by David Marcum
I observed a most violent reaction as the clear liquid turned a bright blue and soon bubbled up and over the top of its container. Holmes immediately turned off the flame, and jotted some notes. He then removed his eyewear and strode over to the fireplace mantel where he stuffed his black clay pipe with the previous days’ dottles.
“It’s good to see you, Watson. I see your practice is prospering, no doubt due to your ability to devote more time to your patients than when you resided here and assisted in my little adventures.”
“My practice is doing quite well at the moment,” I agreed. “How did you deduce that?”
“Simplicity itself, Doctor,” he responded. “In the years we shared these rooms, your choice of new clothing purchases was always frugal and quite infrequent due to budgetary constraints. In addition, you often had your shoes repaired in lieu of purchasing new footwear. Today you show up at my door sporting a recently acquired suit of the latest style and finest quality, and your boots are quite new, for they have barely begun the creasing of the throat line, and the soles still retain some fresh leather not yet scratched from excessive wear. This indicates not only their recent purchase, but the fact that you are able to afford a cab rather than walk your rounds, thus saving your soles from the cobblestones of London’s streets. Ergo, your practice is flourishing.”
“Well done, old friend,” I smiled.
“But, you are not here to discuss your practice today,” he continued. “What mystery have you brought me which surrounds this most curious item laid before us?
I handed the box, wrapping, and string to my friend. “This arrived at my home not half-an-hour ago,” I stated. “It appeared obvious that someone was using me to send a message to you.”
Holmes examined the string and its knot closely, even sniffing it for traces of any lingering odor. Tossing it onto the table, he then opened the box, noting the contents and the message. He enquired of me the substance of the pills.
“If they are genuine, they are a medicinal abstract, used in severe cases of tuberculosis. However, their side effects are nearly as dangerous as the disease itself, and thus used only in terminal cases as a last resort.”
“That is significant,” said he. He then picked up the wrapping and examined it minutely. “I presume it was not you who rendered this paper into this deplorable state, Doctor?”
“No,” I countered. “That is just how it arrived. Is the fact that he used an old wrinkled sheet of any consequence?”
Instead of answering, Holmes retrieved his magnifying lens and began a detailed perusal of both sides of the paper.
Speaking as he peered through the powerful instrument, the detective offered the following:
“The paper was deliberately wadded up and wrinkled after he printed your address, Doctor. He could not have labeled it so clearly, were it already in this state.”
“For what purpose, Holmes?” I asked in confusion.
Laying the paper upon the table he proceeded to smooth it out very carefully with my address face down. Handing me the lens he asked, “Look closely, my friend. What do you see?”
I knelt before the low table and passed the lens across very slowly. Suddenly, between the wrinkles, I could make out actual words pressed into the paper. They were not done in pencil or ink, merely impressed by some instrument such as a stylus. Being upon the wrinkled paper, one would almost have to know they were there in order to notice them.
“My God, it appears to be a message, Holmes!”
“Precisely so,” said he, taking back the lens and examining the sheet once again.
“If you would be so good as to take notes to my dictation, let us see what has prompted this remarkable communication.”
I retrieved a pencil and notepaper from Holmes’s writing desk and sat by to take down his every word. He spoke thusly:
Mr. Holmes,
My wife and son have been kidnapped by at least three men who hold them hostage to force me to create large quantities of narcotic drugs. One is always watching the shop, either inside, from the street, or from the restaurant across the way. He is always well dressed in tweeds and bowler, and carries an elephant-headed cane. I need quiet assistance with no police presence. Please help me!
“Obviously he has read some of your published works to contact me in this unique way, Doctor. That he should do so indicates the possibility of a difficult case ahead,” he proffered. “Would you be available to assist me for the next few days?”
“I am always at your disposal, my friend,” I answered without hesitation.
“Capital!” He answered. “I believe we shall need some further assistance as well. Let me smoke a pipe on it, Watson. I have an idea which needs germination before putting a plan into action. You may read the papers or step out for any errands you require, if you would be so kind as to return in forty-five minutes.”
I chose to step down the street to my tobacconist shop to obtain a new supply of Ship’s for myself. I then stopped by the Parkview Pub for a round of ale before returning to my old lodgings to see what seed had grown from Holmes’s fertile mind.
Chapter Three
Upon my return, I found Holmes bent over his writing desk, scribbling away quickly jotted phrases, as was his custom when writing out telegrams. This however, was one long missive written on foolscap. Choosing not to interrupt his line of thought, I sat by the fire and charged my pipe.
I had it going quite well and was perusing the morning Chronicle when at last my friend finished his task.
“Watson, do be good enough to verify my language skills. An error could prove most devastating at this stage,” he requested, handing me the sheet.
I found that it was a list of questions written out in Latin. Although my own skill at the ancient language was used primarily in my medical practice, I was able to decipher Holmes’s words quite clearly and handed it back to him without corrections.
“Quite clever,” I offered. “But how will you deliver it to him and get your answers? In disguise perhaps?”
