The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by edited by John Joseph Adams

  Powell glowered. "Devil's Cape," he said, shaking his head. "You are familiar with the story of Lady Danger?" he asked.

  If Holmes was surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation, he didn't show it. "She was a privateer," Holmes said. "A masked heroine who served the English court and often crossed blades with St. Diable. She disappeared near Devil's Cape more than a century ago. Her real name was Lady Penelope Powell." He raised his eyebrows. "Ah," he said.

  Powell nodded. "My great, great aunt," he said.

  "I read a biography of her as a boy," I said gently. "It suggested that she and St. Diable were in love."

  Powell spat upon the floor. "The man was scum," he said. "Some of the stories make him out to be a glamorous rogue, but a masked pirate is still a damned murderer. He undoubtedly killed Great Aunt Penny. They say that she loved him. But how could you love someone you worked against? An adversary? It makes no sense to me. Hogwash."

  I couldn't help but glance at Holmes. He knew something of the attraction an adversary could have, his own experience with "the woman," as he called her, the mysterious Irene Adler.

  But he merely nodded at Powell and walked down the passageway to the exit.

  "O Jacaré arranged all of this to murder these twins?" Lestrade asked.

  "Murder would have been simpler," Holmes said. "Though I'm sure that the assault on the ship appealed to Jacaré's pirate instincts, his goal was clearly to kidnap the brothers while they were traveling incognito, ensuring that no one knew that he has them in his power, or indeed that they are still alive."

  "But what does he want them for, Holmes?"

  "When Dr. Watson and I get to Devil's Cape," Holmes said, "we shall ask him."

  I had assumed that the long summer boat journey, particularly the sweltering leg that took us through the Caribbean Sea and into the Gulf of Mexico, had prepared me for the heat of Devil's Cape, but I was wrong. It was a tangible, constant presence, like walking through water.

  Holmes and I emerged from the steamship that had carried us there—not that different, really, than the Friesland—squinting into the sun, having left our trunks behind with instructions for them to be transported to a nearby inn where I had arranged rooms. The docks were a swarm of faces and voices. A crew of black men was singing a chantey while unloading our ship. Three Chinamen hawked cool beverages and roasted nuts, arguing about prices and stirring cinnamon-coated pecans over small pails of hot coals. Masses of people milled back and forth, shoving and swearing. I heard traces of French and Portuguese and Hindi. I stared openmouthed, taking it in.

  "Not so fast," Holmes said, darting out an arm and catching a street urchin by the ear. The lad, blond-haired and tan as leather, winced as Holmes took hold of his elbow and forced a wallet out of his hand. My own wallet, I recognized. "Tut, tut," Holmes said, handing my wallet back to me, and I wasn't certain if he was scolding the boy or me. He gave the boy a quick kick in the rump and sent him scurrying off.

  I nodded my thanks. "Not unlike one of the Baker Street Irregulars," I said. "Where to, Holmes?"

  He pointed at a black hansom drawing up, pulled by an Appaloosa horse. "I believe our transport has arrived," he said.

  The driver stepped from the cab and swaggered to us. He was smartly dressed in a tailored suit, the jacket open in front, a diamond gleaming from a ring on his pinkie. He had tanned skin, a handlebar moustache, and a confident smile. A golden police badge shaped like a sail was pinned to his jacket. "Holmes and Watson, right?" he asked in what I'd later come to identify as a Cajun accent. "I hope you not been standing here too long, you." He shook Holmes's hand, then mine, his grip forceful enough to grind my knuckles together. "My boss, he ask me to show you around town real nice and send you back where you belong, see," he said. "Now, my cousin, he ask me to help you any way I can." He grinned, showing an infectious smile and a chipped tooth. "I'll leave you to guess which one I'll listen to best. You got some boys bringing your things to your rooms?"

  I nodded.

