Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  Holmes was greeted like an old friend by the barkeep. Over a bowl of very welcome hot soup and more ale we discovered that we had become quite a pair of notorious celebrities. News of our escapade in Comrie and Lestrade’s humiliation in being tied up had reached the press. Holmes suspected Seton’s hand in that matter, as there was also a tale being told of our escape via a boat to Skye and then heading for France. I supposed that particular tale appealed to Seton’s sense of fun, being a mirror of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s own flight from the country. There was also news that Lord Crawford had recanted his statement of our guilt, then just as suddenly changed his mind again. My skepticism regarding what had happened in the keep was slowly being chipped away.

  We stayed in that bar for three days, during which Holmes made plans for our return to London and I caught up with some much-needed sleep in a room upstairs. When not abed I drank more ale and smoked more cigarettes than were good for me. My only contact with the greater world outside was through the newspapers. We made the front page of The Scotsman, which reported our escape from Skye as if it were a fact, complete with an eyewitness report from a local fisherman who had seen us getting aboard a boat in the dead of night. There was a quote from Lestrade, who was also in Skye, who said he would be ‘pursuing Holmes across the continent if that is what it took to bring him to justice.’ An accompanying satirical cartoon showed two rather fine drawings of Lord Crawford arguing with each other about our guilt and innocence. I was starting to wonder just how close to the truth that might be.

  I was near to climbing the walls with boredom and frustration by the time Holmes announced he was ready to start the journey south. The announcement came on his return from a trip into the New Town. He did not tell me where he had been, but he waved a sheaf of papers at me.

  “Our job is much more difficult than we originally thought, Watson.” He took a cigarette from me and joined me by the fire before continuing. “I have been researching the Seton family and have found an alarming fact. There exists, in London of all places, a whole branch of the family descended directly from Angus himself. I missed it earlier because I was focusing on lords and minor dignitaries, but this branch of the family has its roots firmly in the working class. A bastard son of Angus went to Ireland in the late sixteenth century—and it is from him that the line descends. I have found that there are at least twenty men in the East End that can claim direct descent. And if I can find them, then so can Moriarty.”

  “But why would he?” I asked. “What use would he have of any of them when he could have a Lord of the Realm or, if you believe in it, the body of the immortal head of the clan?”

  Holmes looked grave. “It is merely one more thing we have to consider. I have made contact with Mycroft,” he said. “It seems that our good Lord Crawford is not a well man and has been confined to his rooms. Mycroft says that the man is not happy at the prospect, whether it is when he is employing a Scottish accent or not. Mycroft also says that there is now more than enough doubt about the so-called murder that, if it ever came to trial, the case would be dismissed immediately.”

  “Then we are free to return?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Mycroft is as yet unwilling to admit to the possibility that Crawford is, at least some of the time, actually Moriarty. Until I can prove that fact to his satisfaction he will not call Scotland Yard off the scent. No, we must return incognito if we are to have any success at all in clearing our names.

  “I’m afraid more mummery is called for, Watson,” he said. “I would have liked to return to town openly, but I’m afraid that there has been too much excitement and noise around the case for that to be possible. What say you? Shall we return to our earlier personas … or would you entertain the thought of something rather more exotic?”

  3

  I made the trip to London in the guise of an eighty-year-old churchman; slightly deaf and mostly cantankerous. It was a role I found remarkably easy to play, given my growing dissatisfaction with this case. Holmes did not help my mood by being relentlessly cheerful all the way South, as if delighted to be returning to familiarity.

  The only thing that stopped my mood from descending completely into the depths was the fact that the journey went smoothly. No one took much notice of us, and even the few policemen we saw seemed to have lost interest in looking for the escaped murderers. Holmes judged that there was now a common belief that we had fled to the continent, and by the time we left York behind, I was starting to believe him.

  I had expected more policemen to be waiting at Euston on our arrival back in the city, but there was only a single officer on the concourse, and he paid us no heed whatsoever. This only seemed to embolden Holmes. He headed straight for Baker Street.

