Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

“It wouldn’t do to fall asleep there,” I said, and got a laugh from him.

  “With some of the members it would be hard to tell the difference.”

  He laughed again, and finally he seemed to relax somewhat. “Tell me, are you a whisky or a brandy man?” he asked. He moved over to a cabinet against the wall and opened the door to reveal an array of liquor bottles.

  “I need to keep my wits about me,” I said. “Lest anything happen to you.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Crawford said. “Old Menzies told me you made a fuss over him falling asleep this morning. I know for a fact the old man has whisky for breakfast, lunch and dinner. ’Tis no wonder he was sleeping in the members’ lounge. The wonder is he isn’t caught out more often. Now, have a drink with me, man. I refuse to drink alone, for that way lies ruin.” His accent showed more strongly every minute as he fell into a more conversational tone of voice. “Many a good man has been brought low through solitary drinking. But I’ll be damned if I will sit here all night waiting for the Lord knows what calumny without a drink in my hand.”

  I settled for a small Scotch, then spent the next hour watching the man consume the larger part of a bottle on his own. I will say this for him; he handled it better than I would have done. He also had some excellent pipe tobacco and we soon had a fug swirling around the fireplace.

  I needn’t have worried about how we would pass the time, as he proved to be an excellent conversationalist. He was at pains to avoid ‘shop talk’, instead choosing mostly to remark on sporting matters. We found a common point of interest in the game of rugger and the university teams in particular. He had strong opinions on the way the game should be played that diverged wildly from current coaching standards. I found myself in agreement with much that he said, and became so engrossed in the discussion that the next hour passed most agreeably before the alcohol started to take its effect on him. I was just relating my tale of a match we had arranged in the palace of the Maharajah when I spotted that his Lordship had fallen asleep, the Scotch having finally taken hold. I almost laughed when I realized that he was already almost exactly in the same state I had been told to be alert for. If it had not been for the fact that his eyes were closed and that he started to snore softly I might not have been able to tell the difference.

  So began a long, lonely evening. At first I was content to spend my time staring into space and smoking my pipe, but as night came and the old building fell quiet I started to get the jitters and prowled the room looking for something to keep my mind busy. The books on the shelves were little help, being mostly dusty tomes concerning laws and binders of regulations and paperwork, many of them to do with building works currently underway in the city.

  His Lordship had a large fine mahogany desk and I thought I might find some less dry reading material there, but the desk was neat, tidy, and bare of anything except an inkstand and a blotter. Just as I was despairing, I found a pack of cards tucked in a corner of one of the bookcases. I was able to pass the time in games of solitaire, all the while accompanied by his Lordship’s soft snoring and the tolling of the tower bell to mark the passage of the hours.

  At some point after nine o’clock I rose to stretch my legs. I lit a pipe and went to the window but all I could see was my own reflection and beyond that only a handful of lights showing on the south side of the Thames. I turned back to the room.

  And that is when it happened. The first indication I had that something was amiss was when his Lordship finally stopped snoring. I thought it might be a sign that he was about to come up out of his whisky-induced stupor, but he was perfectly still. I bent to check on him. He had the same blank stare and regular breathing I had noted in Lord Menzies the morning before. And once again the victim’s mouth moved, although no words came. As I had done earlier, I made a thorough examination. It seemed that his Lordship had been struck by the same affliction as his countryman Menzies.

  I was about to notify Holmes of the situation when Crawford’s head came up. The eyes that looked up at me were clear with no sign of any effect of whisky there. He smiled broadly and spoke, in clipped English tones totally at odds with the soft Scots accent he had sported earlier.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the faithful dog? If you are here, that must mean Holmes is with the other one?”

  I was so taken aback by the change in the man that I did not reply. As quickly as it had started the smile faded. Crawford’s head fell forward, he slumped slightly in his seat, and several seconds later, he started to snore again.

  Less than a minute afterward, I heard a loud crash of breaking glass from somewhere close by. I ran out into the corridor and dashed past the young police officer. He seemed startled and unsure as to what to do.

  “Holmes?” I called and was mightily relieved when he answered. “In here, Watson.”

  I entered the office and found Holmes standing alone in the room, white-faced, staring out from a broken window to the terrace some thirty feet below. I went over next to him and peered out carefully.

  A body lay broken on the flagstones, with blood, showing black in the gaslight, already pooling around his head. The man was obviously dead. As I looked, two policemen approached the body. They looked up to see Holmes and me staring down at them. Holmes pulled me back inside.

  “It’s a rum do, Watson. He jumped, and I could do nothing to stop him. We were discussing the situation in the Sudan when he twitched, stood, smiled at me and leapt for the window. It all happened in less than five seconds.”

  I had no time to ask for more details, for things happened very quickly after that.

  “What have you done?” a clipped English voice said behind me. I turned to see Lord Crawford standing in the doorway, showing no sign of any malady. The young policeman stood at his shoulder.

  “Arrest these men,” Crawford said. “They have murdered Lord Douglas.”

  It took several seconds for me to realize that he meant Holmes and myself, and even then I was of a mind to stand and argue our case, but Holmes had other ideas.