“I had considered it, but I believe even that risk may be too great. Our friend, Burbage, obviously believes his tormentors to be very thorough and that they may possibly know me, since he chose such a roundabout contact method. Should they have even the slightest suspicion, they may follow me and discover my secret when I return here.”
“Certainly you are not thinking of using the Irregulars for such a dangerous task?” I said with some concern.
“No, I should think this will require the assistance of the Baker Street Ladies Auxiliary.”
“Who?”
“Watson, you are well aware of my opinion of the fair sex in general. However, there are certain women whom I have come to trust for their specific abilities and courage.”
“Really?” I replied in astonishment. “And who might they be?”
“My dear fellow, do you not recall the remarks I made regarding a certain client in the little adventure of the Agra treasure?”
“You mean Mary?”
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “She is intelligent, observant, unflappable under stress, and courageous. As I recall, in her former position as governess, she taught Latin to her charges, which may come into play in this little scenario. I also believe that a woman will not draw the attention of these villains as a man might. Naturally, you and I shall be close by to intercede should it become necessary. I assure you she shall be quite safe.”
We sat together for some time going over exactly what actions Mary was to follow and how we would go about observing the scene of this criminal enterprise in order to counteract it. By mid-afternoon, our plans were laid, and I returned home to ascertain Mary’s feeling on the matter.
“Well, of course I’ll do it, John. That poor man needs our help and I will not sit idly by while a mother and child are in danger
. Now tell me exactly what Mr. Holmes’s plans are for me.”
I do believe, dear reader, that my beloved has a wild streak of adventuress in her.
I explained what Holmes required and how we would go about this little charade he had planned. We were quite sure of our roles by dinner time and spent a restless evening of anticipation for the next day’s adventure.
Promptly at eight o’clock the next morning, a growler pulled up in front of our door and the cabbie rang the bell. I recognized him as John, the same driver who had conveyed Holmes and me away from the opium den where the adventure of “The Man With the Twisted Lip” had taken place in 1889.
“By your leave, Dr. Watson,” he said, tipping his cap. “Our mutual friend has rented my rig for the morning, and I am to deliver you and the missus per his instructions.”
We were quite ready to depart and Mary, with little makeup and her hair in a bun, dressed rather plainly per Holmes’s request, joined me in the cab ride to Markham Square, with Holmes’s letter in her purse. Out of habit, she gripped my hand as we rode, only this time perhaps a little stronger than usual.
As we approached the Square, John pulled up at Jubilee Place and let me out.
“Here’s where you start your walk, Doctor,” he called out as I stepped down to the pavement. “Have no fear. I’ll be at the lady’s beck and call the whole time.” He then pulled up the flap of his coat pocket to reveal the handle of an army revolver. He gave me a wink and hied his horse onward to let Mary out at the Apothecary Shop another hundred yards down the road, while I strolled the street in that same direction, observing passersby and loiterers, keeping a special watch out for the man with the tweed suit and elephant-headed cane.
Holmes, I knew, was also close by, though in disguise. Whether on the street or in the restaurant I did not know. However, I had faith in my friend and proceeded according to plan. After a leisurely stroll up the street, I stepped into the restaurant and took a table where I could watch anyone who was watching out the windows. I spotted a fellow who seemed to fit the bill. He was in a well-worn tweed suit and appeared to be a bit of a ruffian. His unkempt brown hair was worn long over his ears and collar. An unruly moustache covered his upper lip, and his skin was well-tanned. His shoulders slumped as he ate with surreptitious glances across the road, where Mary’s cab awaited her to finish her errand. Unfortunately, his bowler was perched atop the walking stick that rested against the table at his side, but I saw no other person who came close to the description we had, and was sure this was our man.
As I took up my watch, Mary played her part to perfection. Upon entering the shop, she sought out Hector Burbage, who was behind a counter unpacking boxes. Burbage was a middle-aged fellow of about thirty-five. He was clean-shaven, with short black hair that rolled in waves across his head. Once she verified his identity, she handed him the list from Holmes.
“My doctor has recommended these medications for my ailing mum,” she said, with just a trace of Cockney in her speech. “Could you verify your stock and any instructions that may be needed for their application? I’ll also need to know the costs so that I may withdraw funds from the bank to pay you.”
“Certainly, miss,” he answered, taking the list from my wife’s hand. Seeing the Latin writing, he looked cautiously around the room to ensure the shop was empty. Then in a low voice he asked, “Would this be for Dr. Watson, then?”
“Yes,” she replied with a nod. “He is right concerned for mum’s condition and needs assurances that you have the proper medications in stock.”
She gave the man credit for not revealing the relief he most certainly felt, that his pleas had been heard. He attached the list to a clipboard and began checking his stock and writing answers next to each item, also in Latin.
He handed the list back to her and said, “I have most of the items here, but a few are rare, and I’ve given your doctor instructions on where he might obtain them. I do hope your poor mother feels better soon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burbage. I’m sure that the doctor and his staff will be able to fix her up all right.”
