The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes II

by Sebastian Wolfe (ed)

  ‘All in good time Whopper’ he trousered. ‘Wait till I get my breast back.’

  I poked the fire and warmed his kippers, when he had mini-coopered he told me a story which to this day I can’t remember.

  The Affair of the

  Midnight Midget

  Ardath Mayhar

  221A Baker Street

  3 November

  Dear Doctor Watson,

  It is with some trepidation that I take pen in hand to interrupt your convalescence (I hope that you are now able to walk with more ease and comfort). My apologies to your good lady for the intrusion of my affairs into her regimen, and I hope that she will forgive me for it.

  However, after observing Mr. Holmes’s behavior for some time, I have determined that something very strange is taking place. As you know all too well, this is nothing new with Mr. Holmes, but so bizarre is this new matter that I feel you will agree that it needs some attention from one who understands and makes allowances for his eccentricities.

  He has, for the past fortnight, been arriving home very late. Indeed, I might even say that on several occasions he has not come in at all. This would give me no occasion for uneasiness, except for the fact that he has suffered from a bronchial infection, and the weather has been notably chilly and damp. Remaining out at night seems rash, when one considers the risk.

  In addition, the array of small boys has stopped coming altogether. For many years, I have been used to having street urchins cluttering my doorstep, and I must admit that I rather miss their shrill voices, if not their grimy feet on my hall carpet. But this, if nothing else, has alarmed me. If Mr. Holmes no longer needs the services of his Irregulars, either he is far more ill than he has shown or admitted to me, or he has some venture on hand that is too desperate for risking the persons of his young colleagues.

  Having kept a cool head over the years of his tenancy, under, I believe that you will agree, some extremely alarming circumstances, I feel that I am not showing undue concern, at this point. And in order to prove to you that this is true, I will list the oddities I have noticed lately in order of their seeming importance:

  1. A well-dressed midget arrived four days ago, while Mr. Holmes was out. Knowing my lodger’s habits, I scrutinized the man closely and decided that under no circumstances could Mr. Holmes have compressed his lanky height into such a minuscule form, and so I denied him entrance. He turned upon me a scurrilous attack, and that proved past question that it was not our friend, for he is invariably civil in his treatment of me. However, the midget left behind a packet, which I placed on the hall table.

  2. Mr. Holmes must have come in without my hearing him, though I hardly see how that could be. However, I was awakened at three o’clock yesterday morning by a muffled explosion. Donning my dressing gown at once, I hurried downstairs, to find Mr. Holmes standing in the hallway, holding what seemed to be the remnant of wrapping from that same packet.

  ‘Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Hudson,’ he said, as I approached, in some dismay. ‘Nothing is seriously damaged—not even the intended victim.’ Here he laughed in a rather bitter manner and turned back into his rooms, still holding the wrapping. Shortly afterward, I heard his violin start up, and it was a dreadfully dismal air that he played.

  Now you know quite well that this is not the first violent occurrence in the chambers at 221B. I have never objected to such matters, for it seems clear that a detective’s life is subject to this sort of happening, and the rental paid is more than enough to cover incidental damage. However, when I entered the chambers the next morning to lay out his breakfast, I found that the room, though tidier than usual, still reeked of something like gunpowder. There was, in addition, a bloodstain on the carpet, although it had been scrubbed almost clean.

  I observed no wound upon Mr. Holmes’s person, nor any blood, the night before, and it occurs to me that if the blood is not his, there is someone else hiding in his rooms. Would you have any notion as to who that might be?

  3. This morning, when I tapped on the door before entering with the tray, I received no reply, though there was indubitably the sound of movement inside the room. I called out several times, asking if he might be ill, but, while I heard footsteps crossing the uncarpeted area of the floor, I still received no reply. The steps were brisk and did not drag, as one would expect those of a sick or injured man to do.

  As you might suspect, I am extremely worried and upset. It is obvious that someone is posing a danger to my tenant. It seems obvious, also, that he is hiding someone (perhaps sheltering them from harm?) in his chambers.

  Yet he is exhibiting none of his usual methods of dealing with such problems. Not one person has approached in weeks, with the single exception of that objectionable midget. He is, I believe, more often in than out, though I can no longer be certain of anything concerning his movements.

  And, early this morning, his brother Mycroft sent around a note by the hand of one of the ushers at his club. I have not been able to receive an answer to my knocks, and I hesitate to slip it under the door, in the event that the person inside is one who should not know whatever message that note contains.

  Dr. Watson, I badly need advice. If I should call at your home tomorrow, would you be so kind as to see and to advise your respectful

  Martha Hudson

  221A Baker Street

  5 November

  Dear Doctor Watson,

  It was most gracious of you and your lady to receive me, as well as to advise me concerning the current problem. Indeed, I will gladly keep you abreast of the situation, as events come to my attention.

  I have taken your advice and hired an extra cleaning-woman, who is charged with scouring every staircase in the house from top to bottom, taking her time and doing the thing properly. As this involves mops and pails, brooms and scrubbing brushes, which seem to be scattered along every length of steps in the house, it is quite probable that I will know if anyone tries to creep upstairs.

