by David Marcum
His work complete, he crossed the room and opened a wardrobe. Inside hung a tattered black pea coat, a pair of patched trousers, and a collarless shirt. A shelf held a false gray beard and some other items that might be found in an actor’s dressing room. On the wardrobe’s inside door was a mirror. He took off his dark lounge coat, while pulling a silver comb from its inside pocket. He threw the coat over the wardrobe’s door and then proceeded to smooth back his hair. Smiling approvingly at his image, he unbuttoned his satin waistcoat. He would walk out the front door. An old salt on shore leave could afford this place. Maybe he would be swaying a little; old salts on shore leave generally did.
Mycroft Holmes was walking along the gas lit streets of Billingsgate towards London Bridge. He had thrown on a brown Newmarket coat over his rumpled suit, but had neglected to close either. A woolen scarf hung uselessly around his neck. His hands were rammed into his trouser pockets. The large man carried his head bent; wisps of hair hung into his high forehead. His steps had a discontented, stomping quality. A few times, he almost bumped into another pedestrian, who invariably was the one to swerve so as to avoid the collision.
A thin rain began, whipped into sheets by the wind, and Holmes raised his collar and quickened his steps. He passed a pub, halted, walked back, and entered the premises. He blew his nose on a well-worn handkerchief, then approached the bar and settled down on a stool at the corner of the short side. Closing time was less than an hour away. The pub was half empty. Its regular patrons were the merchants of the City, and on a Friday night many of those gentlemen had more fashionable or disreputable venues to attend. A group of men sat chatting by a fireside; some of them held instruments on their knees, but only one occasionally scratched at a violin. A few tipplers lined the bar. Tobacco smoke hung under the ceiling, immobile and as if it had always been there and always would be.
Holmes ordered a stout, and sat with it, hands circling the glass. Every once in a while, his eyebrows would crease or he would press his teeth against his upper lip as if in response to a thought that had come to an end. Then he would take a sip of beer.
He did not notice the figure slipping onto the stool perpendicular to his own. The next time Holmes emerged from his thoughts, he saw a bearded man across the edge of the bar. He was wearing a tattered black pea coat and a cap from under which protruded a mass of gray hair - an old salt on shore leave. He seemed familiar to Holmes in a vague way, one of the thousands of faces he had encountered, none of which he ever forgot. The man’s left hand was closed around a glass of gin; his right hand lay invisible below the bar.
“Yer looked like yer were woolgatherin’ there, guv’nor,” said the old salt and gave a good-natured, hoarse laugh.
“It has been an interesting day.”
“Mine too, mine too.”
Holmes lifted a tired eyebrow.
The sailor took a gulp of gin, then said, “I got me ‘ands on sumthing, guv’nor, sumthing I been after for a while.”
“A nice coincidence...” mumbled Holmes.
“‘Ow so, Sir?”
“I lost sight of someone today, someone I’ve been after for a while.”
“That’s a rum thing, guv’nor.” The sailor’s eyes twinkled with cold merriment underneath heavy brows. Then his voice changed, losing any trace of Cockney and acquiring a mocking, imperious tone. “But there are no coincidences, only excuses of a lazy mind.”
The two men looked at each other. Slowly, Holmes began to rise.
“Sit down, Mr. Holmes. A gun is pointed at your stomach. And you never carry a weapon yourself, I know.”
Holmes settled back on his stool, his hand closing tightly around his glass. “What do you want, Moriarty?”
“To meet, at last,” smiled the Professor. “After all these months of circling each other like two backyard tomcats. Have you discovered the tunnel from the Forge Hotel yet, Mr. Holmes?”
“We have. I’m sure your hands were calloused after all the digging.”
“Please, Mr. Holmes. Why so acerbic? We both know, some do the digging, some think for the diggers. Our two institutions are much alike in this regard. And anyway, what could you have done? Arrest Ferguson? Would that not have suggested he was under observation?”
“We would have waited a while.”
“Even then, would an arrest not have cast doubts on the genuine nature of Ferguson’s documents? I might have become suspicious, thought you might have exchanged them for false ones at some point. Who knows, even my clients might have developed second thoughts-”
Holmes’s lips thinned.
“Speechless, Mr. Holmes? Did you really think I’d fall for your fakes? I’m rather hurt, I must say.”
Holmes’s mouth opened, but Moriarty waived him to be silent.
“Please, Mr. Holmes. Who cares about boring details?”
“We will find him. He will stand trial for high treason.”
“Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t,” Moriarty said flatly and sipped from his gin. He glanced at the bandaged middle finger of Holmes’s right hand. The Professor’s face appeared perfectly expressionless, but Holmes could not be certain. An urge to rip away Moriarty’s false beard welled up inside Holmes, yet at the same time he feared that he would behold a triumphant grin, perhaps worse, a pitying smile.
“Is he together with that tart you placed in his way?” he asked.
“An ugly word, Mr. Holmes! Miss Beatrice is a thespian, an artist! And yes, I believe he is sharing her company, blissful as a child at Christmas.”
Holmes snorted. “You know what will happen, Moriarty. One morning, he will wake up, and your thespian will have danced out of his life, with the money.”
