Mycroft and Sherlock

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

“These few years have created a change in you,” Douglas said, refusing to be distracted from the subject. “You are no longer the carefree young man riding through London on horseback, always a hair’s breadth from calamity. Now you sequester yourself within that carriage of yours, curtains drawn, nose buried in economics. I am not faulting you,” he added when he saw his friend’s expression darken. “But as an older ally, one who went through heartbreak at least as great as yours, I wish you were less… dour.”

  “I shall take your advice into consideration, Douglas. I always have and always will.”

  “I infer that you gain no true sense of accomplishment from solving mysteries,” Douglas went on. “That you would rather use your considerable gifts to wield power, to barter it, and eventually to consolidate it.”

  “Well said,” Mycroft declared. “And flattering.”

  “I am glad you find it so,” Douglas said, amused. “Now as to Charles. I should very much like to speak to Beeton, the chimney sweep, as well as to Madame de Matalin. She is the rather strange but formidable woman who told me of Charles and George to begin with. I wonder if you’d care to accompany me to meet either or both?”

  “Douglas, please know that your battles are mine. Of course I shall accompany you. Though I would appreciate it if you would not mention anything to Sherlock. The last thing I need is my brother poking his nose about in places where it might get cut off.”

  “Think no more of it,” Douglas said.

  “As a matter of fact,” Mycroft continued, “my acquaintance Dr. Joseph Bell is in town, do you recall my mentioning him?”

  “Not offhand,” Douglas said.

  “Oh, I must’ve done. He is a medical lecturer at Edinburgh and a physician to Queen Victoria. A very good man. Has the same gift for deduction that my brother and I have, though he uses his exclusively for diagnosing diseases. Might you permit me to have the boy’s body sent to him? Perhaps he can determine conclusively what killed him. From there I shall pay to send the body to the cemetery in Haslemere, if that is your wish.”

  Douglas’s first impulse was to say no. He still believed that human beings, dead or alive, deserved the respect of a burial; they were not to be gawked at and prodded. On the other hand, there was so much loose talk regarding how Charles died that perhaps a proper inspection by a noted physician would quell the rumors, at least in part.

  “If your Dr. Bell can work without defiling him…” Douglas began.

  “He will simply take samples of blood, and perhaps small samples of tissue. The body will be returned whole for burial, I give you my word.”

  * * *

  As Mycroft took another sip of brandy, swallowing quickly so as not to taste it, he wondered at his reluctance to mention his own strange coincidence of Cainborn and the Han gentleman, to say nothing of the beautiful woman who was most likely his daughter. It revealed a weakness that he would have gone a long way to abolish once and for all.

  Nonsense, he thought. I shall not keep secrets from Douglas. And so he told him all.

  When he was finished, Douglas ran a hand over his dark, close-cropped hair, a small, anxious gesture that Mycroft noted solely because it was so rare. But when Douglas spoke, his comment was brief and to the point: “I trust not only your intellect but your instincts,” he said. “If there is a link between the Chinese gentleman and the woman with her bodyguards, there is. If there was something off-putting about Cainborn, there was. I take it you’ll make inquiries?”

  Mycroft nodded. “I have put Parfitt on the job.”

  “Good. As for Sherlock, I agree there too: no sense in having him suspect someone he admires until there’s proper cause.”

  “Here is hoping there never shall be,” Mycroft said, holding his glass aloft, then downing the rest of his brandy in one burning mouthful.

  19

  ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF NICKOLUS HOUSE, SHERLOCK WAS making expeditious work of questioning the residents. His fame had increased among the boys so that he was now credited with feats of otherworldly dexterity and prestidigitation, none of which had occurred. Still, it was a useful tool to have at his disposal, and he would not soon disabuse them of their notions.

  A few words with each boy, and he was able to deduce who among them knew something worth knowing and who was simply bloviating in order to spend more time with him. Alvey Ducasse proved most helpful. As a veteran of the house, he was determined to defend its character from any who attempted to besmirch it, thus making him more loquacious than he otherwise would have been.

  “They’s a ring in the East End, guv,” he confided to Sherlock, looking about as if half expecting to be snatched up and horsewhipped for breaking a confidence. “It begun in June. I never was party to it meself but I ’ear tell it’s powerful. Charlie was one as gathered the code!”

  “What code?” Sherlock asked.

  Ducasse shrugged. “All’s I know is, there’s some code put up every month of a Monday. Charlie ’ad to collect fifteen of ’em, ’e did. Sometimes there were just one, sometimes two or three to get.”

  “Was he paid?”

  “If not, why else do it?” Alvey asked, puzzled.

  “Fifteen,” Sherlock repeated. “You are telling me that, beginning in summer, Charles collected a code composed of fifteen… somethings.”

  “That’s about the size of it, guv,” Alvey confirmed in a raw whisper. “Georgie, ’e might know more about it. You can beat it out of ’im, though ’e’s sturdier than ’e looks. So, will you be teachin’ us some more maths?” he added eagerly.

  After he had finished questioning Alvey, Sherlock went to George’s cot. Douglas had fashioned a cloth partition between him and the rest of the boys, to allow him some privacy in his grief.