  "That's good," he said. "We can start right quick, then, though I fear your entire trip's been a waste." He patted the hansom. "Hop in, gentlemen," he said. We climbed inside, and he climbed above us, taking the reins. Then his head popped up in front of us, upside down, as he looked through the front of the cab. "Aw, hell," he said. "I forgot to introduce myself." He smiled again. "I'm Deputy Chief Jackson Lestrade. Welcome to Devil's Cape."

  As the hansom rolled away from our ship, we passed several older sailing vessels permanently lashed to the dock. They were brightly painted and adorned with pirate flags and cannons.

  "Part of our history," Deputy Chief Lestrade said with a chuckle. "One or two of them even sailed under St. Diable's flag. That one there"—he leaned down and pointed at one decorated in garish pinks and purples, a rather undressed figurehead on the prow—"is Madame Beth's Bordello. Finest in all of Louisiana. Would you care to stop?"

  We demurred, and his chuckle bubbled into a guffaw. A scandalously dressed woman waved a feather boa from the deck of the ship and called out, "Come here, Jackie," but Lestrade pressed on.

  He led us out of the wharfs up a blustery road he identified as Cap de Creus Street. The wind did little to cut the heat. As we made our way through Devil's Cape's notoriously curving, crooked streets, we passed bars, a single ornate church decorated with mismatched gargoyles, and shops selling voodoo curses, hardware, and firearms. One pharmacy quite frankly advertised its selection of cocaine, heroin, and opium. Taking it in, Holmes's eyes took on a particular focus.

  "Did you know to expect this Lestrade, Holmes?" I asked.

  Holmes blinked slowly, then turned his attention to me, his lips twitching in sardonic acknowledgment of my distraction. "A cousin to our own ally," he said. "The inspector mentioned him before we left. He cabled ahead as a courtesy."

  "Quite fortuitous," I said.

  Holmes frowned. He lowered his voice to a faint whisper I could barely hear over the clopping of the Appaloosa's hooves. "I have made unkind assessments about the intellect of our own Inspector Lestrade in the past, but he is at heart an honest man. Do not assume the same of his cousin. If you expect that this Lestrade is a viper—or, to respect the fauna of our location, a copperhead—poised to strike at the earliest opportunity, you would not be far from the mark."

  I glanced nervously upward, as though to see this Lestrade through the roof of the cab, but of course Holmes would never be overheard unless he intended it.

  "His clothing, that ring. These are not the marks of an honest policeman," he said. "I may be doing him a disservice, but it is wisest to show him only whatever trust he earns. He is likely in the employ of O Jacaré or someone like him." He leaned out of the cab, slapping the roof smartly to draw Lestrade's attention. "I presume by our course that you intend to take us to your home for dinner?" he asked.

  Lestrade yanked the reins, jerking us to a stop at the edge of the street, and I noted for the first time the rough scars along the horse's back. The man vaulted down beside us, eyes wide in astonishment.

  "I have but studied a map and used some elementary deduction," my companion explained. "The Holingbroke brothers' estate is to the northeast, near the Chien Jaune River. The police headquarters is in Government Center, also north of here. We passed our inn several minutes ago and also half a dozen serviceable taverns and restaurants. Since we turned off of Cap de Creus Street, you have headed almost exclusively eastward, away from any other logical destination."

  Lestrade flashed that chipped tooth again. "You really are all they say." My eyes were drawn to the ring Holmes had mentioned, and the cut of his clothing. "My wife, she'll treat you to an étouffée make you sit up and take notice," he said. He was broader and more handsome than our own Lestrade, more confident and charming. But his eyes were hard, and a chill swept through me despite the heat.

  Lestrade's home was long and narrow, one and a half stories raised nearly six feet above the ground on brick piers. "Keeps us safe in floods," he to
ld us. "And the air underneath cools us." The house had a gabled roof and curved, ornate brass decorations. It was the largest and finest along his street, and did nothing to disprove Holmes's theory.

  Madame Lestrade was a stout, handsome woman, her accent so thick I could scarcely recognize that we spoke the same tongue. She greeted us warmly and then retired to the kitchen, where we could hear her instructing her two menservants in hushed, urgent tones.

