The Baker Street Translation

by Michael Robertson

  Laura looked in Reggie’s direction as he opened the door.

  Reggie had never seen her so bedraggled.

  He went immediately to her side and sat down next to her—protectively flanking her, with Nigel on the other side—in anticipated opposition to the two Americans across the table.

  Clearly, there was some sort of formal conversation already under way.

  “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Heath,” said Rafferty, as though Reggie were late for a scheduled meeting.

  Now Rafferty turned back to address everyone.

  “Mr. Stillman has some items to address that I believe concern all of us,” said Rafferty.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rafferty,” said Stillman, just a little grandly, standing as though he were about to address a court.

  Reggie found it annoying.

  “Just sit down, won’t you?” said Reggie. “We can all hear you with no difficulty.”

  The man shrugged and sat, then grinned his self-confident grin again.

  “You’re right,” he said. “No need to get formal. I’m sure this won’t take long. I just want to wrap up a couple of things before Mr. Darby here has to fly back to Houston. I’m not sure all of you have met him, I know some of you have. Mr. Darby is a great-nephew to Mrs. Clemens, and until very recently, he was one of the two beneficiaries of her will. So. Which do you want to do first? The matter of Mrs. Clemens bequest to Sherlock Holmes? Or Mr. Darby’s lawsuit for assault and battery and false imprisonment?”

  “You’re out of your bloody mind,” said Nigel. “It’s your client who committed the assault and battery.”

  “Not true, and if it were true, it would be hard to prove. No one from this office saw fit to call the police. The only reason I can imagine for that is you knew you were in the wrong. So I think the relevant thing will be to look at who has the injuries. Now, Mr. Darby here has severe and obvious bruising about the neck and throat. You, on the other hand, have—well, nothing apparent.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Nigel. “He started it.”

  “No, I didn’t,” retorted Darby.

  “Yes, you did,” said Nigel.

  “No, I didn’t,” repeated the American, with a straight face.

  “There, you see?” said Stillman. “You see how that goes? We have one word against another. The only thing we know for sure, the only thing we have witnesses for, is that Mr. Hendricks here zapped my client twice with a Taser.”

  Hendricks looked quite miserable, and more than a little confused.

  “I guess you must have a license for use of that weapon, Mr. Hendricks, because I know that is necessary, and not easy to obtain, on this side of the pond, and Miss Rankin here—I regret dragging you into this, Miss Rankin, and I hope it doesn’t mean you won’t have dinner with me before I return to the States—”

  Laura rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t even think about it,” said Reggie to the American, quite out loud.

  Stillman didn’t miss a beat.

  “—but business is business, and Miss Rankin did, in fact, threaten my client with that very nasty-looking letter-opening device. So I think we can all see where things stand.”

  All this while, Rafferty had said nothing, just sat there, fixing his eyes on some imaginary point in the middle of the conference table. But now he looked up.

  “What is it you want?” he said.

  “Good question. That brings me to the second thing. First, understand that it is American law, specifically the laws of the state of Texas, that will determine the disposition of the will of Mrs. Clemens. That is where the will was made, that is where Mrs. Clemens resided at the time, and it doesn’t matter that the document itself arrived here in London.

  “That said, it would be a shame for all of us to go to a whole lot of time and trouble over this when we know that the end result will be that her bequest will be invalidated. And so I’m here to—”

  “No, it won’t,” said Nigel, interrupting and glaring across at the two Americans.

  “Excuse me?” said Stillman.

  “I think I understand the offer you are about to make to us,” said Nigel. “And I’m not saying we will turn it down. But just as a point of law—in the United States, as here, an individual can bequeath his or her fortune to whom she pleases, subject to the applicable tax codes of the jurisdiction. The law does not care to whom or what the bequest is made. It is quite commonplace, for example, for people to leave their fortunes to their pets. I’m sure you already know this. A singer here in London just recently left tens of millions to Nicholas the cat, along with a provision that her songs be played for the animal nightly, which one might argue was a high price to pay. The point is, so long as the will was properly made and witnessed and the bequestor was of sound mind when she did it, then it will be enforced, if it can be enforced.”

