duties for the RAMC.

  “Formally, Watson, you have been gazetted to the general staff of the medical corps, serving as a secretary,” Bullivant declared. “Your work in setting Isham hospital on a good footing created quite an impression here in London, even more so than your admirable two years as an instructor at Aldershot. Your superiors believe your bureaucratic skills are impeccable and are looking forward to adding you to their administrative cadre. Of course, M and I have arranged matters so that the demands on you will be minimal, allowing you to devote most of your time to assisting Holmes, as he requested.”

  I nodded, making certain I displayed no disappointment. Though I had hoped that I might be given some kind of duty at one of the many military hospitals in the metropolis, I knew that Holmes was insistent that I remain on call for him.

  And so it would be, I silently told myself.

  “Sir Walter has assured me that much of your clerical work may be done here in Queen Anne Street,” added Holmes cautiously. “That allows me to draw upon your counsel directly while searching for the elusive third branch of Cerberus.”

  “You referred to that investigation earlier,” I said to Holmes. “But what of your work in Office 54? Do you no longer crack codes for them?”

  “I do, from time to time,” my friend replied in a plaintive voice. He smiled, though his eyes did not sparkle, as he added, “For recreation.”

  “Holmes now works on the greatest cipher of all, Watson,” Bullivant declared. “His energies are directed at the enigma of that German sleeping cell, as we now term it.”

  “And a great mystery it has become,” said Sherlock Holmes. “But Shinwell Johnson and Frank Farrar are due here within the hour, to give me another report of any signs of possible activity they may have come across.”

  “And do you anticipate any joy from that meeting?” Sir Walter asked.

  “Dum spiro spero,” was Holmes’s succinct reply.186

  “I suppose I can say the same with respect to Richard Hannay,” Bullivant sighed, a comment that prompted Holmes to enquire about Bullivant’s once and present agent.

  “We have received nothing since Andrew Amos’s report that Hannay had taken passage aboard a ship on which Abel Gresson is serving as purser,” related the spymaster. “It’s a waiting game for us now, as far as the matter is concerned. We can only hope that all goes well, and that Hannay ferrets out Gresson’s contact in the Black Stone network.”

  “And what of Mary Lamington?” I asked, for though I had seen her that very morning, I was anxious concerning Sir Walter’s future plans for her.

  “She remains in Biggleswick at present,” Bullivant said. “Her assignment is the continued watch over Moxon Ivery, as well as determining what contacts he may have in his portion of the German spy network. We know, after all, that Blenkiron’s false article reached him from Gresson, but we still do not know through what intermediate chain of agents that was accomplished.”

  “Do you expect to apprehend Ivery and Gresson soon?” I enquired.

  “Once we have something firm with which to form the basis for an arrest, we will take them in,” replied Sir Walter. “Thus far, we are confident that we have our men—or at least, some of them—but there is not enough evidence to satisfy a court of law, even in wartime. Until then, we wait on both Mary and Hannay to supply us with the final proof.”

  § § §

  It was not quite an hour later, just after Sir Walter had departed Queen Anne Street, that the unlikely pair of Frank Farrar and Shinwell Johnson were escorted into our sitting room by Martha.

  “Greetings, sirs,” said the bluff Johnson as he shambled into our presence, billycock hat in hand. “And welcome back to your digs here, Doctor,” he added. “I hope the place is as cosy as you remember it.”

  “I agree with that sentiment,” said Farrar, another former agent of Holmes who had, with his companion, formed a detection enterprise of their own.

  “Do the two of you have any items of interest today?” interjected Sherlock Holmes with a hint of impatience. “The past week brought nothing, if you recall.”

  “As have all the weeks previous, sadly,” agreed Farrar. “However, we can offer three reports this time, sir,” he added. The man ran fingers through his auburn hair as he sat down beside his colleague Johnson, who had already accepted Holmes’s silent offer of a chair. “Two of them are from individuals who came to us as potential clients,” Farrar said.

  “The third springs from a very interesting observation that Frank here made only yesterday off Piccadilly Circus,” added Johnson.

  Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his armchair and tilted his head, supporting it in the palm of one hand. “That all sounds most promising. Pray proceed, then,” he said. “Select one item and give me its details.”

