Sherlock Holmes

by Cavan Scott

  I wondered which brother would break the impasse, but dared not do so myself. Neither would thank me for it, although Geller was obviously not a man to stand on ceremony.

  “I’ll just shut this then,” he said, pulling the door closed. Mycroft glanced behind him to make sure that we were alone, as if the feeble door would offer much in the way of privacy, before returning his furious gaze to his sibling.

  Holmes smiled thinly, stepping aside to show Mycroft a chair that was in no way capable of taking his weight. “Brother, would you care to sit?”

  “What I’d care for, brother,” replied Mycroft, pouring into the word as much scorn as he could muster, “is for you to tell me what the blazes you think you’re playing at. He is in the other room, I take it?”

  “He is indeed,” said Holmes, not attempting to deny anything to a man whose powers of observation were nearly as well honed as his own.

  “Have you injured him?”

  Holmes snorted with derision. “Do you really have to ask?”

  “Obviously I do. Sixty-five years and you still amaze me, Sherlock. Congratulations.”

  “Sixty-five years and still you do not trust me.”

  “Is it any wonder? I could believe a lot of things of you, but never this. Now, hand my man over before this damnable affair becomes worse than it already is.”

  “You admit he is yours then?”

  “Why admit something you already know?”

  “And I assume that you have not come alone?”

  Mycroft pulled a mocking face. “You, Sherlock, assume? Perhaps you really are suffering from concussion.”

  “From the way your hand is bunched you either wish to punch me or call for assistance using the whistle hidden in your fist. As you cannot abide physical exertion of any kind, I would suggest it is the latter.”

  Mycroft’s eyes flicked in my direction. “As for you, John, I am shocked that you would be party to such folly.”

  I bristled at the reproach. “Says the man who has had us followed these last few days. A man I thought was a friend.”

  “I tried to warn you—”

  “You tried to bribe me!”

  “To reward you for your service to your country, nothing more. Unfortunately, the only reward left for you is the dock.”

  “And now you resort to threats. What the devil is this about, Mycroft? Tell us.”

  Holmes was watching his brother, clearly enjoying every bluster. “Yes, tell us, brother. Why do we need your protection?”

  That blindsided me. “His what?”

  Holmes smiled at me. “It appears that we are ruffling feathers in Whitehall, Watson.”

  Mycroft sighed and walked forward, not to take the chair but to throw his hat and newspaper onto the table. “The worst kind.”

  “But why?” I asked. “The business with the hand?”

  “And Abberton Hospital. Your involvement has been… unfortunate. Had I known that Inspector Tovey would come to you…”

  “So you are responsible for his… redistribution,” Holmes concluded.

  Mycroft’s monumental jowls wobbled as he nodded. “Tovey has achieved too much in his career to have it end over this. I needed to get him away, before he found himself in real trouble.”

  “And you are not at liberty to tell us what the trouble is?”

  A shake of the head. “The Official Secrets Act,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “Which Watson and I have both signed,” Holmes pointed out.

  “You have signed an official secrets act.”

  “And that means what?” said I.

  “That some questions should never be asked.”

  “And some answers will never be given,” Holmes added.

  “But, protection?” I repeated. “You’ve had us put under observation. I was threatened in my own surgery.”

  “Which is precisely the reason I have had agents on your heels. Not to watch you, Doctor—”

  “But to ensure our safety,” Holmes interjected. “The man my colleagues and I waylaid – an act about which, incidentally, Watson had no idea until we brought him here – has an injury on his right hand, a scrape that he suffered when pushing me out of the path of the Morris Bullnose.”

  My mind raced to keep up. “He was the man who saved your life?”

  “As he was employed to do. I was not so addled that I failed to recognise him before he slipped away into the crowd. I just pray he can forgive my repaying him with incarceration.”

  “I’m sure it is an indignity he will learn to live with,” replied Mycroft icily.

  Holmes turned to me. “You are the reason we have been followed, Watson.”

  “I am?”

  “Or rather your unexpected visitors the other morning.”

  “As Sherlock mentioned,” Mycroft said, “feathers have been well and truly ruffled. I tried to intervene as soon as I heard, but action had already been taken, those ruffians Burns and Hartley having been sent by worried parties in Whitehall.”

  “They weren’t yours then?” I asked, a question that seemingly wounded my friend’s brother.

  “It saddens me that His Majesty’s representatives would seek to employ such blunt weapons. For that, I can only apologise.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes said. “Whatever you have thought of my brother of late, I doubt even he would sanction arson.”

  “The hospital?” I asked. “Burns and Hartley were behind that too?”

  “Mycroft’s agency had already done its work,” Holmes replied, “scrubbing the place clean.”

  “Except for the lobby,” Mycroft pointed out.

  “Of course. How else would I spot your surprisingly prominent footprint?”

  Mycroft bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, prompting a smile from Holmes who continued: “Remember what I said about the signet ring, Watson. Our man upstairs removed it to go about his business. And no one in my brother’s employ would wear something so conspicuous as a carnation, such as you described Burns wearing – especially when the self-same flower would wilt in the heat, dropping incriminating petals in the presence of a large fire.”

