by Amy Thomas
I drew myself away, walking across the soft carpet to the door of my room. I knew that if I opened it, I would be making a dangerous decision that went directly against Holmes’s wishes. I knew, and I did not care. I was mixed up in the case; my bees had met their demise at the hand of formidable enemies, and I wanted to do my part to catch them. I had done what Holmes had asked, and it had failed, not from any deficiency on his part, but it had failed nonetheless. In my day, I had been resourceful and more than capable of getting what I wanted, and I decided that my turn had come. I twisted the knob on my room door and stepped into the hotel hallway, knowing that I might very well be risking life and limb.
The second floor hallway was as bright as ever, its electric lights making night seem like day. To my relief, no one was about, but I knew that condition would not remain for long in a place as busy as the Savoy. I weighed my options. I could pass through the hotel and hope that no one recognised that I did not actually work there. The Savoy had many maids, and it was possible, I thought, that anyone I met might accept that they had simply never seen me before. However, I could not be certain that the floor maids were unacquainted with each other, and the risk of meeting someone who knew them all unsettled me. About the other guests I did not worry overmuch. They seemed, in the main, to be a self-absorbed lot who would dismiss me as soon as they saw what I was wearing.
The other option was to make my way to the servants’ stairwell entrance, where Billy and I had made our furtive return earlier in the day. The risk of meeting hotel employees was higher there, but I also reasoned that I might be able to keep a lookout and avoid meeting anyone at all, which would be impossible if I brazenly made my way through the main part of the hotel.
I wished I had Holmes’s brain, which would have, without a doubt, been able to weigh the two options and make a judgement about which was the safest. I was less confident in my own ability to do so, but I knew that I could not continue to linger suspiciously at the door to my room without someone passing by and wondering what I might be doing there in the garb of a maid.
With a sudden burst of inspiration, I went back into my room and surveyed the tray of food I had been brought for dinner, glad I hadn’t called for its removal. I quickly put the silver covers on the plates and rearranged them on the tray, picking it up and again leaving the room.
This time, I made my way to the servants’ stairwell with determination, ducking around a corner while a maid and butler passed. I listened carefully, but I could detect no further sound of foot or voice, so I stepped onto the topmost stair, took a deep breath, and walked.
I made it down the first flight without incident, but when I reached the first floor landing, a porter joined me. I kept my head down, and he was in such a hurry that he quickly outpaced me and made no effort to speak. My heart fluttered, but I finally reached the ground floor and the small room that would let me out into the world beyond the Savoy.
His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain that far-away, introspective look which I had only observed in Sherlock’s when he was exerting his full powers.
- The Greek Interpreter
Chapter 10: Holmes
Sherlock Holmes never visited his brother at late hours. In point of fact, he rarely visited his brother at all, and he could count the number of his visits to the Pall Mall flat on the fingers of one hand. This rarity didn’t spring from any animosity; rather, the temperaments concerned did not lend themselves to frequent socialisation. Furthermore, the scarcity imbued each instance with particular weight.
Mycroft’s butler opened the door of the flat for the detective. He was an unmarried man of thirty-eight, excessively correct in every movement and inflection of voice, who was a professional card player in his two evenings off. The elder Holmes had deduced this secret soon after the beginning of the man’s employment and had found it amusing enough to tell his brother. The younger Holmes had, on occasion, found the man useful and quick-witted, nowhere near as averse to practical labour as Mycroft was.
“Good evening, Parker, is my brother at home?” the detective asked
“Certainly, Sir,” the man answered, every word enunciated to sublime perfection. “Please come in, and I will make him aware of your arrival.” Everything about the flat oozed pure luxury, from the thick carpets to the mahogany furniture. Many of the pieces were gifts - relics of a job so secret that even Sherlock did not know the full extent of it.
After five minutes’ wait in the comfortable sitting room, Holmes was joined by Mycroft, who came out of his bedroom wearing a midnight blue dressing gown of magnificent proportions. The detective knew that his brother had not been sleeping, for it was his usual habit to smoke cigars and read long Russian novels for several hours each evening before he finally took to his bed.
“Good evening, Sherlock,” he boomed. “Have you dined?” Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes could see Parker blanching at the idea of having to produce food on immediate notice at such an hour.
“I have no need of food at present,” he answered. “I am sorry to take you from your usual routine.”
“So you should be,” said Mycroft, breathing heavily as he squeezed into an armchair. “You’ve forced me to abandon Tolstoy.”
“I hope my errand will amply repay you for that,” said Holmes, taking a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to his brother. On it he had drawn the likeness of a button - silver, with the letter C etched upon it.
“I found the button near the body of the slain girl,” he explained. “Have you ever seen one like it?”
“My dear Sherlock,” answered his elder brother, “I am hardly omniscient.”
“And yet,” replied the detective, “I know that you forget nothing and are able, with effort, to recall anything with which you have come into contact.”
