Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  He shrugged. “I am too well known.”

  “That might be disputed. But if you like, I’ll only tell you those things I know you’ve tried to conceal from the public.”

  He nodded, still unsmiling. “You have my permission.”

  “Your Christian name,” I said, “is James, not John.”

  Another shrug. “A slip of the pen, made early in my career. But it has been noted before now. Go on.”

  “In Afghanistan you were injured in neither the shoulder nor the leg, but in the groin.”

  “Better,” he said. “My literary agent suggested the first lie out of delicacy, and I invented the second because I had forgotten it. Anything else?”

  “You were raised a Roman Catholic.”

  That surprised him. “Was I indeed?”

  I nodded. “When inventing aliases, you often draw Christian names from Catholic translations of the Bible — Elias and Isa — and surnames from Catholic Ireland — Moran and Moriarty.”

  “Bravo,” he said. “Though the last was no alias. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Your first marriage wasn’t happy.”

  There was a long silence in which he did nothing but examine his hands. They were swollen with rheumatism, and when clasped together, as they now were, resembled some huge, tropical nut. Then he stood and made for the door. I’d blown it—the interview was over! But when he reached the door, he only pushed it shut.

  “You are impertinent,” he said, “but you are not wrong. When my first wife and I met, we were both free as air, and were quickly overtaken by the most romantic circumstances.”

  “I read about them,” I said. “Like a million others.”

  His heavy eyes brightened a moment. “But only you read rightly. You and another.”

  The implication thrilled me.

  “I see her dullness in Herbert. It is a blessing that his constitution has kept him from service. He could not have survived it, even in health. Indeed, I wonder how he will weather a broken heart.”

  He was trying to distract me. “Why did you ignore my letter?”

  He stared at his fingers, entwined again. “Why should I not? I receive a hundred such in a year.”

  “But you knew mine was different.”

  He shook his head. “There was nothing empirical to distinguish it.”

  “And still you knew.”

  He straightened his back, looked me in the eye. “What you asked was impossible and remains so. Your feelings in the matter are not my first concern. Your...” He stopped, tried again. “The gentleman of whom you wrote...” But then he stopped entirely.

  “I understand,” I said. “Such abuses of mind and body must have consequences. But I also know you protected him: that you were a friend even when he didn’t seem to want one. I read all that between the lines, too. And I read your new article, about his service in the present conflict...”

  Now it was he who resisted distraction. “You are confusing James with John. The delicacies I was forced to observe at the beginning of my career have been displaced by new ones. It is impossible now to depict vices no longer allowed in law. As for the article to which you allude, you must consider its purposes: though it contains no outright lie, I was obliged to emphasise the continued powers of my...” he stumbled again, but only for a moment, “of my colleague, and pass over his present failings.”

  I made to speak again, but he held up his hand.

  “Oh, I wish I could have protected him as successfully as I imply. But in truth, reality and my records began to diverge years ago. I am afraid it is always so: the doll and his maker are never identical.”

  “And is that what he is to you?” I said, angry now. “A doll?”

  It was so patently unjust that he knew he needn’t reply. Instead, he returned to his chair. He even managed another smile. “You resemble your mother,” he said.

  “She told me I resembled him.”

  He took another close look at me. “Your hair is dark enough, it is true. May I ask your age?”

  “Twenty-two,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I had no idea that the ... the liaison had persisted so long.”

  “Fits and starts.”

  After a moment he said, “I never stopped following your mother’s career. It seems she can still draw a crowd to the concert hall, or could before the war, anyway. Do you see her often?”

  “Almost never.”

  Another moment passed. “What surname have you adopted? It cannot be the one you appended to that letter you sent me. Herbert would have remarked on it: as a boy, he read my work as assiduously as any other.”

  “I usually go by my mother’s real name,” I said. “But I often use the alias you created. And I sometimes use my father’s.”

  Then we lapsed into a longer silence. He looked out the window and the sunlight gave definition to the scores and ridges on his forehead. I thought I might have calculated his age to the second.

  Finally, he said, “I do not doubt you are his. You have intelligence and wit, and you treat your own person with a rigour that is not entirely healthy. You are also disdainful of the property and feelings of others.”

