Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  “Ah.” It’s Miss Maria, and she sounds a bit surprised. “Could you light the lamps? It’s getting a bit dark out.” At first I think she’s talking to me, but then I see the shopkeeper start moving through the shop lighting all the lamps. I look out the big front windows and…

  It’s getting dark.

  I still haven’t gotten my letter to Dr Watson!

  I jump out of my chair, nearly spilling my tea.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I just remembered, I have somewhere I need to be!” I’m stammering, and there’s crumbs all over my face. I pat my jacket to make sure the letter’s still there. It is. That blasted letter that’s going to be the death of me. “So sorry. I have to dash.”

  Miss Maria frowns. “But we were having such fun.”

  “I know. It’s great, really. And maybe I can come back sometime? But right now I need to finish this job I’m on.”

  “Oh. Yes. You were running somewhere.” All the smiles are gone from her face now. She’s frowning, like suddenly she’s bored with me and the shop and the whole situation. It’s more like the sort of look you’d see on a world-weary old lady.

  “Exactly. So I should get back to that.”

  The door to the shop slams, and all the lamps go out.

  It’s happening again. It’s happening again! I knew it! I should’ve listened to myself.

  “You really shouldn’t be out after dark, you know. A little boy like you.” All of the childish sound is gone out of her voice. She sounds strangely old, even though she doesn’t actually look any different. “Something could happen. You know. You’ve heard there’s a murderer on the loose, surely.”

  I’m starting to get proper scared now – more than I had with any of the others. “I… may have, miss.”

  Miss Maria is examining her fingernails all casual-like. “Oh, you’re a clever boy. You’ve heard. You’ve got that look about you – so proud of how clever you are.” Then she’s looking straight at me and she’s smiling, and it’s such a calm smile I’m not sure why I’m suddenly twice as terrified.

  “Shall I tell you about the occult murders? Would you like to know more?”

  The occult murders… all the people who’ve been killed and had the sigils carved in their skin. Like the butler mentioned earlier.

  “N-No, Miss Maria. I don’t think I would.”

  “Hm.” She chuckles, but she’s not smiling. “That’s wise of you. I could easily tell you everything anyone could hope to know. I could give you enough to spare your employer weeks of work. Of course, I’d have to make sure you never leave this shop alive.”

  “No!”

  “Just another victim. What would it matter?”

  I’ve run for the door, but my hands are shaking too much to open it. Either that, or somehow it’s locked itself tight. “I thought you were being friendly! We were eating biscuits together! You were nice!”

  “Mmmmm, well, I’d thought I could keep being nice.” Miss Maria walks towards me with a hand out. “Come, now. Hand over the letter, and I’ll let you go.”

  “This blasted letter… It really is more trouble than it’s worth. I’m about tempted to let you have it.”

  She smiles. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “I said about tempted.” And I grab the letter out of my jacket and wave it in front of me. “But I’ve a job to do, don’t I? Why do you even want it so badly? How do you know it’s about you?”

  Miss Maria folds her arms and gives me this sort of rotten, scoffing look. “Honestly. My maidservant heard your employer through the window clear as day as she was walking down the street earlier: ‘Sensitive information of the utmost importance’. Loud as you please. I’m shocked the entire city didn’t hear.”

  Oh. “I’m starting to think it did…”

  “Regardless, what else could be of utmost importance to London’s finest detective save for the recent rash of unsolved murders? So hand it over. There is still a great deal yet to do.”

  I stick the letter back in my jacket and shrink away towards the door. “You do know that I know you’re connected now, right? I don’t need any letter. I could tell Scotland Yard myself!”

  “Oh, darling, who would believe you?” She laughs, and the worst part is it’s not even a malicious laugh. She really is just laughing at me, like I’ve said the stupidest thing in the world. She reaches out her hand to make a grab for my collar–

  And then she pulls her hand away and shrieks.

  I look up and see her gripping her wrist and making the most horrid face. And I would be, too – she’s got a bone-handled dagger sticking out of her hand. I cover my mouth and look away.