“That is true,” Mycroft answered. For a few moments, he pondered the picture. Holmes wished he could have produced the button itself, but it was of little matter. If Mycroft could not identify the drawing, he would not have been able to identify the object.
After a while, the larger man leaned forward, his chair creaking with the weight of his movements. “I have never seen one exactly its twin,” he said, “but it resembles the buttons used by the Confederate States of America during the American Civil War. I once had an American contact who retained a coat from his uniform that had similar ones upon it.”
“Why did you not show this to me sooner?” he continued.
“I was not originally certain that it would be needed,” his brother answered.
“This is certainly suggestive of the murderer being a former part of the Confederate army, or attempting to impersonate one.”
“Which,” said the younger Holmes, “makes it even more likely that he is an original member of the Ku Klux Klan, for it consisted of many former Confederates.”
“It still does,” answered Mycroft, “but behind closed doors and in clandestine political meetings.”
“Thank you,” said the younger brother, rising to take his leave. Parker opened the door to the evening wind, and the detective stepped outside.
***
The streets around Pall Mall were mostly deserted, which delighted Holmes. It was a truism of detection that following someone when there was no one else about was much more difficult than following someone in a crowd of people. Without looking behind him, he sped up, walked ten paces, then suddenly turned on his heel and doubled back.
Peering into the evening dark, he saw a figure disappear behind a corner. He did not see its face, but he noted the tall, wiry form and the back of a pair of black boots he’d seen before. Contented, he went on his way.
***
Upon his arrival at Baker Street, the detective found his flatmate dozing in his chair, but the doctor started up as soon as he heard his friend approach. “Stea
dy on, Watson,” said Holmes, “I’ve not come to kill you.”
“You oughtn’t to joke about such things,” said the doctor, rubbing his bleary eyes. “I take by your keenly delighted expression that you’ve been successful in some way.”
“In two ways,” said Holmes, taking his seat. “First of all, Mycroft confirmed my suspicions that the button found near the body of Anna Mason was of American origin, most likely from the coat of a Confederate States of America uniform. This suggests several fruitful lines of enquiry. Secondly, I know who is tailing me, and almost certainly who is revealing our movements to the Klan.
At this, the doctor sat up straight. “For goodness’ sake, Holmes, don’t leave me in the dark.”
“I have no intention of doing so,” the detective rejoined. “It’s none other than Sergeant Keating, Lestrade’s young assistant.”
“When did you begin to suspect him?” asked Watson, obviously shocked. “Or are you as surprised as I am?”
“After Irene’s arrest,” Holmes answered. “When it became apparent so quickly that the Klan knew of our deception, I began to believe someone must be informing them of our movements; it seemed overly coincidental to imagine that they had somehow overheard enough snatches of conversation in the prison to understand the whole plan. Keating was overconfident, I believe, and his associates put too much faith in him. Still, it was not enough on its own, and his nervous act was impressively convincing.
“Of course, the sheer scope and speed of everything that has been carried out had already suggested more than one person in collusion. I did not realise, though, that they had an informer so directly involved with us. They should never have acted to kill the journalist so quickly. If they had waited even a day or two, the signs would not have pointed back to them so clearly. As it is, their hubris got in the way of prudence, as it does with many murderers who have psychopathic inferiority.”
“I’m surprised to hear you use that word,” said the doctor. “It’s largely confined to medical and psychological circles.”
“You know my methods,” Holmes answered. “I absorb any information that is useful for detection. I have recently studied the writings of the German psychiatrist Julius Koch, and I find his observations of moral psychological disorders most informative.” The doctor simply smiled at this.
“What do you intend to do now?”
“I will tell Keating I know what he is and give him a choice between helping our case and being reported immediately without the amelioration of the any of the charges.”
“I supposed being turned in to Lestrade is a grave enough threat to encourage cooperation.”
“The prospect of being turned into Inspector Lestrade should be a direly frightening idea for anyone,” said the detective, smiling sardonically at his own joke. Watson simply stared at him, shaking his head in obvious disapproval of his mirth. “The young man is, of course, done for, whether he assists us or not, but I believe I may entice him with promises to speak on his behalf if he cooperates.”
“”Have you eaten?” asked the doctor after several minutes of silence.
“Not today,” answered Holmes. “I haven’t need of anything.”
“Well, if you will not be persuaded, I intend to go to bed,” said his flatmate, rising. Holmes noticed that in spite of Watson’s attempt to appear incensed, he was actually excessively pleased at the evening’s success, as he always was.
