by Geri Schear
“And Tommy?”
“Tommy’s case is even worse. His mother is a prostitute and he never knew his father. Oftentimes he cannot go home because his mother is entertaining one of her clients. Yet of all the boys, his is the kindest heart...”
I said nothing more. I could have told Beatrice that Tommy has a special regard for her. I suspect he harbours a fantasy that she and I will one day adopt him. I wonder what she would make of such a dream.
Watson at last went to bed. I believe he enjoys sleeping in what Beatrice calls ‘John’s room’. It suits him, somehow, with its cheery rose wallpaper and charming view of the back garden. We decided he would look after my wife and the boys while I conduct business elsewhere. It is only for a few days, I hope.
Wednesday 4 May 1898
This morning after breakfast, I took a cab to Whitehall. It has been some time since I saw Mycroft, nor have I heard from him. That is not unusual, of course. I suspect events in Africa have been keeping him busy.
Gillespie greeted me with his customary warmth. “Come in, come in, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Let me take your coat. Such a damp and gloomy day it is. There now, that’s better... He’s not engaged at present. You may go straight up. Shall I bring you up some coffee?”
“That would be most welcome, thank you.”
Mycroft was on the telephone when I entered but he waved me to the armchair by the fire. His voice was civilised, calm, evenly measured. He was, in other words, furious.
He hung up the receiver at last and spluttered. “Insufferable incompetents!” Then, calmer, “Hullo, Sherlock. How are you this misty morning?”
“Better than you, I fear, dear brother. South Africa?”
“Egypt. But never mind that. Did you have a pleasant night in Wimpole Street?” He sat in the chair opposite me with a suppressed groan and eased his right leg onto the footstool.
“I thought I had brushed away the last of Mme Chabon’s croissant crumbs from my waistcoat,” I said.
“Almost. Ah, I wish you had thought to bring me some. Your wife has the best cook in all of England. If I were a marrying man I’d marry Bella Chabon.”
“I shall ask Beatrice to invite you to dinner to atone for my thoughtlessness, Mycroft.”
“That would be a most welcome courtesy, indeed.”
“It may be a while, however. She’s leaving for Sussex as soon as possible.”
“Sussex? Why in God’s name would anyone want to go to Sussex?”
“She has a cottage there.”
“But she’s not going for her health... Come, Sherlock, what has happened?”
I said, “Wait until Gillespie has delivered the coffee and then I shall tell you all. You have a little time?”
“A little.”
We discussed politics for a few minutes. Emin Pasha, Madhist, Spain... Then there was a knock at the door and Gillespie entered with a large tray.
As soon as he’d left, the coffee poured, the bread buttered, and Mycroft finished grumbling about the demerits of plain bread compared with croissant concluded, I reviewed recent events.
My brother listened intently and did not interrupt. He waited until I was finished before saying, “Well, my influence over the legal justice system are not as potent as you seem to think. Still, I shall speak to some people and see what I might be able to arrange. I perfectly understand why you are anxious for your wife’s safety. Still, I would have thought those boys could look after themselves.”
“Perhaps, but Beatrice is fond of them, and it would distress her if they were hurt. She has already suffered at the hands of that gang, Mycroft.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” He shifted his position again and it was obvious he was in some discomfort.
“Have you seen a doctor?” I asked.
“Why? He would just tell me I have gout. Probably urge me to take a little rest. As if I can loaf about like a shop clerk.”
“I do wish you’d...” I began, and then bit my tongue.
He met my eyes and said, “Careful, Sherlock. That comes perilously close to brotherly love.”
“I apologise,” I said, smiling. “I cannot imagine what I was thinking.”
I made myself swallow my other expressions of concern. Truly, my brother looked unwell. Seeing him in such obvious discomfort unsettled me and for the first time I thought about mortality, Mycroft’s mortality, and the thought quite froze my joints.
With his assurance that he would see what he could do about Watteau’s trial, I left. Gillespie handed me my coat and said, “I don’t suppose you could get him to take a holiday, Mr Holmes? He’s worn out, for all he protests he’s perfectly well.”
“I could not even persuade him to see a doctor. But never fear, Gillespie. I have an idea.”
I returned to Baker Street and read the response to a telegram I sent last night. Michel Watteau of Ontario is wanted by the Canadians in connection with five murders. The French and the Americans also have charges against him. I harboured a brief and, I confess, grotesque thrill at the thought of that creature facing the guillotine. Then I remembered what passes for justice in today’s France and shuddered.
Why has he come back to England? Is it only to punish me? No, there is something else, something more sinister. I thought about returning to see him in the cells, but it would only make me seem weak and give him the advantage. No, I must trust to my own wits.
It was almost two o’clock by the time I returned to Wimpole Street. The door was opened by an unfamiliar youth. I stared open mouthed for several seconds. “Tommy?” I said at last when I recovered the power of speech. “Good God!”
“Look smashing, don’t I, Mr ’olmes? ’er ladyship took me and Billy shopping. All new threads she got us.”