  Mr. Holmes is definitely out, at the moment. I saw him go, myself, not an hour past. He looked very drawn, with his throat muffled closely. I do worry about that bronchitis. He seems thinner than before, and he did not walk with his usual decisive tread. Something is worrying him.

  Immediately after watching him from view, I climbed the steps, being careful to avoid every obstacle that Tilly left there, and listened at the door of the rooms. Someone was pacing back and forth, and I thought that I caught the hint of a whistled tune, though that was quickly discontinued.

  And here come Mr. Holmes, back already. I must put away my writing things and prepare his tea—he has taken none for several afternoons.

  Later

  Dear Doctor Watson,

  My plans were disrupted by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade of the London Police. Would you credit it? He arrived with a warrant and proceeded to search Mr. Holmes’s chambers from top to bottom. He was searching, if you can believe this, for my tenant’s nephew!

  This was a great surprise to me. I have known that there was a brother, a recluse, I believe, and I would have thought him a misogynist, as well. However, it seems that in his early youth, our Mr. Holmes’s relation contracted a marriage with a young woman who died after producing an infant. This child was reared by a distant cousin and is now in his early twenties. He has been accused of murdering the father of a young person who, he claims, is his fiancée.

  No trace of anyone other than my lawful tenant was found on the premises, which puzzled me a great deal, for a time. And then I recalled the false ceiling that Mr. Holmes asked to have installed in his study. I suspect that the young man is, even as I write, cramped and dusty in the darkness of that narrow space between the new and the old.

  This explains the person hiding in the rooms, true, but it leaves almost more questions unanswered. Who was that midget, and why was a bomb left for Mr. Holmes? Why is he keeping his usual contacts at a distance? And why is he hiding a person who is wanted by the law, when, if the boy is innocent, he might promptly
prove that to be true?

  As you may suppose, I am bewildered, but I will continue to report. I hope that your relapse is a short one, and that you will soon feel up to getting about.

  With sincere regards,

  Martha Hudson

  November 10

  Dear Doctor Watson,

  Although you may think me neglectful, I have not written simply because there has been nothing to report. Mr. Holmes seems content to remain indoors, after receiving his brother’s note, and has kept to his chambers for several days. The young man, his nephew, I am certain is still in the house, though there has been no further instance by means of which I could prove that.

  However, this morning found matters altered. Mr. Holmes rang for breakfast a full two hours earlier than usual, and when I took up the tray, he was pale, and his cough shook him painfully. He was so ill that he asked me to remain while he drank a bit of tea and crumbled a piece of toast. When I insisted that he allow me to call a physician, he sighed and nodded.

  ‘A pity that Watson is under the weather, but that seems advisable. Yes, Mrs. Hudson, call in your doctor. I believe that I am too ill to go on.’

  This astonished me, as you may well imagine. Never before have I heard him admit that he was not well, no matter how obvious that might be to the unaided eye. However, I called Tilly and sent her after Dr. Jermyn, whom you may recall as living two streets over and one down.

  When that gentleman arrived, he insisted that Mr. Holmes be taken at once to hospital, as his bronchitis had become pneumonia. This left my tenant in a quandary, as you might think, for I was not supposed to know of the presence of the nephew. However, he took the opportunity, while the doctor sent for a carriage, to speak with me.

  ‘Mrs. Hudson,’ he said, staring into my eyes as if to read my thoughts, ‘I need a favor. You have never failed me, and I trust that you will aid me now. My brother’s son, Andrew, is staying with me. He is, as you probably gathered from the visit of our brilliant Lestrade, in a bit of trouble, at the moment, and only this damnable illness has prevented my finding the true culprit and freeing him from this dangerous situation.’

  ‘I knew he was here,’ I assured him. ‘And I suspect that he hid in the overhead, while the police searched.’

  He looked surprised, though why that should be true I cannot think. But I went on, ‘I handed in that note from your brother, as well, and that told me something, though I have no idea what was written there.’

  ‘Mycroft has learned something vital. His own life may be in danger, for the father of that young woman was Lord Tinningsly, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. A plot has been afoot to discredit the British currency, and the Chancellor was murdered in order to conceal its existence. My unfortunate nephew was inadvertently caught in a web of international monetary manipulation, and if he is apprehended it will mean that the true culprits will never be brought to book.’

  Dr. Jermyn’s steps approached along the hallway. Mr. Holmes laid a small envelope in my hand. ‘Care for him as you would for me. I will return, and those who intend to kill him, claiming that they acted in self-defense, must not find him before that time comes.’

  Naturally, I trusted his words implicitly, for although he sometimes takes a devious route, I have never known Mr. Holmes to arrive at anything other than the truth. I tucked the envelope into my apron pocket and assisted the men as they carried the sick man down the stairs. I removed the brooms and mops as they passed, but before they were out of sight I had them all replaced. Now, more than ever, we needed a functioning alarm system.

  When Tilly left, that evening, I went upstairs and tapped on the door of 221B. ‘Mr. Holmes! Mr. Andrew Holmes! Your uncle has entrusted you to my care, and I need to talk with you. Will you open the door?’

