Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  Holmes motioned me to stay back. I stood in the doorway while he did his best to mollify the man behind the counter. “My friend is sorry for any offense he may have caused you yesterday,” Holmes began.

  “Offense? The blackguard made off with five shillings’ worth of tobacco without paying! And he threatened me with bodily harm into the bargain.”

  He raised the whistle to his lips, and I stiffened, unsure as to whether I should flee the premises or stand my ground.

  “You’re sure you have the right man?” Holmes asked.

  “Sure as sure can be,” the man said. He looked at me with such contempt and loathing, I felt all of two feet tall. “He were wearing a black coat, but I can tell a Frenchie when I hears one.”

  “He was a Frenchman?” Holmes said, and I could hear the incredulity in his voice.

  “Most definitely,” the shopkeeper replied. “An accent so thick you could stir it with a ladle.”

  Holmes motioned me forward. The man kept the whistle close to his lips.

  “Say something, Watson,” Holmes said.

  “I’ll be damned if I can think of a single thing,” I said, and walked forward, hand outstretched. “Doctor John Watson, at your service, sir.”

  The man looked at my hand as if I’d just spat in it, but there was a doubt in his look that had not been there before.

  “So, you are sure this is the same man?” Holmes said.

  The shopkeeper looked me up and down. “That accent is a good trick,” he said. “But it’s still him, all right. And he still owes me five shillings and an apology.”

  “I will be happy to oblige on both counts, sir,” I said. I reached for my wallet. He put the whistle to his lips again, fearing I was going for a weapon. I had obviously considerably frightened this poor chap on my visit.

  Holmes stepped between the shopkeeper and me. He laid down a ten-shilling note on the counter.

  “That should suffice for your trouble. Now tell me, did my friend here say anything about where he might be heading after leaving you yesterday?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” the man said. He made the note disappear quickly into the pocket of his waistcoat. Holmes produced another and laid it where the first had been. “I am asking you.”

  Two minutes later we were back outside, looking for a cab to take us along the river to the Prospect of Whitby.

  We arrived at the riverside bar at lunchtime. On any other day, I would have been more than happy to indulge myself with a hearty lunch and some of their fine ales, but the encounter with the shopkeeper had raised more questions than it had supplied answers. I was not in the best of moods.

  And it got worse as soon as we entered the long bar.

  “You’re not welcome here,” the barman said, straight to my face. “Not after yesterday.”

  I was about to protest my innocence when I stopped. I did not actually know that I was innocent.

  “Perhaps it will be for the best if I handle this, Watson?” Holmes said quietly.

  Given that the barman was looking at me as if he might want to leap over the bar and strangle me, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and went outside for a smoke.

  I had a long wait. I was halfway through my second pipe, and wishing I had stood my ground inside when Holmes came out of the bar. He had a wide grin on his face.

  “I believe we are getting somewhere, Watson,” he said. He stepped into the road and whistled at a passing cabbie. The carriage stopped immediately and we got inside.

  “Devonshire Square,” Holmes said.

  I recognized the name; a warren of tall warehouses near Whitechapel owned by the East India Trading Company. I had no idea why we might be headed there, and Holmes showed no sign of enlightening me. He was obviously amused by my growing frustration.

  “All in good time, Watson. Let us start with your appearance in the Prospect bar yesterday afternoon. The barman said you arrived at just after three, and you were most vexed. Or rather, the Frenchie was most vexed. It seems you are a most convincing Parisian, Doctor.”

  Holmes paused to take out one of his Russian cheroots and get it lit. “And it seems you were there to find one man in particular. As the barman reports it, there was no preamble. You merely walked up to a man sitting at the end of the bar and proceeded to pummel him with your fists, or rather, your left fist. The bar staff tried to separate you from your foe, but you were most insistent, and took the battle to the street outside, and down onto the riverbank.

  “And it was from there that your opponent fled. You tried to follow, but he hailed a passing cab and, although you gave chase, it disappeared into the distance.

