The Detective, The Woman and The Silent Hive: A Novel of Sherlock Holmes

by Amy Thomas

  The subsequent ride to Lestrade’s office was a cramped and unpleasant one, though Holmes felt the glow of triumph lifting his spirits. Irene and Watson seemed similarly pleased, in spite of being crushed against their travelling companions. Lady Helen’s face was impassive, and he could not tell if she regretted her last minute attempt to warn the American or not.

  ***

  “You had better have something solid to report, after rousting me out of my home at such an hour,” was Lestrade’s affectionate greeting as soon as the detective emerged from the dark corridor of the Yard and into his dimly-lit office. His scowl soon turned to surprise when he saw the doctor haul Calhoun in, followed by the two women and the sergeant. Billy had remained behind in the carriage with the driver, for he was weak and tired.

  “Certainly,” said Holmes. “I have caught the murderer and brought along witnesses to attest to his guilt. First, I should explain the role your own Sergeant Keating has played in all of this, and you may be surprised.”

  With that, Holmes spun the tale of Keating’s greed that had led him to become a part of Calhoun’s plot. He did not dwell on Lady Helen’s involvement, only mentioning her as a bearer of information that was germane to the case, not as an accessory. He did not hold a grudge against her for trying to warn her beloved. She had, after all, helped to lure Calhoun outside the inn, as she had been instructed to do, only weakening at the last moment.

  Lestrade listened. After an association of many years, he had at last learned to let the detective report all of his evidence before interjecting. Finally, when it had all been laid out before him, he sat back in his chair and sighed. “I am not surprised to see that there’s an American mixed up in it all. We will take Mr Calhoun’s statement here and hopefully extract the names of his associates.”

  Watson then obligingly removed the man’s bonds, since, within the Yard, he had no way of escape, and the detective finally looked at him in the light of the inspector’s lamp. Roy Calhoun was a young man with blond hair that swept off his forehead in a determined wave. He had bright blue eyes and a sensitive mouth and would have been handsome if he had not been pretty. As Holmes had expected, he wore a Confederate coat with two rows of buttons. The second one down on the left side was missing.

  “Good evening, Mr Calhoun, I am pleased we have finally met,” said Holmes smoothly.

  “You are a murderer,” said the young man coldly. “I regret nothing I’ve done.”

  Dr Watson took great offence at this remark and seemed ready to cudgel him, but Holmes simply asked, “Why do you accuse me?”

  “He could never go home!” said the young man, beginning to speak wildly. “You told the police he was a murderer, and we never saw him again. Do you know what my mother did? She took a pistol and sent herself out of the world. But I sought him out! I found my uncle, working in the cotton fields of Mississippi, like a common labourer. He told me about you, about the British devil who had tracked him down when all he wanted was peace and escape from his former life.”

  “You were not alive during the war, I think,” Holmes mused. “You heard of the faded glory, but you didn’t see the horror that men like your uncle carried on and even instigated themselves.”

  “He - he wanted to leave all that behind,” said Calhoun, his arms wrapped around himself tightly.

  “Perhaps,” said Holmes, “but his way of doing so was to murder, just as yours has been.”

  “You have no proof of that! You slandered him!”

  “On the contrary,” said Holmes evenly. “Your uncle was wise to flee. If I wished, I could build an unbreakable case against him at this moment.”

  Calhoun’s nostrils flared, and he breathed rapidly, furious. “It’s not true!”

  “It is,” Holmes answered, “but even if it were not, killing others would hardly have been the solution. As it is, you have taken one scandal upon your family name and compounded it exponentially.”

  “I don’t care about family names,” said Lestrade, speaking up. “I care about getting the names of the others.”

  “That won’t be necessary after all,” said Holmes. “I took the liberty of pickpocketing Mr Calhoun during our scuffle, and this paper from his coat pocket looks as if it will be most instructive.” The detective handed the paper to Lestrade, but the inspector stared in incomprehension at the seemingly random assortment of letters.

  “A cipher,” said Holmes, “and not a particularly clever one. I’ve already begun working it out. It contains a list of names, of which his is the first.”

  “Very well,” said Lestrade, “the sooner the better. Now, I will remove my prisoners.” In no time at all, the inspector had forced the sergeant and the American out of the room on the end of his gun, leaving The Woman, the detective, the doctor, and Lady Helen to their own devices.

  Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker Street to-morrow.”

  - The Reigate Puzzle

  Chapter 17: Irene

  “Do you think the young man is quite sane?” asked Watson, once we had left Lestrade and gone back to the carriage.

  “That’s a matter for a doctor and court to decide,” said Holmes. “His actions may seem insane, even if his mind is technically sound.”

  “He accomplished such a great deal,” I said. “I suppose insanity can be methodical.”

  “If he’s truly insane, he never acted so to me,” said Helen, who hadn’t spoken since the inn.

  “Lady Helen, we will shortly return you to your house,” said Holmes. “You may be called upon to offer evidence, but I have endeavoured to keep you from being implicated as a part of the plot. You were foolish, and you should be thankful that you are still alive.”