  “You noticed that too?” asked Mycroft.

  “In the mud outside the burning building? As if I could miss such glaring evidence—”

  “That you left in situ to be found by my people.”

  “Naturally. I thank you for watching over us, Mycroft, and indeed for venturing out into the capital for this meeting. I wish only that you had come to me directly without my having to reel you in by taking your man.”

  “We live in remarkable times, Sherlock.”

  “We do indeed. Talking of which, Miss Kadwell…”

  “The singer.”

  “Indeed. While I would never condone her past crimes—”

  “No charges will be pressed concerning her redecoration of Swan & Edgar. I’ve had her placed in protective custody.”

  “Another trip to the countryside?”

  “She will have an opportunity to make amends for any transgression she has committed in the past.”

  I didn’t care for the insinuation. “So, you’re going to manipulate the poor girl after all she’s gone through?”

  “A poor girl is she now?” Holmes commented. “Amazing how one’s view shifts over time, eh, Watson?”

  The accusation rankled, but I let it go.

  “She’s a bright lass, if misguided,” Mycroft said. “We can give her a new start in life—”

  “None of which is our concern,” added Holmes.

  Mycroft sized up his brother. “So, we are done, Sherlock?”

  “I would say not,” I interjected, only to be silenced by a wave of Holmes’s hand.

  “Everything is in order, brother.” Holmes walked across the room and opened the door to find Geller and Harkness standing guard on the landing. “Will you show my brother to our guest? They are both free to leave whenever they want.”

  “Right you are, Mr Holmes,” nodded Ge
ller. Mycroft picked up his hat and made his farewells.

  “Until next time, John.”

  I refused to dignify the sentiment with a response, merely turning my back as Mycroft approached his brother.

  “I am sorry not to have trusted you, Sherlock.”

  “As am I.”

  “But thank you for trusting me.”

  Holmes led Mycroft to the door. “To official secrets, brother.”

  Mycroft nodded. “To official secrets. Thank you, Sherlock. I suggest you and Watson leave the city for a while.”

  Holmes shut the door, and, before I could argue, placed a long finger across his thin lips. We waited in silence until Mycroft had been shown into the other room and he and his agent had been escorted downstairs. To his credit, the newly freed man uttered barely a word, but followed his master out of the building in silence.

  “And that’s it?” I exploded. “After everything has happened, Mycroft comes to us and you let him leave without a word of explanation?”

  “You know why we have been followed, and on whose authority you were threatened.”

  “Hardly. We’ve ruffled ‘the worst kind’ of feathers in Whitehall? That’s no explanation. I’m grateful that Mycroft’s man saved your life, although I doubt you would have allowed yourself to be mown down in the street, but we are nowhere nearer knowing what this is all about.”

  Holmes smiled. “Is that so?”

  “‘I suggest that you leave the city’, that’s what he said.”

  “He did indeed.”

  “You know what he’s going to do, don’t you? Cover all this up. Make the problem go away.”

  “That is one of my brother’s particular talents.”

  “And you are happy with that, are you? To give up after we have already gone through so much?”

  “Look to the table, Watson.”

  “Look to the what?”

  “The table,” Holmes repeated. I turned to see that while Mycroft had recovered his hat, the folded newspaper was still lying beside the bowl.

  I sighed in frustration. “He’s left his Times. I hope you’re not expecting me to go running after him like a delivery boy.”

  “I would never presume such a thing, Watson, just as you shouldn’t presume that it is The Times.”

  “But your brother always takes The Times.”

  My curiosity piqued, I picked up the paper. As soon as I saw the masthead, I realised my mistake. It was a Times, but not the London Times.

  “The Manchester Weekly Times and Examiner,” I read in amazement. “But why is Mycroft reading a regional paper?”

  “He wasn’t reading it at all,” Holmes pointed out, joining me at the table. “He was carrying it, before leaving it here.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Look at the date, Watson.”

  I did as he requested. “Thursday, the third of July 1919. What of it?”

  “Observe the three pin-pricks above the last digit in the year.”

  I peered closer to spy three tiny holes above the nine.

  “A code with which Mycroft and I used to amuse ourselves as boys,” Holmes explained, flicking through the pages of the newspaper. “Page nine, column three.” He reached the page and jabbed his finger at the central column. “There it is!”

  Leaning over the paper, Holmes read aloud.

  “Hulme Giant Committed. Following the attack on one Ellie Grimshaw in Hulme last Wednesday, Judge Mark Roberts of Manchester County Court committed the young lady’s assailant to Prestwich Lunatic Asylum.”

  “Very sad, I’m sure, but what has it got to do with any of this?” I asked.

  “If you will permit me to continue, that will become clear,” Holmes replied curtly. “The inmate is believed to have returned from the front line two years, although he has failed to be identified. Campaigner Mrs Cleone Stevens of local charity, Dignity for Ex-Servicemen, has appealed for information regarding the mystery man, in the hope that she can uncover more about his past. Mrs Stevens (34) said today: ‘It is a tragedy that so many of our brave servicemen have returned from defending our country to be cast out on the street or locked away in the hope that they will be forgotten.’ The man known as the Hulme Giant is described as being six foot nine inches tall, of a pale complexion, with peculiar yellow-coloured eyes and multiple scars across the face, arms and chest.” Holmes looked up from the paper. “Yellow eyes and extensive scarring?”

