“You knew Waite would try to escape? That he had a weapon?”
“It was always a possibility, and a risk we had to take.”
“We?” I said. “We?”
Mr. Holmes chuckled and turned me to face the cottage. “Yes, we. And now we shall search the cottage for those diamonds while we wait for the constabulary. With luck, you shall be back in London in time to help Watson buy a fat goose for Christmas, and he can write up your case with me.”
“And yours, sir. Now you are retired.”
“Perhaps,” he said, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Perhaps.”
The Adventure of the Bloomsbury Pickpocket
By David N. Smith
I loaded my old service revolver, then snapped it shut and stood ready beside Sherlock Holmes.
“You told me that Mason Lassiter was a dangerous man, so why did you not bring a weapon of your own?” I asked.
“I did,” my friend replied, a thin smile slipping across his hawkish features. “One that is more powerful than any handgun and sharper than any knife.”
“Your power of deductive reasoning, I suppose?”
“You deduce correctly.” Holmes gave a small chuckle. “Our quarry will not resort to violence tonight.”
“I am glad you are certain of that fact,” I replied, “but for me, feeling the weight of my trusty revolver in my grip makes me feel far more confident that I can control the outcome of tonight’s proceedings.”
Holmes cocked a critical eyebrow.
“Yet nothing could be further from the truth, Watson.”
Using my free hand, I pulled out my pocket watch and flipped open the lid, having to angle it to catch the light of the new electric streetlamps that lined the Embankment, so that I could read its face.
“It’s almost midnight,” I muttered, “and there’s still no sign of this villain.”
Holmes gave an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes remaining locked on the dark waterfront before us, focused on a length of pavement that ran alongside the unlit bulk of a three-mast merchant ship which was tethered to the wharf.
“If he waits for the chimes of Big Ben,” Holmes mused, “that will tell us everything we need to know about his character.”
Holmes had a distinct habit of leaving such assertions unexplained, knowing full well that I could never resist enquiring further. I, like a fish, always took the bait and found myself hooked. He, like a fisherman, delighted in reeling me in. Once done, he would cast me back into the depths of my ignorance, so that he could be assured his sport would continue.
“And, pray tell, what great deductions could you make from such behaviour?” I asked dutifully, making no attempt to conceal how much it delighted me whenever he expounded his incredible insights from seemingly irrelevant details.
“It tells us that Mason Lassiter relishes playing the villain. Most criminals are driven by desperation and necessity, often working with urgency, but not him. He holds his clandestine meetings at the very stroke of midnight, like a piece of choreographed theatre, obeying an etiquette of how he believes things should be done. For this man, crime is a leisure activity; doubtless he enjoys the thrill of the game as much as I do.” Holmes paused, as the chimes of Big Ben rang out across the silent city. “There he is now. Right on cue.”
A man had appeared on the wharf, walking briskly through the pools of light made by the streetlamps, headed directly toward the gangway of the ship. He was a tall figure in a long blue topcoat with its collar turned up, which shielded his face from view.
Holmes, fearlessly, stepped out in front of the man and blocked his path.
“I thought I should introduce myself, Mister Lassiter,” he announced jovially, like a businessman making the acquaintance of a rival. “I am Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, frequently called upon by Scotland Yard.”
“I know who you are, Mister Holmes,” Lassiter responded, speaking with a thick American accent. “I’ve read about your capers in the Strand, which I at first mistook to be nothin’ but tawdry fiction for entertainin’ the masses, but now realise are nothin’ more than an exercise in self-aggrandisement.”
I felt riled by the flurry of insults, but Holmes showed no sign of affront.
“I should have expected you would know of me,” he replied. “A criminal of your standing, would of course be well-read and well-informed.”
Lassiter paused, unaccustomed to being both accused and complimented in the same sentence.
“You know me?”
“Naturally, I have heard of you.” Holmes gave a small shrug. “I keep a catalogue, chronicling the most interesting crimes, both in this country and abroad. I have come to believe you are the mastermind behind the Charlestown bank robbery, the Kentucky gold heist, and a series of thefts from the National Gallery of Art in Washington.”
Lassiter chuckled.
“If it were true, I’d be a fool to confess it to Sherlock Holmes himself!”
“You are no fool, sir. Quite the opposite. You are an intelligent, audacious man, capable of anything. Which is why, when I discovered you were in London, seeking to charter a merchant vessel, I thought it prudent to intercede. I deemed it best to warn you that, here in London, you are outmatched, that I have eyes on both you and every vessel you would seek to hire.”
Lassiter took a step backward, rattled by Holmes’s words. His gloved hand instinctively reached inside his coat, which bulged with the distinctive shape of a revolver, but he hesitated and did not draw.
“Why’d you warn me?” Lassiter enquired.