  I didn’t blame Holmes one bit for this speech. The girl deserved every word of it and more. She did not respond, but simply nodded, her expression one of cowed remorse. I knew that it would probably be some time before she let her delusion of Roy’s worthiness finally go. Even after my husband had show his true colours, I had clung to my love for far longer than was reasonable, and I did not think I was unusual.

  We had the driver take us to Colesworth Hall, and we watched from the street as Helen sneaked in through the servants’ entrance. I wondered if she would get away with her deception, or if she would be called to testify and make it all come crashing down.

  “I can’t help feeling that the girl got off quite easily,” said Dr Watson a bit crossly, once Helen had left us.

  “Perhaps,” answered his flatmate, “but I can’t believe any purpose would have been served by sending her to prison. Her chief crime was being unwise in her affections, and she certainly learned her lesson there.”

  I agreed with both of them, but neither completely. The girl had turned a blind eye to the obvious and let herself be drawn into something disastrous; however, she would have taken full responsibility and never even considered the fear and manipulation that had led her there. In his usual way, Holmes had determined who was responsible for the crime and had dispensed justice. To him, the girl was not the instigator, and he considered her suffering ample payment for her crimes. The doctor saw things in a more legalistic light, and I understood his desire to see justice fully served. I could feel for the girl, but I still held her responsible for her actions, just as I had been for mine.

  “I thought of killing my husband many times,” I said, for I was thinking on the case during our journey back to the flat. “I am not proud to admit that, in my darkest moments, the main thing that kept me from it was the knowledge that I could not do it without interference and certain detection.”

  “I believe very few human beings have ever gone the course of a lifetime without at least a fleeting thought of helping someone else from this world,” Holmes answered, “and your reasons were of greater magn
itude than many who have acted on their impulse.”

  “Perhaps,” I conceded, “but I have tried to put myself in the mind of Calhoun, and I cannot. No amount of vengeful desire could bring me to slay the innocent. I feel pity for him. I cannot fathom the amount of hatred that must have festered in his mind to bring him to such a point. There were times I thought my own hatred would overtake every other function of my mind and render me paralysed to anything but itself, yet I was nowhere near committing acts so heinous. His mind must have boiled.”

  “Any emotion carried to such an extreme will produce some sort of mischief. There’s problem enough in letting the passions run rampant; purposefully nursing one until it grows into a giant is an invitation to disaster,” said my friend.

  I could not help wondering if Holmes spoke purely theoretically or if he had experienced the dangers of unbridled passion. Sometimes I longed to see what was behind his eyes, the parts of himself he shuttered off from the world.

  ***

  When we reached Baker Street, an eager Wiggins came out to meet the carriage. Holmes helped Billy out first. He was pale, but he walked steadily over to the captain of the Irregulars and put out his hand. I enjoyed the private play that was enacted before me as Wiggins locked eyes with him and respect was exchanged. The cocky, brash boy had finally found something to admire in the page, and I liked to think that he would be better for it. I came forward and indulged my desire to embrace Billy, which I had restrained when I had first found him in the Gloucester Arms. He blushed at my forwardness, but he smiled. Dr Watson also found his way out of the carriage and shook his hand.

  While the others entered the flat, I walked a little behind with Wiggins, who was still slightly subdued. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yes’m,” he said. “I was thinking how it could’ve been me in there instead of Billy, if they’d made a different decision.”

  “That’s true,” I agreed. “Both of you are very important to Holmes. They might very well have chosen you. ”

  “I don’t think I’d have taken it so well,” he continued, his brow furrowed. “I might have told them something important. I’m sure Billy didn’t tell them anything important.” His manner was so earnest and his distress so endearing that I wanted to embrace him as I had Billy. Instead, I allowed myself to lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “You have been an excellent captain for a great many years,” I said. “I daresay Billy wouldn’t be able to manage the others as well as you do.” At this, he smiled broadly, his usual good humour returned with interest.

  “I don’t mean no harm,” he said, “but sometimes I can’t help getting angry at Mr Holmes.” He said this as if he were confessing to murder.

  “I’m sure I don’t blame you,” I said. “I often find Holmes entirely infuriating.” I did not say that I also thought their arguments perfectly normal for a father of sorts and a boy on the brink of manhood, but it certainly occurred to me.

  Once we were all inside, Mrs Hudson wouldn’t think of letting Billy return to his present lodgings. Instead, she installed him on the sofa with blanket and pillow and tucked him in herself with a kiss to his forehead. He was asleep before I had left the flat.

  Holmes walked me out, which surprised me. “You needn’t accompany me any longer,” I said, a bit teasingly. “The threat is gone, and I can easily secure a cab.” “Nevertheless,” he answered, “it is a fine night, and I would like some exercise.” Soon, I knew that my friend would succumb to weariness and the long sleep his body craved after the deprivations of the case. For the moment, however, I enjoyed the warmth of his company. Some said that he was cold, but they did not understand him. Holmes did not speak of his feelings or declare in florid prose his devotion to Dr Watson or to Mrs Hudson or to me. I include myself on the list, for by that time I had come to the assurance that he considered me his friend. He was not a man to give gifts or write beautiful letters. What he gave us was more precious than that; he gave his friends himself. Once befriended by Holmes, one could count on him until eternity, perhaps beyond. I had never known another person so reliable. As he kept pace with me, making his long legs match strides with my short ones, I had absolute certainty that he was fully present with me, and I knew that I could afford to be fully present with him.

