Sherlock Holmes and the Nefarious Seafarers

by C J Lutton

  Mrs. Morel’s “maid” showed us to her parlour. Linton seemed as gruff as ever, and Mrs. Morel seemed preoccupied. Her manner of greeting us was subdued. Rather than her focused attention, as we had before, her mind was clearly distracted. Once Holmes and I took to our chairs, she muttered, “That will be all, Linton.”

  Turning to us, she said, “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, thank you both for coming with such alacrity. May I introduce to you to Captain Hobbes-Nesmith, an old friend of my family?”

  The newcomer was a patrician-looking man with a thin nose, a broad high forehead, and perfect posture. His eyes wore an air of sadness, and the pain they had seen caused a crease in the man’s brow. His size and weight were not remarkable, but the naval uniform he wore made up for any ordinary aspect of his physique. Medals and ribbons decorated his chest and left no room for plain fabric to show.

  Handshakes were exchanged all around. The roaring fire had dutifully heated the small room so that our outerwear immediately was too heavy. My hat and scarf came off first and then I unbuttoned my coat. Holmes was doing the same when Mrs. Morel’s expression changed from expectant to horrified. “Linton!” she said. “Linton!”

  I wondered why she did not ring the bell as it was within easy reach of her fingers. However, her repeated calls for the parlour maid seemed to do the job just as well. Linton raced into the parlour. Her small, narrow-set green eyes went from Holmes to me, from me to Holmes, and repeated the pattern. We were dripping the frozen water and wet horse droppings on the fine Oriental carpet that graced the sitting room.

  Linton immediately saw the problem. “Oy, I suppose I ought to take your coats and things,” she said at last. Clearly, such a courtesy was an afterthought. I could hear Mrs. Morel’s pent-up explosion of frustration. “You will have to clean this carpet, Linton, as soon as the gentlemen are gone.”

  It struck me then that I had never heard a lady give housekeeping orders to a staff member when a guest was visiting. Never. The sign of a proper household was an effortless machine that hummed behind the scenes, offering a sanctuary away from the cares of the world. To speak of these cares was to note their existence. I wondered if Holmes had caught the slip, too.

  “Once you’ve taken care of their outerwear, please bring us a nice pot of tea, won’t you, Linton?”

  The girl’s eyes flew wide. “Tea?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Actually,” began Holmes, “I would much prefer a tot of rum.”

  “What? Rum?” The woman said, and then recovered herself. “Uh, sir, I shall try my best. The mister, um, he’s awful careful about sharing his liquor, he is. It ain’t like the cellar is open for me to grab whatever a guest is wanting, sir.”

  Holmes said nothing. The silence weighed on me and the detective, but Mrs. Morel did not seem to notice. Instead, she fussed with the ruffle on her sleeves.

  “All right,” Linton confirmed, but her voice betrayed her confusion. “If it’s rum you’re wanting, then I’ll see to it straight away. After I get your outer garments sorted.” Struggling under the weight of the coats, scarves, and gloves, she hurried out of the room.

  “Captain Hobbes-Nesmith arrived a few minutes ago with news about my husband. I thought it prudent for him to share his thoughts directly rather than to hear them from me secondhand,” said Mrs. Morel. In her lap was a linen handkerchief that had been twisted into a knot.

  “Watson? Please take notes,” said Holmes, as he slouched in his chair and closed his eyes. This meditative pose often disturbs others as they take it to mean the detective has dozed off. Nothing could be further from the truth. While his senses are turned inward, my friend marshals all his attention and directs it towards a problem.

  I took out my notebook and pencil, balancing them on my knee. When I was ready, I said to the captain, “Please proceed.”

  Hobbes-Nesmith launched into a long dissertation. It seemed that he was in the port of Marseilles when he bumped into Mr. Morel. Morel told him that he expected to be home in less than a fortnight. Captain Hobbes-Nesmith duly expected to see Morel when he returned to London. But after making inquiries at the regular spots frequented by his friend, Hobbes-Nesmith learned that Morel had not arrived. “My own ship, the Oriana, left Marseilles three days after Mr. Morel was due to depart. We docked in Wapping two days ago. By all calculations, he should have been home already. We took the same route as he did. We didn’t see any signs of bad weather—and we would have sailed through storms too, if they’d been happening along the route we usually take. So I’m at a loss to say where Jonas Morel could be!”

