The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy

by David E. Fessenden

  Mycroft didn’t understand my situation at all. He stood shakily, looked out the window with his back to me, and said, “I am sorry. You remind me so much of your father that I began to take liberties. Of course, it’s your decision. In fact, you should know that the final amendment to the will is not legally binding.” His voice faded as he ended the sentence, then he sat down abruptly and turned his face away from me.

  “Mycroft,” I began, “you must understand this is all so new to me. I haven’t had a chance to think how I feel about the idea. But how to honor my father’s last request is a decision I hope we can make together.”

  He turned toward me and I thought I detected a tear in his eye, but he moved his head and raised his imposing bulk from the chair before I had a chance to be sure. The no-nonsense thrust of his chin and folding of his arms convinced me I must have been mistaken.

  “Right,” he said. “Now, let’s see about some tea.”

  I wasn’t sure if Mycroft was referring simply to the hot drink or to an evening meal, but I quickly explained that I was expecting company soon, and did not have much to serve him at any rate.

  “Not at all, my boy, whatever food you have on hand is fine with me.” Ah, now I knew—he was expecting a meal.

  From my nearly bare cupboard I managed to cobble together an unimpressive tea—a can of beans and a tin of corned beef, which I served over toast, made from the only two slices of bread I had left. I cleared away a mound of books and papers, and set my rickety kitchen table with the only dishes I had—a slightly chipped set I acquired from a second-hand store, with a gaudy red-and-orange floral design. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, and he consumed his meager portion as if he were dining on pheasant under glass at the Diogenes Club.

  I am afraid I rushed Mycroft through the meal, wanting to clear things away in preparation for Mr. Meridan to arrive. Fortunately, I also had a tin of biscuits—or, as Americans would call them, cookies—that I could serve my impending guest. But before that, I wanted some more information from my unexpected visitor.

  “Mycroft,” I began hesitantly, “I am puzzled about one thing.”

  “Speak on, my boy. No secrets between us.”

  “I don’t see how you managed a trip to the States. I understood you were . . . well, a semi-invalid and my father was taking care of you.”

  My comment drew a loud guffaw from the old man. “If anything, for the past few months it was somewhat the reverse, my boy. Your father’s health had been declining, and while his demise was sudden, it was not unexpected. Those high medical bills I mentioned earlier were mostly your father’s. My well-publicized infirmities were nothing more than a fiction for our convenience and protection. You see, after my brother’s death, I was asked to consult on several of Scotland Yard’s more troubling cases—but incognito, you understand. No reason to allow the criminal community to raise its guard.”

  “And no need for the credit to go to a private individual,” I added. “I’m aware of how the Yard works.”

  “No doubt,” Mycroft replied, raising the corner of his lip in a sneer. I laughed inwardly at his expression, which I had seen on the face of his brother so often. On the thin, sharp features of Sherlock, it reminded me of a bloodhound on the scent, but on Mycroft’s doughy face, it looked more like a bulldog.

  The momentary pause in conversation gave me a chance to ponder how my father handled Mycroft, who was so different from Sherlock—a contrast that went far beyond their differences in weight and waistline. In fact, my father had often commented both privately and in print how the two brothers were virtual polar opposites—Sherlock so energetic and ambitious, Mycroft so lethargic and passive; Sherlock with such a flair for the dramatic and outré, Mycroft so conventional and private. They did, however, share the same genius for observation and deduction, as well as the annoying habit of replying to one’s thoughts rather than one’s words, as Mycroft did now.

  “Yes, your father assisted me on one or two of my cases, doing the necessary legwork and other duties that I could not be bothered with. And we got along quite well in the same small flat—or shall I say, apartment, to use the American term. When in Rome . . .”

  I wasn’t surprised to hear this. If Dad could put up with a fellow lodger who conducted indoor pistol practice and foul-smelling chemical experiments, surely he could live with a sedentary old bachelor.

  “I suppose my father would have been positively apoplectic to discover how I’ve been living,” I said as I refilled the teapot.