  He was not so indiscreet as to enter through the front entrance but went round to the rear and opened the scullery door. He almost received a blow on his head for his trouble, for Mrs. Hudson was in the room and, taking him for an intruder, aimed a skillet at his head. Fortunately he managed to duck in time, but he had to remove his false whiskers before she recognized us and put the pan down.

  If she was happy to see us she did not show it to begin with, berating us firstly for our stupidity for being caught in the trap, and secondly for not letting her know that we were safe and not in fact absconded to the continent. Immediately after that she burst into tears, and only a cup of strong tea revived her to something like her former efficient self. We were forcibly seated at her kitchen table. We told her our tale while she moved around us preparing a meal.

  “I’ll soon have you back to normal,” she said, as if we were somehow starved and wasted. Indeed, it seemed she would attempt to do it all at once as she plied us with scones, cream, jam and several cups of her special strong tea. Holmes let me do most of the talking, only interjecting where he thought I had made an error or had mis-remembered something. Mrs. Hudson listened intently, then surprised us.

  “I’ve heard of him,” she said. “He was always known as wee auld man Seton. There are plenty of stories told in Scotland about his exploits over the years. My grandmother, God rest her soul, even swore to us that she met him in Edinburgh once back in the forties. She said he was a prodigious liar, but very charming in his own way.”

  Having that connection in her own personal history meant that the rest of my tale did not sound outlandish to her in the slightest, and where I had been expecting disbelief I got instead a calm acceptance. I finished with a question as to where we went from here.

  “Mister Holmes will find a way,” she said with a quiet confidence I did not quite share. And she proved herself quite adept at subterfuge when she installed thick curtains in the main rooms of our apartment. Once these were closed she was confident that no light and therefore no sign of our presence would show from the outside.

  So it was we were able to achieve some relaxation amid all the comforts of home. But if I had expected to be allowed to enjoy an evening at ease Holmes soon put me right when it came around to nightfall.

  “I intend to make a foray to the East End in search of information about the Seton offshoots. We must ascertain whether Moriarty is aware of them, or, indeed, whether they have not already fallen under his malign influence. Are you game?”

  “Now?” I said, and Holmes must have heard the reluctance in my voice. He laughed.

  “Stay here then, old friend, with your warm fire and your pipe and slippers. I shall report on my adventures on my return.”

  Of course he knew I would rise to the taunting. Ten minutes later I was at his side as we left the apartment and made for the scullery door.

  Our only attempt to hide our appearance was in the wearing of long overcoats and hats with wide brims pulled low over our brows. We scarcely needed to have made the effort, as it was a damp night with the air full of fog and drizzle, and anyone out on the streets was more intent on hurrying home against the weather than in looking too closely at us.

  Which was just as well, as Holmes’ burst of confidence d
id not stretch far enough to consider taking a carriage. I resigned myself to the prospect of a long, wet, walk. I became rather glad of the overcoat and hat over the next hour as we strode through mostly quiet streets headed for Whitechapel. We took a northerly route to keep away from the busier streets near the city center, and the only time we met with any great density of people was when we skirted the Angel Islington before turning south and east.

  “What are we hoping to find?” I asked Holmes as we approached the Liverpool Street area. At first I was not sure he would answer. He had been quiet for most of the walk so far, not so much taciturn as lost in contemplation. In anyone else it might be thought rudeness, but I had become accustomed to long silences over the years. In fact, on some occasions I have even been known to welcome them. On this particular night, Holmes decided to reply.

  “I’m looking for a clue,” he said. “A means by which we might start to make some headway against the obstacles Moriarty has so successfully put in our path. I hope to find some of the Seton offshoots: MacAllan, as they are now known, and question them, or at least discover whether there have been any recent unusual bouts of sleeping sickness in the family.”

  And after that, he went quiet again, walking faster now as we approached our target.