  “At this point, according to the barman, you sat on the riverbank and sobbed. That was the last they saw of you.”

  I felt deflated. “It really gets us no further along than we already were. I still do not know how I managed to lose all that time yesterday.”

  “The how of it is not the important question to be asking, Watson. It is the why that we should be concerned with. And to that end, we are going to meet your opponent from last night. He was known to several of the bar’s patrons; a Mr. Isaacs, importer of fine wines … with a business in Devonshire Square.”

  The visit to the wine importer’s warehouse proved to be anticlimactic. The man himself was nowhere to be found.

  “He did not come in today,” an officious clerk said, looking down his nose at Holmes and me as if we were something that required close inspection. “Which has been a great inconvenience and caused me no end of alarm, for we have a large consignment going out this very afternoon, and Mr. Isaacs likes to supervise these himself wherever possible.”

  “Tell me,” Holmes said, casually, as if it was a matter of mere passing interest. “You don’t happen to ship to a French gentleman in Edinburgh, do you?”

  The man’s thin smile turned to a glare. “Monsieur Thibaut, you mean? I doubt we’ll be seeing him again. Mr. Isaacs was most upset about the accusations.”

  “Accusations?” Holmes asked.

  But we got nothing else of note out of the man, who clearly felt he had already said more than enough. We did manage to have a short conversation with one of the workers outside who was supervising the loading of wine barrels onto a cart. From him we found that Mr. Isaacs was behind in paying his employees. We were also informed that he was far too fond of the sound of his own voice, was not averse to watering down the wine before passing it on to his customers, and was homesick, a sudden illness having come upon him the night before. From the state of my own knuckles, I could verify that the illness had struck with some force.

  We also uncovered the man’s address, in Knightsbridge. We decided to return to Baker Street with a resolve to visit the wine merchant that very evening.

  We caught a carriage at Liverpool Street, and on the journey back to the apartments, I tried to engage Holmes in some speculation as to the cause of my fugue state of the night before.

  “It’s dashed strange that it happened when I put on that blasted coat,” I said.

  Holmes shook his head. “Never underestimate the power of suggestion,” he replied. “You were obviously somewhat tired to begin with, and the discovery that you were wearing the coat of a—most likely—murdered man caused you to momentarily take leave of your normal senses and …”

  “Damn it, Holmes,” I interrupted. “I know the medical reason. But how could I have found my way to that bar … and found the man who obviously knows the owner of said coat, and …”

  It was Holmes’ turn to interrupt. “I am sure all will become clear. But we already know that we pick up unconscious clues every second of our lives. There may be more to this coat that we have yet to discover, consciously at least. I shall make a proper examination of it myself on our return. As for your predicament, Watson, I believe that your own mind has been processing the facts of this case for some time, and last night’s events were the culmination of your brain’s rumination on the subject.”
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  “I assure you, Holmes; there has been no such rumination.”

  All that got me was a thin smile in response, and he would say no more on the matter.

  We traveled the rest of the way to Baker Street in silence.

  Matters did not improve on our arrival at the apartments.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, Doctor Watson,” Mrs. Hudson said to me as soon as we got inside. “You almost ruined that fine overcoat.”

  Holmes was aghast. “My dear lady, please tell me you have not cleaned the garment?”

  Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips and stood her ground. “There was mud tracked all the way up and down the back of it. You don’t expect me to leave such a thing hanging in the hallway for the world to see, do you, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes went over to where the now-clean coat hung on the rack. “Sometimes, Mrs. Hudson, I could wish you were not quite so diligent.”

  She shot him a look that would have withered many a man. “And I could say just the same about you, Mr. Holmes.”

  Satisfied that she had got the last word, she left.

  Holmes only had eyes for the coat. He took it from the rack and headed for the stairs.