  “Yes, I suppose he would have.” Looking around my rooms with a smirk, the old man surprised me once again by adding, “The man was a bit of a stuffed shirt sometimes. Mind you, Sherlock would have felt right at home here.” I wasn’t sure how to take that last remark.

  “It always amazed me,” Mycroft continued (leaving no doubt as to his opinion of my living quarters), “that a man as conservative as your father would agree to have my brother for a fellow lodger!”

  As he finished his last mouthful, Mycroft resumed his analysis of my financial situation.

  “Yes, my boy, your economic condition has greatly improved, though it may be a while before you see the money. Your father may reach his greatest literary success posthumously.” Mycroft snorted. “It was a good thing that your father found his niche as a chronicler of my brother’s adventures. He was never much of a success as a physician.”

  This was too much. “How can you say that?” My chin trembled as I struggled to control my temper. “After all his care for you and Sherlock? He might still be alive if he hadn’t been responsible for you two.” The words escaped my mouth before I realized how they sounded. I was about to stammer out an apology, but Mycroft smiled and patted my hand, the way one does with an overwrought widow.

  “Thomas, Thomas,” the old man said with a chuckle, “calm yourself, now! I am making no criticism of your father—you misunderstand me entirely. He had a heart as big as a whale, and no one could ever fault his concern for his patients. But the man’s medical skill was mediocre at best—he said so himself. And his enthusiasm for my brother’s cases was matched only by his apathy over his medical practice. Any number of London specialists were no more competent than he, but they developed a healthy practice and built a solid reputation on long hours of grueling dedication to their profession. While they were seeing patients, your father was off with my brother on some mystery or writing up his latest escapade. He was always more interested in Sherlock’s latest deduction than medical science’s latest discovery.”

  This revelation of my father surprised me. I had always assumed that he rarely spoke of medicine in my presence because he sensed I had no interest in it. Yet we talked for hours about writing. His work with Holmes and his published works were more to him than the hobby I thought they were. As I glanced over at my bookshelf near the window, where a collection of my father’s first editions occupied a prominent place, I wondered why it had never been obvious to me. So my father enjoyed adventure, and writing about adventure—something else we had in common! Suddenly I missed him all the more.

  “And by the way, Thomas,” Mycroft added, “you’re also wrong about your father’s death. He was devastated when you left for America. He so looked forward to your infrequent letters. With your mother gone and you so far away, he felt he had nothing to live for. If he hadn’t had Sherlock and me to take care of, I’m afraid we would have lost him much sooner.”

  “That’s nonsense, Mycroft!” I said as I refilled the teakettle from the tap and set it on the stove. “My father saw me off to America with his blessing.” (Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. I remembered my father’s reaction when I announced my intention to leave for America: his pained expression, his quiet, detached voice as he grudgingly wished me well. I thought he disagreed with my decision. Could it be that he just didn’t want me to be so far away?)

  “Of course he gave you
his blessing. Why shouldn’t he? He was so proud of you, running off to America to become a journalist,” Mycroft mumbled with the ghost of a smile. “It was a great adventure, and he would never deny that to you. You were doing just what he should have done. He was a brilliant writer, despite what Sherlock said. I’m sure he felt you were following in his footsteps, more so than if you had studied medicine.” Mycroft rose laboriously to his feet and stared out the window. “Ah, the man missed his calling.”

  Then he whirled around with unexpected agility and added, “Or did he?” Mycroft peered at me accusingly as if he expected an argument. “Your father may have never produced one of those stuffy tomes we call great literature, but he left the world a substantial collection of delightful adventure stories. He’s well on his way to immortality in popular literature. Why, just the other day I read a review of his last volume of mysteries in which the author laments that your father did not write more.” He gave me a sly wink. “That’s money in the bank for you, my boy. At least they’re not wishing he had written less!”

