Thirteen Authors With New Takes on Sherlock Holmes

by Michael A. Ventrella

  “Captain, I have to protest,” said Ambassador Eugin of the exoplanet Ni Hao Xiao Mao, a stocky being with smooth white fur that covered his entire body. “None of us is responsible for this foul crime. Of course we are sorry for the death of our colleague, but why are we gathered here?”

  Baskur reclined upon the square of smelly carpet that had been removed to here from my ship for his comfort.

  “I am reliably informed that Prunli was here to negotiate trade with all of you. His is a minor system with few resources that are unavailable in other places. So, why have so many of you gone to such trouble to visit him not once, but many times over the last few days? Shall we say, perhaps to obtain…personal emoluments that would make you consider him and his system with greater favor?”

  “Bribery?” Honored Otso protested. “How dare you! What do you know about the intricacies of interstellar cooperation?” But xe clutched the jeweled chain at xir neck. Baskur followed xir movements with an amused look on his jowly face.

  “Yes. I don’t need to know very much about the ins and outs of your practice to know that there were several ancient artifacts on the walls of the ambassador’s suite, artifacts that smelled enough like him for me to determine that they originated on the same world. Many of those are missing now. Many of you,” he said, glancing at those around him, “retain the odor of those empty wall niches, hooks, and drawers in his suite.”

  “Well, what of it?” Eugin asked, waving a hand. “He gave us valuable gifts! It’s a common practice in diplomatic circles.”

  “More than physical gifts, in many cases,” Baskur said, with significant glances at Honored Otso and Tik-tik. Both of them squirmed, as did Ariana Boycott, standing near the door. “He made love to several of you. But it wasn’t so much what he gave as what he took. Each of you smells of desperation. He commanded your presence again and again, but how? There is no odor or particle, therefore it had to be compulsion. Information. He was blackmailing each of you, wasn’t he? Threatening to publicize each of the illicit gifts and negotiations among you? To reveal that bribery, smuggling, and blackmail are everyday parts of the diplomatic lifestyle?”

  “Yes!” Eugin burst out. “He seemed to know everything about us, all of our passwords, our secret trades. Our internet searches. Everything! Our data was supposed to be secured with the latest in microft protocols. He could never have worked out those numbers. How could he have obtained them?”

  Baskur smiled. “Only if he had access to the gatekeeper. Most programs have a back door, in case of emergency. It would be easy for a diplomat to convince an ordinary person that such an emergency requiring access existed. His powers of persuasion would not have been lost upon this one.” He leaped from his mat and fixed his teeth into the arm of a young human and dragged xir forward. Xir name, if I recalled it correctly, was Lin. As he had before, Baskur drew blood. Boycott’s officers moved in to surround Lin while the Norriding analyzed the particles and cells he had consumed. Lin tried to leap up and bring down my drone. I steered it back toward me to protect it, while Boycott’s officers dragged xir back into xir chair. “Yes, there is a high concentration of Prunli’s enzymes and cells in your system. Your meetings must have been frequent. Why would you have betrayed your employers in this fashion?”

  Lin’s attractive face pulled a sullen expression. “He promised me a place in his entourage. I would be able to leave this planet forever!”

  Baskur’s eyes focused upon his prey, and his voice lowered into silken tones. “And when you discovered that you were a pawn? When it turned out that all of his promises were as fleeting as his affections toward you? After all, he took the inspector and others as lovers after he had dismissed you. You meant nothing. Your place in his entourage was a ploy to obtain your assistance.”

  Lin sprang to xir feet. “I did everything he asked! I jeopardized my life for him! He took that from me. I had nothing left. Nothing!”

  “And you stabbed him through the heart with the bronze statue in his suite,” Baskur said, shaking his head. “Taking his life in your turn. You ordered the suite cleaned, but you still bear traces of the metal’s odor in the pores of your skin. Only you and he had high exposure to that bronze. None of the others touched the murder weapon.”

