by C J Lutton
Sherlock Holmes and the Nefarious Seafarers
Book #3 in the Confidential Files of Dr. John H. Watson
C.J. Lutton
Joanna Campbell Slan
Dedicated to Rita Lutton –
She and I together - her son, my husband – she loved him, he loved her – he loved me, and I loved him. Our bond was the love and faith we had in CJ. We encouraged him to finish these books because they were where his heart was.
Publisher’s Note
In accordance with the previous work by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, we’ve made every attempt to use British spelling and vocabulary throughout. Also, the Bethlehem Hospital was pronounced as “Bedlam” when spoken, but written “Bethlehem.” Hence the nickname “bedlam,” meaning madness.
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Acknowledgement—
About the authors…
Sherlock Holmes and the Nefarious Seafarers: Book #3 from the Confidential Files of John H. Watson, M.D. by C.J. Lutton
Copyright © 2020 by the Estate of C. J. Lutton
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
C/o Joanna Campbell Slan
Spot On Publishing
9307 SE Olympus Street
Hobe Sound FL 33455 / USA
www.thesherlockstories.com
www.SpotOnPublishing.org
www.JoannaSlan.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Revised 06/26/2020
Cover art: http://www.WickedSmartDesigns.com
Sherlock Holmes and the Nefarious Seafarers: Book #3 from the Confidential Files of John H. Watson, M.D. by C.J. Lutton
Preface
From the Journals of Dr. John H. Watson—
To those so inclined, my long association with the great Sherlock Holmes may appear, at first blush, an incredible journey through life. We were valiant knights on a quest to rid the world of evildoers with the occasional slaying of a dragon along the way. This might seem to be a romantic’s ideal. After all, what child hasn’t dreamt of curing the world’s ills and ridding the populace of its least desirable elements?
Of that mythology, I can say this: Rooming with one of the most remarkable minds of our time afforded me the privilege of chronicling many of our exciting adventures. But as many of my readers are well aware, Holmes could be churlish and disagreeable when there were no cases to challenge his keen mind.
Once a puzzle presents itself, Holmes is dogged in his pursuit of the solution. No challenge along the way can pose an insurmountable impediment. I originally thought of his single-mindedness as courage, but upon reflection, courage takes a second-row seat to his focused willpower. Often he performs feats of unimaginable strength; multiple times he puts his life at extreme risk, and usually he deprives his body of the nourishment most of us crave. There is a driving force within him that compels the man past the limitations of human endurance when he seeks to right a wrong.
Another odd dichotomy is Holmes’ relationship with the Crown. He comes from a family of staunch royalists, and of course, his brother Mycroft is a protector of all the hereditary rights and respect due to the royal family. But Sherlock Holmes is not in awe of anyone, no matter what title or position that person might hold. Naturally, he is pleased when the Crown turns to him for assistance, but he does not seek self-promotion. In fact, he would rather operate as he puts it “in the shadows” because that hidden place allows him the most freedom to do what he must do to solve a crime.
I have never seen in Holmes any sort of prejudice against other people whether they differ in skin color or national origin. Admittedly, he sees most women as less capable than men, but he is observant enough to note there are exceptions to this sweeping generalization. Also, Holmes understands that the same social customs that have been put in place to protect women actually serve to trap them, forcing them into roles that deny them full exercise of their intellectual ability.
Indeed, Holmes is an admirer of science, praising it as a twin to intellect, because without the scientific method of inquiry, no progress will ever be made. “Logic is the language of science,” he has often said. “Logic is a byproduct of looking at those rules that underpin the functioning of the universe. When we approach that which is without logic, we see a deleterious waste of time, jumbled thinking, and wrongful expenditure of energy that get us nowhere.”
I share these observations on Holmes’ personality here, at the beginning of a new adventure, because I believe them to be pertinent. They go a long way in explaining behavior that at first blush might seem extreme or even preposterous. For during this case, we were called upon to enter environments totally beyond the bounds of our personal experience or expertise.
I leave it to our readers to decide whether what we did came down on the side of the angels or blackened our names forever.