  “Well, thank you, Mycroft, for your concern,” I said after a long pause. It was hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Now if you’ll excuse me, that knock at the door must be my visitor.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Apparently no worse for wear from his grilling by Feeney, Basil Meridan stood patiently at my door, his prim appearance in stark contrast to the threadbare hallway carpet and the dingy walls. His head was haloed by the bare overhead bulb. I was glad to see him, but I needed to warn him about Mycroft. “There’s something I should explain,” I said, as I stepped into the hallway and closed the door. “An elderly gentleman—a fellow Englishman in fact—has just arrived to live with me. I’m afraid I wasn’t prepared for him, and—well, there may be a few awkward moments.”

  I paused. This wasn’t going well. How was I going to tell him that Mycroft was a crotchety old buzzard whose heart is in the right place, but who too often speaks his mind?

  “You see, I haven’t told him a thing about why you are here, and I’d just as soon keep it that way. If I let him in on the story of the explosion, I’m afraid he’ll try to take over the interview.”

  Basil leaned his shoulder against a wall, gave a wink, and nodded. “I was butler at a club with several older chaps, and I know how it can be.”

  We stepped in the door to the dying whistle of a teakettle, and an echoing clatter as it was taken off the stove. Mycroft apparently could not wait to prepare another pot of tea. He stood hunched over the stove in the kitchenette, twisting the knobs like he was operating some kind of huge contraption. He looked over his shoulder at us, then turned quickly around in astonishment. “Basil!” he cried.

  “Mr. Holmes! What a pleasant surprise!” Basil’s shoulders straightened as he said this, and he assumed a more butler-like stance.

  “You two know each other?” My head was spinning again, which would become a chronic physical response to living with Mycroft.

  “Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Basil was my favorite waiter at the Diogenes Club.” He turned to Basil. “I was very disappointed when Lord Cairn stole you away from us.”

  “Coming under the employ of that scoundrel was the greatest mistake of my life,” Basil exclaimed. For the second time that night, I heard the story of his unfortunate dismissal.

  “Truly a shame,” replied Mycroft. “But that is easily remedied. You’ll come work for us.”

  I cleared my throat. “Mycroft,” I said hesitantly, “don’t you think we should talk about this?” My solitary life had already been invaded by one intruder. Now we were talking about two—and this one had to be paid! I didn’t have my inheritance yet; this was no time to hire help.

  “Nonsense, my boy. I’m going to need assistance in my feeble state,” the old man said, reading my mind. “And I can assure you that this will not cost you a dime. I have a pension of my own, you know.”

  I nodded, then rested my chin in my hand. Basil quickly sized up the situation and began his duties. In moments I had a steaming cup of tea at my elbow. The guest had become a permanent fixture.

  Despite myself, I found I liked his attention. After getting the tea, Basil began to “tidy up a bit,” as he called it. He had his work cut out for him. My bachelor quarters were nothing to be proud of—a converted attic under a peaked roof with windowed gables which created a wildly angled ceiling. The whitewashed walls were bare—who had money for artwork?—and the squeaky wooden floor in the living room was covered by an ancient braided rug that had been left by the previous tenant.

  No, the place was not much to speak of, but on top of that, with the hours I had been putting in at the paper, I had let things go. Dirty dishes were perched on bookshelves and grimy windowsills. The remains of yesterday’s paper were strewn across the couch, and every surface was powdered with a layer of dust. I had never been much of a housekeeper, but this was bad even for me. Basil’s practiced hand set straight in a few minutes what would have taken me hours. The dishes were spirited to the kitchen, and the dismembered newspaper disappeared. He swiped a damp dishcloth over tables and chairs, then found storage places for things that had been under foot since I’d moved in. He even rearranged some of the furniture into a more pleasing setting.

  “Oh, all right, Basil—you’re hired,” I cried, laughing at his energy.

  “Thank you, Master Thomas. I’m glad to be of service.” He smiled and nodded pleasantly at me, but we both knew I really had no say in the matter.

  With a steaming cup in his hand prepared by the dutiful Basil, Mycroft lumbered across the room with a contented sigh. Settling his ample bulk in my easy chair, he closed his eyes and smiled, his torso conforming possessively to the outlines of the seat. I knew at once that I would never sit in that chair again, even if Mycroft permitted it. After being refitted to his shape, my once-cozy sanctuary would seem cold and cavernous.