  “The trap is sprung, Watson, and we are caught. Follow me.” He passed me at a run, knocking Lord Crawford and the young policeman to one side. I hesitated only for a second, just long enough to see Crawford smile as he picked himself up from the floor, then I followed my friend. The sound of a police whistle echoed along the corridor behind us.

  3

  So it was that we became fugitives from justice.

  My mind was a whirl of images; of Crawford staring at me, bright-eyed despite the whisky, of Holmes standing at the smashed and broken window, and of the poor broken body of Lord Douglas, blood seeping onto the flagstones. I had no time to try to make sense of it then, being too busy with our attempt to flee.

  The first part of the night passed in such a blur that I scarce remember half of it now. I followed behind Holmes as we ran down the long, empty corridor, having some difficulty keeping up with his obvious haste. At the far end of the corridor a policeman arrived at the top of the stairs and stood with a hand up, blocking our way.

  “Halt!” he shouted.

  Holmes kept running and, with seemingly no compunction at all, knocked the policeman aside with a blow to the head that sent the man reeling. In other circumstances I might have stopped to check on the prone figure to ensure there was no sign of concussion, but Holmes would have none of it.

  “Hurry, man. I was not joking about the trap being sprung. I have no doubt that preparations had already been made for our apprehension before we even got here. So let there be no dawdling. For tonight at least, forget that you are a doctor.”

  And with that, he sped off down the long staircase. I was still of a mind to stay and explain myself, but I have trusted Holmes’ judgement all these years; far too much to go against his will at such a time, even if it might mean complete ruin to follow his lead. I went after him, already limping slightly with the effort but determined to keep up.

  Quite how we managed to escape from the Parliament building itsel
f without being apprehended is something of a mystery to me. Holmes said later that he believed Mycroft may have had a hand in ensuring that the policemen on duty were looking elsewhere at the opportune moment, but, whatever the case, we ran through the main entrance hall without being stopped. With a curt wave good-bye to a startled watchman we were soon out into the night air of Westminster. Almost immediately more police whistles came from all around us, but Holmes seemed calmer now that we had escaped from the building itself.

  “The battle can now be fought on more equitable terms,” he said. “We have wrested away his territorial advantage. Now we must make the most of it.”

  I was still unsure to whom Holmes might be referring, but he gave me no time to reply. He led me along the north embankment for several hundred yards, then, as another shrill whistle and the first heavy footsteps of pursuit sounded behind us, took a sharp turn up into the warren of back streets around Charing Cross railway station. More whistles were raised in pursuit, but Holmes seemed unconcerned. He took us through the front door of a busy public bar and out again through the kitchen at the rear, oblivious to the complaints of the staff. That brought us out into a tall, narrow alleyway that I never even knew existed, but with which Holmes seemed completely familiar.

  “Come, Watson. We should be clear soon,” he said.

  Without slowing down we headed north again and quickly emerged into the Strand, where we mingled with the theatre crowds before turning up toward Covent Garden. There was now a rising tumult of police activity, but it was all some way away in the distance, and by the time we left Long Acre behind there was no sign of any pursuit whatsoever.

  It seemed we had indeed got clear away. For the present, at least.

  We slowed to a brisk walk and started our way north toward Tottenham Court Road. I turned to look behind us, then again a few yards later when I heard a whistle. Holmes put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Gently now, Watson,” Holmes said. “I think we have drawn quite enough attention to ourselves for one night. Let us pretend we are two gentlemen strolling home from the theatre.”

  We certainly were not out of place here close to the center; numerous groups of people were out on what was a fine dry night after the earlier rain, and we were able to continue for a while without any notice being taken of us. But once north of the junction with Oxford Street, the crowds thinned out somewhat, and we needed to be more circumspect.

  I thought Holmes intended to make for Baker Street, but instead of going to the left, we turned right at the top of the road and made for the King’s Cross area.

  “The Yard will be on our heels again soon enough, Watson,” he said as he strode, moving faster again, almost at a run. “We cannot give them any easy opportunities to trap us. I will not be tricked twice in one night. We must become invisible before we can proceed.”

  “How will that be possible, Holmes? You are one of the most recognized men in London.”

  He did not reply, but I soon found out his intention. He led me round the east side of King’s Cross station, then up and over a rather tall brick wall that required him to give me a hand up before I could clamber over to join him. After checking that we had not been seen, he strode across several sets of tracks, past some badly rusted trailer beds and bogeys, to what I took to be an empty cargo container. It too was in a state of some disrepair, being badly corroded and weather-beaten, but the main sliding door seemed solid enough. It was held closed by a shiny, almost-new lock. To my amazement Holmes opened it with a key from his fob, slid the door open, and boosted me up inside.

  “Welcome to my bolt-hole,” he said. He clambered up to join me and pulled the door closed, leaving us in pitch-darkness.

  “Don’t move, Watson,” he said. “I’ll get us some light.” I heard the scrape of a match and saw the flare in the dark as Holmes lit a candle. The smoke from the wick wafted in the still air and my gaze followed it up to where it escaped through a small vent in the ceiling. There was now enough light to make out that Holmes’ bolt-hole was rather well-appointed; there were several sturdy armoires filled with clothes, a desk with a large mirror below which the accoutrements of Holmes’ various disguises lay scattered, and even a single armchair sitting beside a tall, well-stocked bookcase.