— Preface by Dr. John H. Watson
1
In my experience, two extremes of weather conspire to keep the criminal population of London off the streets, and thus these extremes provoke equally intemperate behavior in the great Consulting Detective. Summer, with its broiling heat, its stink, and its unwholesome atmosphere, caused Holmes to act in a fretful manner that tried my patience. The depths of winter when frigid weather conjoined with ice and snow also gave my friend a plethora of reasons for bemoaning his fate. This week had been particularly cruel to him, as fresh snow added another layer of mischief to the streets.
“My mind must be stimulated!” Holmes grumbled. “Give me a problem to solve. A cipher to wrestle into clarity. A clue to follow! But do not force me to go without. This will not do, Watson.”
He punctuated with a jab of the fireplace poker, an action fraught with such intensity that the log he attacked spat spark
s all over Mrs. Hudson’s carpet. Most of the sparks extinguished themselves as quickly as they appeared, but two were more lively than the rest and flared up as they discovered the combustible wool floor covering.
“Good heavens, Holmes.” I jumped to my feet. Tearing the shawl off my shoulders, I beat the tiny fires until they were no more. “It is one thing to be melancholy and ill-tempered, but quite another to set the rooms on fire. Steady, man. This cold cannot persist forever. Have you read today’s paper? Are you sure there are no cries for help in the columns of the Times?”
“Perhaps.” Holmes cocked his head at an odd angle. Before he could expand on this paltry admission, he cried out, “Come in, Mrs. Hudson!”
Our landlady entered and handed Holmes an envelope. “A street urchin brought this. He said it was urgent, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes answered, loudly.
“Whatever happened here?” she scolded, looking at the charred spots on the carpet. “I thought I smelled wool burning!”
“My dear Mrs. Hudson, I told Dr. Watson that you would be most angry at his lack of care. As you can see, he tends the fire with little regard for the harm a stray spark can do! Rest assured, I have chastised him violently on this bad habit. I fear that I shall have to keep my eye on him every second lest he act so foolishly again. Good day to you, dear lady. ” Holmes rose to his feet and ushered a flustered Mrs. Hudson out, but not before she had the opportunity to glance back over her shoulder and cluck disapprovingly in my direction.
“I-I-I-I did no such—” But before I could mount a defense, Holmes had closed the door behind our landlady.
Holding himself upright by dint of resting his palms on his thighs, my friend bent at the waist and laughed uproariously. Wiping his eyes, he hugged his torso as he struggled not to topple over. “Ho! That was rich indeed.”
“Holmes!” I protested, embarrassed by his playful lie.
“Oh, Watson, I’m sure she knows who made the mess. Your reputation shall remain pure. Now, what could be so urgent?” he asked, tearing open the envelope and unfolding the note inside. “Short and direct!” he remarked, reading its contents.
“What does it say, Holmes?”
“We have a missing husband,” came the reply.
This time, I clucked disapprovingly. “What sort of fool would go out in weather such as this? Perhaps the man deserves to be lost! And more to the point, perhaps that note is from an hysterical woman who drove her husband from their home into the frigid air. I, for one, am sympathetic to the plight of a person living in close quarters with a madman.”
Holmes ignored my taunt. “Do not be so quick to dismiss this as the rantings of an hysterical woman. Perhaps this letter will be of some interest to you.” Holmes handed me the note.
I read the letter to myself: Husband Jeremy Morel missing, three weeks. Require your services, immediately! Will await your arrival. Please come. –Mrs. Maria Morel
It showed an address in Kennington. In fact, I knew the very street as I had cause to admire the homes there on more than one occasion. This was the sort of case that would no doubt command a handsome fee, an exorbitant one if my friend had not settled on fixed fees. The invitation was timely as we’d had the last of the bottle of whiskey last evening and purchasing more would be a considerable financial hardship on us both.
Taking long strides across the sitting room, Holmes moved to one of our two windows with alacrity. Throwing it open, and ignoring the blast of cold air that intruded, he put both fingers in his mouth and whistled an ear-splitting blast. This was his tried-and-true method for summoning the Baker Street Irregulars, as this shrill ejaculation carried for an incredible distance. Today would be no exception. Indeed, given the dearth of traffic on the streets, our environment was conducive to that whistle traveling farther than normal. Even so, I hated the idea of forcing one of Holmes’ young confederates to leave whatever warmth they could muster and race around the numbingly cold world that was London on this date in 1897.
I could not help but chastise my friend. “Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes. Those unruly children you use to run your errands will not venture out in such miserable weather. It’s too much for you to expect of them. In fact, I think it rather heartless—” and again I was interrupted. This time the knock on the door came at a level closer to the floor that a typical salutation.
