“I shall be here.”
“Well, if you must.”
“I must.”
And indeed he is. But this time, the instant Mycroft sees him, he approaches without hesitation.
“I’ve had distressing news. Someone told me coming up the street.”
“What news?”
“This Grimsby, the chap you are seeking, he is dead.”
Sherlock looks shocked. But there is a touch of acting in his reaction, almost as if he knew what Mycroft was going to say. Their mother was a singer and versed in the ways of the theater, and acting is a skill that Sherlock seems to have inherited from her.
“Really?”
“Yes, really, I’m sorry to say. He was missing and they found him in the Thames sometime early yesterday. It appears to have been foul play.”
Sherlock can’t resist a slight smile.
“Well, that doesn’t become you. The young man is dead.”
“And good riddance to him.” Sherlock bows slightly to his brother. “It was lovely to see you again. Let us not be so long parted next time.”
The boy almost skips off to school. He knows he shouldn’t. It isn’t right to celebrate a human being’s death, any human being, even those hanged outside the Newgate Prison for detestable crimes, even little Grimsby. But that evening, when he tells Sigerson Bell, he again allows a slight smile to creep across his lips.
Bell, of course, notices it (because he notices everything) and is more than a little taken aback. He finds it difficult to make conversation on the subject after that and goes to bed wondering about his assistant.
Sherlock sleeps soundly that night, and when a knock comes at the door, before their breakfast and before the shop is even open, it is the old apothecary who answers. When he does, he lets out a yelp, a little like a war cry. But the person at the door shushes him, and the two of them make their way into the lab without a word. Holmes is just rising. When his bleary eyes see who is in the laboratory, his mouth opens wide and he can’t close it.
“Hello, Sherlock.”
Irene Doyle is standing beside Sigerson Bell. Or at least it looks like her. She is dressed, to the boy’s mind, like an American. First of all, much to his consternation, the dress is cut low at the front, showing her lovely collarbones. A bustle sticks out prominently at her behind. There is frill and lace everywhere, the whole outfit made of silk, deep blue and red, bordered in white. She wears a matching bonnet and carries a parasol in one of her gloved hands. Her blonde hair is done up underneath her hat, and her face glows from little touches of color. She must be wearing some sort of high heel, since she seems taller than when he last saw her. Though his heart is now pounding, she looks relaxed. She is nearly seventeen years old, a young woman in her prime. She smiles at him.
“I – Irene.”
Sigerson Bell slinks away with a smile, though he doesn’t get very far. He stands just out of sight at the door to the main room. He is listening, of course.
“You are looking well,” intones Sherlock, rather shakily.
“You’ve grown,” she says, looking up at him.
“Thank you.”
“I can’t stay.”
“Neither can I.”
“Pardon me? You still live here, don’t you?”
“Uh, I have things to do.”
“Then we are in agreement.”
“I suppose we are.”
They are both silent for a moment.
“I thought I should stop by,” says Irene, “and let you know how things have been with me. May I sit down?”
Sherlock gets her a stool. “Your letters have not been as frequent of late.” In truth, he hasn’t heard from her in months.
“I have been awfully busy.” She begins tugging off her gloves, her long, elegant fingers sliding out one by one. “Did you … miss them?”
“Perhaps. A little.”
“Then I shall write more often in the future.”
“That means you are going back to America.”
“For the time being.”
“Time being?”
“I will live on the continent soon. There are opportunities in Europe.”
“I see.”
“But I will be in New Jersey for a few months first.”
Sherlock can actually detect a slight accent in her speech.
“And, as usual, I will spend most of my days in New York City.”
“I hear it is a fine town.”
“It is the coming city in the world.”
“Time will tell.”
Irene’s early letters had told of her settling in with a wealthy Newark family named Adler, the father a kind and serious-minded man. Mr. Doyle had met him on a business trip to London, learned of his connections in the singing world in New York City, and asked if he could help his ambitious daughter. Mr. Adler had responded with an offer to take her into his family home for a year and place her with some of the best singing teachers in America. It hadn’t mattered to Mr. Doyle, or most certainly to Irene, that he was Jewish.
“My tutors have been wonderful. They have moved me forward. I have sung in some gorgeous halls lately.”
“Well, that is what you want, it seems, so I am pleased for you.”
“I have been just an opening act, of course. But more will come later. To Father’s delight, I am far away overseas while I pursue my corrupt ways!” She laughs.
“So, you are set on your path?”
“Absolutely.”
“And that path won’t be in London?”
“Probably not, though I may be back from time to time. Why would you care anyway, Sherlock? Set on your own path, are you not? All alone?”
What if I told her that I need her?
He says nothing.
“I thought so.”
“I –”
“I have made some remarkable friends, both women … and men.”
The last word hits its mark and Sherlock says nothing again.
“I believe, more than ever, that it isn’t right for women to be second-class citizens and be told what to do. I am going to make my own choices and friends, control my own life. I know that sounds selfish, but it shouldn’t. Why can’t women have the choices men have?”
