Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  “Lime-house, Watson … I told you it was a clue.”

  I took out the page and studied the image of the crucified youth, smiling as he burned, but for the life of me I could not see how it applied in any shape or form to our current situation. And at that, the tiredness finally took me. I fell into a most welcome slumber.

  I woke some time later, with a stiff back and a sour taste in my mouth, of stale tobacco and beer. That was quickly overcome by the smell of freshly buttered toast and tea. George looked almost embarrassed as he put a tray down on the small table. It had been the slight noise he had made on entering that had woken me. Thin sunlight came in through thick dusty curtains—I had slept all night in the chair. Holmes had not yet wakened, being still asleep on the opposite side of the now-cold fireplace.

  “The missus made me get out the best china,” George said. “So for God’s sake don’t break it, or I’ll be in the doghouse for months.”

  The china was indeed made of particularly fine porcelain but I scarce noticed; I realized I was hungry enough to eat almost anything, and I took to the toast with gusto. Holmes woke, stretched, and reached for the tobacco pouch on the arm of the chair by his right hand.

  “Toast, Holmes?”

  He shook his head. “Not this morning. We have some traveling to do and I fear my constitution will not permit food yet.”

  “We are traveling?” I asked between more mouthfuls of toast.

  He nodded, and looked up at the barman. “That is, if everything is arranged?”

  George nodded back. “I have a carriage that will take you most of the way—up to Aberfoyle, then along the side of the lochs. It is not a short trip, and will take all day, but once out of the city there will be little chance of anyone taking notice of you. Just stay hidden in the carriage for the first hour or so and everything will be smooth as silk.”

  “In that case,” Holmes said, removing his rather threadbare waistcoat. “I believe the time for disguise is over. I trust you managed to secure us a change of clothing?”

  This was said to the barman. The man tapped his nose and winked. “Some very nice stuff indeed, Mr. Holmes, if I say so myself. Just don’t ask me which gentleman will be looking for his troosers this morning.” He laughed loudly. It looked like something he did a lot and I couldn’t help raising a smile of my own in reply.

  “Dashed good of you, sir,” I said. “But if I can bother you for one more thing? I need a wash and a shave before I’ll be fit to share an enclosed space with anyone.”

  He showed us to a small washroom at the rear.

  As I joined Holmes in starting to wash away the makeup and accumulated grime—which was a dashed difficult job in itself—I asked him if he was certain of this course of action.

  He smiled thinly. “Your limping friend found us in Crewe despite all our attempts at evasion,” he said. “And we were spotted easily enough at King’s Cross. I don’t know about you, Watson, but I would rather walk in the light than slink in the darkness. Besides, I am tired of running. It is time we wrested the initiative back in our favor.”

  I will admit that divesting myself of the guise I had worn these past days did indeed feel liberating, and once washed, shaved, and dressed I realized that I felt less like a criminal and more like my old self. The clothes provided by the barman certainly helped, being a particularly fine tweed three-piece suit that felt as if it had hardly been worn. Holmes was similarly well dressed, having been given a dark serge suit and matching cape. By the time Holmes handed me a loaded service revolver I was more than ready to make a start on our rehabilitation.

  George had a carriage brought right up against the back entrance of the bar and Holmes and I were able to climb aboard without being seen. We were still traveling light, with only our trusty Gladstone bag as company, but once again George proved himself to be a more-than-gracious host. There was a picnic hamper on the floor of the carriage that on inspection contained several bottles of ale and enough cold pies, bread, and cheese to keep us from starving for the day to come.

  We did as George had suggested and kept our heads down for more than an hour into the journey, contenting ourselves with smoking in quiet contemplation. My tobacco consumption over recent days was rather higher than I was accustomed to, and as a medical man I knew I should be curtailing my use. But, I must say, I was rather enjoying the old familiarity of rolling my own cigarettes and was taking some pride in the quality of the final products. Holmes, however, was lost in one of his reveries, and as ever I had no idea what might be occupying his mind. I also knew better than to ask.

  After a while Holmes had obviously had enough confinement and drew open the curtain across the door, allowing us access to the view. It was immediately clear that we were already outside the city, being taken through some well-manicured farmland interspersed with the scars of recent mining activity. I leaned out of the window.

  “Driver? Could you tell us where we are?”

  He didn’t even turn round to acknowledge my question. I thought better of asking again, guessing that anyone hired by George would be used to keeping their mouth shut and their mind free of any thoughts as to why they were taking this particular journey. I contented myself with enjoying the view while nibbling on a thick sandwich of bread and cheese.

  Holmes chose that moment to enlighten me further as to our destination. “You asked me why we are headed for Comrie,” he started. “The answer lies, as I have already stated, with the common ancestor of the stricken lords, a certain Angus Seton, as I believe I have already said. The old keep for which we are headed has been the family seat for more than four hundred years, and continues to be so. If there is an answer to be found, I believe it will be there, for the family has a history that points to a study of—if not an obsession with—the practice of alchemy.”

  That gave me a start, but in reality it should not have, for everything we had learned so far had indeed pointed at an esoteric background to the case.