“Get that, please, Watson.” Holmes slammed the window down, hard. A large chunk of ice cracked and fell from the architrave.
I opened the door to a creature so bundled up that I could scarce perceive any signs of humanity. Bouncing past me, the mite ran over and bowed in front of Holmes.
“Sir? You was wanting me?”
“Evans?” I asked with more than a little astonishment. “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be, Doctor?” The swaddled figure turned my way. Pulling a scrap of fabric serving as a muffler down to expose his eyes, he glared at me. Evans had replaced Wiggins as the leader of Holmes’ gang of street urchins who served as auxiliary eyes and ears for the world’s first consulting detective. In his own ingenious way, Holmes had seen the group’s leadership handed from one capable young person to the next. In short, he had tasked each leader with every aspect of grooming the next leader in line so that the responsibility for finding a new person as skilled, loyal, and trustworthy as the old remained a sacred trust. Of all the BSI leaders I’d known, Evans was undoubtedly one of the most intelligent. He was younger than some, and he normally wore such an expression of natural guilelessness that understandably he slipped in and out of situations where a less innocent-looking youngster would be detained.
“Evans, I want you to go to this address in Kennington. You will not need to take a note. Simply knock on the door, ask for Mrs. Morel, and tell her I shall come and see her this evening around half past seven.” Holmes spoke briskly, handing Evans a slip of paper on which he’d written the address in pencil. I believe there was also a coin folded into the note. While Evans committed the address to memory, Holmes reached for his black pipe, the one he called “that little black devil.” An imaginative illustrator of my tales took the liberty of giving my friend a calabash. The publisher and I went round and round about the inaccuracy of such a representation. Eventually, I threw up my hands in disgust and gave in.
Of course, Holmes had no use for such a large piece of gear as a calabash. An expensive and intricate pipe would be impractical for carrying around in one’s coat. The little black devil fit perfectly into those long, artistic fingers and could be hidden in a coat pocket. I dare say the pipe was not expensive and would be easy to replace, making it ideal for the sort of gymnastics that Holmes often endured. Indeed, buying a new “little black devil” would take hardly any effort at all.
“You got it, sir,” said Evans, crumpling and then tossing the paper into the fire. Turning on his heel, the boy ran out of the room. His light footfalls echoed as he galloped down the stairs.
“You were saying, Watson? Something about the weather being too cold for my Baker Street Irregulars? Hmm?”
Even the thought of moving about in that frozen diorama that spread beyond our cozy rooms sent a chill through the core of my being. “Really, Holmes, you are cruel to that boy. He’s little more than a child.”
“Watson, I am all that stands between that boy and a short, wretched life in the poorhouse. Evans knows full well that he can refuse my commissions at any time. If you think I am careless with the Baker Street Irregulars, think again. Remember that Wiggins has grown into a fine young man with a bright future. No, I would never take the welfare of the Irregulars lightly. They are an invaluable resource to me and to the Crown. In that spirit, I slipped Evans an extra coin, enough to feed him and his friends, because I know at this age in life, they are missing the amount of proper victuals necessary to sustain them in this filthy weather.”
I would not admit it to Holmes, as I did not want to belabor the point, but his thoughtfulness gratified me to
no end. The street urchins of London are a source of ongoing shame to those who have eyes to see and a heart to feel. Holmes had gathered the most extraordinary team of young people that I have ever seen, and they did his bidding with a perky diligence that suggested they valued the relationship from their end.
I went back to working on my journals, scanning the shorthand I invented for the purpose of keeping up with speech. Whilst recitations were fresh in my mind, it behooved me to go over my scrawled abbreviations and expand on them, bringing clarity and a sense of background to them all.
Thus I was fully absorbed when Evans knocked on our door once again. With flushed cheeks, he handed Holmes another thick piece of stationery. “That will be all, Evans,” said Holmes. The boy turned to go, but my earlier remarks must have pricked at Holmes’ conscience because he asked, “Evans? Is everything all right? How is your tribe?”
“Right as rain, sir. We found ourselves a nice spot with the money you gave me, and we’re keeping ourselves warm and toasty in this cold weather.” Evans stood as rigid as a soldier while making his report to Holmes.