“My good Holmes, Ferguson is a young man. These are the mistakes young men make. He will learn. Yet for now he is happy because he acted upon his desires. Thus it should be. I merely gave him the opportunity for happiness.” After a pause, he leaned conspiratorially over the bar. “Really, my enterprise is to make people happy, Mr. Holmes.”
At the other man’s raillery, the colour rose in Holmes’s cheeks. His fingertips turned white around the glass. Moriarty had been watching closely. He lifted a hand as if to suggest one last moment of reprieve before the inevitable fight. The spinel still gleamed on his ring finger, out of keeping with his modest attire.
“You may not believe this, Mr. Holmes, but even your happiness has been on my mind.” He slipped his hand into his jacket’s side pocket, brought out a folded sheet of tracing paper, and pushed it across the bar. Holmes did not take his eyes off the other man’s face. Finally, he reached for the sheet and unfolded it. He studied it for close to half-a-minute, his skin turning ashen.
“This is from the genuine document...” he whispered.
“It is,” confirmed the Professor. “But don’t you worry. I sent Moran on his way with the false version you provided us.”
Holmes swallowed.
“How did...?” His voice deteriorated into a croak, and he cleared his throat. “How did you get this?”
“Immaterial, Holmes. Immaterial. But there are things I like to keep for myself. I am a bit of a collector. Who knows, perhaps I am even a patriot. And my clients will be satisfied. Your version is compelling enough. They will not notice the difference. You may keep that,” he said, pointing to the paper. “A memento, if you will.” Moriarty slipped from his stool. He placed some coins on the bar. “Allow me, your drink is on me. I had ever such a pleasant conversation this evening. I will also leave you this.” He hung an umbrella by its handle on the bar’s edge next to Holmes. “You should be more careful, Mr. Holmes; otherwise you’ll catch a cold.”
With that, the old salt turned, crossed the room with long, silent steps, and disappeared into the night. Holmes eyed the umbrella that was swinging lightly. He recognized its some
what widened shank. The urge to break the blasted thing rose from his stomach like acid. He looked at his bandaged middle finger. The wound stung, but the pain was not physical. An odd chill seemed to emanate from the empty place across from him, as if a void had been left there. He had played the game too loosely, but they would meet again, many times, he had a sense. The next round would find him better prepared, much better prepared.
Holmes’s eyes fell upon the gin glass Moriarty had left standing upon the bar. Holmes stared at the glass for a while as if trying to impose order on a string of inchoate thoughts. After a while he reached over and carefully picked the glass up by its rim. He turned and held the glass in the direction of the fireplace. Moriarty’s fingerprints were clearly visible. Raising his eyebrows, Holmes turned back to the bar and set down the glass. He looked at it, occasionally rubbing his chin. It was time to come up with some new ideas. Slowly, he finished his pint.
Beatrice let her head fall back against the rear of the coach and closed her eyes. The sound of the horse’s hooves and of the wheels on the cobble stones was soothing. She felt tired, but her heart beat rapidly. Everything had worked as planned. They were already outside Calais. A few hours to Amiens and tomorrow on to Paris! She would see Paris, finally! She would do more than see it; she would make it her own!
She opened her eyes and brushed a strand of her auburn locks behind her ear. Henry Ferguson lay slunk into the corner, his mouth half open, producing chortling noises. His complexion was still greenish. Moriarty had been right about the Channel crossing. She reached over and pulled two envelopes from the inside pocket of Ferguson’s coat. Placing them on her lap, she passed her fingers over the top one. She could feel Moriarty’s government notes inside. Laying it on the upholstery, she took the other. The envelope bulged slightly. She unsealed it and pulled out a folded set of tracing papers. They made a low crackling sound as she smoothed them out on her knees. She inspected them for close to a minute. For all she could tell, they showed boats and their parts. Men were such fools! All this intrigue for some drawings, of which one could tell one’s lover to make as many copies as one pleased! Oh well, if this was what they considered worth spending money on, who was she to tell them otherwise? She folded the papers and replaced them in the envelope. Then she slipped both envelopes back into Ferguson’s coat. She had an idea who might be interested in this set of copies.
Her eyes rested on Ferguson. Despite his complexion, his sleep appeared happy. Oddly, she had found of late that she rather liked him. His presence was comforting. He would never leave her, never make demands. What to do with him? Time would tell. She turned to look at the green hills of the French countryside. The storm had blown itself out over night, and now the drops on the yellow leaves of the beech trees sparkled in the late morning sun. A pink hue lay on her chest. She felt like laughing, but she preferred her lover to remain asleep, and so she only smiled.
The Adventure of the Fateful Malady
by Craig Janacek
A quick reference to my journals confirms that the year 1889 was a very busy one for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Notwithstanding the fact that marriage had precipitated my departure from the flat at 221b Baker Street, I called upon Holmes regularly, and he was kind enough to include me in several of his more peculiar adventures. I have already set down for public consumption such strange tales as that of the false beggar,[1] and the woman’s wit that foiled both a king and a genius.[2] But other problems, such as the mystery of Mr. Philip King, the famous inventor, who boarded the Flying Scotsman at King’s Cross Station and was never seen again,[3] cannot be told until the principals of the matter have passed beyond the ken of human existence. These cases must be safely locked away until a new day has dawned, and the terrible events depicted in the following narrative are just such an example.