  Mrs. Morel dabbed her eyes delicately with her handkerchief. “Mr. Holmes, have you any news? I realise that it’s only been one day, and I am pressing you on a matter that cannot be resolved easily. Forgive me, but the man I love is out there somewhere, and I fear for him.” Her eyes moistened with unshed tears. She really was a magnificent creature.

  Holmes confounded my expectations. I thought he would tell Mrs. Morel and her friend what we had learned about the ship’s cargo. I imagined he would share, with some pride, that we knew the Celestial had a sister ship. Although I am long accustomed to Holmes surprising me, I had not expected for him to disappoint me by sharing none of the important information we had gathered. None! Sliding his eyes my way, I detected a message from him. Even though the gesture was coy, having known Holmes all these years, I trusted I had caught his drift. He was asking me to stay silent.

  “Sadly, Mrs. Morel, we have learned nothing,” Holmes said.

  My mouth went slack in surprise. I thought he would at least offer a reassuring bromide. Instead, he’d totally neglected to share any portion of what we’d done to advance our cause. Again, my friend gave me a quick glance, mute testimony that I was to keep my counsel.

  Holmes’ eyes were alert and thoughtful as he said, “Captain Hobbes-Nesmith, would you be so kind as to trace for me the route your ships commonly take? Doctor Watson, I would appreciate if you act as my amanuensis so I can turn my full concentration to what the good captain tells us.”

  “Just so,” I said. With pencil in hand, I waited until Hobbes-Nesmith recited a list of ports. “From Marseilles, we sailed to Algiers. From Algiers to the Suez Canal. Then on to the Indian Ocean.”

  His report was very much shorter than I had expected. Holmes queried him, “And the weather? What can you tell me of it?”

  “Mild. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Hobbes-Nesmith shifted in his chair. “I trust you are familiar with nautical life?"

  “I have a modicum of experience.” Holmes let the flicker of a smile cross his face. To Hobbes-Nesmith and Mrs. Morel, I am certain it seemed congenial. However, I knew that look. It was the same sort of sly expression that Holmes displayed right before he sprang a trap. Leaning forwards in my chair, I waited for him to shout, “Oh, ho!” But he did not. Instead, he jumped to his feet. “Well, now. We must be off. Come now, Watson.”

  The parlour maid scurried frantically to bring us our outerwear. Mrs. Morel’s face closed down as if a veil had fallen over those fine features. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a message pass between her and Captain Hobbes-Nesmith. What that might have been, I cannot say, but my impression was that Mrs. Morel was pleading with the sea captain to do something. But what?

  As Holmes wrapped a woolen scarf around his neck, he spoke in the most casual voice imaginable. “If the posters at the Argyll Rooms are to be believed, tonight is your last engagement. Is that so?”

  “Why, yes,” she said with a blush of modesty. “My obligation to the theatre will be fulfilled this evening at the conclusion of my performance.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Tell me, how long did your contract run? I only stumbled upon your performance of late.”

  “Oh.” She seemed to hesitate. “Ten days. No, two weeks.”

  “I see,” Holmes said. “You expected your husband to be home before your engagement came to its conclusion? Is that correct?”

  He
r eyes narrowed. “That is correct. As I told you, I expected Jonas to be home by now. Captain Hobbes-Nesmith confirms that schedule. That is why I insisted that the captain stay long enough to speak to you. It was a matter of grave importance. I wanted you to know that my husband has been seen and that his plans were firm, despite the unfortunate result.” Pausing, she rang the bell. The bewildered parlour maid appeared. “Linton? Fetch for me my reticule.”

  “After you left, Mr. Holmes, it occurred to me that I do have one picture of my husband.” She reached inside her handbag and handed the detective a manila envelope.