  What? I can’t stand the sight of blood. Yes I know I’m in the wrong line of work for that… I’d like to see you deal with it, though.

  I hear a voice from the back of the shop yelling at me to run – is it the shopkeeper? I can’t tell, and I’m in no mood to find out, so I start kicking at the door ’til it gives way, and I’m off.

  No more stopping. No more waiting. No more nothing. If anyone even tries to stop me, I’ll bite ’em. I swear I will.

  And no one does. I make it to Dr Watson’s practice, all out of breath and terrified and likely pale as death. That’s what I’m figuring, at least, given how he’s looking at me. He’s packing up his kit for the day, and he stares at me like he’s just gotten a surprise patient.

  “Billy?”

  I gasp. I grab the letter. And finally, finally, I hold it out to him. “Message for you, sir.” Then my head feels a bit wobbly.

  Next thing I know I’m lying on the floor and Dr Watson is patting my face and asking if I’m all right. Course I’m all right, I tell him, but my voice sounds all raspy.

  “You fainted, I’m afraid.”

  That’s rubbish, I tell him. Only girls faint. But he’s doing all his doctor fussing around me, making sure I can breathe, so I figure it’s best to just play along.

  Once I’m settled, he opens up the letter and has a read. “Very important,” I tell him. “Mr Holmes told me it was of the utmost importance and not to let anyone see it.”

  “Did he…”

  “He did, Dr Watson. And you wouldn’t believe how many people stopped me along the way to try to get it from me!” I feel my head going a bit funny again, but I go on even so. “Didn’t let a single one of ’em stop me, though. No, sir… Er, not for long, anyway.”

  Dr Watson frowns and folds up the letter. “Who exactly were these people?”

  “Erm.” I think back. “Well, there was the butler to Mrs Henrietta Oxford…”

  “Ah, her again. Trying to compete with Holmes again, no doubt.”

  “And then there was an Angelina Pritchard.”

  I notice Dr Watson’s started writing the names down on the back of the note. “Hm. What’s she about?”

  “Something to do with stitching up some lord or other. Winthrop? Wainwright? Something with a W.”

  “Really…”

  “And there was a lady called herself Miss Maria at a teashop who says she knows about the occult murders.”

  “Miss… Maria… teashop. Anyone else?”

  “Erm. Hart?… Charles Hart. Big bloke, looks like he’s about to explode.”

  Dr Watson laughs. “God, him. He tried to shoplift a single cigar and he’s been turning himself in at Scotland Yard at least once a week for it.” He doesn’t write anything down this time.

  “So, erm… seeing as how I risked life and limb for that letter, Dr Watson, sir… d’you mind awfully if I know what the important information was?”

  “Mm.” He folds up the letter and sticks it in his pocket. “Holmes is going to be late to the opera tonight.”

  “… oh.”

  Dr Watson clears his throat.

  “So… it wasn’t about any of them.”

  “No, indeed. But apparently vanity runs stronger than logic in the criminal set. I shall let Holmes know that if he ever sends you on this sor
t of fact-finding mission again, he’s to double your salary. Can you stand up now?”

  I could, and Dr Watson drops a handful of coins into my hand and instructs me to take a cab home. He gets no argument from me, obviously.

  …Oi. Why are you laughing?

  No, I was not duped into anything. It was an important letter, you understand? Just because I didn’t know why it was important…

  All right, fine. The letter itself wasn’t important. But that’s not the point. Who’s helped Mr Holmes crack three cases… well, two cases and some light shoplifting? Not Wiggins. Yours truly. Remember that next time Wiggins takes to bragging. Bet he’s never seen a lady get stabbed through the hand.

  …though I’m wondering if I might be clear to take a few days off before I’m given any other top secret missions.

  PEELER

  Nick Kyme

  Though perhaps not gifted with the greatest deductive reasoning, and described equally as “ferret-like” and “rat-faced”, Inspector Lestrade is one of the most enduring characters of the Sherlock Holmes canon, who first appeared in the novel A Study in Scarlet. His first appearance in The Strand was in the story “The Boscome Valley Mystery”.