  “No! He stole from me! He made me break my oath of employment.”

  Boycott signed to her officers. Lin struggled as they took xir away, with a fierce look over xir shoulder at Baskur.

  “May we go?” Otso asked, looking at xir timekeeper. “I have many appointments.”

  “As do we,” Tik-tik said.

  “Yes, but please keep yourself available for interviews,” Boycott said. “I promise you, none of your personal information will be part of the official transcripts.”

  Eugin hesitated after the others had departed, and came to wind himself around Baskur, rubbing his white furry sides against the Norriding.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “I could not have borne one more scandal.” Then, he was gone.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  Baskur shook his jowls. “I’m afraid that we will need to provide an amnesty in that direction, my friend. I think that you should erase those last few words from your drone’s memory.”

  “I shall,” I promised. When the small craft landed beside me, I entered the necessary command. The crime had been solved. There was no need to embarrass anyone with innuendo. I would not dispatch anything without need.

  “Thank you,” Boycott said, crouching down to Baskur’s level. Her eyes shone with admiration. How I wish that expression had been turned upon me! “That was a tour de force, Master Baskur. More than I ever expected. I could not have discovered the truth so quickly.”

  “As your Shakespeare said, ‘The cat will mew, and the dog will have his day,’” Baskur said, rising to all fours. “This was mine.” His long purple tongue darted out and touched her face affectionately. “To me, you will always be The Human. I must return now to Panettiere, never to leave again, but you will always be a part of me, Ariana Boycott. I will not forget you.” He turned to me. “Nor you, Shoqan al-Hamish ibn Malik. I would be glad to remain in contact with you, but only by remote communication. I do not wish to lose my identity further. I am becoming too much of—what would you call me in your language?—a human bloodhound?”

  “I am sorry,” I said, sincerely rueful. “I didn’t understand what it would cost you.”

  He flapped his jowls. “I came with you freely. It was always a risk. I pray that it will all be worthwhile. I will give you some time to say farewell, then I need you to return me to my lonely exile.” He padded off his mat and out of the room, leaving me alone with Ariana. I watched him go with a mixture of admiration and regret.

  “I am so grateful that you brought Baskur here, Shoqan,” Ariana said. She seemed hesitant, almost diffident, and she had never looked more lovely to me. “I believe that he solved more than one case today. I think…that I found out what I really wanted to know.”

  The shy little smile awoke a resolve in me that I hadn’t realized was still there. I took her hand in both of mine.

  “So did I,” I said.

  The Adventure of the Reluctant Detective

  BY

  Ryk Spoor

  Many years ago I took it upon myself to record and publish accounts of some of the more interesting cases encountered by my friend Sherlock Holmes, in his role as the world’s first consulting detective.

  Or did I? The revelations of this latest case throw doubt on even this, the most obvious and straightforward of statements. I hesitate to continue; yet I wonder if I have any choice in the matter. Has anyone read even the first of these accounts? I ask this, even though if I raise my eyes I can see before me more than one leatherbound volume of Holmes’s exploits, as published under a name better known than that of John H. Watson.

  In the end, it does not matter; I have recorded our adventures as they happened, as best I could, even those that have not yet been relea
sed to the public. Now I have the duty of transcribing the final, and most curious, case of all, and at the end I must decide whether to publish the manuscript, or burn it.

  But write I must, for if I do not write it, I believe I shall go mad, if madness is possible. And as this is my decision, I shall endeavor to write it as clearly and precisely as any of his past adventures.

  • • •

  It was in the spring of 1899, with the sense of the new century awaiting us beginning to be felt all about, that I received a call from Mrs. Hudson, housekeeper for Holmes in his rooms at 221B Baker Street. I had, I admit, been remiss in maintaining contact with my old friend of late, for my beloved Mary had but recently passed away the past winter, and I had thrown myself into my work as an antidote. I was vaguely aware that Holmes continued his own work, due to occasional references to him in the paper.