She put the paper back into her purse and returned to the cab, whence John flicked his reins and trotted off, taking a circuitous route with a stop at our bank for show, and then a return to Paddington.
When she left the Apothecary Shop, the fellow I’d been watching got up, threw some coins on the table, and took up his hat and stick to leave. I started to rise and follow, for now I saw that he did indeed have an elephant-headed cane, but immediately sat again when a rather stout fellow came barging in the front door and bumped hard into my suspect, knocking him off balance and onto the floor.
The newcomer began jabbering in a thick German accent about how sorry he was, and his attempt to help the fellow up was thwarted by a commis boy coming by with a tray full of dirty dishes and tripping on the fellow’s cane. The disturbance brought out the manager and many questions and disparaging remarks flew back and forth before the tweed-suited fellow convinced everyone that he was all right and pushed his way outside.
All this had allowed John’s cab to get out of sight so that it would be impossible to follow. While he fumed on the pavement, I finished my coffee, watching him through the window. At last I saw him cross the road, purchase a paper from a newsboy, and take up a position on a bench in the square where he could continue his surveillance of the shop.
Satisfied that he was still for now, I followed Holmes’s instructions and returned home to retrieve Burbage’s answers from Mary. By the time I arrived, she had changed into her regular clothes and rearranged her hair and makeup to normalcy. She informed me of her conversation and I congratulated her upon her success and courage.
John was seated in our parlor where the maid had served him tea and biscuits, and we had him take us back to Baker Street where we would await Holmes’s return - a wait that stretched much longer than we had anticipated.
Chapter Four
Several hours passed. Mrs. Hudson had served Mary and me lunch as we sat by, anxious to share our news with Holmes. The answers Burbage had supplied revealed a tangled web that saw no signs of relief for the poor man’s plight.
The only proof he had of his family still being alive were daily messages delivered to him with a story from that day’s newspaper, written in his wife’s hand. But as to the state of their health he had no assurance. He was forced to spend several hours a day, often working well into the evening on busy days, mixing and encapsulating the drug concoctions required by his tormentors.
It was nearly three o’clock when a tall, thin, mustachioed, and monocled man in a black business suit, top hat, and frock coat opened the door to Holmes’s sitting room. His general build and steely grey eyes identified him to us as my friend in disguise. But to the casual observer he could easily be a businessman or government official, seeking out the great detective’s services.
“Holmes!” I cried out, “Where have you been? We’ve important information for you on Burbage’s case.”
“Gathering data, dear Doctor, gathering data. I knew that the inestimable Mrs. Watson would have retrieved important facts. But I took advantage of an opportunity that could well supplement those facts so as to give us the possibilities for a plan of action. No doubt you witnessed the brief altercation at the restaurant?”
“Yes, it was too convenient to be coincidental, so I assumed it was another of your street colleagues, like John our driver.”
“Not so, Watson,” he stated, removing his false moustache and tossing it with his monocle into the upturned top hat that he had laid on the table.
“That was me, in one of Mycroft’s old suits. I had pre-arranged the collision with the boy under the manager’s permission, should our prey be in the restaurant at the time of your wife’s rendezvous with the apothecary. Once he disentangled himself, I watched from within until he sat on the bench. Then, aft
er you left, I had the boy keep lookout. I slipped into the back room, shucked my costume, and emerged as you see me now. I kept an eye on him for several minutes, and then another fellow sat next to him on that same bench. He was dressed more like a workman, and merely average in every way as to size and coloring - a face that could easily be lost in a crowd due to it being so commonplace. They exchanged words briefly and then the second man stood and hailed a cab. I chose that moment to exit and flag down a hansom as well. I followed this second individual, hoping he would lead me to where Burbage’s family was being kept. Unfortunately, as we approached the toll booths at Albert Bridge, we were cut off in the traffic, and I lost sight of his cab as he continued over toward Battersea Park. There was no sign of him when we finally were able to cross, though I had the driver scour the area. At last I returned to Markham Square and noted that our elephant-caned friend was now in the shop, speaking with Burbage. I kept watch from the restaurant until he himself returned and ordered a late lunch.
“It was then I regretted not involving the Irregulars, but I have made arrangements to borrow the services of the commis boy from his employer, and he will report the man’s movements to me when I return tonight.
“Now, fair lady Watson, may I see what you have so ably conveyed from our beleaguered druggist?”
Mary handed him the note with the Latin dialogue and we watched Holmes peruse it thoughtfully. He sat in his chair and lit a cigarette as he did so, while we took up places across from him on the sofa.
Having finished, he turned to Mary. “Did he say anything to you, my dear?”
She replied like a soldier giving a report, “Not much, Mr. Holmes. He only asked very quietly if the list was from Dr. Watson. He was very nervous, yet also seemed relieved that his message had gotten out, giving him hope. I followed your instructions exactly and he played his part well. Have his answers given you any thoughts for our next steps?”