  “Ah, Thomas,” he said after some moments, exhaling my name luxuriously, “you probably think it is hopelessly elitist and Old World to keep a butler, but I tell you, it is the apex of culture! All the refinements and pleasures of taking a wife—or some of them, at least (and here he popped open his eyes long enough to wag his bushy brow at me) and none of the messy emotional ties. My man Worthy was my aide and confidant for over forty years. I was devastated when he died.”

  “And from then on,” I quipped, “you lived an un-Worthy life, I suppose?”

  “Please, Thomas, no more of that!” the old man grumbled, scrunching his nose in revulsion. “Your puns are not welcome.”

  Basil, however, flashed me an appreciative grin when Mycroft wasn’t looking.

  “Come now, Basil,” Mycroft purred, as his lips enclosed the edge of the teacup. “You have poured a cup for yourself, I expect? Ah, yes, I see you have. Now sit down and tell me about the explosion at the speakeasy. I’m sure Thomas is anxious to write up the story.”

  Basil stared at the old man in amazement, but I, who had grown up around the Holmes brothers, was not impressed. “A mere parlor trick, Basil,” I said knowingly, as I picked up a pencil and pad from my desk. I sat down across from Mycroft and began thrumming my fingers on the side table. “Humor him for a moment, and he’ll tell you how he knows.”

  But Basil was not to be swayed by my cynicism. He remained frozen in the center of the floor, utterly astonished. “I don’t understand, sir,” the butler gasped. “Thomas said he hadn’t mentioned a word about the explosion to you, and though I told you I had fallen on hard times, I was afraid to admit to working in a speakeasy. Please, tell me how you know.”

  Mycroft eyed me with a hard look. “Thomas is quite right, you know. It is something of a parlor trick, though my brother was much better at it than I—in his later years, at least. But more to the point, I really cannot make claim to genius when a man comes in here smelling of smoke and beer—what else could it be but a fire or explosion i
n an illegal saloon?”

  “He guessed it was an explosion and not a fire. And, of course, he knows my profession, so it was an easy assumption to say that I’m after a story,” I concluded triumphantly.

  “I never guess and I never assume,” Mycroft grumbled, forming his lips and eyebrows into menacing parallel lines. “Your breast pocket contains a pencil and a hastily torn scrap of paper jammed in it. I can even discern a few words scribbled on it—‘The explosion blew out . . .’ I meant to ask about it earlier, but we had other issues to discuss.”

  “Bravo!” cried Basil, and I reassumed my sulking position as our newly hired butler gave Mycroft a detailed review of the past hour’s events, totally forgetting his promise to let me conduct the interview. It was obvious that in this threesome, I was going to be the odd man out.

  As it turned out, however, it was something of an advantage to let Mycroft ask the questions. It gave me the chance to focus more clearly on the details of Basil’s story. And truth be told, Mycroft got no more pertinent information out of the man than what I had already heard him reveal to Feeney. Basil had come down the hall with the serving tray, knocked on the door, received no answer, looked through the keyhole, saw his employer’s angry face, and spilled the pitcher. He was in the kitchen getting a rag when the explosion occurred. End of story.

  Basil’s testimony was an interesting angle and gave a bit of color to the narrative, but it didn’t get me very far in answering the questions I knew my editor would ask: How did the explosion happen? Who is to blame? What was the motive for the murder? The fact that the police were apparently just as baffled as I was would not wash with Charlie Rosenbaum. I could just hear him now: “If there ain’t no wrap-up, it ain’t no story.” I really had a hard road ahead of me.

  CHAPTER 5

  The next morning I was pretty stiff after sleeping in a stuffed chair. (I had given Mycroft my bed and insisted that Basil take the couch.) Despite it all, however, I caught the early trolley to the office and typed up my notes on the explosion, quite pleased with myself. Wouldn’t Charlie Rosenbaum be surprised when I handed in this story? Sure, last night I had been worried that he’d give me an argument about it, but now that I had written the piece, I was convinced that it was complete and concise, and hung together well.