  “There may yet be something we can salvage from this,” he said, and took the stairs two at a time. I went up rather more slowly, feeling more tired with every step. By the time I arrived in Holmes’ apartment he already had the coat laid out on his long table, and was poring over it with his large magnifying glass. I knew better than to disturb him. I poured myself a Scotch and sat down, gratefully, by the fire. I got a pipe going and watched Holmes work.

  He was as meticulous as ever, but over the next hour I sensed a growing frustration in him, and eventually he threw the glass away in disgust. “Mrs. Hudson has cleaned to her usual standards,” he said, throwing himself into the chair on the other side of the fire and lighting up a cheroot. “There is nothing more to be learned, I am afraid.”

  Talk quickly turned to our plans for the visit to Knightsbridge.

  “I cannot just turn up on the man’s doorstep,” I said. “The last time he saw me, I was trying to punch his lights out. I do not think he will take kindly to a visit.”

  Holmes smiled. “I have already considered that. I have a plan, Watson.” He left me by the fire and I heard him rummaging around among his props.

  Five minutes later Holmes was a changed man. He had added some weight via a padded waistcoat, some hair via a black wig that had been greased and smelled of hair oil and cologne, and put on a wide-brimmed hat. To finish off the outfit, he put on the overcoat. “Behold, Monsieur Thibaut has risen from his grave.”

  I guessed his intent immediately; we were to try to scare the wine merchant into giving away some information. It was a risky move, but Holmes has never been one to shirk away from such tactics to try to break a deadlock in a case.

  Five minutes later we left the apartment, ostensibly to head for Knightsbridge. I stepped into the road to hail a carriage, and turned back to check on Holmes.

  He stared at me with no recognition at all in his eyes.

  “Holmes?”

  Before I had a chance to defend myself, he flung a left-handed punch that caught me squarely on the jaw and sent me sprawling. By the time I regained my composure he had already got in the cab, and by the time I got to my feet it was off and away toward Knightsbridge.

  It took me several minutes to find a carriage of my own, and I was aware of Holmes’ lead—if indeed it still was Holmes I pursued. I was now convinced, outlandish as the thought might be, that it was some quality of the coat itself that had caused my fugue of the previous night.

  And now it has done the same to Holmes.

  I did not know why it had latched on to the pair of us; it might be that it had something to do with Holmes’ deductive powers, and his being able to find Isaacs. But whatever the case, if my own activities were any guideline, Holmes was now heading straight again for the wine merchant, intent on giving him another beating … or worse. I could not allow my friend to be party to such a thing.

  I made the cab driver a promise of a shilling for speed, and he soon had us fairly rattling across the cobbles. Even then I was almost too late.

  The cab dropped me off outside a row of quiet, elegant terraced dwellings, and I was momentarily at a loss as to which one I needed to enter. A crash and a shouted curse from an upstairs window soon put me on the right trail.

  The front door was already open, and another shout, a frightened one, echoed down the main stairwell.

  “I killed you,” the voice said. There was another loud crash, as if a piece of heavy furniture had been overturned. I went up the stairs as fast as I was able.

  A small man—Isaacs, I presumed, cowered in a corner below a tall dark figure wielding an iron fire-poker.

  “I killed you,” Isaacs said again, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “I should have killed you first,” the tall figure said. The accent was thick, French … and came from the mouth of my friend, Sherlock Holmes. “You have ruined me.”

  He raised the poker in his left hand. A strike from that height would surely cave in the head of the small man whimpering below him.

  “No, Holmes!” I shouted, and ran to his side. I saw that I would be far too late if he decided to bring the poker down.

  But something changed in his demeanor. He shook himself, like a dog shedding water after a swim, and dropped the poker at his side. When he looked me in the eye it was with a pained expression, but there was recognition there too. Holmes had wrested control from the malign influence of the overcoat.

  “Quick, Watson. Help me get it off,” he said. His voice was strained as if by a great effort. I tugged at the overcoat as he shucked it off, and together we threw it away to one side. Holmes was breathing heavily, as if he had just ran a long, hard, foot race.