“Men and women are different.”
“Not inside.”
Sherlock has been standing over her all this time. He pulls out the other laboratory stool and sits beside her. They are silent for a moment again. Finally, she takes him by the hand and squeezes it.
“So, what is your news?”
“I have little to report, I’m afraid. I am living the same pedestrian life.”
“Staying out of trouble?”
“I am attempting to put off my career until I am truly ready. You know I tried to do that before. In fact, the last time I was in ‘trouble,’ as you put it, was when you convinced me to help with the Hemsworth dragon case.”
“It didn’t take much convincing.”
“Oh, but you were good at it.”
“We women can be. You should give in to us from time to time.” She slaps him gently on the arm.
“I have my own way.”
“And it is as hard and rigid as an iron walking stick.”
“I believe there is nobility to my path. It is what must be done. It is what I must do. Justice is everything to me.”
“But, right now, you are simply doing apothecary work?”
He hesitates.
“Oh, I see.” She smiles. “Something is brewing! You were never able to lie to me. Have I come at a moment of excitement in your life? What is happening, Sherlock? Tell me.”
He hesitates again. He cannot bring himself to tell her what has transpired this past week, and will definitely not reveal his plan. But there is one thing he can say, and he is pleased to do it.
“Grimsby is dead. It was likely foul play. Someone such as him dies no other way.”
“Little Grimsby?” Her face flushes.
“Good riddance.”
“Sherlock, no one’s death should please you.”
“This one does.”
“But he was a helpless little one. All he knew was crime. He never had a chance, not the chances we had.”
“Correction: you had. I had nothing and I chose a different path from that little bully. He was going to do much evil in his life. It is much better that he was snuffed out. His death has saved at least one life, maybe more.”
“Sherlock, I know you thought me naïve when we first met and for a long time after. I know I miscalculated, somewhat, about Malefactor, but –”
“Yes, you did.”
She closes her eyes in frustration with him; he need not have said that out loud. “But not entirely. I still believe, as father does, that all people can be reformed.”
“And I do not.”
“If you want to be a true seeker of justice, truly a good man, here’s what I think you should do: search for Grimsby’s murderer.”
She doesn’t get far with that idea. Sherlock won’t discuss it. Soon he turns the conversation and there is no more talk of their careers, just a happier discussion about their pasts, their old friendship. They actually begin to laugh together. When it is time for her to leave, they are both reluctant to part. She kisses him on the cheek.
“I will be here for a week or more. Father spends much of his time with his son, so I am free most nights.” The attention her father pays to her foster brother, Paul, the spitting image of his dead son, still grates on her. Her attachment to home has waned since Paul arrived. She smiles at Sherlock. “You know where to find me.”
As she goes out the door, Holmes has the feeling that he wants to follow her, chase after her. But he stays inside. He sits down at the lab table.
“People keep stealing in and out of here, surprising me!” he mutters to himself. In the future, I need an upstairs flat of my own, with a companion and a housekeeper.
“You know,” says Sigerson Bell as he materializes out of the shadows like a ghost, not even pretending that he wasn’t eavesdropping, “she is right. If you truly believe in justice, you should seek out the person who killed Grimsby. It would indeed mark you as what you say you intend to be.”
An hour later, the boy is out on the streets. He has no school today. He wants to be alone for a while. He knows that his master and Irene are correct. If he were truly a good person, truly a man of justice, he would help to find Grimsby’s murderer. But it is complicated, very complicated. He needs to sit somewhere and think about it. Usually, he takes his meals with Bell, but now he wants to find a public house for a long sit and then have some food on his own.
He heads to Leicester Square, walks past The Faustian Bargain where he once met with the famous young trapeze star, The Swallow, while in pursuit of the Brixton Gang, and finds another public house – a much calmer place called The Boy and Man.
He finds a booth, sits for a while, then orders a mug of tea and a chicken pot pie and starts to eat, losing himself in the meal and not thinking about what Irene and Bell had said. He thinks of Grimsby. Dead. But he can’t help it; it doesn’t sadden him in the least. There is, however, a small lingering feeling of guilt. What if I indeed searched for his –
“Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”
As if by magic, someone is sitting in the booth with him. Sherlock’s head shoots up. Sunken eyes are looking back at him.
Malefactor! He has done it again.
“Wh-where did you come from?”
“Never you mind, Holmes. I can always find you.” He sets his top hat on the table and takes off his gloves. He looks calm on the surface, but plucks at the gloves aggressively. Holmes can tell that he is holding back a seething anger.
“I can see that,” says Sherlock.
“I prefer to be a mystery to you. You know too much about me already. In fact, in the future, should you live into the future, I think it would be best if you and I feign to have never known each other. It is best to have no past, no known past, at least.”
“Agreed.”
“But, as I say, you may not last much longer anyway. I don’t know on how many occasions I have told you that I am not pleased with you.”
“Once or twice.”