“And haircuts. Well, well, you had a handsome face under all that grime, Tommy. I never knew.”
“Me neither.”
The combination of haircut and smart clothing somehow managed to reveal Tommy as a small boy. How curious; I never thought of him that way before.
Billy was sitting on the sofa reading a book. He was so engrossed he did not even notice me.
Beatrice was writing a letter. She signed her name before coming to greet me.
“I am sorry your brother is still under the weather,” she said.
“A clever woman must be the most dangerous creature in all of creation,” I said, laughing. “You are quite right. Mycroft has not improved and I am concerned about him. Perhaps you might invite him to dinner before you leave for Sussex? It would lift his spirits, I think.”
“Certainly. He may join us tonight if he is free. Would you like to telephone him?”
“Thank you, I shall.”
As I dialled the exchange I said, “I see you have been shopping. I hope you were careful.”
“I was. Dr Watson is a perfect bodyguard, though I fear those boys rather wore him out.”
Midnight
It has been a long, if pleasant enough day. I have decided I quite like staying at Wimpole Street. The staff are pleasant and helpful, the house quiet and well ordered, and my wife is an excellent hostess.
“I feel quite the queen bee,” she said this evening as we sat down to dinner. “Surrounded as I am by all these handsome gentlemen.”
Mycroft can be a charming guest when he puts his mind to it. He very much likes his new sister and not only because of the quality of her table. We discussed a great many things such as the current state of the military, the merits of electric light over gas, and the reviews of Strauss’s latest, Don Quixote.
Beatrice was careful to include the boys in the conversation and I was very surprised to hear Billy say he would like to join the army as soon as he is old enough.
“And what would you like to do in the army, young man?” Mycroft asked.
/> “I’d defend the Queen,” said the boy, “and my country. I should like to plan an attack and lead men into battle.”
“You would need to be an officer,” Watson said. “Tommy Atkins - common soldiers - do not do much in the way of planning.”
Billy looked crestfallen. “Oh. I don’t think I could be an officer. You need to be able to buy a commission, don’t you?”
“If you need to be commissioned, Billy, I am sure it can be arranged,” Beatrice said. “But you will need to study hard, too.”
He stared at her in awe. I was reminded of a picture book I had as a child: Ali Baba beholding the treasure in the cave. That was Billy at that moment.
“What about you, Tommy?” I said. “Do you mean to follow your friend into the army?”
He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat for a moment before saying, “I’d like to play the piano, Mr ’olmes. Lady B ’as been teaching me this afternoon. It’s smashing!”
“Tommy has an excellent ear,” Beatrice said. “I think he will make a very good pianist. You shall have more lessons when we go to Sussex. And you, Billy, shall have plenty of books.”
“Thanks awfully, miss,” Billy said.
They turned their attention to their plates. Though utterly bewildered by the assortment of knives and forks, they followed my lead and did far better than I would have expected. How easy it is to change a life. A little caring, a little thought, some soap and clean clothes. The change in these boys seemed almost miraculous and yet, now I think about it, it is not so strange, really.
“Speaking of military matters,” Mycroft said. “What news from France? Have you heard from your friend Zola, Beatrice?”
“He has appealed his conviction. Now we wait. He is distressed but resolute.”
“I hope the courts will come to their senses,” he said.”But I am not optimistic.”
“On the subject of trials, what news of a court date for Watteau, Mr Holmes?” Watson said.
“I had a word with some people. We have been able to arrange it for this Thursday, the fifth. At least the trial should be short and the boys’ testimony will be fairly swift.”
“We can be ready to departure for Sussex as soon as the boys have given evidence,” Beatrice said. “I hope you will not mind staying here until then.”
“We’ll cope, miss,” Billy said with a cheeky grin.
“That’s splendid of you,” she said in the same spirit. After a pause she added, “You know, the cottage is not very far from the sea. It is so quiet and peaceful there. I wonder - forgive me for asking - but I wonder if you might be willing to come with us, Mycroft?”
“Me? To Sussex? What on earth for?”
“For a holiday. Peace and quiet and Mme Chabon’s good food. I promise you’d be very well looked after. Frankly, you’d be doing me a favour.”
“Would I?” Mycroft looked sceptical. “How so?”
“Well, your brother will be here working on his case and I would rest easier in my mind if Dr Watson were with him. On the other hand, I would feel much safer knowing there was a man at hand in Sussex. I have my father’s valet, of course, but he is very old. Would you consider it, at least?”
“Well... it is a very busy time,” Mycroft began.
“I had a telephone installed just last month, and there is a study. You could still handle any crisis that might occur, and the trains to London are regular should you need to return.” She took a sip of wine before adding, casually, “I know Mme Chabon would love to try some of her recipes on a man of your palate. Just yesterday, she said she wanted to make a lamprey à la bordelaise. I confess I do not care for the dish myself, but she would be dearly love to make it for you.”
“No, it is not for everyone,” Mycroft agreed. “The sauce is made from the blood of the lamprey.”