  I answered the newly installed telephone myself, in the manner that I always did. “Dr. Watson’s residence, Watson speaking.”

  “Oh, thank goodness, Dr. Watson!”

  Despite the tinny sound of the connection, I instantly recognized the voice. “Mrs. Hudson! Is there something wrong?”

  “I should say so, Doctor. He’s been shut in his rooms for a week now. Takes hardly any food, hasn’t agreed to see a single caller, and all the day long I hear that violin of his, and it’s…just unnatural, sir!”

  “Unnatural?” I couldn’t quite grasp what could be unnatural about a violin. “You know he gets these fits, Mrs. Hudson—”

  “I know quite well his moods, Dr. Watson, and if this were anything of the ordinary sort I’d just have to bear it. But this is different, sir, very different. Listen, he’s playing now.”

  A telephone connection is hardly an ideal medium over which to appreciate music, but the faint strains I heard did cause a slight chill to trace its way down my spine. I have, of course, recounted how Holmes, when in a melancholy mood or otherwise distracted by some case, would play the violin for hours at a time, and that on occasion this would consist of improvised and sometimes eerie melodies. Yet what I heard through that distant connection seemed far more disturbed and alien.

  “I will be over at once, Mrs. Hudson,” I said.

  It took only a few moments to acquire a hansom. That disquieting melody filled me with foreboding, and I found myself suffering a considerable attack of guilt. Mary, bless her soul, had cared for Holmes as much as I, and she would never have wanted my mourning to extend to neglecting my friend.

  It was in this mood that I found myself once more on the threshold of 221B. Even in the entrance hall I could hear the strains of torturous notes pouring from my friend’s apartment, and so with but a nod at Mrs. Hudson I mounted the stairs to find the door locked. However, I had retained a key to the premises with the encouragement of both my friend and Mrs. Hudson, and this allowed me entry to the apartment.

  I was unsurprised to find the atmosphere extremely thick with smoke from the shag tobacco he favored. It was also not surprising, but still worrisome, to see that there were no lights on in the apartment. The music, somehow both frenetic and languid at once, came from the sitting room; staring through the gloom I could make out the tall, spare figure of Holmes seated in his favorite armchair, drawing the bow across the strings of his Stradivarius violin.

  As he either did not notice me or chose not to recognize my presence, I went to one of the lamps, turned up the gas, and lit the fire before I turned to face him.

  I was instantly struck by the ghastly pallor of his face. I had seen Holmes in the grip of terror from the noxious fumes of the Devil’s Foot, white with anger in more than one case, and in a state of fear and nervous excitement prior to the events related in “The Final Problem,” but never had I seen him so white and drawn as I did that afternoon. His pupils were widely dilated, and his dressing-gown sleeve failed to conceal a number of injection marks.

  “Good Lord, Holmes,” I said. “What is troubling you?”

  He squinted up at me. “Ah, Watson. Could I first trouble you to turn the gas down a bit? My eyes are accustomed to the dark.”

  I reduced the flow and brought the room to a half-lit twilight which was, at least, considerably better than the prior darkness. “What troubles you, Holmes?” I asked again, over the continuing strains of alien music.

  His gaze dropped away; the bow faltered, then went still. Without saying a word, Holmes carefully took the instrument and put it gently into its case.

  “You have not yet mastered the ways of the widower, Watson,” he said. “Your hat has not seen the brush for at least a week, among other indications.”

  This rejoinder, completely ignoring my concern or my words, left me speechless for a moment. This did, however, solidify my conviction that something was truly wrong, so I stepped forward and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Holmes, please. What is wrong?”

  I felt the shoulder twitch, and his entire lean frame shuddered for a moment. Then he took a great breath and rose, his gaze darting about the apartment.

  “How long?” he asked, then answered himself. “A week, I believe. Yes. This is Friday, yes?” he asked me.