  Prior to meeting Holmes, Lestrade is described as having been an officer of the law for over twenty years with his dogged determination and tenacity to thank for his success and longevity. In many respects, he is a sort of everyman, embodying a keen sense of justice and surprising compassion that, despite his ostensibly low opinion of Lestrade’s intellectual abilities, Sherlock Holmes finds admirable.

  Despite appearing in fourteen stories, certain facts concerning Lestrade are still a mystery, such as his first name, about which only the first letter “G” is known. During his time in the Force, Lestrade developed an ongoing rivalry with one of his fellow detectives, Tobias Gregson, and the two could not be more unalike, though they only ever appeared together once. His last appearance in the Conan Doyle stories was in “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons”, after which he is mentioned again but does not feature as a character.

  —Nick Kyme

  I’ve seen things in my line of work. The things that man is capable of. True evil. Monsters. London teems with them. Sometimes I think this city has been made for them, not us, not the folk who hold the thin blue line against this tide, and those that aid us, men like him. I had thought myself a detective until I met him. Only then did I realise just how inept I must seem to one who possesses such intellect.

  I want to save this city, but she is suffering from a grievous malady. I can smell it in every Whitechapel corpse and every swollen cadaver I’ve dredged from the Thames. I remember every trial, but none so vividly as the “Peeler”.

  * * *

  A man was lying face down in an alleyway just off the corner of Lime and Leadenhall Street. I noted the time on my pocket watch, then looked up into a sky the colour of slate.

  He was a rough fellow, judging by his attire. I could see it even through the window of the hansom cab. Worn shoes, faded porter’s uniform with shabby broad and piping, but corpulent enough to suggest he was far from destitute.

  I met Metcalfe as I left the cab, his face as grim as the morning.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” he said with a nod.

  “It’s far from good, Sergeant.” I looked past Metcalfe’s shoulder. A light but unceasing rain had been falling since the early hours – I knew, because it had kept me awake – and the two constables, Cooper and Barrows, standing at the north and south facings of the street corner wore police cloaks to keep off the drizzle. Through a rising mist encouraged by a morning sun struggling amidst the grey, I saw two more men, neither of whom were Scotland Yard.

  “How long has he been here?”

  Metcalfe didn’t turn. He had enough about him to realise who I meant. “Arrived not long after we did, sir.”

  A man was down by the body, crouched, but careful not to kneel on the wet road. He wore a dark woollen Ulster, scarf and leather gloves. The other remained standing, the rain trickling off the brim of his hat and onto his pale brown overcoat as he looked on.

  “Keep him out, next time,” I said. “Keep them both out.”

  Metcalfe nearly looked down to his boots, but to his credit met my gaze. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. He said he was consulting on a case.”

  I pushed on past the sergeant, resigned to the credulity of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. “Of course he did. Just keep anyone else out, or I’ll have your hide.”

  Sherlock Holmes didn’t bother to look up as he heard me approach, though his companion, the doctor, gave me the courtesy of slightly tipping his hat.

  “Tell me, Lestrade, what do you see?” asked Holmes, who had yet to touch the body, I now realised, but observed it intently. He had a narrow, studious face, with a thin, patrician nose and gaunt features. His eyes were always alert. I had never known them to be otherwise.

  “I see murder, Mr Holmes, and a man interfering in police business.”

  “Now, look here–” Dr Watson began, upset at my boldness, but stopped short at his friend’s raised hand. The good doctor was well groomed as always, though with a little more grey in his coiffed moustaches.

  “Watson, if the good inspector wishes to admonish himself for interfering in his own duties by interrupting me, then we should allow him to avail himself of the lesson.”

  “Amusing, Holmes,” I said, pulling up my collar as the rain grew heavier. I let him do his work, for as much as the man irritated me in his manner, I had never in all my experience met a keener or more accomplished mind. “What should I see?”