“She spoke of cherries clafouti for dessert.”
“Well,” said Mycroft with a little lick of his lips. “If I can be of service. After all, what’s a brother for?”
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday 5 May 1898
This morning Billy and Tommy gave their evidence. Mr Justice Mellors was not pleased at the proceedings being rushed, but a well-placed word from the right official moved things along and His Honour kept his sermonising to a minimum.
The crown prosecution in the form of Sir Peter Huggins managed to slip in the suggestion that should the English courts fail in their duty, the Canadians would be happy to do show us how things should be done.
“We do not care about Canada,” declared the judge.
“Surely,” said Sir Peter in his silkiest tones, “the murder of a pregnant woman should outrage the entire world, My Lord.”
“Never mind that,” the judge said with a malevolent glare at the accused. “Get on with it.”
And so it all went very swiftly indeed. Billy gave his evidence calmly and without the relish I half-expected of him. Clearly and concisely, he told the court that he happened to be returning from the Chapel Market by way of the Pentonville Road. Then on Claremont Street, he witnessed the accused shooting a man dead with no provocation whatever.
“How do you know the man you observed was the accused?” Huggins asked.
“Because we jumped on ’im; me and my mate Tommy.”
A chorus of oohs and “Stout lad!” echoed through the chamber.
“And what happened then?”
“Tommy ’ad a whistle, sir. ’E blew it loud and a bobby... er, policeman came and put ’is nibs under arrest. Then we went back to the station and gave our statement.”
The defence did not even bother to question him. Billy was discharged with a commendation from the bench, told he was a fine example of today’s youth, and his parents should be proud of him.
Next came Tommy, more nervous, pale beneath his freckles, but he, too, delivered his testimony with calm and assurance. He had little to do but corroborate Billy’s testimony, and then he too was commended and dismissed.
The only other witness for the day was Constable Keller. He related that he had been alerted by the sound of a whistle. “The man was dead, your honour,” he said. “With his brains all over the pavement.”
The judge looked queasy; Huggins did a poor job of concealing a smile, and the remainder of the proceedings have been adjourned until tomorrow.
Beatrice and I took the boys to the Savoy for a late lunch as a reward.
After the splendour of Beatrice’s home and table, the boys were not at all awed by the Savoy. They were allowed to order what they pleased and, though understandably giddy, behaved remarkably well.
“What shall you do next, Sherlock?” Beatrice asked as we left the Savoy. “Do you have a plan?”
“I shall return to Demosthenes Jones. If the Egyptian was paid to send me in one direction, it is possible that Jones was, too. I also want to go back to Camden Town to see if I have missed anything. Finally, I need to see if there have been any developments in the diamond district.”
“You will be careful?” B said.”Forgive me; foolish question. I know John will not let any harm befall you.”
“You may count on me,” Watson said. He stepped back apace, presumably to allow me to bid farewell to my wife in some tender fashion.
I shook Beatrice’s hand and she squeezed my fingers. “Will you write to me of all that is happening? If not for my concern then at least for my curiosity.”
“I shall. And if Mycroft becomes a bother let me know and I will find some reason to hasten his return to London.”
She treated me to her deep throaty laughter that always makes me smile. I handed her into the carriage. Billy said, “I’ll take care of the lady, Mr ’olmes, never fear.”
“We’ll take care of the lady,” Tommy amended.
“I don’t doubt it. Mycroft will meet you a
t Victoria.”
The cab sped off leaving Watson and me standing on the Strand on a damp Thursday afternoon.
“You all right, Holmes?” Watson said.
“I was remembering our friend Collins who died not twenty feet from this very spot... We have lost some good friends over the years, Watson.”
“Given the nature of our work, not nearly as many as one might expect. Collins’s widow is doing very well and his children are thriving. Come. Let us not linger here. We have work to do.”
We took ourselves off to Soho to see Demosthenes Jones. He looked up with his usual bland face. “Ah, Mr... Holmesss,” he hissed. His eyelids were sunk lower than usual and he reeked of hashish.
“I think you know why we are here, Jones,” I said.
“I’m sure I do not, Mr Holmesss,” he replied. He puffed on the hookah and offered the mouthpiece to me, shrugged at my reaction, and resumed puffing.
“Your friend the Egyptian is dead. Murdered.”
“I know no Egyptian,” he replied.
“Know no Egyptian!” Watson spluttered. “Why, man, it was you who sent us to him. Bashir of the Chapel Market.”
“Oh, that fellow. I don’t actually know the man, you understand. I just heard his name.”
“He was murdered because someone paid him to lead us on a merry chase for non-existent treasure. That same person paid you, too. Can you not see your peril?”
His dull eyes barely registered my words. I kicked at the hookah and sent it flying through a tawdry beaded curtain.
“Here, here, no reasson to get upsset, Mr Holmess,” said the man.
“Your life is at risk. Don’t you see that?”
“Who’d want to hurt me? I don’t know nothin’.”
“Who told you about Bashir? Answer me, who was it?”
But he was too far gone to reply.