The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part I

by David Marcum

  “I was thinking more along the lines of a secret society,” Gregson admitted. “And I hoped you’d have heard of it, Mr. Holmes.”

  “If it is a secret society, it has kept its secret well,” Holmes said. “Were there no other marks upon the page? No other words Hopkins might have seen?”

  “None that he mentioned in his report.” The Inspector passed over the pages to Holmes to read as the cab pulled up outside of 221b Baker Street. He absorbed the material quickly and quietly as I retrieved our luggage and went to unlock the door, and then handed the report back to Gregson.

  “I see that Hopkins was careful to write the letters out in capitals, to avoid any confusion, but he doesn’t say whether the typewritten letters were also capitals. Still, it does eliminate the possibility that the word was paradox.”

  “Then we’ll have to keep looking.” Gregson tipped his hat to us and got back into his cab. “I truly hoped you would have the answer at your fingertips, Mr. Holmes. But that’s neither here nor there. Perhaps one of our informers has heard the name. I’ll head in to Scotland Yard, and have Constable Hopkins sent round to Baker Street once he’s done in the courts. Good day, gentlemen.”

  We made our way upstairs, after asking our excellent landlady Mrs. Hudson to provide us with coffee at her earliest convenience, and soon traded our outer layers for dressing gowns and slippers. Holmes lit a pipe, of course, and began to sift through the newspapers which the boy had collected for him during our absence. “Here is the first mention of the bracelet,” he reported after a moment. “It was made for a Slavic princess, and was to be delivered to her embassy when it was stolen. That, no doubt, is the reason why the Foreign Office is involved.”

  “Do you think it was stolen deliberately then, as an affront to the lady?”

  “Not if Red Nettie had anything to do with it,” Holmes said. “She is an opportunistic thief, like most shoplifters and pickpockets. Which should be a comfort to the Foreign Office, since I doubt she has any notion of the value they place upon the bracelet.”

  “So we could leave the mystery to the police?” I asked, torn between my desire to see my friend take a proper rest and my uneasiness over the intervention of the Foreign Office.

  “We could,” Holmes said. “Except that the word ‘paradol’ has intrigued me. Take a look at our bookshelf, my dear fellow, and I’ll see I can discover anything in the agony columns.”

  The coffee came, and then our breakfasts, but of the word “paradol” we could find no trace. Our reference works having failed us, Holmes decided to consult an expert, or several. “There is nothing which the researchers at the British Museum like better than to clutter their brain attics with irrelevancies. No one man can know everything,” he said, as he dispatched the boy with a stack of telegram forms. “And it is as well to admit it.” He sat down at the table and spooned some kedgeree from the salver onto his untouched plate.

  My own plate had been filled and emptied again, but I poured myself another cup of coffee. “Especially not if he has the habit of sweeping away the facts he thinks of as clutter. Although given the reputed tidiness of your own ‘brain attic’, I cannot help but wonder what it was that made you ask if the word could be ‘paradox’.”

  Holmes grimaced. “Even the best broom can’t reach every cobweb. Were the word ‘paradox’ and not a ‘paradol’, I would have directed Gregson to Professor Martin Hoffmanstall, and his cabinet of curiosities near Hampstead. He had, as I recall, a gravity defying room in the garden of his former establishment at Brighton, and ‘Can you solve the paradox?’ was a prominent line in the banner above the door.”

  “I take it that you did,” I said, for it was evident in my friend’s manner that the memory was a personal one.

  “Any child could, once aware of the basic principles of optical illusion. The room is set an angle, and all means of comparing it to the horizon obscured. In it, water appears to run uphill and persons to change size, depending on where they stand. I thought it well worth tuppence, even knowing how the trick was done, and the trick was easy enough to duplicate. I’m sure it wasn’t the only one.”

  “It’s a shame then, that we cannot substitute one letter for another,” said I. “Such a chamber sounds more than adequate as a hiding place.”

