Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  Also available from George Mann and Titan Books

  Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

  Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

  Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes (August 2017)

  Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead

  Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box

  Associates of Sherlock Holmes

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783299300

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783299317

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: August 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved by the authors. The rights of each contributor to be identified as Author of their Work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  River of Silence © 2016 by Lyndsay Faye

  Pure Swank © 2016 by James Lovegrove

  Heavy Game of the Pacific Northwest © 2016 by Tim Pratt

  A Dormitory Haunting © 2016 by Jaine Fenn

  The Case of the Previous Tenant © 2016 by Ian Edginton

  Nor Hell a Fury © 2016 by Cavan Scott

  The Case of the Haphazard Marksman © 2016 by Andrew Lane

  The Presbury Papers © 2016 by Jonathan Barnes

  A Flash in the Pan © 2016 by William Meikle

  The Vanishing Snake © 2016 by Jeffrey Thomas

  A Family Resemblance © 2016 by Simon Bucher-Jones

  Page Turners © 2016 by Kara Denise Husson

  Peeler © 2016 by Nick Kyme

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Also by George Mann

  Title Page

  Copyright

  THE RIVER OF SILENCE

  Lyndsay Faye

  PURE SWANK

  James Lovegrove

  HEAVY GAME OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST

  Tim Pratt

  A DORMITORY HAUNTING

  Jaine Fenn

  THE CASE OF THE PREVIOUS TENANT

  Ian Edginton

  NOR HELL A FURY

  Cavan Scott

  THE CASE OF THE HAPHAZARD MARKSMAN

  Andrew Lane

  THE PRESBURY PAPERS

  Jonathan Barnes

  A FLASH IN THE PAN

  William Meikle

  THE VANISHING SNAKE

  Jeffrey Thomas

  A FAMILY RESEMBLANCE

  Simon Bucher-Jones

  PAGE TURNERS

  Kara Dennison

  PEELER

  Nick Kyme

  About the Editor

  About the Authors

  Coming Soon from Titan Books

  Also Available from Titan Books

  THE RIVER OF SILENCE

  Lyndsay Faye

  Stanley Hopkins, who makes his canonical debut in “The Adventure of Black Peter”, is described as a young police inspector so newly minted that he still retains the posture of a roundsman wearing an official uniform. In all the cases in which he appears, he evinces the utmost regard for Holmes, professing “the admiration and respect of a pupil for the scientific methods of the famous amateur”. Holmes, in turn, seems rather paternally amused by Hopkins, often attempting to steer him in the right direction without entirely giving the game away. This is the story of their first encounter.

  —Lyndsay Faye

  Letter sent from Inspector Stanley Michael Hopkins to Mrs Leticia Elizabeth Hopkins, Sunday April 29th, 1894

  Dearest Mum,

  Thank you for the new muffler and fingerless gloves – you’re dead to rights in supposing a promotion calls for a fellow to look smart, and right to consider that I should have my hands free to boot! You worried over the colour, but it’s just the ticket. A nice, dignified navy will do very well with my brown ulster.

  How strange and freeing it is to be out of blue livery and stalking the shadowed streets in neat tweeds! The lads from H Division hooted over my plainclothes at first, saying I looked a smug breed of pigeon, but there was no malice in it and they toasted me plentiful times calling out, “Three cheers for our own Inspector Hopkins!” down at the Bull’s Head last week. (I didn’t myself join in enough to mar the solemnity of my new station, I promise you.)

  My musty cubby at the Yard is well-outfitted now, with maps and reference volumes, plentiful ink and paper, and a flask of brandy should any females be forced to consult me in a state of distress – you understand I’d never hope for such a thing, but we live in a dark city, and I mean to shed some light on it. My resolve has impossibly redoubled since the news came down I was to shed my uniform, and when I’ve already thought of nothing else since… well, you know best of anyone to what I refer.

  Enough dark reflections. Probably you’ve read of this, but Sherlock Holmes himself has returned as if by miracle from the dead and is to practice independently again in London. What a weird and wonderful world! Before I’d any inkling of joining the Peelers, I admired his brilliant methods (“idolised” Dad used to tease, remember?) and now to make inspector during the very week of his triumphant return from the depths… what an absolute corker. I can’t but think it providential, Mum, truly.

  On that note: dare I surmise that the gloves and muffler suggest you’re at peace with my occupation, and your disappointment over my not becoming a clergyman like Dad has faded?

  Trusting I interpret your kindly gifts aright, as I’m now to become a professional at reading the subtlest clues, I remain,

  Your Stanley

  Letter sent from Inspector Stanley Michael Hopkins to Mrs Leticia Elizabeth Hopkins, Tuesday May 1st, 1894

  Dearest Mum,

  I’m sorry for thinking the muffler and gloves suggested you had come round to the notion of my being a policeman. Rest assured that I intend to prove you needn’t simply make the best of a bad business, and can instead feel as proud as you would if I were delivering sermons (a task at which I’ve many times told you I’d be dismal). Remember all the occasions when Sherlock Holmes’s exploits led to God’s justice being served?