  Holmes was still talking. “The Seton family, as far as I could trace, dates itself as far back as the Norman barons of the twelfth century and seems to have started to rise in favor as trusted servants to minor scions of Scottish royalty around that time. It is also told, although it is probably apocryphal, that the alchemical obsession began early, as a result of an encounter with an Arabian practitioner during the Third Crusade. What is beyond dispute is that the Seton family have been responsible for many of what are now regarded as definitive texts in the Great Quest.”

  “I will admit,” I said. “It is not a matter that I have given much consideration.”

  Holmes smiled again. “Yes, and yet no, Watson. For any study of basic chemistry you have undertaken in the course of your medical education was, as you well know, founded in alchemical practices in its earliest history. Robert Boyle himself was known to be a dabbler in the Quest, as was Isaac Newton.”

  I did indeed know of the history, but as yet I could not see its application to our current predicament, and I told Holmes so in no uncertain terms.

  “That is exactly the reason why we are here, Watson. Now I suggest you try to get some rest. I fear we have a night of burglary and adventure ahead of us.”

  And that was that for a number of hours. The carriage stopped at an old stone coach house at what I took to be the driver and the horses’ lunchtime. Holmes and I decided discretion was the better part of valor and stayed hidden. We were, however, well-enough served for our own repast, having a bottle of ale and plenty to eat in the provided hamper. We finished off all of the food that George had provided, and I was feeling quite heartened as we started off again, having almost forgotten that we were fugitives from justice.

  The remainder of the journey only served to further remove me from our predicament as we traveled through some marvelous highland scenery of forest, high hills and tranquil lochs, barely seeing another living soul in the course of a full afternoon. Holmes remained lost in introspection, our only conversation coming from the occasion
al request for me to roll him a new cigarette.

  Dusk was starting to fall when the carriage came to a halt.

  “Limehouse, gentlemen.” Those were the only words I had heard from the man all day and as we disembarked he added more, almost as terse. “Shall I wait?”

  Holmes sent him away. “We shall make our own way from here, but thank you,” he said. “And thank George for all his help.”

  The driver nodded and without another word left, leaving Holmes and myself standing in a quiet country lane at a junction with a long narrow driveway that seemed to lead up into the low hills beyond. Holmes lifted the Gladstone bag and immediately made for the driveway.

  “I promised you some burglary, Watson. It seems the time is upon us. Tonight we shall start the process of regaining our good name.”

  Reaching the keep proved to be a rather strenuous climb of some fifteen minutes, by the end of which I was wishing we had not dismissed the carriage quite so readily. It was also becoming dark, and without the benefit of any street lighting I found it difficult to make out the path ahead.

  Holmes seemed unperturbed. “A fine night for our nefarious purposes,” he said, and strode on.

  It was only a minute or so after that we reached the keep. It seemed to loom up out of nowhere in the gathering gloom so that we were most suddenly confronted with a high stone edifice. It looked to be little more than a tall box, foursquare and solid, with only two smallish windows on the side we faced. Walking round to our right brought us in front of a very imposing oak door some eight feet high—and firmly locked when I tried it.

  “We’re not getting in there without an axe,” I whispered. “And even then it would take a month of Sundays.”

  Holmes didn’t reply. His attention was already on a small window to the side of the door. He lit a succession of matches while examining the lock and I had to look away from each bright flare to avoid blinding myself. When I looked back after the last match-strike Holmes already had the window open and was clambering inside. When I tried to follow him, I found that my frame was too large to squeeze through the narrow gap. I could not see Holmes in the darkness beyond, but I heard him laugh quietly.

  “I must have a word with Mrs. Hudson about the size of your breakfasts,” he said. “Wait there. I will open the door.”

  The heavy oak door swung open seconds later. There was an accompanying creak so loud that it disturbed a pair of crows out of the trees, sending them cawing overhead.

  “Don’t worry about noise, old man. It seems we have the run of the place,” Holmes said, not bothering to whisper. “The whole keep is dark and quiet. Cold, too—I doubt there has been anyone here in weeks.”

  He showed me into what felt like a tall hallway, judging by the hollow echoes all around us, although it was hard to tell exactly, so complete was the darkness. Holmes soon rectified that by finding a tall candle that he took down from a wall sconce. He lit it from a match, and used the light to find several others like it, which were ranked at regular intervals along the walls. I saw the light reflecting in the windows at the far end of the hall, and realized that it would be able to be seen from the outside.

  “I say, Holmes, do you think that is wise? Someone might take note.”

  “Given our location, I think that unlikely,” Holmes said. “Besides, it is a necessary risk if we are to be successful in our efforts. Come, let us see if there is anything here to help us.”

  I followed him as we made a round of the ground floor of the keep. As Holmes had already guessed, it was apparent that the place had not been inhabited for some time. Fine dust lay everywhere, spiders had made webbing in most of the corners, and scurrying noises in the dark told of rodents; whether rats or mice I was unable to determine.