  Holmes poked at his breakfast and then set down his fork. “We’d still have to find it, and even then we might be doing little more than chasing a wild goose. For all we know, the paper which Constable Hopkins collected has nothing to do with the missing bracelet.”

  “What other word ends in ‘ C E L E T ’?”

  “Princelet?” Holmes suggested, and then leaned his elbow on the table and rested the bridge of his nose against his fingertips. “Not that a princelet held in any sort of chamber would be less urgent a matter.”

  “Eat something, Holmes,” I said. “It will ease the headache.”

  “I haven’t time.”

  “You do, you know. You’ll have to wait here for Hopkins to arrive and for any responses to your telegrams. You will have time for your breakfast. You will have time for another pipe. You might even have time for a bath and a shave.”

  That earned me a smile, as Holmes rubbed thoughtfully at the growth upon his chin. “You know me too well, Doctor. Very well. I will take the rest you are urging upon me, since nothing can be done until we know more. And how will you fill the hours? A nap, perhaps?”

  A nap sounded like an excellent idea. But I knew that Holmes would be more likely to take the rest he needed if he knew that the case was proceeding. And there was at least one task that was well within my capabilities. “I thought I might go over to the Public Records Office and see if I can find the name ‘Paradol’ anywhere. It is quiet and cool in the reading rooms there, and whether I succeed or not, it will still narrow our search.”

  “Better yet, try the churches of Southwark,” said Holmes. “Begin with the Baptists and go on to St. Mary’s of Newington. Gregson can set a constable trolling through the records of the nation. Let us concentrate our energies where we might have the greatest success. Tell them you’ve come across the name in a family Bible. And don’t forget to ask the vergers. They’ll know their gravestones off by heart.”

  I nodded. “Will you place advertisements in the newspapers as well?” I asked, thinking of the many occasions when he had done so in the past. “There must be someone in London who knows the word.”

  “If Gregson’s theory about a secret society is correct, that would instantly inspire the criminals to move the bracelet,” Holmes said. “No, Watson. If we’re to find the ‘Paradol Chamber’ while it still contains the bracelet, we must exercise some discretion and limit ourselves to reliable sources.”

  I took a hansom cab. It was unusually warm for May, and I remembered that the day was as long now as it would be in late July, and the sun as high. As the cab went along Piccadilly, I noticed Professor Robert Bentley approaching the headquarters of the Linnean Society. I realized this was an opportunity I should not forego. Bentley had also trained as a surgeon, and was a member at my club. I had seen him there on several occasions, his bald head rising from the wild disarray of his sidewhiskers like a mountain beset with an overgrowth of untamed shrubbery. I doubted he knew my name, but my face might be familiar. And a more reliable source of information about organic compounds than Bentley and the other fellows of the Society I could not imagine.

  I had the cab driver stop and approached the great botanist with my question, and much to my surprise, he nodded when he heard the word ‘paradol’. “It’s a fairly obscure reference,” he said, “But I believe it is the pungent principle of the spice derived from Aframomum melegueta.”

  I tugged my notebook from my pocket. “Afromomum...” I began to write, and Bentley interrupted me.

  “You might know it as Guinea pepper, or ‘grains of paradise’. It’s the latter name, I
believe, from which the word ‘paradol’ is derived.”

  “I couldn’t find it in the dictionary,” I admitted.

  “I would be surprised if you did,” Bentley said. “Come inside and see if our library can do you better.”

  My excitement waned when I discovered that the word ‘paradol’ had been coined just three years prior, when the substance was identified in a paper by a chemist called J.C. Thresh. Still, I had discovered something, and when I emerged from the Linnean Society, I went to the nearest post office to send the information to Holmes. The reply came within half-an-hour. “Paradol also a name in France. Lucinde Paradol sang in Paris Opera. Proceed to parishes, I will research importers of grains of paradise.”

  So now, instead of a single thread, we had two. And at least we knew that the word could be a name. I set off for Southwark again, feeling hopeful.