  I smiled: it was his best bit of deduction yet.

  “But I am also his,” he said. “I was once accessory to his mock-betrothal, under an alias, to an innocent housemaid. I have helped him break into houses on several occasions. And I have witnessed him act as judge and jury, pardoning men who might otherwise have gone to the gallows.”

  “As I said, you are a true friend to him.”

  He smiled at that, before turning very grave. “I am something other than his friend now. Not his brother, either — I might be called his keeper. His body has become a cage to him, and at times his mind is one, too. Oh, he writes his monographs on bees, and will sometimes speak sagely on current events, but too often his thoughts are all turned inward. He used to emerge from such fits unchanged, but now they exert a heavy toll. We grow old, after all.” He looked at me closely again. “You hold yourself like an athlete. Do you fence?”

  I nodded. “My mother would’ve liked me to sing, but I inherited other talents.”

  “You do not play a musical instrument?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, that is a relief, at least.”

  We had strayed from the point, but I was wary of being pushy. My best advances had been made in silence, after all. “Your house is splendid,” I said, “but very isolated.”

  “I have my family.”

  “And friends?”

  He considered a moment. “My literary agent is a near neighbour. But you shall find, as you grow older, that family acquires much more importance...” He stopped himself again, and I tried not to smile. And then he allowed himself a bout uninhibited laughter. “You have indeed inherited other talents!” he cried through it.

  “But I didn’t put the thought in your head: it was yours, and I know you believe it.”

  His whole aspect had changed, the heavy eyes wide now, and clear. “Of course I do,” he said. “Family, comradeship, and courtesy: we neglect these things at our peril. And hospitality, too. You shall stay the weekend.”

  “You invite me to?”

  “We cannot have you creeping away at daybreak. On Monday morning I shall make telephone calls and see what may be done. You have my word that I shall do all in my power to help you in this matter. My attempts to obstruct you were motivated by care, but I see now that it was misdirected.”

  I didn’t know what to say: ‘thank you’ seemed inadequate. But the sound of footsteps from the corridor, and of a voice calling my name, saved me from embarrassment. My host rose again and opened the door: “In here, Herbert.” My fiancé appeared in the frame and stopped there, dead still: I saw then
the power of a long-standing injunction, and knew how far I’d been honoured. Herbert—an insubstantial figure next to his bullish Papa—goggled at the two of us in turn. “Getting acquainted, what?”

  “Indeed,” said his father, taking him by the elbow and coaxing him across the threshold. “You know, Herbert, a friend of mine once demonstrated to me his contention that life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind of man could invent.”

  “A friend of yours?” Herbert could barely hide his scorn. “You mean the friend of yours.”

  His father recognised the scorn, but didn’t admonish it. Instead, he moved his hand from Herbert’s elbow to his shoulder, and so embraced him. The look on Herbert’s face showed how unexpected this was: it contained bewilderment mixed with a little terror.

  “Herbert, I must tell you straight away that I cannot agree to this marriage. I shall give my reasons later, but for now let me commend this young lady to you as a friend. And one to keep for life: she has the pedigree for it. No, there must be no questions, Herbert. We shall talk after dinner.”

  Herbert looked to me for explanation. The bewilderment had grown, pushing out the terror.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” I said. “We can’t marry. There is a... What do they call it? There’s an affinity between us.”

  My host nodded. “Yes,” he said, “that’s it precisely. This young lady is already family. Now, let us go into the garden while the sun still shines. No sulking, Herbert. We must not waste a minute of the day that is left to us!”

  The three of us left the room — two, at least, thinking on another.

  The Ghost In The Military Machine

  By Graham Cookson

  Kent, UK

  September 1st 2011: United States Department of Defense ‘The Pentagon’, Virginia.

