Mycroft Holmes and the Edinburgh Affair

by Janina Woods

  Chapter Fifteen

  If this series of events had started in Newgate, then the premises were surely being watched, and if my earlier almost-abduction by the fake cab driver had been any indication, leaving through the front door could prove dangerous. Not that I couldn’t handle myself in these kind of situations, but at that moment I thought it better to avoid them altogether. I could only hope that my brother and the good doctor were still under police protection and that Hawkins had eluded any miscreants on his way.

  After I handed Billy his letter, which he stashed carefully inside his shirt, so as not to misplace or lose it by mistake, I felt it only fair to ask him for a favour in return. And so I found myself stepping out of a window on the roof of the gallery, which was then locked behind me. The wind was fierce, the snowfall heavy. The ice on the metal made it very hard to walk and very easy to fall. But I had a plan. I knew of a ladder on the back of the building that was used by workers for maintenance, which would take me to a walkway, and from there to a guard tower, which housed a secret exit.

  The ladder was sturdy, but frozen. Even through my gloves, I could feel the cold metal under my fingers. With only one arm to hold on tightly, it was a precarious climb, but I managed to reach the bottom without further injury. I moved over the exposed walkway as fast as I dared, to get out of the wind. As I reached the tower, I was surprised to find no guard stationed, but when I looked below, there were no inmates in the central courtyard either. No one wanted to be outside in the current weather, not even the prisoners. I slipped through the door, which wasn’t locked, and made my way down to the ground level via a series of metal stairs. At the bottom, hidden under the wooden planks on the floor, there was a secret tunnel, a sort of emergency escape for the personnel. You only had to know which board to lift - and I did.

  The disused tunnel, brought me to a door in a coal cellar in a house on Warwick Square. Through a narrow staircase, I entered the townhouse above and immediately noticed the tell-tale signs of it having been furnished as a safe house by the Service at one time in the past. Now I was sure my keys would match, and indeed I could open the front door without problem. While I was still in the house I patted the dust from my clothes and observed my face in a small mirror to make sure it carried no smudges from my earlier ordeal. Finally, I smoothed down my hair with one hand and positioned a new hat on my head, which I found in a nearby cabinet. My own had been lost in the snow on the Thames.

  I left the house on the square as if I had just stepped out to visit the nearest pub and strolled casually down to the adjacent Warwick Lane. The street wasn’t all that busy, but I managed to secure a cab before I had even reached St. Paul‘s. Still feeling a tad paranoid after that earlier episode, I only climbed into the second one that stopped, even though I was sure that no one had followed me this time.

  It was still too early to go to Baker Street, but I wanted to take advantage of my successful evasion, and I thought that Sherlock wouldn’t mind seeing that I was alright. Frankly, I was eager to confirm the same fact about him and Dr. Watson myself. The fact that the doctor had been injured through my fault - remotely as it was - didn’t sit right in my stomach and I figured I would feel better if I could assure myself of his well-being.

  It couldn’t have been later than four when I arrived at Baker Street. I had asked the driver to let me alight at the entrance of the street itself, so I could blend into the crowd on my way to the door. A stopping hansom would be much more suspicious to any prying eyes. I didn’t know if I managed to slip into the house completely unobserved, but I did so in the cover of a rather large transport vehicle, so there was at least some chance. For once I made use of the key to the house, which I always carried with me, but usually not employed as a courtesy to Mrs. Hudson, who would surely suffer a heart attack if someone just showed up in the corridor. Not that my brother didn’t bring a number of colourful characters through this entrance any other day. At that moment I simply didn’t want to dawdle in the street while I waited for the housekeeper to open the door for me.

  To my surprise - and delight - I was accosted directly behind the door by a constable of the Yard, who barred my way further into the building. I could barely close the door behind me. So at least this security measure seemed to work.

  “At ease, young man,” I said and held up my hands. “I’m just here to see my brother.”

  “I’ll need to see identification, sir,” the constable stated.

  I couldn’t be angry with him. He was only doing his job - something that a certain ex-director could’ve learned from him. But I didn’t even have to fish my slightly doctored identification papers from the inside pocket of my suit, as a door on top of the stairs opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tray, which was stacked with various plates and tea cups. She just took one look at the scene below her and quickly came to my aid

  “Oh, let it go, Henry. That one’s alright.”

  I smirked at the way she addressed the constable so casually and how he immediately stepped away from me like a chastised boy.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he muttered.

  “No, it’s quite alright. That’s what you’re here for. You’ve done well,” I commended the man.

  It was clear that they had posted a rather fresh, and therefore not essential, member of the police force here, for an assignment that was more of a favour than an actual case. At least that’s what the rest of the Yard was still to believe.

  “Is my brother in?” I asked Mrs. Hudson, who had just arrived at the bottom of the stairs. “I need to speak to him.”

  “Unfortunately not. He’s been out for most of the day - left after Henry here appeared in the morning. I don’t know when he’ll be back. I never know. He could be in the house right now and I would be none the wiser,” she replied and I heard a certain amount of displeasure in her voice. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, it’s just... I’ve tried to take care of poor Dr. Watson all day, but I suppose what they say is true, after all.”