  “Well,” replied Shinwell Johnson, leaning forward in his chair, “the first is from a case brought but yesterday by a woman in Ilford. She came begging us to investigate a matter for no monetary fee, offering instead a collection of shawls she had knitted.”

  “We accepted, for otherwise she would not tell us her story,” interjected Farrar, “and we feared letting the opportunity slip.”

  “The matter formally does not involve her,” explained Johnson with a coy expression. “Rather, she claims to be acting on behalf of a friend.”

  “I see,” said Holmes with a wan smile. “Pray, proceed.”

  “The supposed friend is the wife of a dockworker, as is the woman who spoke to us—so her story goes. The husband—that is, the husband of the woman who is her friend—”

  “Presumably,” interjected Farrar.

  “Whoever’s husband it is,” said Johnson, “he is not eating his breakfast.”

  “Did you make clear you were consulting detectives, not physicians?” said Holmes.

  “It does not appear to be a case of loss of appetite, sir,” replied Farrar. “The wife has seen the man slip his morning bread and cheese into a pocket, after which he claims to have hastily eaten the meal. She provides him with a lunch that she understands he consumes at the docks, but of course she does not witness him do so. She can, however, testify that he hungrily devours his evening meal—bread, drippings, jam, and tea, say—right before her. It is the breakfast that he pockets, and perhaps the lunch, but she does not know why.”

  “Perhaps it is better that she not know,” said Holmes.

  “You think it best we not pursue it?” asked Johnson.

  “How the two of you choose to run your agency is, of course, not my concern—other than during the intervals when you assist the government in flushing out German spies and saboteurs.”

  “The husband’s behaviour seems out of the ordinary,” said Johnson.

  “Oh, I grant that it is hardly commonplace,” admitted Holmes, “though, I must say, it is not unheard of, either—do you recall the similar events at Madeira Lodge years ago, Watson? One or more possible solutions come to mind at once, though certainly not the one we fixed upon two decades ago.”

  Both Johnson and Farrar leaned forward expectantly, and Holmes reached for his cherrywood pipe and shag.

  “And what might those solutions be, sir?” Shinwell Johnson enquired.

  “I will leave that determination in your capable hands,” said Holmes, stuffing his pipe. “I suppose the man could be foregoing his breakfast—and possibly his lunch as well—in order to give the food to someone else, and that individual in turn could be a German spy, though I doubt it,” he said, while reaching for a vesta. �
��Berlin may be…callous at times…toward its agents in many ways, but…it does not leave them to starve,” the detective declared, successfully lighting his pipe.

  Farrar and Johnson looked at Holmes cautiously.

  “On the other hand,” said the detective, tossing his spent vesta onto the coals, “if the man is trading his unconsumed meals for goods or a service, one wonders what they might be.” Holmes gave a listless shrug as he exhaled a cloud of smoke upward. “Should you find yourselves with little else to do, taking the case might be of interest, particularly if you have a use for the shawls. I doubt that it will help us much with the Cerberus riddle, however.”

  “I suppose we will consider it,” Farrar replied, looking sheepishly at his partner.

  “It appears we continue to disappoint, Mr. Holmes,” said Shinwell Johnson.

  My friend smiled in a kindly way and held his pipe above his lap. “The two of you never disappoint,” he said. “I must admit, of course, that the story you have just laid before me seems somewhat unremarkable, and capable of explanation without the use of foreign agents. Nonetheless, I encourage you to pursue it, and we will see what develops. As you mentioned but a moment ago, we should not throw any opportunity out the window. But you have two more reports, you said. Might I know the details of the next?” said Holmes, studying his cherrywood before inserting the stem into his mouth once more.

  “There is a matter involving the master of a sailing barge that usually ties up at the old St. Katharine Docks,” said Johnson.187 “The man is named Tatty Evans, and his barge is the Belisama.”

  Holmes listened carefully to the agent.

  “The Belisama was plying its trade three weeks ago, coming in from the coast with a load of bricks before it was to take on some coke for shipment to Murston188. As the barge was passing the pumping station at Crossness,189 a motor launch sped by, crossing dangerously close to the Belisama’s bow.”

  “Rudeness is known to occur upon the waves as well as ashore,” Holmes observed.

  “And water does not necessarily calm the soul,” replied Farrar. “Master Evans on board the Belisama shouted angrily at the person steering the launch.”