  Our first port of call was a pawnbroker’s shop on a corner opposite the old East India Company warehouse at Devonshire Square.

  It was a veritable Aladdin’s cave, containing more jewelry than I had seen outside Bond Street, row after row of brass and stringed musical instruments, and, behind a heavy mahogany counter, a back chamber that seemed to be full of rich furs and overcoats.

  Holmes was obviously known to the proprietor, and was greeted warmly.

  “Long time no see, Mr. Holmes,” the small man said. He could have been any age from sixty to ninety years old, stooped and bent so much that he needed the use of a cane to keep him upright. He wheezed when he spoke, like a deflating rugger ball, but his eyes were clear and bright, and I suspected there was not much that got past him.

  Holmes spent some time in pleasantries before asking about the whereabouts of any members of the MacAllan family. The old man sucked at his teeth and waved his free hand in a seesaw manner. “Here and there, Mr. Holmes, here and there, if you catch my drift?”

  Fortunately Holmes understood the man’s intent more clearly than I did. Money changed hands and we were given directions to a public bar that I vaguely knew near the Effingham Theatre.

  “But beware, Mr. Holmes,” the pawnbroker said. “They like a drink, those lads, and when they’re in their cups they also like to fight.”

  Holmes thanked the man and we went back out into the night. The rain was heavier now, and we hurried along the narrow cobbled streets to the bar, our feet splashing in newly formed puddles.

  Holmes stopped outside the bar door. It was apparent that the place was busy, the sound of raucousbanter seeping through the thick external door.

  “And now we must take a risk, Watson,” he said. “There will be people inside who know us, and they are not the kind to look the other way if they think the police might pay for their information. We may end up paying dearly for anything we learn. But I believe this is our only course of action. Are you with me?”

  “Always, old chap,” I replied with more bravado than I felt at that moment. “Lead on.”

  The bar was another huge barn full of mirrors, mahogany and chandeliers, much like the Horseshoe Bar in Glasgow, but on a far grander scale. I had rarely seen a more opulent establishment, even in the palaces of the Raj. It was also full of people seeming intent on getting inebriated as fast as they were able. Street girls worked the room and smartly dressed men from the City mingled with market workers and railwaymen still grimy from their day’s labour. Half a dozen bar staff were being kept busy supplying a constant flow of ale and gin, and a space around a card table was the only quiet area in the whole place.

  When we entered, several people looked our way, but no one looked twice and Holmes seemed satisfied it was safe to stay, at least for a while.

  “I’ll go and ask some questions, Watson; you keep an eye open for anyone paying too much attention to either yourself or to me.”

  I retired to the bar, ordered a jug of ale, lit a pipe, and watched Holmes as he made his way around the patrons; a tap on the shoulder here, a whispered question there. All of his moves were so subtle that no one took offense, and no one noticed that he was slowly but surely homing in on a target.

  His attentions soon focused on three men in particular. All three looked skittish, their eyes straying anywhere but on Holmes’ face as he sat at their table, even after he had ordered a fresh round of drinks brought to them. Holmes did not give them time to think, bombarding first one then another with questions. It took around an hour, during which time I made some inroads into the ale. The barman was on the verge of pouring me a refill when Holmes rose and came back to my side.

  “Well,” he said. “We have a story, although I am not yet sure what to make of it. But first, let us take our leave. Too many people have seen us already. I feel as if we are watched too closely.”

  We left the bar. The door shut behind us—and at the same moment I heard a pop and a chunk of wood flew. We were under fire again.

  Without pause Holmes was off and running even as I understood what was happening. As he had at King’s Cross, he made straight for where he guessed the gunman to be. I held my place, just long enough to hear the next pop and see a shadow move in the darkness near the entrance to the Effingham Theatre. I thought of calling out, but I saw that Holmes had also spotted the movement and was headed that way at full tilt. Another shot pinged off the cobbles near my left foot; then I too was running after Holmes.

