by The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021
“As you can imagine,” Lestrade explained, “the arrival of a parcel containing a dead child gave the duty clerk who opened it a bad shock. There was some little confusion until it was realized just what it was all about, and the point that was being made by that eccentric parson. In any case, it was a nine days’ wonder at best, and all was soon forgotten. But then Mrs. Aiken arrived this morning at the Yard, and fortunately I spoke to her first, for I’m not certain what reactions would have been set in motion if someone else had heard her story.”
“And you wisely sent word to me,” Holmes said, now casting his gaze toward the young woman. “What is your connection to these goings-on?”
She cleared her throat, and then began to speak in a rather thick Lincolnshire accent. “I . . . I am the mother of the poor wee babe.” She paused, as if awaiting comment, but when none was forthcoming, she continued. “I had married early that year to a young man from the village who was going off to soldier. He was here in London, at Victoria Station, when the Fenian bomb went off. He helped to rescue those who were injured, and seemed to be fine, but a day later, he died from breathing the smoke. I wasn’t told until several days after that he’d passed. The Army said that it wasn’t related to his service, and it was simply passed off as an accidental death, despite his bravery.
“A few weeks later, I found that I was with child. The burden seemed almost too great to bear, and as the months passed, I was convinced that something wasn’t right with my baby, although my fears were put down as simply the nerves of a new mother. But in late October, the child was born dead.
“I was in a bad way, and didn’t even understand when the Reverend asked if he could take the body for what he called ‘the greater good.’ Only much later did I hear that, rather than giving it a proper burial, he’d mailed my poor baby to London in a box!” Here she paused for a moment to breathe deeply before continuing. What she told us had occurred nearly five years earlier, but it was clearly still a raw wound.
Holmes, while not insensitive to her feelings, was also becoming a bit impatient. “Jumping ahead,” he said, “what has occurred now that would cause you to visit Scotland Yard?”
“This,” replied Lestrade, rising and pulling a note from his coat pocket.
Holmes was suddenly more alert, and he took the sheet with a gleam in his eye. He turned it this way and that in the morning sun shining at his back. Then, having given it an initial examination, he repeated the process using the lens that he kept on the small octagonal table beside his chair. Finally, having apparently wrung all that he could from it, he handed it to me.
I made no pretense at a similar effort. I saw that it was of good quality paper, about five inches square and folded once. It was written in a strong hand by a nib in good condition, and with black ink that seemed of expensive quality:
Your child still lives. You have been cruelly used.
Sir Cecil Aberforth knows the truth.
You must force him to reveal it.
The last line was written with emphasis, the lines being somewhat thicker, as if they had been gone over twice with the pen. I handed the sheet back to Holmes without comment. He took and laid it underneath the lens on his table. “How did you receive this, Mrs. Aiken?”
“It was slipped underneath my bedroom door last night.”
“And your place of residence?”
“I’m a maid at Bedford College, just along Baker Street. I came up to London soon after the baby died and found a job there. I have a room on the top floor, above the dormitories.”
“Do you share the room?” She shook her head. “Is the facility so casual then that anyone may enter during the night and slide a note under your door?”
Mrs. Aiken seemed to ponder this question for the first time. “It’s possible,” she said. “After all, it happened.”
“Do you have any ideas that it could have been placed by someone who has a room nearby?”
She frowned. “I can’t imagine who might do such a thing.”
“Anyone can be bought,” added Lestrade.
“True,” countered Holmes, “but the buyer must know whom to buy.” He pulled at his earlobe for a moment, pondering. Then, “After you received this note, what were your first thoughts?”
Mrs. Aiken frowned. “First? Well, it fair rocked me back. I’ll never be over the loss of my child, but the pain is less than it was. This morning, it came rushing back. And yet, it makes no sense. Why would this Sir Cecil know anything about whether my child actually lived, in spite of me being told that it had died?”
“And a dead child was sent,” added Lestrade. “If it wasn’t Mrs. Aiken’s, then whose was it, and where did it come from?”
“Is any effort being made to question Reverend Mirehouse?”
“Not yet,” replied the inspector. “If you recall anything about him, he’s quite contentious, and was very secretive at the time as to the identity of the parents, or any other relevant information. When Mrs. Aiken presented herself at the Yard this morning, it was just good luck that I heard her story first. This is dynamite, gentlemen—you both know about Sir Cecil, and his involvement with certain government affairs, even if Mrs. Aiken hasn’t heard of him, and I wanted to get your opinion on it.”
“So you have told no one else?”
“Well, I did discuss it with the Chief Inspector, and whether I should approach Sir Cecil, but instead he agreed that you should be consulted, Mr. Holmes. That’s as far as he wants to take it right now.”
Holmes nodded and started absently to reach for the index book propped against his chair. Then, instead, he rose, indicating that the interview was over. Mrs. Aiken seemed a bit surprised, but Lestrade and I were used to his ways. He asked me to accompany the lady downstairs while he had a word with the inspector. I did so, and by the time she had put on her coat, simple and a few years out of date but still quite serviceable, Lestrade had joined us. He nodded to me without a word and then they both passed outside.