  Thank you for the dried sausages – they arrived quite safe, and I wrapped them against mice just as you said. Must beg pardon for brevity, as a strange teak box was just dredged from the Thames with something terrible in it. The other inspectors seem not to want to touch the business – dare I hope that I might have the chance to test my mettle, and so soon?

  In haste,

  Your Stanley

  Telegram from SCOTLAND YARD, WHITEHALL to BEXLEY, Tuesday May 1st, 1894

  CONTENTS OF TEAK BOX MOST DISTRESSING STOP THANKFULLY CASE ASSIGNED TO ME STOP WILL FULLY APPRISE YOU AS SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP DUTY CALLS STOP YES I WILL BE CAREFUL

&
nbsp; – STANLEY

  Entry in the diary of Stanley Michael Hopkins, Tuesday May 1st, 1894

  Too much has happened to set it all on paper – but I must put my thoughts in proper order, no matter if I’m grasping at snowflakes only to watch them dissolve. Here at Scotland Yard I feel as if I’m starting my career afresh, and in a sense I am, and a warm glow lodges at the base of my spine whenever I’m reminded of my new responsibilities. But Lord, it would be something fine to have one of my trusty H Division boys to natter with. Here the inspectors call out obscure jokes to one another I can’t begin to savvy, and their eyes slide off the newly promoted when we pass in the crowded corridors. I don’t blame them. They’re overworked, and soon so shall I be. Headquarters smells of wearied sighs tinged with whiskey, shirt collars too long worn over interrogations and the filling out of forms.

  And I’ve no one to consult with over this confounded box.

  But I mustn’t pity myself, for that isn’t quite true – Inspector Lestrade visited me in one of the evidence lockers as I went through the contents, and though I know him to have been ensuring that a raw detective wouldn’t botch the matter, I was thoroughly grateful.

  “All right, Inspector… Hopkins, I think it is. What have you got yourself into on your first day that has everyone buzzing like an upturned hive?”

  Sweeping off his bowler, Inspector Lestrade frowned at me. I think he frowns to impart his words with weight rather than signal displeasure, though, and he needs all the gravitas he can muster, since the little fellow can hardly weigh more than eleven stone. He has brown hair and eyes, both several shades darker than mine, and I tried not to seem to be looking down at him even though I couldn’t help it – hardly anyone can.

  Clearing my throat nervously, I began to answer.

  “But you’re already through writing it up, I see,” he said, interrupting me. “Just pass that over and I’ll check your form is correct.”

  I obeyed. Lestrade stood in full view of the peculiar – not to say ghastly – contents of the box, both objects resting upon the table, but he’d every right to supervise my paperwork on my first go of it. The other sight seemed not to disturb him, as indeed it couldn’t by this time shake me either.

  A grunt emerged as the senior inspector scanned my notes:

  Item: one large carved box

  – teak wood (foreign origin)

  – decorated with stylised lotus flowers (suggests Chinese import)

  Contents: one severed forearm with hand: human, female

  – white flesh, decomposition not yet set in (recently amputated, not an outdoor worker)

  – mild swelling and discolouration (indicating submersion in river water for not more than five hours)

  – clean nail beds (respectable)

  – actual nails thin and cracked (poor health or nutrition)

  – no sign of ever having worn a ring (unmarried)

  Lestrade raised his eyebrows, seemed about to speak, and frowned instead.

  “Something wrong, sir?”

  “On the contrary.”

  “Have I done well, then?”

  “Not bad for a greenhand,” He returned my report. “Don’t forget to sign and date everything. And I can tell you that although the brass latch is equipped with a lock, it wasn’t used – merely fastened. I opened it myself without a key.”

  Hastily, I bent to record this fact.

  Lestrade rubbed at one temple fretfully. The arm looked much more poignant adrift on the sea of the large table than it had cradled in the ornate box. “You came to us from H Division, I hear.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, we don’t want any repeats of that business.”

  “No, sir.” If it sounded like a vow and not a mere reply, there was nothing to be done about it.

  “What are your plans?”

  Straightening, I rubbed my palms together. “Obviously, first we must ensure it’s not some wretchedly coarse jest, and I’ve already sent wires to all the major hospitals asking after autopsies performed during the last twenty-four hours. In a moment, I’ll circulate word for dockside police to look out for any similar objects, God forbid. Next I’ll canvass businesses that import Chinese goods, particularly small furnishings such as this box, down Stepney way. If that fails, I’ll scour both Yard files and the newspapers for missing persons, and enquire at local cemeteries to see whether she might have been the victim of a grave robbery. That ought to hold me for a day or two.”

  Lestrade’s bright eyes narrowed in comprehension.

  “How old were you when you joined the Force, Hopkins?”

  “Twenty-five. I’m only thirty now, sir.”

  “Eighteen ninety-nine, then. You read The Strand Magazine, don’t you?” He crossed his arms, tapping a finger against his sleeve.