  The preparations for the anniversary of the September 11th 2001 attacks were finalised. General Patrick Mendoza sat in his courtyard-side office, watching as a small selection of the 23,000 employees at the Pentagon meandered from one side of the sunlit, pentagon-shaped courtyard to the other, some stopping to talk to others, some busy in their own reverie. General Mendoza faced the mounting emails in front of him. “Blast!” He uttered to himself, opening one particular email. The contents told him that one of the main routes for the President’s carriage was being altered and he would need to ensure that all military personnel involved were aware of the changes. “Damned Secret Service,” he muttered to himself. “A little more warning would have been appreciated.” He hit the intercom button on his phone, contacting his secretary. “Jamie, hold all incoming calls please. And call my wife, I’m…” General Mendzoa was cut short. The lights in the office started flashing like mad and his computer screen began flickering, new windows opening and closing at random and the silent alarm light in the corner of his office started flashing bright red. “What the…?” The general looked around, bewildered by the electrical chaos. “What is it?,” Jamie asked from the other end of the intercom. General Mendoza didn’t respond to her question; he was looking at a new window on his computer, which remained open – it had a timer on it. Five, Four… the general could do nothing but watch as the numbers flashed on screen… Three, Two… One. The counter reached zero. Jamie strained to hear what was going on over the intercom. A loud click and then a grinding sound could be heard. “Hello? Who’s there?” She heard the general call out. There was the sound of some movement, possibly a chair being moved and footsteps. Then nothing. She waited patiently for a minute. Then a loud bang and click could be heard down the line. Jamie rushed into the joining office. “General?” she said in soft despair, looking around the empty room.

  As head of security, Major Powell was trying to calm the situation. It must be a computer virus. He didn’t know how, but it had slipped through the firewalls and was now causing havoc in the building’s military-grade security system; doors were locking and unlocking at random, and alarms were being tripped all over the vast building. The entire building was put on lockdown, no personnel in or out, until it was resolved – everyone in the building needed to be accounted for and searched, section by section.

  By 0200 hours, only one member of staff was unaccounted for, General Patrick Mendoza.

  September 12th 2011: 221b Baker Street, London.

  “Well it looks like the Twin Towers anniversary went well,” Watson said. Folding up his paper he looked over to see Sherlock staring at a stuffed beaver on the mantelpiece. He had been studying it ever since Mrs. Hudson found it in a parcel left on their doorstep. There was no note or address, so (as Sherlock had pointed out) the parcel was obviously hand delivered and there could be no mistake that it was for one of the occupants of 221b. But the beaver had come as some surprise – it was set in a position where it was standing on its hind legs, its front right paw held a pipe to its mouth, with a monocle on its left eye, and a small, beaver-sized deerstalker hat adorning its head. It had left Sherlock baffled, much to Watson’s initial amusement. “I said the September 11th anniversary went well,” Watson said out loud again, trying to raise some response from the catatonic Sherlock. “Hmmm?” Sherlock mumbled. “Forget it, just forget it,” Watson tossed the paper to one side, landing front page up, the headline bearing the legend, ‘America Remembers’. The doorbell rang. Watson paused, to see if this would bring some sign of life from the ‘great detective’. ‘Ring. Ring’ The doorbell sounded again. “Oh I’ll get that shall I?” Watson suggested sarcastically. “Hmm?” Shaking his head, Watson made his way to the front door. The bell rang again. “Yes, yes. I’m coming.” Watson said impatiently. Watson opened the door and was confronted by four men, dressed in black suits, with white shirts and black ties. “Sherlock Holmes?” one of the men said, with an American accent. “Let them in John.” Sherlock’s voice came from behind Watson. Watson stepped to one side, watching as the men walked in past him into the living room. Sherlock, still standing at the mantelpiece, looking at the mysterious beaver turned to face the men. Watson watched as Sherlock’s keen eye looked to each man individually. Before any of the men had a chance to speak, Sherlock began. “You are from the U.S. government. FBI? No, no. Definitely not CIA, that much is obvious. You’re manner, attire and those small badges on your lapels would suggest Secret Service. But why would Secret Service be in Britain? The President is not visiting, so there would be no need for your presence here.” Sherlock’s gaze landed on Watson’s discarded newspaper. “Ah, something to do with the 9/11 anniversary perhaps. But what?” “Sir!” The man said with some urgency. “We are pressed for time, our flight leaves in an hour.” “Oh, very well,” Sherlock snapped. “I take it I am to come with you?” “Yes, your presence has been requested. We can de-brief you both on the fight.”