  By early afternoon, I was feeling much less hopeful. If anyone named Paradol had ever been born, married, or buried in Southwark, they had done so without the knowledge of the churches nearest Elephant and Castle. I had even gone as far afield as the nearest Catholic establishment, that being the most likely religion of an immigrant from France. I stopped to telegraph Holmes for further instructions, and was gratified by how quickly came the reply, telling me to meet him at Simpson’s in the Strand at my earliest convenience.

  Being much closer, I reached the restaurant well before Holmes, and decided to take my luncheon in the upper room, where I could observe the street below. But once seated, I allowed myself to close my eyes for a moment, and I was quite asleep when I was found by Holmes and PC Hopkins. A touch on my shoulder roused me.

  “May we join you, Watson?” Holmes asked, although he was already taking the seat beside me and waving Hopkins into the chair opposite. “This is PC Hopkins. Constable Hopkins, my friend Dr. Watson.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” Hopkins said. He was a well-set up young fellow of about twenty-three, his bright blue eyes trying to take in the entire restaurant at once.

  “And I you,” I said absently, reaching for my now tepid cup of coffee. “I’m sorry I fell asleep, Holmes.”

  “It’s hardly surprising after the past week. After we eat you can head back to Baker Street, and I will take the next shift of hunting,” Holmes replied. He looked much better than he had in the morning, although there were still shadows beneath his eyes. “There’s an importer in Rotherhithe who specializes in spices from Africa, and given your lack of success in the churchyards, it must be worth a try.”

  “I don’t see how it could be, sir,” Hopkins interjected deferentially. “I mean, I can’t imagine anyone from the gangs at Elephant and Castle taking orders from the gangs at Rotherhithe. They’re natural enemies.”

  “Improbable, I grant you, especially given that Red Nettie is an up-and-comer in the Forty Thieves. Nevertheless, we must eliminate the possibility,” Holmes said.

  “The Forty Thieves?” I asked.

  “A gang of women who operate out of the Elephant and Castle district.” Hopkins said, as if he were reciting from a manual. “A majority of them are widows and orphans at the moment, although some of the senior members are married. In plain view, they teach girls skills they might use for legitimate trades, like dressmaking. But they practice Faginy as well, teaching the younger girls the arts of picking pockets and shoplifting and other petty crimes.”

  “They’re frequently out on the Strand,” Holmes added, “which is why I wanted to meet you here.”

  I looked out the window, down onto the passing pedestrians. The sun was beating down and the awnings were out, and most of the women passing had put up sunshades to protect their complexions. “I don’t know how we’ll recognize them,” I said. “I can’t see past the umbrellas.”

  Holmes paused in the act of signalling the waiter to clap his hands together, his whole demeanor changing with the strength of a new thought. “Hopkins,” he said urgently, “Show me again the evidence you brought with you.”

  “All right, sir,” Hopkins said, bewildered, but he brought out an envelope with the three scraps of charred paper carefully preserved between cards. I looked at them as Holmes examined them, his fingers tapping on the table as if it were a piano keyboard. They were just as the report had described them, other than a broader gap than normal between the words “is” and “safe”. Holmes clearly saw more than I, however, and he chuckled as he indicated that Hopkins could put away the envelope once more.

  “Watson, I’ve changed my mind. When we finish eating, would you care to join me in a stroll along the Strand?”

  “If I can be of assistance,” I said, curiosity as always overcoming any hesitation. I knew the signs of Holmes on the right track, even if he seldom vouchsafed his reasoning beforehand.

  “Constable Hopkins, I would ask you to join us, but I think your uniform would alarm our quarry, and she’d no doubt recognize your face. Go and send word to Inspector Gregson that we are very likely going to be able to retrieve the bracelet this afternoon. Then find the constables patrolling this beat and ask them to be certain that, if we do confront Red Nettie, none of her acquaintances take to their heels with any of her accoutrements.”

  “Yes, sir, of course, sir, excuse me, sir,” Hopkins practically leapt to his feet and departed with a vigour I could only envy.