Back upstairs, Holmes, who was by his shelf of index books, asked, “Are you free for a few hours, Watson? I would value your company as we run this down.”
I nodded in agreement while he replaced one book and pulled out another. Taking it to the dining table, he flipped through it until finding what he sought. Then he called me over and pointed at what I should read. It was a list, in his own hand, containing several names that I recognized, the major espionage agents operating in London: Hugo Oberstein, Adolph Mayer, Louis La Rothiere, and Eduardo Lucas. The last had a thin line drawn through it, as Lucas had been violently murdered just three years before. Beside his name another had been penciled in, Gretel Walbeck, along with an extensive note in Holmes’s neat handwriting succinctly describing her skills and physical appearance.
Seeing a description of something that I’d recently observed—a curious mole—I straightened up with a surprised look on my face. “Surely not,” I said.
Holmes nodded. “I’m almost certain. When Lucas died, there was a vacuum to be filled, and her masters were quick to do so. While Lucas was a bold personality who used his big life to distract from what he did in the shadows, Fräulein Walbeck is more of a specialist, dipping in here and there as needed, usually under a false name. She is clever, and worth ten of the other men who have performed similar functions over the last few years. I’ve been aware of her presence before this, but so far she hasn’t directly crossed my path. Today, I knew that something was wrong as soon as she spoke—she clearly wasn’t comfortable with her Lincolnshire accent, and yet her story was that she was born and raised there until moving to London. When her note involved a man of current vital importance to the Crown in a possibly seamy scandal, the connection was suddenly apparent in my mind, and then I recalled the physical description—particularly that unusual mole near her mouth. Finally, did you notice that she never actually referred to the gender of the dead baby, supposedly her own?”
“Now that you mention it, I did, but it’s possible that a moth
er wouldn’t want to know such a thing, preferring to have as little connection as possible to the deceased infant.”
“I defer to your judgment, but I’m also aware that the deceased child was a girl, and if I knew it, one would think that the mother would know too—unless this story was put together rather thinly over spots like that where it was too much trouble to discover the finer details.” He nodded toward the shelf where he had replaced the first scrapbook. “I refreshed my memory that my notes referred to the baby having two parents.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I saw that, but assumed that it was a mistake, and didn’t mention it to avoid embarrassing her.”
“Just so. But in fact, she contrived her widowhood as a way to avoid addressing why she had no husband when claiming a connection to the Home Office Baby.”
He moved to the door and began to don his Inverness. “I spoke with Lestrade just long enough to convey my suspicions. He isn’t the brightest candle, but he understood immediately and is taking her back to the Yard, ostensibly for administrative reasons, or possibly for her own protection. In the meantime, we shall explore her room at Bedford College, before carrying on in a different direction.”
The school, on the east side of the street, wasn’t far away. It was located directly across from York Street, in a part of Baker Street that is still sometimes mistakenly referred to as York Terrace—the result of a misguided politician of old who had managed to use his influence to get that name, along with references to “Upper Baker Street” just to the north, incorrectly placed on a number of maps, serving to fulfill some twisted reasoning of his own. Holmes’s brother Mycroft had managed to correct the mistake for the most part, but not before a great deal of confusion was sown.
The residents of Baker Street all know one another, and neither Holmes nor I were strangers to Cyrus Brownlow, the administrator of Bedford College, founded decades before as the first school of its kind in England, providing higher education for women. We knew him to be an honorable man, and more important, a trustworthy one as well. Without providing him with too many details, we explained the situation, although Holmes’s identification of Mrs. Aiken as Gretel Walbeck was not mentioned.
“She has only been here a couple of weeks,” explained Brownlow. “She had excellent references from the north, and asked for part-time hours, as she is interested in pursuing studies. It’s an unusual arrangement, but she had some funds of her own, and I was willing to give it a try.”
Holmes asked to see her file, but apparently he found nothing out of order, or of interest, and he didn’t appear to expect to. “Did you verify the references?”
Brownlow hemmed and hawed, explaining that he hadn’t yet had the time to do so, but that the girl seemed acceptable. It was easy, by way of his embarrassment, to convince him to let us search her room.
Knowing that my own skills lay in different directions, I remained in the doorway while Holmes made his examination. It didn’t take him long to find several familiar sheets, pushed deeply into the back of one of the desk drawers. He motioned me closer and handed them to me. They were all the same type of paper as the note referring to Sir Cecil Aberforth that we had been shown in Holmes’s sitting room, and written with the same pen and ink. However, these, while of a similar nature, contained commands to contact other noted members of government to ask about the truth regarding the Home Office Baby. Some of them held additional varying allegations of a most frank and vulgar description. “If these were to be made public,” I murmured, “there would be quite a cat set loose among the pigeons, even when eventually disproved. It’s fortunate that she approached Lestrade first.”