Holmes remained in his usual place after the doctor had left the room. He took out a black notebook, and by the low light of the lamp, he looked at the two notes that were tucked in its pages. He had, with difficulty, persuaded Lestrade to let him keep them. He now looked at them again, comparing the handwriting. They had obviously not been written by the same person. The first, the one to Irene, had been penned, he thought, by a young person; its letters were very small and decisively neat, with even pressure. The second was in a spidery hand; its drawing had imprecise lines, and its letters were large and wobbly. If the policeman and Calhoun - if it was Calhoun - were the only two in league with one another, then he would have supposed the first note to have been Keating’s and the second the American’s. He could not, however, be sure that they did not have other compatriots. In fact, his supposition that they had, at one point, been tailing him, Dr Watson, and Irene at the same time indicated at least one other associate.
The detective was glad to recall that Irene was secure in her hotel, the doctor was asleep in 221B, and that Billy, whom he had seen on the day of Irene’s return from prison, was known to be especially careful and had been instructed to tell Wiggins to remain on his guard. Holmes wished he could convene a meeting with all of the children in his employ, something he had not done in some time, but he did not wish for any of them to meet the same fate as Anna Mason. Depending on how thorough the Klansmen were, he knew that even speaking to Billy could be dangerous, but both he and Wiggins were well aware that their work for Holmes came with risks, and he had personally instructed them in how to be vigilant.
The information the detective had gained pleased him, but it was not enough. When Moriarty had been alive, the detective had lived with the constant awareness that the criminal might win in the end, in spite of his best efforts. He did not relish feeling the same way, especially since he knew the Klan’s organisation could not be half as powerful as Moriarty’s, not without attracting far more attention. No, they had struck first and struck hard, but he would answer them. Of that he was certain.
So silent and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law instead of exerting them in its defence.
- The Sign of Four
Chapter 11: Irene
As I prepared to step off the bottom of the Savoy Hotel’s servants’ staircase and make my way into the outside world, I heard the footfall of others approaching above me. Cautiously, I scurried into the dark room under the stairs, just as Billy and I had previously done. Soon, the others passed me, and I heard what they said.
“I hope he’s not gone for good. I thought he was handsome,” said a young woman’s voice.
“He’ll be sacked if he doesn’t give an awfully good reason for being away,” said another girl. My brain registered, in a moment, recognition of her voice. She was my own maid.
“It isn’t like porters to leave so suddenly,” said the first girl, “and he’d only been here a week. He must be in the clover if he’s willing to leave a job like this so easily.”
The two maids lingered in the tiny entrance room, and my agony was as great as it had been before, this time because of mental rather than physical anguish. Neither Holmes nor Billy himself had told me that he would be somewhere other than the hotel. I tried to tell myself that it was possible that my friend had given him some other assignment, but in the case’s present state of uncertainty, I could not convince myself. The maids finally uttered the name of Billy in reference to the gentleman who was the subject of their discussion, but by that time, I was more than resigned to its certainty. A scant ten minutes had elapsed since the beginning of my flight from the hotel, but it felt much longer, since I wanted nothing more than to burst out and alert Holmes.
When the speaking had finally died away, I emerged out of the door and into the London evening, leaving the tray in the cramped room. Thankfully, my maid’s uniform caused me to be relatively inconspicuous to the usual crowd of glamorous guests who were constantly streaming in and out of the hotel. In a short time, I found myself in front of the street, ready to hail a cab. Before I could do so, I heard someone behind me, closer than normality would have allowed, silent and ominous. I did not turn around for a few seconds, trying to calm my breathing and reassure myself that with so many people about, I could not very well be hurt or abducted without someone noticing.
Finally, I spun about and found myself face-to-face with Wiggins, who grinned at me as if he was exceedingly proud of himself. I restrained a strong urge to slap his face. “How dare you - ” I sputtered.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said quickly, his eyes wide with surprise. “I just wanted to have a bit of fun.”
“I’ll thank you to save your fun for some other occasion,” I snapped. “Billy is nowhere to be found, and I intend to tell Holmes as soon as I can.”
At this, the boy was well and truly aghast. “Are you sure he’s not in the hotel?”
“I’m sure,” I answered. “I heard two maids saying he’d disappeared without telling anyone.”
Wiggin’s face fell even further. “Mr Holmes will be angry with me. I was supposed to keep watch for things like that.”
I took pity on him. “I believe Mr Holmes has more than that to think about at present. Besides, we already know that the gang is very resourceful and skilled. Do not berate yourself. Billy knew to watch out.”
“I’ve been skulking about in shadows all day,” Wiggins continued. “Mr Holmes left orders to be as hidden as possible, but that means a harder time trying to keep watch on things.”
Again, I reassured him. “You must not blame yourself, but we need to let Mr Holmes know.” He nodded wordlessly and hailed a cab, for there were always many of them idling about the street in front of the hotel. As we stepped into it, I kept my hand on the place where my gun rested just under my skirt in case the driver should prove difficult. The idea that the gang had managed to abduct Billy from the hotel made me even more wary than I had previously been, and as we clattered towards Baker Street, I realised how foolish the idea of leaving the hotel alone had been. I’d wanted to prove to myself that I still possessed my former courage, but I’d chosen a foolhardy method.