  Holmes nodded and bowed. “I am much obliged. Good day, ma’am.”

  I could scarcely choke out a good-bye, but I did it anyway.

  As we walked to the street and waved to hail a cab, Holmes hissed at me. “Not a word, Watson. Not one word until I say you can speak. We are being carefully observed.”

  And so we climbed into the hansom, two silent men who said nothing to each other.

  11

  We were a half mile from Mrs. Morel’s house when Holmes slapped his knee. The sound was muffled given the layers of wool, but the effect was still arresting. “What an actress! What an actor! I say, Watson, did they not play their parts to perfection? Even the parlour maid.”

  Such aspersions on our hostess did not sit well with me. “Really, Holmes. You have become paranoid. You are being ridiculous. The maid was overwhelmed, that is all. So Mrs. Morel is an actress. We knew that last night. It doesn’t follow that her husband hasn’t gone missing. One truth does not automatically negate the other.”

  “Jolly well said,” Holmes agreed. “But even fine acting skills can’t make up for a lack of preparation by the director. Did you not notice, Watson, that Linton forgot to take our coats? Or that the Captain, whose arrival was said to be a few minutes prior to ours, did not leave any trace of inclement weather on the carpet? No? Only you and I soiled that fine rug. How about my request for rum? What sailor would not naturally have laid in a good stock of fine spirits? Particularly since rum is especially aged during the trip that sailing ships make so often? And yet, Linton was flummoxed when I asked her for some. In fact, she never did bring me the drink that I requested. How unusual! How completely and utterly wrong for the purposes of the little fake tableau presented to us.”

  “Aw, but Holmes, you are forgetting, we now have a photo. You can say all you want, you can say what you will, but once you open that envelope we will come face-to-face with a real man. Flesh and blood. What say you then about Mrs. Morel and her overly active imagination?”

  “Anyone can take a photo, Watson. A casual passerby can step into a photographer’s shop and purchase discards or duplicates easily enough. You put too much faith in human nature. Or in this case, you are too effortlessly distracted by a lovely face and a charming figure. Oh, do not look that way at me! I do not accuse you of adultery. No, I am simply pointing out that Mary left a gigantic hole in your heart, and no woman alive can fill it. Don’t forget, I knew her, too. Although I did not know her as long as you did, I was able to train my powers of observation on her. You were not. You led with your heart, and I followed along behind with my head.”

  “What a load of rot. You think you knew Mary? Ha.”

  “Ha, indeed. I know enough of her to know she was everything to you. And with good reason. I hope you do not let this woman, this Mrs. Morel, inveigle her way into your heart just because you are in so much pain, my friend. She is not worthy.”

  “She is a client, Holmes,” I said stiffly. Between the cold and the damp and Holmes, I was done in.

  “You would do well to remember that,” was his answer.

  12

  But we were not able to return to 221B and warm ourselves by the fire. Our hansom stopped to let us off and we were rudely grabbed by two burly thugs who pushed us into another hansom, holding us at gunpoint. How I wished I had brought my revolver with me! The whole ride I fumed and chastised myself for letting Holmes talk me out of being so provisioned. Holmes slumped down in the seat and closed his eyes, taking one of those naps that so infuriate me. The man can stay awake all night by catching sleep hither, thither, and yon during the day. While I eyed our assailants with distaste, my friend was deep in the arms of Morpheus.

  While I did not dare look out the window, the sounds of traffic (muffled as they were by the slush) and the direction the cab was pointed, as well as the variety of turns we made, convinced me I knew exactly where we were headed. Once we pulled up to the kerb, I shouted, “Mycroft! This time he has gone too far.”

  Holmes woke to my loud protestation. “Did you not realise who sent these cretins and why?” His words would have made a less than congenial effect on our guardians had they the brains to understand what the term “cretin” meant.

  The route the cabman took was well-known to me, as Sherlock Holmes and I have often visited his older brother Mycroft at the club he cofounded, the Diogenes Club. Unlike other gentlemen’s clubs that extend membership to the most congenial of men, the Diogenes Club attracts the most unsociable and “unclubbable” men in town. Mycroft has gathered those who are witty and intelligent, typically with an obscure specialty. There are also those members who have made their mark in ways unappreciated by the world at large, particularly by society. Thus, this is a place for misfits of the highest order.