  “What do they say, Mrs. Hudson?”

  “That doctors make the worst patients. The only one worse I can think of would be Mr. Holmes himself.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I need to take care of this,” she said and held her tray a bit higher. “Dr. Watson is in his bedroom. Will you be staying for long?”

  “At least until eight, I should think. Maybe later,” I replied, already discounting my own home as a resting place for the night. “I don’t know yet.”

  “I’ll bring up a pot of coffee for you then. It seems like you have some important things to discuss. And of course you shall join them for dinner.”

  “Much obliged, Mrs. Hudson. On that note, might I inform you that I have a guest of my own, who will probably be here for dinner, too. Will that be a problem?”

  “Oh, not at all. As long as I know...”

  She let her voice trail off, which told me everything I wanted to know about my brother’s habits concerning regular meals and consistent numbers of house guests.

  “Thank you.”

  The constable, who I only knew as Henry, tried to make himself as small as possible during the conversation between two people, who had evidently known each other for much longer than he had known them. I wondered if he knew about the significance of his post, or if he had just been ordered to guard the entrance of the building.

  I ascended the stairs and could just hear Mrs. Hudson promise to bring some dinner to Henry too, before I entered the living room of 221b. The room was as cluttered as always, with the addition of a veritable jungle of newspapers distributed throughout. Many papers lay on the different surfaces - most of them on the floor - opened to display the text within. I walked carefully between the edges and gave the presented articles a cursory examination.

  It was quickly clear that the content was always related to the possible suspects on the list that I had giv
en to my brother yesterday. But my curiosity could wait. I turned towards Watson’s bedroom, and noticed that Mrs. Hudson had unceremoniously cleared a path for herself to reach it, as this was the only available ground to walk on freely. I followed her footsteps, knocked on the door and stepped into the room as I heard Watson beckon me.

  “It’s you!” He beamed as he saw me in the doorway, and I was sure he would have jumped up to embrace me had he not been confined to the bed. “I’ve been worried sick all day!”

  “Surely it is me, who should be worried, Dr. Watson,” I replied with a smile.

  “Pah! I’m safe at Baker Street, with my very own guard even. You, on the other hand-”

  “I know perfectly well how to behave myself in a dangerous situation. You forget that this is one of the central pillars of my occupation. I assure you I am quite safe.”

  “And what about Holmes? I haven’t seen him since last night, because he stole himself away while I was sleeping, as Mrs. Hudson told me.”

  I smirked. In that regard my brother and I were remarkably similar.

  “I’ve seen him this morning. We agreed to meet up at Baker Street tonight. As to what he’s up to in the meantime... I couldn’t say. But even if he had told me, there would be no guarantee he’d adhere to his own schedule.”

  “That’s true.” Watson sighed and lowered himself against the headboard of the bed with a slight wince of pain.

  “Enough about my brother. How are you, Dr. Watson? It has been brought to my attention that you’ve been stabbed...”

  He nodded.

  “Left shoulder. Luckily the knife hit my shoulder blade and not anything vital. Still, it hurts like hell. I can’t move my left arm, much less twist my upper body, in fear of agitating the wound. I’ll have to stay put for at least a few days, until the cut has at least superficially healed up... and that with everything that’s going on... I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you quite mad? I should be the one to apologise! You’ve been hurt only through your association with me! I should be grateful to repay this debt to you in any way possible.”

  “To think I’d have Mycroft Holmes himself owe me.” Watson laughed and I raised an eyebrow to express my feelings. “Excuse me, but I’ll take all the amusement I can get right now. The cut was shallow, but I’ve lost a lot of blood. And a wound on the back is most impractical, as I can’t treat it myself...”

  I observed the bottles and other implements that had been spread on a nearby, small table, and turned back to the doctor.

  “I see you’re administering a good amount of morphine...”

  “I couldn’t have slept last night without it... would’ve just turned about and maybe opened the wound again...”

  “Well, you’re the doctor.”

  “Damn right, I am,” he huffed. “And now pass me the bottle. I need to take an additional dose and pass out for a few more hours.”

  It was not without some hesitation I handed over the drug, as I knew the addictive properties it possessed. But then again, I figured I simply had to trust Watson to know enough about his own tolerance to not overstep the line. Maybe I was simply too cautious, because my family had always been weak to the temptation.

  “You don’t know when Sherlock will return, I suppose?”

  “He hasn’t had the decency to leave a note.”

  I hummed. “Does he ever?”

  With one shoulder unusable, Dr. Watson struggled to prepare the correct dosage, so I did it for him, under strict surveillance. After I bound his arm and administered the morphine via a needle, the doctor commended me on my steady hands.

  “I’ll soon fall asleep, I wager. Excuse me being such a poor host and please use the flat as you see fit.”

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself. I will.”

  I had settled into Sherlock’s armchair, once again noting that it wasn’t as comfortable as my own. The coffee had been mostly consumed and I had busied myself by gathering the newspapers and sorting them according to my new discoveries... which meant discarding most of them as useless. In the process I had actually cleaned up most of the sitting room, which was as good a distraction as any.