“I agree. I doubt whether her plans included being rerouted to Baker Street and involving me.”
As I finished reading, Holmes pulled out a fine pen and bottle of ink from another drawer, along with a number of matching blank sheets of paper. “Tut tut, Watson. She is too confident that the Yard would believe her story.” He took back the written sheets and looked again at the various names. “Hmm, I wonder just what is going on right now in the political realm that needs to be disrupted with this rather amateur distraction. I believe that a quick visit to brother Mycroft is next on our agenda.”
At that time of day, we found Mycroft Holmes in his obscurely located office in Whitehall. His days ran on fixed rails, and it was still several hours before he would walk around to the Diogenes Club for the evening. His attention was obviously pulled elsewhere, as he barely acknowledged our entrance. When we approached his desk, he simply handed a file to his brother, and rather than offer greetings, said “The Chief Superintendent couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He spoke to Sir Cecil, who—most upset, as you can imagine—came to me. Here is the information that we have on Gretel Walbeck. Read it, and then tell me what you need.” Then his eyes returned to a document centered before him which seemed to be mostly red ink overlaying black. He picked up a pen, dipped it into a red inkpot, and proceeded to add considerably to the editorial hieroglyphics and strike-throughs already covering the sheet.
Holmes glanced my way, his expression indicating that Mycroft’s omniscience was exactly what he’d expected. He scanned through the various clipped pages in the file and then, without offering it to me, placed it back on Mycroft’s desk, waiting until his brother finished his edits and laid aside his pen.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, “you should know what we found when searching Fräulein Walbeck’s room at Bedford College.” And he then outlined the details of additional and unsent letters, concluding by asking, “What does she hope to accomplish?”
Mycroft sighed. “We are in the early days of drafting an ultimatum to Portugal regarding a withdrawal of their military forces from the lands between Mozambique and Angola. Sir Cecil and the other names that you mentioned are very involved, and vital to this effort—their time and attention cannot be diverted, and their character and reputations cannot be besmirched at such a critical juncture. The Germans must have caught wind of what we’re doing and came up with this plan. It’s a pity really, from their perspective. It was obviously thrown together at the last minute, held together with spit and string, and it’s a waste of one of their better agents. She must have advised against it, but I doubt if she was given the option to decline.”
He waved a hand. “We maintain a number of contingency plans, ready to be modified for use at a moment’s notice. I suspect that this is their equivalent of such.” He took another deep breath and asked, “What do you suggest that we do?”
Holmes was prompt with his response. “Lestrade should still have her. Perhaps she can be taken into ‘protective custody’—for her own safety.” He went on to outline more specific details.
Mycroft considered it for no more than three seconds, but one could imagine that he perceived how this or that action would lead to another, and that each choice would open up a new direction of possibilities, spreading from one point to another like a tangled rootlike mass in every direction. And yet, three seconds were enough for him to nod his agreement and summon a secretary to prepare a satchel of documents. Then he retrieved his pen and returned to his editing, effectively dismissing us.
We retreated to the hallway, and within moments, the secretary presented us with the small leather case, which Holmes accepted without comment. Scotland Yard was only a quick walk away, and we were soon within the bowels of the convoluted building, conversing with Lestrade in the hallway while the girl remained in his office. When he was told who she was, he was rather concerned that she was left alone and able to get at his papers, but Holmes quickly explained his plan, and it wasn’t very long at all before we had retrieved her, only to escort her from the building and outside to a four-wheeler.
“Where are we going?” she asked breathlessly.
“To a place of safety,” Holmes told her grimly. “I’ve learned that the man named in the note, Sir Cecil, has threatened to kill you. There’s nothing left to be done but get you out of the capital as soon as poss
ible and into hiding. We’ll be on the train shortly, and the police will pack up your belongings and send them later.”
“But . . . but . . .” Even an experienced agent such as this was clearly speechless. The situation had escalated far beyond any mayhem that she and her masters had hoped to cause. She was still trying to formulate a response when Holmes spoke again.
“Hold this, Watson,” he said, handing me the satchel of documents. “Don’t take your eye off it for a second. Mycroft is counting on me to deliver these documents as soon as possible, or our naval forces might make a terrible blunder.” Then he seemed to fall into a brown study.
Lestrade spoke not at all, but rather looked all around as if expecting the cab to fall under sudden attack. There was nothing but silence among us until our arrival at Victoria Station, where Holmes announced that we were just in time to catch the train to Horsham, where our female charge would be hidden until further notice. She looked surprised, but followed us meekly into the crowded station. We paused beside a pillar and Holmes informed us that he would go and buy the tickets. I set down the satchel, turning slightly away from it, while Lestrade took a few steps, still looking around for anything resembling a threat. I heard a sound behind me, and in a moment I glanced around to see that, as expected, Miss Walbeck had taken the satchel of supposedly vital documents—in fact a rag-bag of worthless decoys quickly assembled by Mycroft’s department—and vanished into the masses.