  He reached the theatre some ten yards ahead of me, and by the time I reached the entrance he had already gone inside. I cursed when I reached for my pocket and remembered that I had left a revolver behind in Baker Street. I padded inside as quietly as I could manage, trying to keep to the shadows and not allow my outline to be silhouetted in the doorway. No one shot me.

  The theatre foyer lay in deep darkness, and I was forced to stand still for long seconds to let my eyes adjust. The business had gone into liquidation some months before, which would explain the slight smell of mildew and the sound of water dripping from my left. The place was obviously already falling into disrepair. I wondered if any of the light fittings actually worked, but that was a moot point as I was not about to try to find out.

  “Holmes?” I said in a whisper, then immediately regretted it as a pop followed straight away and glass broke in a mirror just behind me. I had enough sense about me to move to one side and keep quiet. Silence descended again.

  I was feeling exposed, stuck too far into the open in the foyer. I started to shuffle sideward with my arm outstretched, hoping to reach a wall. Instead my hand found something cold and damp and I almost cried out, thinking it was our attacker, but some more investigation proved it to be a heavy velvet curtain that covered an entrance into the theatre proper. When I carefully pulled it aside I immediately felt a cooler breeze on my cheek, and I heard the sound of footsteps on wooden boards.

  There was another unmistakable pop, a scuffle of feet and a cry of pain. My heart sank, for I thought for sure that Holmes had been hit. But it was my friend’s voice that came next through the dark.

  “Get down here quickly, Watson. I have him.”

  I followed the sound of his voice, feeling my way down one of the gangways between the rows of seats. As I got closer to the source of the noises I realized I was starting to make out shapes in the darkness, and after several seconds I could make out the stage ahead of me. Holmes knelt, holding down a prone figure on the floor. The other thing I noticed as I got closer was the sound of sobbing, low and soft like a child who was trying to be brave and hold it in.

  “Give me a hand here, Watson,” Holmes said. “I fear I have broken his arm.”

  Holmes’ victim prove
d to be a youth barely out of his teens by the look of him and dressed in the cheap woolens and heavy work-boots typical of a local market worker. He had his eyes screwed up in pain, and his arm had indeed been broken; white bone showed through a tear in the skin just above the wrist. It was also obvious that this lad was the gunman—the weapon lay on the floor beside him: an air gun, as Holmes had surmised.

  “Do you know him?” I asked Holmes.

  He shook his head. “I do not, and he does not resemble anyone who has been mentioned to me tonight. But if he is not a MacAllan, then I will eat this hat.”

  “Jimmy MacAllan, that’s me, sir,” the boy said, grimacing through the pain but suddenly latching onto something familiar in the mention of his name.

  “Can you get up, lad?” I asked him. “We have to get you to a hospital and get that break seen to.”

  He tried to shuffle away from us on his backside, banged his arm on the stage and yelped like a kicked dog.

  “Please, don’t hurt me again,” he whimpered, his obvious East-End roots showing in his speech. I felt almost guilty at how we had treated him. I bent to take him by his good arm.

  He looked up, fear in his eyes, then suddenly they went out of focus and his mouth went slack—only for a second or so, until he smiled broadly.

  “That is enough of that,” he said, and this time it was in that clipped voice I had first heard back in Lord Crawford’s office and then again under Seton’s keep in Comrie. Three separate bodies; but it was becoming obvious to me that the voice always came from one source, Moriarty himself.

  “I only let the boy speak to show you who is in charge here,” he said. He looked up at Holmes. “I would advise you to stay away from this side of town,” he said, and winked, “It is not safe … as this boy is about to find out.”

  “No!” Holmes shouted, but his rage was to prove impotent, for there was nothing either he or I could do about what happened next. The boy’s eyes went dead again. He started to thrash, feet pounding a rhythm on the wooden boards of the stage. Spittle frothed and flecked from his lips and blood bubbles showed where he had bitten through his tongue. This I did know how to deal with—or so I thought.