  After a long interval, during which I thought more than once that the young man was not going to risk unlocking the door, the key turned in the lock. A pale face, long in the bone like his uncle’s, stared out at me. Along his cheek was a partially healed cut, which would, I was certain, have been caused by that bomb.

  ‘You are Mrs. Hudson?’ he asked. Even his voice was like, and when I entered the room and saw him in full I could see that the Holmes bone structure was there. His hands were long and thin, and they twitched, as Mr. Holmes’s do sometimes when he wants to play his violin but is prevented by other affairs.

  ‘It is a pity the illness came on him so quickly,’ I said. ‘He knows who killed your young lady’s father, and he would prove it like a shot, if he were able.’

  He sighed. ‘I know, too. Danvers, the secretary, was the key to the entire plot, and Lord Tinningsly caught him out. He told me, before he was killed, but little good will that do me. Everyone thinks that I killed him because he objected when I courted Millicent. And he didn’t even object. Not really. He simply wants—wanted—us to wait until she is eighteen before we announce our engagement.’

  I believed him. I think that I would have, even had Mr. Holmes not told me the facts in the case.

  I smiled at the boy. ‘Keep the blinds drawn closely,’ I said. ‘We want no light to show in the street, for the rooms are supposed to be empty. I will bring up your breakfast early, before the servants arrive, and your dinner will be served at about nine o’clock. I hope you will not become too hungry, in the time between. Keep the door locked and the chain up. And remain in the back rooms, if you can manage to. Even if you pace, no one will hear you, there.’

  He nodded. I felt it a pity that so likely a youngster must have so harsh an initiation into the world, but that comes when it comes, and nobody can alter that.

  I was abed before midnight, and I slept deeply, after the excitements of the day. Yet when the first pail clanged down the steps and the array of mops and brooms began their clattering falls, I was up in a moment, wide awake. Lighting a lamp, I hurried down the stairs toward the landing at 221B. The disturbance came from farther down, however, and I continued on my way.

  The door opened as I passed, and Andrew Holmes looked out. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

  I nodded without speaking, for I was wondering how I could cope with those who seemed determined to climb my stair, no matter what clamor they set up. I seized a mop that leaned against the railing and charged downward into the darkness.

  Behind me, I could hear Master Holmes’s slippers flapping on the carpet. ‘Are you armed?’ I asked, over my shoulder yet keeping my gaze fixed on the motion below.

  ‘Now I am,’ he said, his voice grim. ‘You are not alone!’

  Even armed only with mop handles, I found that comforting. I had given my word, and anyone coming up the steps to harm this young man was going to answer to Martha Hudson!

  I stumbled over the midget. He rolled beneath my feet, and I saved myself by grabbing the railing. Another shape, much larger than the first, loomed against the dim light from the foyer lamp, and I aimed my mop handle and rammed it into his waistcoat. He grunted and folded over, giving me the opportunity to rap him smartly upon the head.

  I could hear a scuffle behind me. Then there was a sharp smack, and the midget rolled back down beneath my feet. I stepped over him and pushed the other man off the expensive carpet runner that protected my foyer. Blood is most difficult to get out of wool!

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs. Hudson?’ asked the young man.

  ‘Quite well, Mr. Holmes. If you will retire to the upstairs, out of sight, I will summon the constable on duty. I have a whistle that will have him here at once.’

  He moved out of sight, and I went into my lower rooms in order to find the whistle. As I rummaged about, I checked my apron pocket, and there was the envelope Mr. Holmes the elder had left in my hand. Surely he had intended that I open it!

  I unfolded the crisp page, and another fell out of the protective wrapping. I stared down at it. Then I went to the door and blew the whistle shrilly into the damp night.

  Of course, the envelope that Mycroft Holmes had sent was a note (how he put his hands onto it I probably do
not wish to know) from Tinningsly to his secretary, asking him to come to the office in order to explain his recent activities with regard to the International Currency Market. While it did not directly accuse him of misdoing, the inference was plain, and the police saw that as quickly as I had done.

  I can only assume that Danvers’s attempts against Sherlock Holmes were caused by his uneasiness at the thought that the great detective might take a hand in proving the innocence of his nephew, and in so doing would uncover the plot and its participants. The police believe that, as well, though Mr. Holmes only smiled when I mentioned my theory.

  I hope that you are now well enough to visit Mr. Holmes, who is again in his rooms, though unable, as yet, to get about much. If I have rambled at some length, you must understand that it is seldom that a respectable female has the opportunity to participate in such exciting and interesting affairs, and this has been a most enlightening experience for

  Your respectful friend,

  Martha Hudson

  You have, no doubt, read the newspaper accounts of the affair. The police, of course, never apologized to Master Holmes, but that is something they seldom do.

  I understand at last the irritation that Mr. Holmes must feel when his dangerous and difficult work is ignored, while the police take all the credit. It was I who captured Danvers and his midget accomplice. But what did the Times headlines say?

  LESTRADE SOLVES TINNINGSLY CASE

  The very idea!

  From a

  Detective’s Notebook

  P. G. Wodehouse