  And yet…they serve the needs of both Mycroft and our government very well. Although Mycroft’s office is below the club’s first floor, it is easy enough for him to dispatch one of his many lackeys to the club proper and track down the sort of expertise the elder Holmes brother needs at any given time. In this manner, the club serves as a living, breathing repository of information. So congenial is this atmosphere that Mycroft keeps a flat on the top floor of the building. An elevator makes transit from office to residence easy for Mycroft, whose love of fine food is legendary and whose overindulgence in the same concerns me as a physician.

  Sherlock bolted from the growler that served as our transport, leaving me to pay the cabman. Racing up the front steps of the Diogenes Club, and heaving himself through the front doors, he wasted no time. When the attendant on duty tried to gather Sherlock’s details, my friend brushed past the man. “I am here to see my brother, Mycroft Holmes, and I don’t have time to waste on your petty rules.”

  I was two steps behind Sherlock, so I saw the gaping mouth of the clerk and I watched as his saucer-sized eyes followed Holmes out of the side door into the front parlour, otherwise considered the club proper. Knowing that no conversation is allowed in that area—never!—I hastened to follow Holmes, realising that once we were in the club, the attendant would have no choice but to stand aside.

  Whilst I did feel somewhat sorry for the clerk, as he seemed to be new to the post and our behavior was intolerable, I could not help but stifle a chuckle at the man’s predicament. Either course of action was doomed. If he followed us and made a fuss, he was breaking the club’s rules on silence. If he allowed us to carry on, he was breaking the club’s rules on entry by nonmembers. Truly, we had presented the man with a quandary that would either stiffen his character or cause an absolute dissolution of all he held dear!

  Even as I pondered this, I followed Sherlock through a door hidden under a stairway and down a flight of stairs. This entrance to Mycroft’s office was well-hidden from the casual observer. We passed a series of guards. One lunged out to try to grab Holmes, only to be held back by a colleague who murmured, “Let him pass.” As I was clearly an attaché to Sherlock, I was given safe conduit, too. Nevertheless, I stayed close to my friend as he hurried through corridors and bullpens filled with busy workers.

  At the heart of this beehive of activity was a glass enclosure, Mycroft’s office. The place had been designed with privacy as the amenity of highest value. Secondarily, Mycroft wanted the ability to oversee his fiefdom at all times, as he was a highly demanding supervisor. Sherlock yanked open the glass door to his brother’s private space, a place we
knew to be soundproof. With a flick of the wrist, Mycroft could lower shades that occluded prying eyes and this he did after a glance at his brother’s troubled visage.

  But then, after all, Mycroft had expected as much. We’d been waylaid and dragged here against our will.

  Mycroft did not wait for Sherlock to speak. Instead, he looked up with a bored expression and said, “Brother, I have need of your special talents.”

  There was no apology, no suggestion that he might have interrupted Sherlock’s life, nothing. Mycroft could be unspeakably rude, although an objective observer might chalk it up to being ruthless in the pursuit of his goals. And his goals were invariably the goals of the British government and the Crown.

  Today Mycroft was firmly ensconced in a big office chair, a bespoke piece of furniture designed to cradle his large bulk. The formality of the chair and his desk was at odds with the mess surrounding him, as piles of reports to his left and his right teetered and threatened to fall. Behind him was a map of the world with various pins stuck in a variety of places. A second glance explained to me that he had marked shipping lanes. I found that curious, considering our most recent visit to the Registrar’s office.

  “But first, I think your friend needs to leave,” Mycroft said.

  “And I think he will do nothing of the sort,” said Holmes. “I trust John Watson more than I trust any man on earth. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mycroft huffed. “Very well, if you insist.” Just as quickly, Mycroft changed his mind. “Actually, the doctor might be useful. Yes, in point of fact, I believe he will be essential to this effort.”