  “How could she be of sound mind when she willed her fortune to a character from fiction?” said Stilwell. “That act alone will prove she was not of sound mind when she made the change in her will.”

  “As matter of fact, no, it does not,” said Nigel. “The very existence of the letters that arrive here daily demonstrates that. There are many people of sound mind who do believe Sherlock Holmes to be real. There is, in fact, a society here in London whose very membership requires that you espouse the belief that Holmes was real, Watson was real, and Doyle was merely Watson’s literary agent.”

  “Sherlock Holmes does not exist,” said Stillman heatedly. “You can’t bequeath something to someone who does not exist! There’s no one to receive it!”

  “But that doesn’t matter in this instance,” said Nigel. “Because Mrs. Clemens revised her bequest to name Reggie Heath on behalf of Sherlock Holmes. The court will do what it can to implement the intent of the benefactor. It can go to Reggie Heath, because her will said it can.”

  Now the larger American stood.

  “Not after we tear the damn thing up, it won’t! Give us the will!”

  “We don’t have it any longer,” said Laura, rising out of her chair. “And you bloody well know it, you pompous, self-important cattle wankers—”

  “Everyone sit down!” shouted Reggie.

  Rafferty looked up briefly, furrowed a brow, and then continued staring at a center point on the table.

  “If you sold the will to someone else,” said Stillman, “you’d damn well better tell us who—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Reggie, gesturing the two Americans back into their chairs. “Who else would possibly make use of it but the person it is made out to? Anyway, your objective is simply to make sure that it has no impact on the disposition of the inheritance, that no one can make any sort of claim against the substantial fortune of Mrs. Clemens, correct?”

  The Americans sat back down.

  “Yes,” said Stillman.

  “Then perhaps there is a solution. We’ll need to talk this over among ourselves,” said Reggie.

  “All right,” said Stillman. “We can cool our heels for a few minutes while you talk it over.”

  Reggie picked up the conference room intercom and buzzed his secretary.

  “Lois, the Americans are going to step out of the conference room for a moment. They can sit in the guest chairs at your desk. They are to go nowhere else, and you won’t take your eyes off them for a moment, will you?”

  “Not for a fraction,” said Lois.

  The two Americans exited the room.

  Rafferty remained seated at the head of the table, looking expectantly at Nigel, Laura, and Reggie. They looked expectantly back.

  “What?” said Rafferty.

  “By ‘ourselves,’” said Laura, pointing subtly at the brothers on either side of her. “I think Reggie meant just us.”

  “Oh,” said Rafferty, clearly disappointed at that. “Right, then.”

  Rafferty got up and politely exited the room, taking Hendricks with him.

  Reggie looked at Nigel as soon as they had all gone.

 
“What in hell were you doing?” asked Reggie. “I’m not going to claim that inheritance. I’d be an idiot to try.”

  “I couldn’t help it,” said Nigel. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t like the man’s attitude. And I just finished taking the California Bar exam. The bloody stuff was on my mind.”

  Laura reached across the table and made sure the intercom was off. Then, she whispered, “The point is, why are the Americans demanding a bloody will that must have been among the bloody letters that I already delivered to them?”

  Reggie and Nigel hesitated, looked at each other, and then Reggie said, “I think we have to consider the possibility that you didn’t deliver it to them.”

  “You mean it was just a random snatch-and-run, and someone was just trying to steal my bag?”

  “No. He means the kidnapping may never have had anything to do with the bequest at all,” said Nigel. “Yes, the Americans want the bequest letter to Sherlock Holmes. But do a kidnapping for it in a foreign country and then show up in person with your American passport in broad daylight in a lawyer’s chambers and demand it be returned? Who would be that dim-witted?”

  For a moment, they all considered that.

  “Well,” said Laura, “They are Americans.”