  “The man in the hospital? Could there really be a link?”

  “Mycroft obviously thinks so, or he would not have brought the story to my attention. Perhaps we should leave, after all. Do you think your wife would forgive me if I spirited you away to Lancashire?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SECRETS

  I cannot say that my wife was happy to wave us goodbye late the following morning, but at least she had not complained when I informed her of our plans. Thankfully, she had not seen Holmes when we returned from his bolthole, dropped off by Geller who remained as cheerful in those early hours as he had throughout the entire sorry affair. By the time we had rested, Holmes was resplendent in a fresh suit and, save for the graze on his cheek, seemingly none the worse for the previous evening’s perils. My wife had simply taken one look at the damage to his face and said that she didn’t want to know, although she embraced me when Geller reappeared to take us to Euston Station.

  “Come back safe,” she breathed in my ear, before releasing me and reclaiming her composure. My heart was heavy and for a second I doubted my actions, hesitating at my gate, wondering if I should tell Holmes to leave without me. However, as Geller took our luggage and Holmes clambered into the back seat of the taxi, I knew that there really was no choice.

  Indeed, by the time we arrived at Euston, all my thoughts about remaining behind were gone. The intoxicating bustle of the station set adrenalin pumping through my veins. I had always embraced travel and the freedom it brought to body and mind. As I sat in our carriage, I felt the same thrill as I had experienced when I had first set out for Afghanistan all those years ago. My sole wish was that this journey would end less badly. I doubted a sniper would be standing ready to take me out with another Jezail bullet as soon as we arrived in Lancashire.

  At least, I hoped not.

  As we pulled away from the station, the pressure of the last few days fell way, the streets of London soon replaced with open fields and tall trees. Even the weather seemed better in the countryside, the storm clouds finally giving way to blue skies and summer sunshine.

  “How many did you spot?” Holmes said, after twenty minutes or so.

  “How many what?”

  “Mycroft’s guardian angels. I counted five, although it would appear that my saviour-turned-detainee has been given some much deserved time off.”

  “You almost sound proud of what you did to that poor fellow.”

  “You were the one pointing a gun at him.”

  “I suggest we let the matter rest,” said I, gruffly. “And turn our attention to the envelope you received this morning.”

  “Envelope?” Holmes parroted with feigned bemusement.

  “You aren’t the only one with eyes and ears.”

  Holmes nodded in appreciation. “I am impressed, Watson.”

  I smiled. “My wife told me that you received a messenger while I shaved this morning.”

  Holmes threw back his head and laughed, before rising from his seat to reach up to the luggage rack. “Perhaps I should have employed Mrs Watson as my assistant all those years ago.”

  “Employed, was I? I must have missed the cheques.”

  Chuckling, Holmes retrieved a briefcase from the rack and placed it beside him. Looking back at my work now, I feel I have done Holmes something of a disservice. It appears that many of my readers consider Holmes a mirthless soul, devoid of emotion and humour. Nothing could be further from the truth. He had the most remarkable of laughs, infectious in the extreme and capable of lifting even the darkest of moods. I miss it t
o this day.

  Still amused, he flicked open the case and pulled out the envelope in question. “This is from our friend, Mr Woodbead,” he said, extracting the papers within, “who has been as good as his word and has duly investigated the Sellmans’ family picture.”

  I sat forward in my seat, eager to hear what the art historian had to say. “And what has he found?”

  “More than I expected. Do you recall the name of Mrs Sellman’s ancestor, the one who she believed painted that scene?”

  “Something biblical, wasn’t it?” I replied. “Joseph or some such.”

  “Joshua,” Holmes reminded me, “although I’d wager that she misheard the name as a child. Woodbead showed the picture around and one of his colleagues recognised it. As luck would have it, he had bought a picture of a similar scene many years ago.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

  “I don’t, and it also appears that I know little about art. What I had dismissed as a fairly average daubing turns out to be the work of a young artist who showed great promise, only to vanish a decade or so after he sprang onto the art scene. According to these notes, his name was Jostli.”

  “A Swiss name?”

  “It is, from the Latin jocus, meaning gladness.”

  “Mrs Sellman did say her family was from Geneva.” I sat back in my seat and rolled the peculiar name around my tongue. “Jostli Honegger. Quite a mouthful.”

  “Indeed it would be, if that were his surname. Jostli was born around 1805, the son of Ernest and Adelais Balmer, but he could find no other record of the Balmer family in Geneva at the time.”

  “They moved away then?”

  “Well, they did, but that isn’t the reason that no records exist. Ernest Alphonse Balmer was a Swiss diplomat of note, who would end up as ambassador to Germany. However, no birth certificate bearing his name exists. Now, Woodbead’s colleague, quite the amateur genealogist, started to dig, and found this…”

  Holmes handed over an official-looking document, a birth certificate no less, in German and dated the seventeenth of March 1777.

  “Read the names, Watson.”

  “Ernest Alphonse, born of Alphonse and Caroline Frankenstein.”