The Criminal Mastermind of Baker Street

by Rob Nunn

  “I am hardly worried about that. My interest is in reclaiming Miss Morstan’s treasure.”

  “It’s a bad job for you, then!” the man crowed. “I have put it away where you shall never lay hand on it. It is my treasure, and if I, Jonathan Small, can’t have the loot, I’ll take darned good care that no one else does! I tell you that no living man or woman has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they cannot. Well, I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or Morstan!”

  Enraged by this, Watson struck the man in his mouth. Equally perturbed but still curious, Holmes placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Let him continue, Watson.”

  Small leaned back and laughed aloud. “It was not to make them rich that we did it. You’ll find the treasure where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey! Oh, it went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there’s no good grieving over it. I’ve had ups in my life, and I’ve had downs, but I’ve learned not to cry over spilled milk.”

  Holmes sighed. “This is a serious matter for you, Small. If you had helped me procure the treasure, you could have walked away from this.” He turned and walked out of the cabin. “Engineer, take us back up to the Isle of Dogs. I remember seeing a police launch. We will unload our man there.”

  The next morning, Watson returned to Camberwell to tell the disappointing end of the treasure hunt to Miss Morstan and Mrs. Forrester. When he returned to Baker Street that afternoon, he found Holmes smoking in silence.

  “Watson, make a call upon that McMurdo chap from the Sholto manner, will you? I believe he would be a welcome addition to our organization. And find me someone at the port who would be willing to let us know when the Thames will be dredged next. I would like to have some men on that crew.”

  “Gladly, Holmes. Until the river is dredged, I think that should be the end of our little drama,” Watson mused. “And I fear that it may be the last one in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honor to accept me as a husband.”

  Holmes groaned. “I feared as much. I really cannot congratulate you. She is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, but love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true, cold reason which I place above all things.”

  “I trust that my judgment may survive the ordeal,” Watson laughed. “But the division seems rather unfair. You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets his man and public credit, and if nothing comes from the dredging of the river, pray what remains for you?”

  “For me, there still remains the cocaine bottle.”

  Chapter 10: Signs of Renewed Activity

  Watson found marriage to be a happy position. Although his wife was vaguely aware of Holmes’ shadowy enterprises, having been a client herself, she urged her husband to begin his own practice, one not tied to Holmes’ shadier dealings. After weeks of pressure from his wife, Watson finally conceded and visited Baker Street to deliver the news to Holmes.

  Holmes set aside the commonplace book into which he was placing a newspaper cutting and welcomed his friend warmly. “Wedlock suits you, Watson. You have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”

  “Seven,” Watson answered.

  “Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson, and you have hired a most clumsy servant girl at your practice.”

  “My dear Holmes, this is too much. I fail to see how you work such things out.”

  “I deduce it,” Holmes answered, lighting a cigarette. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”

  “Frequently.”

  “Then how many are there?”

  “How many! I don’t know.”

  “Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed,” Holmes chuckled to himself and rubbed his long nervous hands together.

  “I fear that I have news to bring you,” Watson started.

  “Mrs. Watson would prefer you to spend more time as a doctor and less time assisting in my enterprises?”

  Smiling and shaking his head, Watson continued, “I would of course be happy to assist you when I can, but Mary does deserve a respectable life,” Watson offered.

  “I cannot begrudge you this one selfish action,” Holmes sighed. “You have been a most stalwart companion in our association. I would, however, like to retain your services on an as-needed basis. Surely, Mrs. Watson cannot deny me that request?”

  Laughing, Watson replied, “Surely not, my good man! Perhaps I can even persuade you to forgo your Bohemian habits and visit us every now and again.”

  “Don’t expect too much of me, Watson.”

  Relieved to have gotten Holmes’ blessing, Watson sold the pearls his wife had inherited and bought a connection in the Paddington district from an old Mr. Farquhar. Farquhar had once been an excellent general practitioner, but his affliction of St. Vitus’ dance and his increased age had thinned his clientele. Watson directed all his energy into revitalizing the practice, and within a year from its purchase, business was steadily rising and the practice was well on its way to be as flourishing as ever.

  During this time, Holmes continued his own work, and took care of a most lucrative problem for the Vatican during May of that year. When the two men would meet, Holmes would regale Watson with stories from his latest exploits. One day would find Holmes retelling how he helped Lestrade solve a murder in Boscombe Valley or accepting a commission to help an escaped Princetown convict to relocate to South America, while the next meeting would have Holmes giving the details of how he used a bogus laundry operation to remove countless jewels from families all throughout Piccadilly. Watson never seemed to tire of the charm of variety Holmes’ exploits contained.

  But many of their conversations revolved around the Ripper murders.