  “For a start, you have not complimented Dr Watson on his fine attire. From Savile Row, no less. Isn’t that right, Doctor.”

  “Holmes…” said Watson. I heard the warning in his tone but also noticed the doctor’s fine tailoring. “Only the gloves are new,” he confessed.

  “Look expensive,” I muttered, ruefully.

  “A flutter on the ponies, wasn’t it Watson? A rare triumph?”

  Watson’s cheeks reddened. “Holmes!”

  To this day, I cannot fathom how the doctor puts up with him.

  “Enough games, Holmes,” I told him, “what have you found?”

  “In the first instance, this,” he said, removing something from Goose’s person and holding it up to the meagre light.

  “A key?” I said.

  “Well observed, Inspector, though the question is: what does it open?”

  It was small, and made of brass, though had little to distinguish it.

  “Is that it, then?”

  Holmes’s mood darkened. “Far from it, Inspector. I see a workhouse porter and a curious predilection, I believe.” He stood, looking down grimly at the man. “Lestrade, if your constable would be so kind as to turn over the body…”

  I nodded to Metcalfe and he reluctantly crouched, kneeling in the blood that had pooled around the man’s head. Made heavy by death and his sodden clothes, the corpse proved difficult for Metcalfe to turn but when he finally did, he gagged.

  I felt a coldness seep into my gut in that moment that even my outrage could not thaw.

  Metcalfe gasped. “Good Lord in heaven…”

  The man had no face. His skin had been completely removed and only the red, glistening muscle remained.

  “What is this, Holmes?” I asked, surprised that I rasped the words.

  “Something foul, I fear, Inspector.”

  I almost dared not ask: “A devotee? Inspired by Whitechapel?”

  “No, Inspector,” said Holmes, “I think not. The victim, the method… this is altogether something else.”

  “Are there no depths to which man’s depravity will not stoop?” said Watson. “Holmes, what need could one have for flesh taken in such a manner?”

  “That, Watson, is something I intend to find out.”

  * * *

  I returned to Scotland Yard in a Black Maria with the body. Holmes and Watson followed, but only after Holmes had
lingered to make his observations. Diverted as I was by preliminary paperwork, both were waiting for me as I entered the morgue.

  Holmes remained in the corner of the room throughout, swallowed in shadow like some wraith, a plume of pale blue smoke issuing from his short briar pipe. He leaned against the wall casually, though I could see little cause to behave thusly, and I was reminded again of how unlike anyone else Holmes is.

  “Inspector,” said Watson, standing by the slab where the faceless man now lay. A veil had been placed over the remains of his face so as to conceal his grim affliction, though the rest of his body was naked and stitched from clavicle to sternum.

  “Jeremiah Goose,” I said, reading from the report I had been in the middle of compiling. I had sent several constables out to canvas the streets where the murder took place, and someone had seen and recognised Goose but had not borne witness to the deed that had sent him to the morgue.

  “A porter at the Alderbrook Workhouse on Lower Thames Street,” said Holmes, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I would say I knew him by his face, but that would be mildly indelicate given Mr Goose’s current disposition.”

  “Heaven forefend you come across as indelicate, Mr Holmes,” said I, turning to Watson. “What do you make of the pathologist’s report, Doctor?”

  “A single blow, just forward of the right temple,” said Watson. He gestured to the point where the skull had been cracked open. “Killed him instantly.”

  “What else?” asked Holmes.

  “The blow came from the front, so the killer was facing his victim. The pathologist found no defensive wounds, no bruising or lacerations of any kind, and neither can I, so we can assume our victim knew his attacker or had no cause to believe he was in danger.”

  “Indeed,” muttered Holmes, “and you Lestrade? Have you any morsel to offer towards our understanding of what transpired?”

  “A single blow, you say, Doctor?”

  Watson nodded.

  “Then the killer must be a man of not inconsiderable size and, presumably, height. Mr Goose must be…”

  “Six foot, five inches and approximately one hundred and ninety-eight pounds,” said Watson, consulting the pathologist’s report. “A large man.”