  Reggie shook his head. “Bottom line is that if they had the bequest letter, they wouldn’t be here asking for it now. They can’t be behind the kidnapping.”

  Laura didn’t like that conclusion. But she knew it had to be true. She slumped back in her chair.

  “So I gave away the ransom,” she said. “And we don’t have Robert back. And we still have no idea who took him.”

  “First things first,” said Reggie. “Let’s get the Americans off our backs.”

  Reggie buzzed Lois.

  “Send them all back in,” said Reggie.

  “Right away,” said Lois. “And then do you mind if I’m gone for a few minutes after that? I’ll just need to pop down to Harrods for a bit.”

  “That’s fine, Lois,” said Reggie, though her timing seemed odd.

  A short moment later, the two Americans tromped back in. Then Rafferty entered, shut the door behind him, sat down, and again focused on some invisible point at the center of the table.

  “Well?” demanded Darby. Stillman gestured for him to remain calm.

  “I believe I have a solution,” said Reggie. “Nigel and I will need to draw it up first. If you will return tomorrow morning at ten, we can reach an agreement that will completely invalidate the bequest that Mrs. Clemens made to me, or to Sherlock Holmes, either one.”

  “I want it resolved now,” growled Darby.

  Stillman put a hand on Darby’s shoulder and kept him down.

  “That will work,” said Stillman.

  Everyone stood.

  Stillman turned to Laura before exiting. “Miss Rankin, it seems I’ll be staying overnight. So my dinner invitation still stands. I’d sure be pleased if you’d consider—”

  “Oh, please,” said Laura. “Don’t make me call Mr. Hendricks and his Taser again.”

  32

  Reggie, Laura, and Nigel came out from the conference room into the external law chambers office and gathered near the secretary’s station.

  Lois was still out on her shopping errand.

  The Americans were gone from the building, at least for the moment.

  Rafferty had returned to his top-floor sanctuary. The man seemed annoyed about something, though Reggie couldn’t imagine what.

  But in any case, there were more important concerns.

  There was a clock on the cubicle wall behind Lois’s desk; it was a whimsical clock, with cartoon character cows to show the hours and minutes. But it showed the time very clearly even so.

  Laura sat in a chair next to Lois’s desk and stared at that clock. She was so tired, she could hardly think. All she knew for sure was that time was running out.

  “I gave away the ransom,” she said. “And we don’t have Robert back. And the kidnappers still haven’t called. They said they would by noon.”

  Now Reggie looked at the clock, too. It was nearly half past ten.

  “Why noon?” asked Nigel.

  “I don’t know why. I suppose that they want to spend the remainder of the afternoon at the pub celebrating. Or whatever kidnappers do after they’ve won.”

  “We don’t even bloody know what they’ve won,” said Reggie. “They have the letters and they have Buxton. But what bloody use do they get out of either one?”

  “Why specifically twelve P.M., as opposed to two, or three, or five?” said Nigel. “Certainly if you’re a kidnapper you want as much time as possible before anyone takes any action. You can’t say ‘We’ll get back to you next summer,’ but surely you would get as many hours as you could.”

  “Well, it’s not noon yet,” said Reggie. “There’s still … hope.”

  The moment Reggie said this, the minute hand ticked over, and the clock chimed the half hour.

  Laura buried her head in her hands.

  Everyone just sat silently now, waiting for the next tick.

  Then Nigel got up and began to shuffle the newspapers on Lois’s desk. “Something must happen at noon,” he said. “Maybe it’s public knowledge. Isn’t there a society section, or a calendar of events, or something here—”

  “Wait,” said Reggie. “Stop. Go back one page.”

  “This one?” Nigel flipped back one page in the Daily Mirror.

  “There,” said Reggie, pointing at a small headline with just two paragraphs.

  Nigel read it aloud: “‘PEDESTRIAN KILLED AT KING’S CROSS IDENTIFIED. The Metropolitan Police traffic division has released the name of the man killed by a lorry in an accident in front of King’s Cross station earlier this month. The victim, Arthur Sandwhistle, twenty-four, is reported to have dashed out in front—’”

  “Sandwhistle,” said Reggie. “I’ve heard that name. The translations that were sent to Mr. Liu came from a man named Sandwhistle. Mrs. Winslow told me that just hours before she was killed.”