  "My cousin cabled me," Lestrade said, "that you think O Jacaré rustled up an attack on a European ship? All to kidnap Janus and Harvey Holingbroke?" He clucked his tongue dismissively.

  "I'll admit that it seems rather elaborate," Holmes said. "Yet the facts support it." He described the evidence in detail. By the time he was finished, the servants had dished up the promised étouffée. It was a dish of shrimp, peppers, onions, rice, and spices so flavorful and fiery that I feared poison, yet Holmes dug into it with relish.

  "Even saying that someone from our city did this," Lestrade said. "Why suspect O Jacaré?"

  Holmes arched an eyebrow. "Oh, come now, Lestrade," he said. "Jacaré is the current heir apparent to St. Diable. Every strand of crime committed in and from this city leads into a web, with Jacaré the spider at its center. It could be no one else."

  "But why?"

  Holmes took another spoonful of étouffée, then dabbed at his lips with his napkin. "I was hoping, deputy chief, that you could tell me. Do they hold some sort of power over him?"

  "Janus and Harvey? Nah. They could shoot him, I suppose. They're real good at that. But they'd have to find him first, and he's a slippery one."

  "You know the Holingbrokes, then?"

  "Oh, sure. They're real popular, them, despite being a couple of freaks."

  "Popular enough that he might prefer it not be known that he engineered an attack on them?"

  Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "They're charming, and near rich as Rockefeller."

  "The gold?"

  "Sure. They found a mountain of it out in California a while back."

  "And their fortune is kept in a bank?"

  Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. He looked toward the kitchen and snapped, "Them sausages coming out anytime soon?" He pushed his plate away. "Nah," he said. "Every once in a while, they show up with a new gold bar. Got their stash hidden away somewhere good."

  Holmes smiled with satisfaction. "Motive enough," he said.

  "You don't understand. O Jacaré, he doesn't need money, not that bad. He got more than he can spend."

  "I understand him better than you might think," Holmes said. "It is not the gold he seeks, but the satisfaction of the mystery solved."

  It was late when Lestrade pulled the hansom up to our inn. The heat hadn't subsided, and I looked forward to a bath and sleep.

  "You still want to search for O Jacaré tomorrow," Lestrade said, "come down to the station and I'll help you as I can. Like as not, though, if he has them, they'll be dead."

  Holmes stepped out of the cab. "We followed quickly on the heels of whatever ship Jacaré sent to Europe," he said. "They only need to hold out against his scrutiny for a short time. And I have set things in motion." He turned to me. "What time is it, Watson?"

  I consulted my watch. "A quarter past ten o'clock."

  "Ah, then. They shall be free by midnight."

  Lestrade gaped. "You know where they are, then?"

  Holmes smiled. "An assistant of mine does," he said. "He shall take care of the details on our behalf." He bowed slightly. "Good night, deputy chief."

  Lestrade looked shaken as he climbed back into his carriage and snapped the reins.

  "Holmes!" I said, watching Lestrade depart. "Who is this assistant you're referring to?"

  Holmes walked briskly down the street. "Why, Lestrade himself, of course," he said. "He clearly knows where the brothers are being held and is now rushing to verify they are still secure. Hurry, Watson! The game is afoot!"

  Holmes, it transpired, had arranged for a carriage of our own to be kept waiting just around the corner from our inn. It was a nondescript brown vehicle similar to many we'd passed on the streets earlier in the day. "Climb in and slump down, Watson," Holmes said, unhitching our horse from its post and patting the creature affectionately on the withers. "It's vital Lestrade not recognize us." He slipped on a porkpie hat and hunched his shoulders, and had I not seen the transformation or been sitting right beside him, I would have never suspected that the man beside me was my old friend. He clucked his tongue and sent our horse down the road, and when he shouted at some roustabouts to clear out of our way, his accent sounded as Cajun as a native's. Our horse was a dusky mare with a placid demeanor, padded shoes, and swift legs, and though the Appaloosa and its hansom cab had slipped out of sight, Holmes had some instinct for where he was going and we spotted them again within just a few minutes.