  The only sign of any human activity at all was in a small library. Holmes lit a pair of oil lamps he found on a console table to show a very well-appointed little room. I would have been more than happy to spend my evenings in such a place, with its aged oak paneling, tall bookshelves and wide stone fireplace. Papers lay strewn across a fine mahogany desk, and these became the focus of Holmes’ investigation. I perused the volumes on the shelves, but their titles were unknown to me. There was obviously an esoteric bent to the content: The Mysteries of the Wurm, The Twelve Concordances of the Red Serpent, and further titles in Latin, Greek and German that seemed to allude to an alchemical origin. I was about to remark on the fact when I heard Holmes gasp.

  I turned to see him have to grasp the edge of the desk to keep from falling. His face was ashen and his eyelids fluttered as if a faint was coming on. I moved over quickly and lent him my shoulder to steady him. When he spoke it was in a whisper.

  “Thank you, Watson,” he said. He waved a sheaf of papers at me. “It was these letters that did it. I fear this matter is more complex than I originally thought. I have been given somewhat of a shock.”

  “I can see that, old man,” I said. “Stay here. I’ll see if there’s any Scotch lying around.”

  A voice I recognized came from the library doorway. “I’m afraid your drinking days are over, Doctor.”

  Inspector Lestrade stood in the doorway, with two bulky officers that I did not recognize behind him.

  “It seems we will be adding breaking and entering to your charge list,” the Inspector said. “Lord Crawford said that this is where we would find you. Your little plot has been foiled, Holmes.”

  Holmes laughed. He still looked as white as a sheet, but Lestrade’s appearance seemed to have taken his mind off whatever had troubled him—for the moment at least.

  “And which plot would that be, Lestrade?” Holmes said. “Surely you know me better than that? Crawford is the man you need to look at here, not Watson and myself.”

  Lestrade looked tired and irritable, and was obviously in no mood for any games. It was almost possible to feel some sympathy for the man.

  “All I know is that a Lord of the Realm says you threw another Lord of the Realm out of a window in the Houses of Parliament. I cannot find anyone who saw another person in the dead lord’s room, there is no suicide note, and you ran from the scene; both of you. Now come quietly, gentlemen. You’ll get a fair trial; you know that I am a man of my word on that score. But that is all I can offer you.”

  Holmes casually shoved the sheaf of letters he held into an inside pocket as if it was the most natural thing in the world and stood straight. I could see the tension rise in him; he was readying himself for action. My hand found the butt of the service revolver in my pocket, but I already knew that I would not be leveling it at the policemen—that would be a step too far. If it came to having to fight with Lestrade in order to escape, I decided I would throw myself on the mercy of the law.

  “Ask yourself, Lestrade,” Holmes said. “How did Crawford know to find us here? I myself did not know this would be our destination until early this morning. For you to get here as quickly as you have means that Crawford knew we were coming a long time before we knew it ourselves. How do you think he managed that?”

  Lestrade sighed. “Don’t tax me, Mr. Holmes. I’m a long way from home and I’m tired. My job is to take you in for questioning. I’ll leave it to the legal chaps to sort out the niceties. Now are you coming quietly or not?”

  “Not,” a Scottish voice said from the hallway beyond. The two officers behind Lestrade shuffled past him into the library, raising their hands above their head. We saw why seconds later when a small man dressed in rags walked into the room; my friend from Baker Street and Crewe Railway Station. He carried the largest shotgun I have ever seen—from my close range it looked more like a small cannon. He motioned with it, pointing Lestrade over toward where the two other officers now stood at the fireplace.

  “Now, Inspector,” the man said. “Unless you have a warrant from a Scottish court, I believe it is you who are trespassing here. I am probably within my rights as the Laird to shoot you first and answer questions later, but I am feeling generous tonight. I believe I will detain yo
u until the law can be brought up here.”

  “We are the law,” Lestrade said, and made to move forward. Seton stopped him by pointing the shotgun straight at his chest.

  “Doctor Watson,” the newcomer said, turning to me. “You will find some lengths of rope in the cupboard under the stairs in the hall. Could you fetch them, please?”

  Holmes laughed. “It seems my wee plot isn’t quite ready to roll over and die just yet,” he said to Lestrade. “When you have got the time, I suggest you look into a shooting in King’s Cross Station on the night of the supposed murder. And ask yourself, Lestrade, who do we both know that employed a high-velocity air gun? If you find the gunman from that scene, I would suggest you will be closer to the actual culprit.”

  I left them to it.

  “You are just making things worse for yourself,” Lestrade said. “Any sympathy I might have had for your predicament is rapidly fading. I don’t take too kindly to being held at gunpoint.”

  Seton laughed. “Maybe you should have thought of that before entering a Scotsman’s house without a warrant.”

  I heard all of this from the hallway before moving to the under-stairs cupboard where I did indeed find several lengths of stout rope among sundry country items including a particularly fine pair of salmon rods and another shotgun. I considered, only for a second, taking that weapon, but there were already too many guns in there, and if I hadn’t been prepared to use a pistol I certainly was not about to menace Lestrade with a cannon.

  When I returned to the library, the Scotsman motioned with the gun again toward the trio of policemen.

  “Tie them up, please, Doctor. Nothing too fancy; just enough to give us time to make our escape.”