“I do hate to see a sharp mind go to waste. I know how addictive crime can be. It is a vice like any other; it can become a habit, which only grows worse, if left unchecked. I therefore felt compelled to intervene, to give you one final chance to turn your intellect to more noble endeavours, to encourage you to add to the edifice of humanity’s achievements, rather than remain a stain upon them. As, if you continue, I shall become the architect of your undoing, and I would rather see you redeemed than be responsible for your downfall. With my warning issued, I will bid you goodnight.”
Holmes abruptly turned on his heel, striding back down the pavement toward me, his walking cane striking the ground with each step.
Lassiter watched him go, then glanced at the ship, before turning and stepping silently back into the darkness from which he had emerged.
“Extraordinary!” I remarked, as Holmes arrived back at my side. “Why would you show this villain such a kindness!?”
“Empathy, my dear Watson,” Holmes replied. “There, but for the grace of God, go I. If a passion for solving crimes had not seized my mind, I often wonder to what I would have turned my hand. Acting, perhaps. Science, possibly. However, both lack the allure and thrill of crime. Had I not chosen one side, perhaps I would have chosen the other. I am also a firm believer that all men, no matter how far they have strayed, deserve a chance to change tack and make amends for their past.”
I gave a small snort of derision in response.
My right hand still bore the heavy weight of my revolver. Despite my friend’s confidence, I felt sure that we had been but a villain’s whim from exchanging gunfire, ending the night with at least one corpse left lying beside the Thames.
“Do you think he will heed your warning?”
“No,” Holmes sighed.
“Why not?”
“His shoes were freshly polished.”
I grinned.
“And what can you possibly infer from that?”
“He cares deeply about how he is perceived. However, nobody he met tonight, in this darkness, would be likely to notice his shoes; meaning it was done purely for the satisfaction of his own ego. The thrill of crossing swords with me will therefore be more of a temptation than a deterrent, particularly if there is a chance that your pen will immortalise his deeds, enthrall
ing the public in the process. He has obviously enjoyed repeated installments, despite his protestations to the contrary. He is arrogant enough to think he can score a victory over me, but even a defeat at my hands would suffice, giving him the recognition and validation he craves. He would become renowned as a criminal mastermind, whose plans could only be foiled by a legendary London detective.”
“Then he has little to lose.”
Holmes nodded.
“He will surely press on with his plans. I expect that we shall have a busy morning ahead of us.”
I awoke in my old room at 221B Baker Street.
I was fortunate to have a very understanding wife. Mary knew that when Holmes and I worked together, I could not be expected to keep regular hours. Still, I felt a pang of guilt at waking up in my old bed. Given the late end to our business, and with Holmes’s clear intention to have an early start, it had simply seemed more prudent to return to Baker Street than to return home.
An old dressing gown, so threadbare I had not bothered to take it with me when I moved out, still hung on the back of the door. I pulled on the comfortable old robe, and ventured down to the sitting room, in search of breakfast.
Much to my surprise, Holmes was already risen and dressed. Traditionally he would rise late, so for a moment I wondered if this was a new habit, or simply a spasm of activity triggered by the thrill of the previous night’s confrontation.
Holmes shot me a surprised look, as he tucked into a spread of eggs, rashers, toast, and tea, which had been laid out for two.
“Why are you not dressed?” he enquired. “Our next client will arrive at any moment.”
“There is no appointment scheduled,” I retorted, joining him at the table.
Holmes laughed.
“No. They did not have the foresight to book, but nonetheless I expect them. Their desperation will have built throughout the night, and as soon as they feel the hour is appropriate, I am sure they will come calling.”
Before I could respond, I heard the front doorbell jangle.
“I really should get dressed.”
“There is no time. I cannot have my biographer miss such an important meeting! Given the client’s distress, and the early hour of their call, they will understand and disregard your appearance. If last night taught you anything, it should be that such things are rarely as important to the observer as they are to the person being observed.”
Before I could protest further, I heard the front door open and close, and the tread of footsteps hurrying up the steps to our flat. A hand, light and hesitant, knocked on the door.
“Enter!” cried Holmes, dabbing crumbs of toast from his lips.
The door creaked open, revealing a stocky middle-aged woman, in a faded dress and a woollen shawl.
“I do beg your pardon, sir,” she said, hesitating on the threshold of the door. “I would not normally call on anyone so early.”
Holmes waved away her words.
“Think nothing of it. The matter is pressing, is it not?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then sit,” he said, gesturing toward a wicker chair, as he relocated himself to his favourite armchair. “Let us begin, as is proper, with introductions. I am Sherlock Holmes.”
“I am Lillian Green,” the woman replied, as she entered the room, glancing at me with a frown. “A widow from Notting Hill.”
“That is Doctor Watson, an intimate friend, who frequently assists and chronicles my most remarkable cases.”
“I am aware of who he is, sir,” the woman responded, taking the seat to which she had been directed. “I just presumed, now that he was married, he would live elsewhere.”
I gave the woman a rueful smile.
“My wife and I were under the same misapprehension.”