  Holmes laughed at my obvious confusion.

  “I keep this place for those cases when I do not have time to make a return to Baker Street. I got the idea from Neville St. Clair. Remember how he had a secret place where he could change character completely? I have found it useful several times in the past, but surely none more so than tonight. Only a few people know of its presence, and I trust them all to keep that knowledge private.”

  “I do hope one of the others isn’t Lestrade?” I said, and that got me another laugh.

  “No, Watson, you can have no fears on that score. But it is Inspector Lestrade we must consider now. We need to get out of London, and quickly. Unfortunately Scotland Yard knows my methods and will be watching all of the more obvious escape routes.”

  “Leave London? But surely we must stay? Stay and clear our names?”

  “It is clearing our names that requires us to leave,” Holmes said. “We must go to Scotland, and with some haste. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to embroil us in this matter. That amount of effort means that the ultimate goal must be a matter of some import. I am worried, Watson, worried that we have already been outflanked before we have properly begun.”

  “But why Scotland?”

  “The answer lies in the bloodlines of the men involved, of that I am certain. We must follow that line of enquiry. But we shall have to be cautious; for our adversary will also know that we will be on his trail.”

  Holmes started to pull clothes from the armoires.

  “We must travel incognito, Watson. Which would you prefer?” He held up a heavy overcoat in one hand. “A sailor making his way home from the North Atlantic run? Or maybe an itinerant laborer looking for work?”

  “You seem to be taking the night’s events very calmly, old man,” I said.

  Holmes had already moved over to the mirror and started applying make-up to make his face look darker and more unwashed.

  “On the contrary, Watson,” he replied. “This is a matter of the utmost import. I must contact Mycroft at the earliest opportunity and have him watch Lord Douglas closely—although I have no doubt that he will already have that matter in hand. But our priority for tonight is to get out of the city unnoticed. And for that, we need a disguise.”

  I finally relented and spent a most uncomfortable ten minutes allowing Holmes to apply some rather noxious stage makeup to my hands and face. After that he had me choose some clothing for my disguise, which thankfully proved cleaner and less smelly than it looked to be. Lastly he made me ditch my pipe, my cigarette case and my lighter.

  “All would betray us immediately to a trained eye I’m afraid,” he said. “But they will be safe here until our return. And fear not, we shall not be short of smoking materials.” He handed me a threadbare tobacco pouch and some rather rough papers. “An old soldier like you can surely roll his own, given the makings?”

  I was immediately hit with a memory of a cold, clear night in the hills of Afghanistan, drinking gin and listening to the sound of drums in the wind while smoking a succession of thin cigarettes and waiting for dawn … when the fighting would start. Sitting there in that converted railway carriage, I was a long way from those hills. But the feeling of tense apprehension was almost exactly the same. I pushed it down. I had learned long ago that what was to come would come in its own sweet time, and worrying about it rarely changed the outcome in the slightest. I concentrated on trying to make my disguise as convincing as possible.

  Minutes later we both stood in front of the mirror surveying our new personas. We certainly looked like the pair of itinerant laborers that Holmes intended us to be, and I started to hope that we might succeed in our plan of evading capture. Holmes also showed me the pocket in his belt int
o which he had sewn a pouch containing many shillings and pound notes “Just so any fear of us starving on the journey you may have is allayed.”

  And with that we went once more into the night, our only luggage a battered Gladstone bag containing some fresh clothing and a pair of revolvers hidden in a false bottom.

  Our escape was almost foiled before it had properly begun.

  “I think the disguises will stand up to scrutiny,” Holmes said. “What say we try for a train? It will be risky, but the alternative is to start walking, and it is a long way to Scotland.”

  I agreed readily, for my old wound was already stiff and sore after the walk from Westminster, and the thought of more exertion so soon afterward did not appeal in the slightest. I was not, however, completely at ease in disguise, not having either Holmes’ aptitude, or experience in pretending to be someone other than myself. I felt self-conscious as I walked by his side, taking a long circuitous route around the outskirts of the station to arrive back at the main entrance some thirty minutes later.

  I only started to relax somewhat when we split up and independently managed to walk straight past a police cordon without them giving us a second glance.

  But our troubles really began on the concourse. Holmes dropped me a wink as we met up again.

  “We’ll make an actor out of you yet, Watson,” he said softly. “We’re halfway there. Let us stand here for a while and survey the lay of the land for a bit. There may be others in disguise like ourselves, here with the specific purpose of watching for our passing.”

  He leaned against one of the tall stone pillars while cupping a match to a newly-rolled cigarette. I heard the pop an instant before a chip of stone flew less than two inches from Holmes’ head, cutting a bloody gouge across his cheek. There was a second pop and I felt something tug at my sleeve. I had come under fire often enough in my military career to recognize that we were in a dashed sticky situation.

  “It seems someone is intent on flushing us out, Watson,” Holmes said. “Come, it is time we took our leave again.”