It was during one of my visits to Baker Street that autumn when Holmes found himself engaged by a client of no small renown. We were sitting in front of the afternoon fire where I had reclaimed my former arm-chair, while Holmes was animatedly describing to me, in minute detail, my movements of the day. Despite having repeatedly been on the receiving end of Holmes’s series of logical deductions, it nonetheless amazed me when he inquired whether my trip to Hatton Garden had been a successful one.
“I fail to see, Holmes, how you could possibly know precisely which street I visited today?”
“It was simplicity itself, Watson. The first observation is the faint sparkle of gold coming from the distal right sleeve of your coat.”
I reflexively glanced downwards and verified his inspection. “What of it?”
“Why, Watson, how many methods exist for a man to obtain gold dust upon his sleeve? Surely very few, especially when that fellow is a practicing physician and not an artisan? When you add to the chain of logic the facts that this man was married almost a year ago, but at the time was rather deficient in his pocket-book, it suggests that he was engaged upon the errand of buying a gift for his wife. And where else in London does a man go to purchase jewelry other than Hatton Garden?”[4]
I laughed appreciatively. “Guilty as charged, Holmes.”
He smiled back. “I think in this case, you are literally wearing your heart upon your sleeve,[5] Watson.” He paused and listened for a moment. “Ah, if I am not mistaken, the sound of a brougham stopping outside our door suggests that we are about to be visited by a client.” He rose and peered out of the bow-window towards the street below.
I had little time to be pleased that Holmes had automatically involved me in the case, for the door was swiftly opened. An austere man entered, his springy steps communicating a great energy. His iron grey hair placed him at a shade over fifty years of age, though his cleanly-shaven face was unlined. His nose and chin were angular, and his features as grave as a sphinx, though his eyes shone with vitality and shrewdness. As to his dress, his double-breasted woolen frock coat and cashmere-striped trousers were of the highest cut and quality. He removed his top hat and perched stiffly in the basket chair that Holmes had indicated.
“My name is Sir James Saunders,”[6] began our visitor, but he was forestalled by Holmes.
“If I may, sir? You recognized, of course, Watson, that Sir James is a fellow medico. However, rather than a general practitioner, he specializes in dermatology. You are engaged at the highest levels of a hospital, and it is upon their business that you come.”
“You are correct, Mr. Holmes. For the last six years I have had the honor of being the Director of the Charing Cross Hospital.[7] But you must know these facts already, to be so familiar with my history.”
“Not at all, Sir James. The simple method to distinguish a dermatologist from other medical men is to compare their hands and face, one rough from constant washing, the other smoother than is typical for their age. Your career has been successful, for how else would you afford such a fine brougham? But it is plain from your horses, which are hardly fresh and glossy, that your practice is not located in the vicinity of the nearby Cavendish Square, where the most eminent physicians hang their lamps.[8] Therefore, I reasoned that you are most likely the head of a hospital, and so it proves to be.”
Sir James nodded. “That is excellent, Mr. Holmes. This is precisely why I have consulted you.” He paused and studied Holmes for a moment. “I have been informed that you are a man whose discretion can be trusted absolutely.”
“I am glad that it is so said,” replied Holmes mildly.
“It is of critical importance that no word of this matter spreads to the public. If Fleet Street[9] hears of this, the reputation of the Hospital will suffer a mortal blow, from which it could never hope to recover.”
“Perhaps if you told me of your problem, Sir James?”
The man sighed. “Very well. I am afraid, Mr. Holmes, that the Black Death is once more upon us.”[10]
“Indeed,” said Holmes, his lids drooping over his eyes.
&n
bsp; Sir James appeared dismayed that his dramatic words had such little effect upon the demeanor of my friend. “I am not certain that you understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. Holmes,” said he, urgently. “The Great Plague of London may have been two hundred years ago,[11] but nothing that caused such a massive upheaval is ever truly forgotten. As the harbinger of a terrible comet appeared in the sky,[12] a hundred thousand died in London alone.[13] Of course, that was small fry compared to the Black Death pandemic itself.[14] Over a million souls dead, Mr. Holmes, up to a third of the entire population of England! Imagine if such a horror was to return?”
“Surely this is a matter for the authorities, Sir James?” I interjected. “How have you succeeded in keeping this quiet?”
“This was not a decision that I came to on my own, Dr. Watson. The Board of Health has been notified. The Necropolis Railway[15] has refused to take the bodies, for fear of spreading the contagion, and it was the Board that secretly approved the extraordinary measures of permitting us to cremate them in situ.[16] Mr. Holmes, I assure you that the matter is dire.”
“I recognize, sir, that you believe that a great pestilence has descended upon your hospital. However, I fail to perceive of what service I could be to you? Your particular problem seems to be more along the lines of Dr. Watson here than that of a consulting detective. I am no physician.” He sank back into his arm-chair, his interest clearly waning.