“You are mistaken, Madam.” Holmes interjected. “He is a guest here, not a lodger. You have seen the evidence and drawn the wrong conclusion; it is a very common mistake, which serves to illustrate exactly what I do. I see the truth where others do not. Now, tell us, what has brought you to my door?”
“It is my daughter, sir. Sally Isobel Green. She is an unmarried woman, of two and twenty. She did not come home last night.”
“You fear something terrible has happened?”
“I do, sir.”
“Then why do you not call on the police?”
Lillian hesitated, then looked away, unable to maintain eye contact.
“Sally has fallen in with a bad crowd. Since the death of my husband, we have been short of money, and she has pursued an unorthodox remedy to our situation.” There were tears in Lillian’s eyes, as her shoulders crumpled under the weight of her shame. “She has been conspiring with thieves and robbers.”
Holmes smiled.
“You want her to be found, but wish to avoid any unnecessary legal complications?”
Lillian nodded.
I gave a small cough, interrupting their discourse.
“Do we really have time for another case, Holmes?” I enquired, as I could see a gleam of interest already alight in my friend’s eyes. “Are we not busy enough with our pursuit of Mister Lassiter?”
Holmes dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand.
“Tell me everything you can about these criminals,” he said, steepling his fingers and closing his eyes, so he could focus on every word she spoke. “Leave out no detail, no matter how irrelevant you deem it.”
“Sally told me they were uneducated men, over a dozen in number, who hail from the workhouses in the East End. They are primarily pickpockets, who target women in the Bloomsbury area, as many of the ladies that frequent the area are often wearing or carrying expensive jewelry. Sally has been helping them dispose of their ill-gotten gains in pawn shops across London; I presume she makes for a more convincing seller of such wares, than some burly, uneducated brute. Such behaviour is not part of her true nature, but I fear she has fallen for the roguish charm of the gang’s despicable leader, a man named Silas Ramstone.”
Holmes’s eyes snapped open.
His hand instinctively reached for a wooden filing box, which always resided beside his armchair, so that he could flip hurriedly through the papers inside, which he used to catalogue both crimes and criminals.
“This is not a name I know,” he said, grabbing a pencil, as he set about creating a new page for his archive. “What more can you tell me of Silas Ramstone?”
“Nothing. She mentioned him only once.”
“She admires him? Emulates him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what more can you tell me of your daughter?” Holmes asked, placing the paper to one side, and once again steepling his fingers.
“Up until she went astray, I believed we had brought her up well. My husband paid his weekly penny so that she could have an education, right up to the age of ten. Remember, this is before such schooling became mandatory. She can read and write. She is very gifted with numbers. She held a respectable position as a parlourmaid, until three months ago, but was sadly let go due to a misunderstanding over some missing silverware. Now, I wonder if she was quite as innocent as I had at first presumed. She certainly became inordinately upset, when I questioned her about it. She cried for hours.”
Holmes nodded.
“You need not feel ashamed, Ms. Green. You have raised an ambitious and resourceful young woman, whose moral compass is quite intact, despite your inability to see it. You should be proud of her.”
“But the things she has done!”
“In this story, it is the tears that count. They testify to her distress at her predicament. She did not embark on her path to crime willingly, but as an act of desperation.”
“Will you take my case then, sir?”
“Indeed I will, Madam. I shall not only find your daughter; I will also endeavour to save her from the mis
guided path she has chosen. I cannot think of a more deserving case.”
I coughed again.
“Perhaps that business with Mister Lassiter?” I reminded him.
“This business must take priority,” Holmes replied, reaching for his clay pipe. “Although I am rather surprised we have not yet had our second caller. He should have arrived several minutes ago.”
“Second caller?” I queried.
The moment I asked the question, I once again heard the jangle of the doorbell.
“Ah, there he is now,” Holmes smiled.
“How could you know someone was to arrive?” I asked, feeling as amazed as ever by my friend’s seeming omniscience. “And with such precision in timing?”
“Elementary maths, Watson. You take the standard start time of a shift, allow a little time for communication, then add the time it takes for a hansom cab to travel from Whitehall to Baker Street, allowing for the early-morning traffic on Regent Street. I should have added a few minutes, given the individual concerned, as he is never the quickest to ask for aid.”
“You know exactly who it is, then?” I asked, as I listened to the tread of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, and the rat-a-tat strike of a confident fist on the wooden door.
“Enter, Inspector Lestrade!”
The door immediately opened, revealing the self-same police detective, wearing a pea jacket and derby hat. He bore an uncharacteristically harried expression.
“Holmes, I have come to fetch you.”
“As you will note, I have a client,” Holmes replied, gesturing at Lillian, who remained sat in the basket chair, dumbfounded by this latest turn of events. “I am currently employed on a case for her and can accept no other.”
Lestrade gave him a sour look.
“Holmes, you know I would not have beat a path to your door so early, unless it were something vitally important. This woman can wait. I am here about a national crisis. A robbery of unprecedented proportions.”
“What has happened, man?” I asked, rising to my feet, alarmed by his tone.
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