  “I, that is… yes,” I stammered.

  “Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Inspired you, I shouldn’t wonder, or some such rubbish.”

  “I confess so. This matter at hand… you mentioned H Division yourself, inspector, and not wanting another catastrophe. Bearing in mind the severed limb, I… I wonder whether Mr Holmes would be interested?”

  A bona fide snort quashed my fondest hope. “Mr Holmes goes in for the grotesque, not the gruesome.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, considering the stories. They’re marvellous. I’ve read every one.” The words were spilling like water from an upturned jug, and I’d no notion how to staunch them. “Is he just as Dr Watson says he is? Impossibly tall, impossibly brilliant, all of it?”

  “Impossibly irritating? Yes. Everything about Sherlock Holmes is impossible,” Lestrade huffed.

  “You arrested Colonel Moran, you must have seen him again – so the roundsmen are gossiping. Is he much changed? I mean – not that you didn’t solve Adair’s murder yourself, inspector, I only –”

  Lestrade made a motion as if shooing a fly. “It’s all true. He’s alive, he collared the colonel, he’s even more impossible than previously. And he’ll be back to his mad antics, I shouldn’t wonder, with me left to tidy up the shrapnel.”

  “You must be so pleased he’s miraculously safe home.”

  I blurted this knowing it was true, not only from the fact they’d worked extensively together, but also from the half-rueful, half-wistful smile hovering over Lestrade’s features. They twisted in surprise, but then he shrugged narrow shoulders.

  “Of course I am. He’s good for the city, and it’s the city I serve. Well, I must be –”

  “Dashed if I can think of anything on Earth I want more than the chance to work with him.”

  “Take that back,” Lestrade advised with a sour grimace, returning his hat to his head.

  “Why?”

  “Because working with Mr Holmes means you failed.” A shadow from the open door fell across his face.

  And then he was gone, and I alone again, wondering how a mere mortal could trace a box with a poor and (presumably) dead girl’s limb in it. I’ve every confidence of filling my hours meaningfully upon the morrow, and yet… it is difficult to be optimistic.

  Everything is difficult, under the circumstances. Lilla’s letters are still in the drawer of my night-table. Every day I try to move them to my battered trunk of keepsakes, and every day I fail. I check the post with fingers crossed and heart equally as twisted, the same weird curling feeling inside as I sort through mail never finding her name as I’d used to, and always hoping against sense a new missive may appear.

  Letter sent from Inspector Stanley Michael Hopkins to Mrs Leticia Elizabeth Hopkins, Thursday May 3rd, 1894

  Dearest Mum,

  I can’t do as you ask and no amount of cajoling will budge me – it’s impossible for me to pen you details of an open investigation. For open it still is, and I’m nigh ready to start banging my pate against my desk. The trail grows colder every instant, and all I can do is tilt at windmill after windmill. When I solve the case, for I will
solve it yet, you can scold me for bragging. Meanwhile, my nose must be to the grindstone and not hovering over correspondence, and I hope you’ll forgive me.

  I’d not thought of the question before you asked, but under these glad circumstances, I’ll be dashed if there aren’t more Strand stories to come, now you mention it! How could Dr Watson resist? The mince pie you mailed arrived only the slightest bit crushed, and I’m leaving it in my desk to have with my tea.

  Still in haste,

  Your Stanley

  Entry in the diary of Stanley Michael Hopkins, Friday May 4th, 1894

  And now I know what Inspector Lestrade meant by warning me against working with Mr Sherlock Holmes. Today was simultaneously the best day of my life since 1889, and the worst to boot. If someone asked after the whereabouts of the sky, I’d hardly know which way to point.

  No warning was given for his appearance. I don’t suppose there ever is – do God’s angels send cards announcing their arrival, or do they simply appear, frightening shepherds (to say nothing of sheep) out of their wits? One moment I was writing up futile reports at my desk – no indication of desecrated graves, no missing persons providing leads, no similar Chinese boxes sold in Stepney discovered, etc. – and the next moment I heard Lestrade say, “Oh, what luck he’s right where he’s wanted. Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson, meet our newest detective, Inspector Stanley Hopkins.”

  Whirling in my chair, I fished for words and caught none.

  Sherlock Holmes is both identical to and nothing like the man in the magazine. Every physical characteristic is correct (frightfully tall, sinewy, pale, and so forth), but his bearing and movements defy description. The vast intellect in his grey eyes is hooded behind affected languor, like a sheathed sword, and dying must take its toll on a fellow, for plentiful cats’-whisker lines fanned from their edges I did not expect to find. And there I was, first week as a proper detective and my first case at that, already a failure, goggling at him as if he were the risen Christ. (Wouldn’t Mum and dear departed Dad pitch a fit if they ever read that comparison.)

  Dr Watson (a sturdy, handsome gentleman with a soldierly bearing and moustache) thrust his hand out after I’d sufficiently embarrassed myself. The act galvanised me and I sprang to my feet.