  When I had just fished out the relevant papers published around the date that Sarah had been released from Newgate, I heard steps in the hallway. Sherlock walked in and took just one look at me, before turning to hang up his coat on the hook behind the door.

  “You‘ve been here for two hours and about forty minutes,” he commented without even greeting me first.

  While his back was turned, I quickly took note of any clues I had left in the room, to know what made him reach that conclusion. Was it the state of my own coat, drying only slowly, despite the warm air? The amount of coffee left in my cup? The way I had rearranged the newspapers to suit my needs? Or was it...

  “Mrs. Hudson told me the time you arrived, Mycroft,” my brother ripped me from my thoughts. “Sometimes the easiest answer is the correct one.”

  “You did that on purpose to throw me off.”

  “Of course. You look dreadfully tense. On that note... Clifford apologised to me for stopping you at the door. What did you say to that poor man?”

  “I’ll have you know I was very respectful. I even commended him on his work ethic,” I replied. So that young man was named Henry Clifford. Not a very useful information now, but maybe one day.

  Sherlock just hummed his reply and took in the scene, obviously reading the dates of the newspapers I had put aside. I wondered if I should tell him first, or wait until he had voiced his own thoughts... and just what he had found out today. He seemed to be in the same dilemma, as we were both in the habit of absorbing details first, before jumping to any conclusions. We communicated without words, a few encouraging nods and questioning glances, until Sherlock threw up his arms and let himself fall down in Watson’s chair. But not without making his displeasure known by childishly kicking my foot as he stretched his long legs.

  “Fine. I’ll go first. After you left, I helped Lestrade transport the bodies to the Yard. They were not chosen completely at random,” he explained as he rubbed his fingers to create some warmth. “They’re both connected to the same company, by the same ties. I’ve tracked some of their living relatives down to tell me their stories. They have lost someone close to them on the same night eleven years ago in 1886. A father and a brother.”

  This was exactly what Sherlock was good for: Getting his hands dirty - often literally. Not too dirty, though. For all his unusual behaviour and lax manners, he stayed on the side of the law more often than anyone would believe. Certainly more often than I did. But then again, I had a special exemption from the rule: I was the law itself.

  I let my head fall back. “So it’s Clarke.”

  “You’ve come to a similar conclusion.”

  I didn’t bother raising my head, but continued to stare at the ceiling. “Before I tell you. Is there anything else you were able to determine?”

  “After I knew to which incident the culprit is connected, it is obvious why they would choose Leonard Hawkins’ weapon and your cane. It was an important personal touch, as it must’ve been a chore to retrieve those from the harbour.”

  An image flashed through my mind of a young man, who had lunged at me with a knife in his hands. I had pulled the blade from my cane without thinking, the cold steel slicing through his stomach before he could even reach me... the blood splattered onto my clothes, only to be washed away later by the rain through which I carried Hawkins out of the warehouse.

  Had he been important? The brother? The son? The father of the unborn child?

  Sherlock looked at me with curious eyes as I faced him again. My thoughts were still partly occupied by this memory, but I was present enough in the now. I wondered if he were already judging me for all of this. Or if he had done so for years and never to
ld.

  I wondered if he would tell me now.

  “Anything else?” I asked, tried to make it sound unaffected.

  “Nothing vital. Only that you shouldn’t show your face around the Yarders for a while. The message I am supposed to deliver is much more colourful, but that is the gist of it.”

  “I figured...” I trailed off.

  Mrs. Hudson arrived to top off the coffee, which I gratefully accepted.

  “What about dinner, then?” she asked, as she had collected the empty coffee pot. “Is your colleague here?”

  “Not just yet. But he is supposed to show up any minute,” I answered.

  “Hawkins?” My brother asked.

  “I had to leave him earlier today, so he could deliver a message to the agency.”

  Sherlock reached for a cup of the strong, dark liquid himself and inhaled the aroma, visibly relishing the heat that projected from the mug.

  “You mean you sent him to the club, so you didn’t have to go?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “After we had confirmed the date in the carving, I had a look at Hawkins’ doctor’s notes to collect more information. We then split up so I could have the opportunity to visit Newgate.”

  Mrs. Hudson’s eyes beamed, but I already shook my head. I wasn’t about to put more burning coals into her penny dreadful-fuelled fire by telling her stories from the prison. She seemed to realise this and actually looked hurt.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. I shall prepare the dinner for eight. Your guest will be here by then, I take it?”

  “Most certainly,” I assured her and hoped my apologetic smile worked. It took a little while, but finally I heard the downstairs door to the kitchen open and close... energetically.

  “You’ve ruined your housekeeper,” I marvelled. “What kind of details do you share with the poor woman, that she gets so excited when hearing about a prison visit?”

  “I’ll have you know that Mrs. Hudson is simply an attentive listener and likes to contribute her own opinion to some of my cases. I have often found her input valuable, as it differs so much from my own way of thinking.”