  During this time, London was in an uproar of the outrageous murders of young women in the Whitechapel neighborhood and the taunting letters from the alleged murderer that were being sent to the Central News Agency. Watson pored over the daily news reports and speculations just like every other Londoner, and was anxious to hear Holmes’ thoughts on the matter

  “You know that I abhor violence in my city, Watson,” Holmes stated. “Of course something like this could not be tolerated. But this Ripper is on a completely different plane of existence from the pickpockets and smashers that my employees have been told to squash unless they worked for me. This man is a shadow, and a possible lunatic. He has my people, especially the female ones, that live in Whitechapel terrified. I have not taken an active role in pursuing the fiend, but have instructed my employees to always travel in twos and threes, and to offer any ladies safe passage at night. These murders do not have a logical progression or pattern, so I fear that my skills would not be useful in such matters.”

  “But Holmes,” Watson protested, “surely you are doing more in this matter! Mycroft has not contacted you in this matter?”

  “Brother Mycroft deals on the world stage. While he views this matter as an unfortunate and horrendous one, it is not one in his purview.”

  “And you are comfortable sitting to the side while this madman terrorizes London?”

  Holmes drew his clay pipe from the top of a line of reference books beside the mantelpiece. “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. The ‘Ripper Murders,’ as the pre
ss has sensationalized them, is not an area that directly affects my livelihood. My time is better spent gathering any morsel of information I can on Professor Moriarty’s organization.”

  “I cannot accept that you will sit in your rooms doing nothing while this monster is on the loose! You once told me that you strove to elevate crime to a gentlemanly manner and that you abhorred the circle of misery and fear that senseless violence created. These words are an exact description of Jack the Ripper. This attitude of compliance is beneath you, Holmes.”

  Holmes absorbed his friend’s words and puffed on his pipe for a few moments. “Your words ring true, Watson. I have become calloused in your absence. I saw no monetary gain from this matter, and pushed it out of my mind. But your moral compass has always been truer than mine, even for a man involved in as many crimes as you have. I am ashamed to say that I turned Inspector Gregson down when he asked for my thoughts on the matter. If you would, please send word to the inspector that I plan to give the matter serious thought tonight and will have a possible profile of the Ripper for him tomorrow if he would be so good to call upon me.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Holmes,” Watson smiled. “I’m sure Gregson and London will be glad for your help, no matter how tardy it may be.”

  Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “Thank you for your words Watson. Now, if you will leave me to smoke. This will be quite a three-pipe problem, and I intend to give it my full attention for the time being.”

  As Watson left, he looked over his shoulder at Holmes curled up in his chair with his thin knees drawn upon his hawk-like nose, with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.

  As promised, Holmes presented Inspector Gregson with his detailed opinion about the Ripper the next morning. Soon after, the murders came to a close. If the man had been caught, killed, or escaped, Holmes never knew, for he had contributed what he could, and the matter had been tucked away into a corner of his brain-attic.

  One July morning, Holmes appeared at Watson’s Paddington office.

  “It is good to see you Watson,” Holmes greeted. “Your neighbor is a doctor I see by the brass plate.”

  Smiling from under his mustache, Watson responded, “Yes. He bought a practice as I did. Both have been ever since the houses were built.”

  “Ah, then you got hold of the better of the two.”

  “I think I did. But how do you know?”

  “By the steps, my boy. Yours are worn three inches deeper than his. You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of your bachelor days and I am sorry to see that you’ve had the British workman in the house. He’s a token of evil. Not the drains, I hope?”

  “No, the gas.”

  “Ah! He has left two nail-marks from his boot upon your linoleum just where the light strikes it. Since I see no patients in your waiting room or paper work on the desk, can I entice you to smoke a pipe with me? “

  Watson handed Holmes a tobacco pouch, and they seated themselves opposite one another and smoked for some time in silence. After some time had passed, Watson asked for news of Holmes’ exploits.

  “I fear that the days of great capers may be past.”

  “That surely cannot be true!” Watson cried.

  “You know me too well to think that I am exaggerating. It appears that Professor Moriarty and I may have finally come to a stalemate. I have just recently thwarted one of his employees, a Colonel Carruthers, but he has also able to put an end to one of my schemes with the tired captain we have employed from time to time. We seem to be at a point where we are sniping at each other and our battles continue to draw the attention of the official force,” Holmes sighed.”I have recently submitted a monograph to the Anthropological Journal on the formation of the human ear, but other than reading a slim volume by Petrarch, my time is filled with too much leisure. You know how these periods of inaction can seize me, Watson. I dread the days ahead where I can only lie upon the sitting-room sofa, hardly moving a muscle from morning to night.”

  Holmes’ nostrils dilated with the purely animal lust for crime, but his hands were tied. Crimes worthy of his abilities were not able to be carried out while he and Moriarty were at a loggerhead.