  On the eight-hour flight to America, Sherlock and Watson were de-briefed on the situation. The men were indeed from the Secret Service, as Sherlock had deduced, on a special assignment from Homeland Security as part of a National Special Security Event (NSSE). While it had not been reported in the papers, the Pentagon was subject to a suspected terrorist attack in the lead up to the 9/11 10th Anniversary. After the attack on the Pentagon, one member of staff disappeared, and it has now been determined that it could be a kidnap situation.

  The agent explained that the general was on the intercom to his PA at the time and that she said it sounded like he began talking to someone else, then she heard some strange sounds, possibly a struggle. But during the incident no one entered or left his office. Yet he was gone.

  Sherlock and Watson arrived at the Pentagon in a stereotypical unmarked black sedan. The duo was escorted to one of the entrances and led inside. Just inside the building, they were greeted with a security check point, not unlike one would find at an airport, though the security personnel were more heavily armed. Staff and visitors had to go through a metal detector, while bags were scanned through an x-ray machine. After being allowed through security,
Watson and Holmes were met by Major Powell, who led them to the security control room, just a little way from the entrance check point, with two more military officers escorting them. After some brief introductions, the second de-briefing began, though more in-depth than the one given on the journey from Britain. Sherlock had been specifically requested by a government official, (though they were not told who), and they needed his help to work out how the attackers had managed to infiltrate The Pentagon and kidnap General Mendoza – without being noticed by any security camera. One of officers working in the control room explained that the system monitored and controlled the alarms, cameras and the electromagnetic security doors. “What happened during the attack?” Sherlock asked. “Well, we lost control of the alarms and the security doors,” the officer said. “And the cameras weren’t affected at all?” Sherlock questioned. “No chance of even a momentary blackout? You have to be very specific here.” “All footage from the cameras can be accounted for - no known glitches, blackouts or anything out of the ordinary detected,” Powell answered. “Excellent,” Sherlock responded, much to the surprise of military personnel in the room. “And what about the virus’ source?” “We found the source of the attack; turns out it was a disgruntled former employee. He was part of security programming and knew our system. He has been detained - but is refusing to tell us what happened to the General Mendoza, or who he’s working for,” Major Powell replied. “Would you like to question him?” “No, I don’t need to question him,” Sherlock said. “But I do need to see the general’s office,” he added.

  Watson and Sherlock were, once again, escorted by two officers and led by Major Powell, down some of the many corridors of the Pentagon. Each corridor and hallway appeared to have a theme; some were memorials to different conflicts, humanitarian missions or branches of service. They turned down one corridor which had its walls practically covered with quilts and memorabilia. The major told them that this was one of the corridors that had been hit during the 9/11 attacks and all the articles lining the corridor had been donated by families of the victims, schools, and communities; they remained there as a permanent reminder of the tragic day. They walked to a hallway just off the 9/11 memorial corridor and into an ante room, Powell explained that it was Mendoza’s PA’s office. Her desk was empty, on leave after the incident. Mendoza’s office was something that one would expect of a high-ranking military official. The room was lined with oak panels, a bookshelf on the wall immediately to the right as they entered the room. A long window opposite the entrance gave a picturesque view of the central courtyard. Along the left side of the office, sat General Mendoza’s old, yet sturdy wooden desk, behind it adorning the wall was a landscape photograph, showing a birds-eye view of the Pentagon. “Nothing has been changed since the attack happened. Even the computer has been left on, as it was found,” Powell explained. Sherlock remained silent, mentally reconstructing the scene as he had done so many times before. He walked around the room, investigating the bookshelves, the area around the desk and the view out of the window. “Looks quite antiquated,” Watson commented, trying to break the silence. “Not quite what I was expecting of the U.S. military.” Watson had intended the comment to be light-hearted to ease the moment. “I can assure you anything old in here has been selected,” Powell responded tersely. “The Pentagon underwent a major renovation between 1998 and 2011,” Sherlock stated, still inspecting the room. “Everything was updated to modern standards, including security, decor and even the windows. As a military man, I would have expected you to know that, my dear Watson.” Sherlock pushed against the tough, double-glazed windows. All the windows had been replaced during the renovation, sealed-shut for both security and energy efficiency. “Lovely,” Sherlock commented. “I’ll need to see the security control room, one more time.”