  “Odd that it took the Yard weeks to release the name of a routine traffic victim,” said Nigel. “I can only think of one or two reasons for doing that.”

  “You mean that it probably wasn’t routine,” said Laura, “and they wanted to keep it from the public.”

  Reggie nodded. “Mrs. Winslow was murdered last night, at an import warehouse where she’d gone to fetch the original document that Sandwhistle sent to Mr. Liu. I saw the bloody thing. It showed that what Mr. Liu had printed out and sent to us—in his letter to Sherlock Holmes—was all exactly correct; he accurately included all the changes Sandwhistle submitted to him, even though the changes themselves were errors. Anyone raised with those rhymes would have known something was wrong, but Mr. Liu wasn’t raised with them. And I think that was the whole point. I think that’s exactly why the import company contracted with Mrs. Winslow to have the documents outsourced to someone like Mr. Liu.”

  “Classic indirection,” said Nigel. “Import companies are set up as shells to launder money with that tactic—to provide a legitimate cover and make the funds coming in and out difficult to trace.”

  “In this case,” said Reggie, “information laundering.”

  “Information for what?” asked Laura.

  “We need to see the changes,” said Nigel. “Do we still have this document that Liu translated?”

  Reggie shook his head. “Not unless we can find the original letter he sent to Baker Street. The Yard took the one from the warehouse, as evidence in the murder investigation. I made sure Wembley has it personally, but it could be days before he gets to it. He’s too busy protecting the royals from theoretical anarchist attacks and such—”

  Reggie stopped.

  Laura, Nigel, and Reggie all said nothing for a moment and just looked at one another.

  “Dear God,” said Laura.

  “Hello, everyone!”

  They all turned. Lois had arrived. She had both arms
wrapped around a large shopping bag.

  “You may wonder where I’ve been,” she chirped, full of shopping energy. “Well, I had to go to three different stores, but I finally found it. At Harrod’s, wouldn’t you know? And it was their last one.”

  “Found what?” asked Reggie.

  “A toy just like the one that Mr. Liu bought in Piccadilly,” said Lois. “You asked me to…” But now Lois paused. She was staring at something on the filing shelves just adjacent to her office.

  “Oh my,” she said. “Oh, Mr. Heath, I’m afraid you’re going to be very angry with me. I’m very sorry.”

  “What? What is it, Lois?”

  She put the package down on the desk, then turned to the shelf where the incoming instructions from solicitors were filed.

  “I know I told you that only two briefs came in from solicitors last week.”

  “Yes?” said Reggie. He followed her line of sight.

  There were three briefs on the shelf.

  “I don’t know how this could have happened,” said Lois as she picked up the thickest of the three rolled-up documents. “I stopped accepting new ones last week, as you instructed; I don’t remember receiving this one at all—but obviously I must have. It fell behind the others, I guess, and I just didn’t notice. I’m so sorry. I hope the deadline for it hasn’t passed.”

  “I’ve never known you to forget a brief, Lois,” said Reggie.

  Reggie took the rolled-up brief from her. He untied and unrolled the several sheets it contained. The he turned to Laura and Nigel.

  “The letters,” said Reggie.

  “How—”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Reggie, separating one sheet from the others. “But these are the letters that arrived last week. The schoolgirl crush in Iowa. The bequest from Texas.”

  Now Reggie unrolled the single largest sheet.

  “And this is the sheet of nursery rhymes that we received from Mr. Liu.”

  “And those rhymes go with this thing?” said Nigel. He reached into the package that Lois had plunked on her desk, and he held up a large white plastic toy.

  “Yes, that’s the bloody duck,” said Reggie.

  “This is what Mr. Liu bought at the British Emporium,” said Lois. “Or one just like it.”