  “Perhaps I could convince you to step round to my club some evening?” Watson ventured.

  Smiling at his friend’s attempt, Holmes replied, “Thank you Watson, but you know how I loathe every form of society. No, I shall remain in my lodgings buried among my old books.”

  The two men continued their visit until they were interrupted by a patient looking for Doctor Watson. Holmes took his leave and made his way back to Baker Street.

  But the next day brought adventure of Sherlock Holmes.

  Watson’s old schoolmate, Percy Phelps, sent for him to make a house call in Woking. Phelps had just recovered from a case of brain fever and needed his friend’s advice on regaining his strength. During the doctor’s interview with his patient, he learned that Phelps had risen to a responsible position in the Foreign Office but a horrible misfortune nine weeks prior had caused his illness. Although Phelps was looking for medical advice, Watson was more intrigued with the incident that was the catalyst.

  Phelps had been in possession of a secret treaty between England and Italy of the utmost importance. So much so that he was only able to work on copying it at night once the rest of his office staff had left. While working on it, he had called for a cup of coffee to help him stay alert. When the coffee did not arrive, Phelps left the treaty on his desk, went down the hall to the commissionaire’s desk and found the coffee boiling over as he slept.

  Suddenly, Phelps heard the bell from his office ring and he raced back, only to find that the treaty was gone. Knowing that there was only one other way out from his office besides the hallway that he had been standing in with the sleeping commissionaire, Phelps rushed out the door but found nothing. The police were called but they could find no clues to help. Driven to despair, Phelps returned home. When his mother and fiancée saw him, a sick room was made up for him in the room where his fiancée’s brother had been staying. Nine weeks later, he was coherent enough to ask for a doctor, and he remembered his old schoolmate, Watson.

  Watson gave his friend orders and promised to visit again in two days. Leaving Woking, he headed straight to Baker Street, instead of his office. When Watson arrived, he found Holmes seated at his side-table, clad in his mouse-colored dressing gown and working over a chemical investigation. He hardly glanced up as Watson entered, and Watson seated himself in an armchair and waited. Holmes dipped into different bottles, drawing out a few drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally brought a test tube containing a solution over to the table where he dropped some of the solution onto a piece of litmus paper. Holmes observed the results and scribbled off several telegrams, handed them to the page boy that had let Watson into the room, and threw himself down in the chair opposite Watson, drawing up his knees until his fingers clasped round his long, thin legs.

  “A very commonplace little murder,” Holmes said. “Since I have only seen you just yesterday, I fancy you have something better for me, Watson. What is it?”

  Watson retold Phelps’ story to Holmes, noting that although it didn’t have any payoff for him, it did present a problem like the letters he retrieved in 1886, with which he was happy to help.

  “True, your friend’s problem is of interest. And, more importantly, it will occupy me for some time.”

  “I wondered if you had heard anything of this from your brother.”

  “No, brother Mycroft prefers to use me when the problem is unknown to the public. Because the police were called in, this would not be something Mycroft would engage me for. However, if I brought it to him of my own accord, he would not begrudge me the details to help my own investigation. Let me change out of my dressing gown and we may head to the Diogenes Club
for a visit.”

  Holmes and Watson waited for Mycroft to join them in the Stranger’s Room at his club where Watson again marveled at the odd atmosphere of a social club where men were not allowed to be sociable to one another. When Mycroft’s bulk came through the door, he shook Watson’s hand and turned to his younger brother, “Your monograph on the dating of manuscripts had two errors in it. Sloppy work, Sherlock.”

  “One. The other was an error by the printer. But I’m not here to quibble over my research. I have recently been made aware of a missing treaty with Italy.”

  Mycroft pursed his lips. “And how did you learn of that?”

  Watson spoke up. “Percy Phelps is a patient of mine and described the incident to me today. I brought the issue to your brother thinking that he may be able to help such as he did with the letters for the Secretary of State three years ago.”

  “That is very good of you, Doctor,” Mycroft said, “But we are all aware of my brother’s line of work and if he were ever to be found out...”

  Holmes let out a sharp laugh at that.

  Mycroft glared at the younger Holmes, and then turned back to Watson, “If he were ever to be found out, the government could not be seen as retaining someone with such an illustrious work history.” Turning to his brother, he continued. “But, since you have found this out on your own accord, I cannot stop you from investigating out of patriotic duty.”

  “It is beneficial for you that I have been spiritless as of late. Clearly the Foreign Office’s investigations have uncovered little.”

  “Spiritless or hampered by a mathematics professor?” Mycroft shot back. “No matter. You’ve come to me for information. Proceed.”

  Ignoring Mycroft’s comment, Holmes continued. “Could the Foreign Minister have been overheard giving instructions to Phelps?”

  “Out of the question.”