“As we get older, I can assure you, the chances that you will survive my displeasure diminish substantially.”
“You said almost as much before. This is about Grimsby.”
“Not entirely. It is mostly about you.”
“How so?”
“You, age sixteen and a half, have chosen, once more, to interfere in my affairs. I would have thought that you would have matured enough to know to stay out. As I have said to you before, we are not children anymore.”
“At least one of us isn’t.”
“You state my case exactly. I did not know, the last time we met (and kick myself for not understanding), why you asked if I had been at my country home the night before. You were wondering if I, or one of my operatives, was following you in Hounslow, weren’t you? I know that you discovered it was I who was blackmailing Sir Ramsay Stonefield and where the source of my inside knowledge lived.”
“I did indeed.”
“That is most unfortunate. Though Grimsby, that little turncoat, has hurt our immediate chances with the police and in government by his treachery, they are not at an end. I shall get my way. I shall be an influence at every level of London life.”
Malefactor’s face had turned red when he mentioned Grimsby. That intrigues Sherlock, greatly.
“I have no doubt that you think you can do as you please in that regard,” says Holmes. “But concerning Grimsby, you seem angry. No grieving on your part?”
Malefactor springs to his feet. “That little pig! He was not loyal! He has made great troubles for us!”
Sherlock is even more intrigued.
Holmes’s enemy doesn’t wait for him to respond. He turns on him. “Never mind about Grimsby! He got his due! Live by the sword and you will die by it. Stay away from all of this, Sherlock Holmes! I am warning you for the last time! Stay away!”
As Malefactor stalks out of the public house, Holmes is radiant. He has a new plank in his plan, a brilliant one. He will indeed search for Grimsby’s murderer. And when the police consider the facts that he will unearth, it will be obvious to them that the murderer was either Malefactor or his only living lieutenant, Crew; or both. I can do more than just put them behind bars. He almost vibrates with excitement. The opportunity is suddenly before him to provide evidence that will see his archenemy hanged!
14
AFTER CREW
Sherlock has to go back to school the next day. He will begin his investigation of Grimsby’s murder the instant he is finished. He tells the apothecary what he is up to.
“Why, my young knight, are you constantly telling me what you are about to do? That is not like you.”
Holmes is usually so secretive that the old man has to draw things out of him.
“Really? Not like me? You think so?”
“I know so.”
Sherlock ignores the comment. He is a man on a mission. “I will begin at Scotland Yard.”
“Young Lestrade?”
“Absolutely. I am guessing that he has seen the body.”
When Sherlock Holmes arrives at police headquarters in Whitehall Street at about five o’clock in the afternoon, he is sure that he will find Lestrade there, even though many of the other constables and detectives on his time shift will have left for the day. The young sleuth is just that dedicated, especially since he became the only Lestrade on the Force. He needs to build his career. This is a godsend to Holmes.
Though Sherlock hasn’t been actively attempting to solve crimes since he played his part in the Hemsworth-Nottingham magicians’ affair, he has been, as has been his custom for a year or so, helping young Lestrade, both by bringing him cases and ideas and listening to him when he has a problem. It is an excellent strategy – he is making sure that the aspiring detective will
always be an ally at Scotland Yard. And for now, their partnership gets him access through the front door whenever he wants. The desk sergeant no longer attempts to toss him into the street.
The minute Sherlock asks to see Lestrade Junior, he is allowed into his office. It is far down the building, at the back, past all the desks and clutter, distant from where his father used to reign in a big room at the front, with its huge map of London on the wall. The son’s kingdom isn’t much larger than a broom closet.
He is twenty years old now, though still not fully capable of growing the kinds of whiskers he is attempting to proliferate on his slightly ferret-like face – an unfortunate visage, not entirely dissimilar to his father’s. He may have to give up his hirsute ambitions or settle for a modest mustache. He is wearing a tweed suit again, the one he wears every day, almost as if this imitation of his father’s similar bad taste will somehow help him in his pursuit of criminals. He is at his desk and actually smiles when Holmes enters. This, despite the fact that the younger boy now towers over him, a fact that he tries not to dwell upon.
“What have you today?” he asks.
“It is what you have that interests me.”
Young Lestrade doesn’t like Sherlock’s tone. And there is an expression in his eye today that was often there when he was in active pursuit of his own solutions to cases. The last time Lestrade saw this look was during that magicians’ investigation. But there is something else about the lad that is worrisome.
“I have an interest in the Grimsby case.”
Lestrade is momentarily relieved, pleased to hear that this is just about Grimsby. The young detective knows that Sherlock has some sort of relationship, or enmity, with the former street gang leader named Malefactor (though that rough has apparently reformed now and hasn’t been seen in years) and would have known Grimsby well. “Yes, of course, I should have thought of that.”
“I would like to see the body.”
“Uh …”
“I will tell you all that I know of this case in return.” Sherlock will, of course, do no such thing. He will reveal to Lestrade only what he wants him to know.
Becoming Holmes Page 9