  I had been too preoccupied with helping Holmes to notice that the small man had regained his composure. He stood at the top of the stairs, looking across the room at us. He had a long blade in one hand, but I was more concerned about the revolver he raised in the other. It was pointed straight at Holmes.

  “I require an explanation, gentlemen,” Isaacs said. He pointed the gun at me. “First, you try to beat me to death last night.” He moved his aim to Holmes. “And now you break into my house in some ludicrous disguise and attempt to cave my head in with a fire-iron. Give me one good reason why I should not shoot you both on the spot.”

  Holmes had his breath back. I let him speak, for in truth I had no idea what I might have said to mitigate our circumstances. To my surprise, he decided to go immediately on the attack.

  “I believe the first act of violence perpetrated in this affair was done by you,” he said. “With that blade you carry in your hand. What did our French friend Thibaut do to offend you? He obviously believed that you had wronged him somehow.”

  Isaacs went pale, but did not speak.

  “And when he confronted you on the matter,” Holmes continued, “you repaid him by stabbing him through the heart.”

  Something shuffled on the floor, but I could not spare the time to lower my gaze from the pistol. It was still aimed at Holmes, although the hand was shaking slightly.

  “You cannot prove anything,” Isaacs said. He backed away until he was at the very top of the stairs. I was about to mention my having heard his confession on arrival, but I knew that would never stand up to the scrutiny of a trial.

  “No, you are right. I cannot prove anything. Not yet,” Holmes said quietly. “But I have you in my sights. It is only a matter of time.”

  I now saw what Holmes had already surmised. This man was not about to shoot us. On the contrary, he gave every impression of a man preparing to flee.

  My suspicions were confirmed a second later as Isaacs turned and started down the staircase at some speed.

  “Quick, Watson, after him,” Holmes shouted.

  Something rushed past my calves before I had
a chance to move. At first I thought it was a dog, little more than a black shape, low to the floor. It wrapped itself around Isaacs’ legs, tripping him and sending him falling headlong down the staircase out of our sight.

  We heard a single shot, then a strangled squeal.

  By the time we arrived at the foot of the stairs Isaacs was dead, blue eyes staring in horror at the black wool overcoat that had its arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

  Monsieur Thibaut had got his final revenge.

  The Case of the Tibetan Rug

  EF

  I was looking forward to seeing Constance McGregor again, as she is a truly remarkable example of a modern woman, a redoubtable Scot who has brought back a great many new plant species from her solo adventures in Asia. Holmes and I had previously spent some time in her company at Kew Gardens, and I had found her a delightful companion.

  So it was with some alarm that I saw tears in her eyes as she entered the 221B Baker Street apartment one afternoon in late August. She had requested, and been granted, a consultation with Holmes, but there had been no clue given as to the nature of her problem. I could see now that it must be something most troubling, and I immediately made myself a promise to help her, no matter what Holmes’ verdict might be on the matter.

  The tears disturbed me, for I knew Miss McGregor to be made of strong stuff; any woman who would undertake solo expeditions to the Orient in search of exotic plants was not someone to be taken lightly. Anything that would bring her to the point of crying, and force her to seek out Holmes’ help, must be a matter of some import.

  I showed her to a chair by the fire, and, although it was only just past noon, offered her a brandy. She took to it like a drowning man clutching a life belt, draining it in two swift gulps and handing me the glass back for it to be refilled.

  Holmes watched all of this from the chair opposite, elbows on his thighs, his long fingers steepled in front of his lips. He kept quiet, and still did not speak as Miss McGregor lit up a long cheroot and started to suck smoke like an expert. She now had some color back in her cheeks, but her eyes showed signs of puffiness from the crying, and her eye makeup had run to look like dark bruises underneath. It was all I could do to stop myself from sitting at her feet and taking her hand. I am afraid the lady had me rather smitten. If Holmes noticed, he still did not speak.