  Holmes watched him go with an indulgent expression. “I have hopes that that young man will make a detective in time,” he said. “He shows a distinct talent for observation.”

  “And he listens to you, the way the older detectives don’t,” I observed.

  Holmes shrugged, but I could see that he was pleased. “It is always easier to work with someone when they have little reason to cling to preconceived notions. I can only hope to live up to his expectations. In the meantime, let me turn the tables upon you, Doctor. You need to eat,” he said, and raised his hand once more to summon the waiter. “It will help to dispel your headache.”

  Coffee and sandwiches refreshed me, and while I cannot say that I was at my best when Holmes and began our promenade along the Strand, I was alert enough to spot Nettie Hannigan before my friend had a chance to tug my sleeve. She wore a dress of light pink organdy, cut according to the most recent fashions, and her hair was swept up defiantly to reveal the mottled red mark on her neck, which explained the pugnacious expression that marred her otherwise attractive features. I would never have guessed her to be a thief, and would have placed her instead amongst the young wives and hopeful maiden daughters of shopkeepers or tradesmen, that class which was rising by an application of hard work. Her umbrella was exceptionally large, made of silver silk, with a heavy bamboo shaft and handle. It sheltered both her and the younger girl by her side, whose dress betrayed its self-made origins by an uneven hem and a crooked seam.

  “Do you remember when I fell at the Cunningham’s?” Holmes murmured, just loud enough for me to hear and nod in reply. I remembered his ruse very well indeed, for it had alarmed me greatly at the time to see him take such a nervous fit. “Do you think you can do that? And fall against the ladies as you pass?”

  “I can try,” I said, for there was little time to demur. Holmes bid me good afternoon and headed into the nearest shop, and I acknowledged him and kept walking forward. I did not think I could mimic his entire performance, but it was easy enough for me to place my cane badly and let my bad leg collapse. I fell, as I intended, against Nettie Hannigan, and to give her credit she did her best to catch me, though she had to let go of what she was carrying to do so. We tumbled down together, and once fallen I did not have to pretend to be in pain, for my knee struck a protruding cobblestone, and it was all that I could do not to disgrace myself with bad language.

  Miss Hannigan’s exclamations were not so discreet, though she kept her voice low. When she saw that my pain was genuine, she dispatched her companion to fetch a glass of water
, and then helped me to the kerb where I could sit and massage my leg. She stayed by me, too, offering her handkerchief for the tears that had started from my eyes at the sudden blow. A moment later, Holmes appeared through the growing crowd, my cane in one hand and Miss Hannigan’s umbrella and parcels in the other. “Watson?” he said, aping concern. He hadn’t had time to change his attire, but he’d rearranged his hair so that it came down over his forehead, and his expression was that of a far more ingenuous man.

  “I’m all right,” I growled, even as I wondered what he was up to. I carefully extended my leg, checking to see what I’d done to myself. “I think it’s just a bruise. Thanks to this lady, I didn’t strike the ground with my full weight. I apologize, ma’am. I should have placed my cane more carefully.”

  She waved aside the consideration with an unexpected graciousness that made me feel ashamed of my pretense. “There’s worse reasons for landing in the gutter,” she averred, with a laugh. “Here’s Lucy with some water for you, and good thing too. You’re red as a parson’s nose.”

  I mumbled something about the day being hot, and accepted the water. I was flushed from embarrassment, not heat, and I knew it, and the thrill of attempting the ruse was giving way to the realization that I had not the skill to maintain it. At that moment, Holmes stepped in, offering the parcel and umbrella to Red Nettie. “It was awfully good of you to help, Miss. but are you sure you’re not hurt? You fell too,” he said, in a voice much higher than his usual pitch and with a distinct Newcastle accent.

  “I’m all right, but my dress isn’t,” she said, pointing out the large tear at which had parted the flounce from her hem. I flinched, remembering that my foot had come down on the edge of the fabric.

  “I’m so sorry.” This time my apology was more sincere, but I was still startled when Holmes pulled out a five pound note and pressed it into her hand.