  “It is.”

  “A week and a day, then. Yet perhaps not nearly long enough. Still, I could not expect Mrs. Hudson, let alone you, Watson, to ignore me forever.”

  The word ignore stung me, as I felt quite guilty already. “I’m sorry, Holmes. I should have—”

  “Not at all, Watson,” he said immediately. “My apologies, old friend; I did not mean in any way to imply that you were neglectful. Rather the opposite, in fact; I can rely on you absolutely.”

  “Then can I ask you to tell me what troubles you? For that fact is obvious even to someone who is not a consulting detective.”

  For the first time I saw a smile on his face; it was a weak, fleeting specimen of the breed, but a smile nonetheless. “I suppose it must be. Then tell me, Watson: what is one of my favorite dictums—one of the basic principles of my investigations?”

  I thought a moment, and recalled one expounded, in varying forms, in many of our cases. “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, howsoever improbable, must be the truth,” I said.

  “Excellent, Watson.” He reached for his pipe, glanced at the eddying fumes in the air, and visibly shook himself. Instead of lighting the pipe, he strode to the window and threw it open. “If we are to talk, I think more air and less smoke is in order,” he said.

  “And perhaps food and drink for you?”

  “Ah,” he said, shaking his head wryly, “I am not sure I am yet to that point.”

  “This is about a case, then?” I asked, realizing the point of his question.

  A shadow crossed his face. “Yes. A case which I can neither say is solved nor unsolved.”

  “You expound a mystery in a single sentence, Holmes. How can a case not be one or the other? It would seem—”

  “Impossible, yes. That is, truly, the crux of the matter, Watson.” He paced restlessly about the room; his fingers absently picked up a hypodermic needle and I saw him glance at a nearby case that I knew would contain a 7 percent solution of cocaine.

  Light began to dawn. “You have encountered a case which appears to feature something actually impossible.”

  “You see, Watson, this is why it sometimes drives me to distraction that you and others belittle your gifts. Perhaps you have not my peculiar faculties, yet you have more than the average intelligence and understanding of others.”

  “Then tell me, Holmes. I can see that this case is also driving you to distraction.”

  He looked down at the hypodermic. His hand tightened around it, and then he hurled the instrument against the wall. “You recall my usual motive for the use of cocaine, Watson?”

  “To alleviate boredom,” I answered.

  “Indeed, and in that capacity it has been a marvelous servant. But here…here for the first time I find I have been using it to distract me, to forget or ignore something I find intolerable…and
that, itself, is intolerable! Yes, Watson, I will tell you.”

  • • •

  “You are of course aware, Watson, that after the loss of your Mary I endeavored to entice you into some form of activity, participating in even the rather lackluster cases that then presented themselves to me. You were, alas, far too despondent—but no, please do not begin to blame yourself for what followed, old fellow! I assure you, you had every reason to mourn, and having seen this with my own eyes, I resolved to give you time to yourself. As I have never married, and had little to do with the affairs of the heart except inasmuch as they were involved in my profession, I could not pretend to know more about how to assist you in such a time.

  “In any event, I was not terribly affected, other than in the manner any friend might be by knowing his closest companion is in pain. I had, as I said, some lackluster cases that were nonetheless not entirely without points of interest, and I did keep myself busy.

  “Now, even in your grief, I daresay you might have heard of the unexpected death of the Earl of Carfax?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Died of some unknown illness, I understand.”

  “Unknown! Yes, that is indeed the case, Watson.” For a moment that distant, frightened look returned, but he closed his eyes, and when they opened, they held once more the controlled, slightly amused look I was accustomed to. “But at the time I had thought little of it; men die of illnesses often, and even with the great strides our medical men have made in their sciences, many illnesses still escape their classification; and of course he had traveled to India, and many curious diseases are found in the tropics which may lay dormant for years ere they strike suddenly and surely.