  "I thought for a while he might poison us," I said.

  Holmes smiled. "Not prepared for the Cajun spices, Watson? Remind me to tell you of the spices a friend of mine from Tibet uses to accent his yak butter and blood sausages." He slowed our mare to keep more distance from Lestrade. The traffic of Devil's Cape was not as congested at night as during the day, but it was rougher and rowdier, and we were hardly conspicuous. "But I know enough of Jacaré to dispose of poison as a concern. He is much more visceral than that—remember the poor sailors aboard the Friesland. And he knows of me from Moriarty and your own florid accounts of our adventures. A creature of his ego could not allow me to die within his own city without looking me in the eye first. No, his initial plan was to use Lestrade to put us off the scent. Failing that, he wants to encounter me face to face."

  "And you him."

  Holmes stared at a group of rowdies passing around bottles of whiskey and rum. "Just so," he said. "Since Reichenbach Falls, Watson, and the demise of that malignant brain who so long plagued us, I have been eager for a challenge worthy of our efforts. O Jacaré lacks Moriarty's subtlety, yet, government aside, he rules this city. Deputy Chief Lestrade is hardly his only puppet, just the most convenient one for this task because our long familiarity with his cousin might have made us set caution aside. If the mayor and chief of police don't kiss Jacaré's ring, then they at least lower their heads in his presence and allow him free rein."

  We passed by closely packed homes and taverns, twisting and turning through the city's maze of streets. Holmes occasionally took a path that branched away from Lestrade's, to keep him from recognizing our approach, but could not do so with as much confidence as he might have in the streets of London. We lost sight of him for nearly five minutes and I saw creases of tension in Holmes's face, sweat along his brow. Should we lose track of Lestrade now, I realized, the brothers Holingbroke would never live to see the dawn. When eventually we spotted him again, we both sighed in relief, and Holmes pressed our calm mare forward. Any exhaustion I'd felt earlier in the night was gone. The thrill of the hunt exhilarated us both.

  Lestrade eventually pulled away from the city, heading east toward a mass of marshlands and swamp that Holmes identified as Bayou Tarango. Of necessity, we dropped even farther behind him, but the route was clearer here, with fewer twists and forks. The ground grew muddy and we passed among huge trees swathed in Spanish moss. Insects hummed and chirped constantly and water bubbled in the bog. Mosquitoes and gnats swarmed around us. The swamp smelled of earth and decay, and strange lights flickered in the distance.

  Lestrade turned in our direction for a moment, then pressed on.

  "One way or another, Holmes, he will soon realize that he is being followed," I said.

  Holmes grunted and swatted a mosquito that had landed on his jaw, and in the moonlight I saw a drop of blood roll down his face. "Be prepared for danger, Watson," he said.

  I nodded.

  He slowed as Lestrade approached a fork in the road, allowing the hansom to gain some more distance from us. For his part, Lestrade seemed to be gathering speed, anxious to reach his destination. He se
lected the wider path and disappeared beyond a cluster of trees, cattails, and reeds.

  Our carriage rolled forward and then Holmes brought us to a shuddering stop. Lestrade's hansom stood at the side of the road, empty.

  We moved quickly, climbing out of the carriage, spreading out, peering around in hopes of spotting him.

  Lestrade had selected the spot for his ambush well indeed. It was very dark, the moonlight shrouded by branches and hanging moss. Holmes turned his attention to the ground, making out footprints despite the dim light. He spun on his heel, deducing where Lestrade was hidden, but he was too late. Lestrade stepped from behind a tree where he had hidden, nearly knee-deep in swamp muck, and pointed a pistol at Holmes's chest.

  "Nice hat," Lestrade said sarcastically.

  Holmes doffed the porkpie hat and sent it spinning into the swamp. "It served its purpose," he said.