  We say that bees have societies and queens and workers, giving human names to concepts that remind us of our own lives. It’s as if we feel compelled somehow to describe the mysterious magic of the bees as they labour together in perfect harmony, the hum the music of their success. Holmes and I were a tiny hive together, two bees with jobs understood instinctively, beyond speech or definition. I had not known I could ever experience such a thing. It had come into my life unexpectedly, a halting partnership, just as when hives are shaken up and new bees are introduced. Without realising it, I had let him into my life until he’d become as much a fixture in it as the black wing chair that sat vacant in my sitting room unless he occupied it.

  I had thought of my bees as stability and comfort, my ever-present reminders that all was well with the world, but as Holmes and I made the long walk to the Savoy Hotel that night, I realised that I did not need bees to give form to the chaos of my world; instead, Calhoun’s malevolence had helped teach me that the shape of things was found in a chair in a flat, a pipe, and a friendship. We were not always together, but the hum of the lives Holmes and I led had gradually united themselves in a dance that was very slow, at times, but ever-present. I did not understand what it all meant, but something in me recognised it, for a moment, and I was comforted.

  Perhaps, I realised, the things around us do not shape the order of our lives. Before the bees, I had had my singing and my money and then my marriage. I had thought these things formed the contours of my world apart from me. I existed in and with them, but I did not control them. When my marriage had turned sour, I had felt even more that I had no control over the world around me - order or chaos, it was out of my hands. The bees had somehow been part of this, a tiny window into a world that was perfectly ordered the way I’d always wished mine could be, but had never thought was possible. Now that they were gone, I had come to realise that I shaped my own world. My choices were the things that gave shape and colour to the plane I inhabited. I had chosen to fill my life with an Inverness cape, a Calabash pipe, and a village teeming with funny, lovely, maddening people, and I had made the right decision. The chaos Calhoun and his friends had tried to unleash had not been powerful enough to empty my world of the happiness it contained.

  I did not yet understand how Calhoun had managed to poison my bees, the thing that had started it all, but I trusted that Holmes would tie up the loose ends of the mystery for me. Finally, it was over.

  ***

  I found it strange to return to the twinkling lights of the Savoy Hotel and find them friendly instead of emblematic of a disturbing threat. “Do you plan to leave for Sussex tomorrow?” Holmes asked. “I understand that Sir Allen wishes to have dinner with you, so I assumed that you would remain here.”

  “Does he indeed?” I asked.

  “He made his intention known to me at Colesworth Hall,” said Holmes. “I expect that he will write to you tomorrow.”

  “Then I will certainly accept his invitation,” I answered, smiling. “Good night, Holmes.”

  “Good night, Irene,” he answered. “We have had a night of nights.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  ***

  The next morning, when I arrived at 221B, I heard the sound of excited voices. Mrs Hudson opened the door, and she was flanked by a small girl and boy with dirty hair and wide smiles. Upon entering, I saw what looked like a scene from a fairy tale or a factory - the flat was filled to the brim with children, who were seated on the floor in rows facing Holmes’s chair, upon which he sat, like a king surveying his court. Wiggins sat in the front row with a tiny, red-haired girl on his lap
. I remained standing behind.

  Holmes cleared his throat. “Quiet, everyone. As you know, I have not called you together for some time. Today, I have something very serious to say to you. As you know, I refuse to employ any child who is not old enough to understand why I ask you to do things. There is a risk in being a detective and in working with the police. Some of you may have heard of the death of Anna Mason. She was killed because of her association with me. I have called you here to offer you the chance to leave my service, if you wish. I will give you a week’s payment, and you will not be disturbed. If you choose to stay, I will continue to do my best to protect each of you, but each one of you knows that London is a big, wonderful place that also has frightening people in it.” He spoke deliberately, and rows of wide, attentive eyes took in his every syllable.

  “If you wish to leave, come up to Wiggins, and he will give you your payment.” The boy stood up and posted himself next to Holmes’s chair. There was a murmur of speech. After a moment, two girls got up and made their way slowly forward, amid disapproving clucking by their peers. They were given the promised compensation, and I wondered if the sight of so much money at once would persuade any of the others.

  It did not. My friend waited, and after five minutes, one of the older children, a plump girl with blonde hair, stood to her feet and began to speak haltingly. “Guv’nor, we all know what you did for Anna, how you helped her instead of sacking her, even when she couldn’t work no more. We don’t none of us want to leave.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes, smiling. “Rates shall remain the same, and you will report to Wiggins, as always. You may go.” Over a dozen children filed happily out of the flat, but Wiggins’s little friend rushed to Holmes and kissed him, which he seemed to enjoy a good deal.

  “Good day, Sir,” said Wiggins, the last to take his leave.

  “And to you,” said Holmes.

  “Where are Billy and Dr Watson?” I asked, finally coming forward.