  George was lying in bed with his back to the door, seemingly no longer concerned if his new belongings became wrinkled or were pilfered.

  “George,” Sherlock said quietly, sitting beside him on the bed. “I know about the code.”

  George turned over like a shot and stared at Sherlock with eyes so filled with pain that even Sherlock had to draw a breath and begin again.

  “I know that your brother did not do this to himself,” he said after a moment. “I can find out who did, but I will need your aid. You are a clever boy: you helped us to locate him in the first place. Now you must help us to avenge him.”

  He was certain that George would not know the meaning of “avenge,” but he was equally certain that he could glean the intent, and know it was favorably disposed towards him and Charles.

  “Is he still…” The boy pointed towards the ceiling.

  “Yes,” Sherlock said. “And there’s a lamp next to him, and he is warm and dry. And we shall arrange for a proper burial.”

  The boy stifled a sob. “I ain’t s’pose to tell, guv,” he murmured, glancing around in fear. “Charles made me swear.”

  “I know, George,” Sherlock replied. “But Charles is gone. And the people who did this to him must be punished.”

  George nodded. “All’s I know is Gin…”

  “Gin,” Sherlock repeated. “Is Gin a man? A woman?”

  “Dunno, sir. But I know Charlie give Gin wot ’e collected and Gin paid Charlie for it. And I ’eard ’im say somethin’ about meetin’ Gin in a mansion…”

  “A mansion? You heard that word specifically?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I see. And what of the word ‘collect’? Did you come up with that, or do you recall Charles using it specifically?”

  “Charlie used it, sir.”

  “Do you recall how many… items he was supposed to collect?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “That’s all right, you are doing splendidly. Does ‘fifteen’ mean anything to you in this context?”

  “No, sir, I can’t even count that ’igh…” George said, his eyes wide. “Bu’ Charlie could!’

  “Yes, he was quite the accomplished lad.” He remembered Charles’s last word. “And what of the word �
��baker’?”

  “Baker? No, sir. Charlie an’ me, we ain’t acquainted wiv no bakers.” He said it as if the craft of baking were loftier than his kind could possibly dream of.

  “Now, each time Charles went off to collect, what time of day was it?”

  “He always went of a mornin’.”

  “And could you smell the tanneries from where you were living?”

  George nodded. “Yes, sir, somethin’ awful.”

  “Do you recall if the nearest factory whistle had sounded?”

  George nodded adamantly, his countenance brightening. “Charlie would be gone right after the whistle! He was a good worker, my Charlie!”

  “I am certain of it. And when Charlie returned from collecting, did you notice anything different about him?”

  “No, sir. He was just… Charlie.”

  George began to cry softly. He turned his back on Sherlock and lay with his knees drawn up against his chest.

  “George? The sweep that you worked for, he struck you, yes?”

  George nodded. “He whacked us somethin’ awful,” he mumbled into his pillow.

  “Did he stop beating you and your brother at the same time?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Was it perhaps around the time that Charles started collecting?”

  The boy said nothing. He wrapped his stick-thin arms around his knees and tucked himself into a little ball.

  “George, you are being ever so brave,” Sherlock said in a comforting tone. “One more question, please. Do you recall the last time Charles went collecting?”

  “No, sir. But the next time will be tomorrow, sir.”

  “What next time? You mean collecting?” Sherlock asked, containing his excitement. “How do you know?”

  “I knows cuz ’e had ’is collectin’ bag wiv ’im.”

  “A collecting bag? What did it look like?”

  “It was soft, like.”

  “Soft. Padded, do you mean? Or quilted?”

  George nodded. “Quilted,” he said as if tasting the word. “A quilt it was, sir.”

  “About how large?”

  George held his hands out to the width of a football.

  “Did you ever look inside? Did it have compartments? Pockets?” he amended for clarity’s sake.

  “Yes, sir, little pockets, all padded like you said.”

  “How many pockets?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I can’t count,” George repeated patiently. “But the last time I seen Charlie ’e ’ad it wiv ’im, and we ’ad a row about it. I didn’t want ’im to do it no more, an’ ’e cuffed me and told me ‘don’t be impert’nent’ an’ then ’e told me ’e was sorry and it’d be the final time…” The boy fought back sobs. “If it please, sir, can we not… gab no more?”

  “We are done. Thank you, George. You have been most helpful.”

  Sherlock rose from the bed. Then he heard the boy whisper, in a voice dripping with dread: “Sir? Will me bruvver burn in ’ell?”

  Sherlock sighed and sat on the bed again. “God knows your lot,” he told George. “And he well knows the hand that you’ve been dealt, you and your brother. Gossips will not determine the fate of Charles’s immortal soul, George. Only God has the power to do that.”

  “You’re not pullin’ me leg, sir?” came George’s startled reply.

  “No, George, I am not. I have read it with my own eyes. Rest easy.”

  Sherlock patted the boy on the back, rose again and walked out slowly, shutting the dormitory door behind him.

  * * *

  The moment Sherlock closed the door, he sloughed off commiseration like a used cloak. His countenance lifted. All vestiges of sorrow disappeared, for he had neither the time nor the space for it. His mind was thoroughly consumed with questions.

  The foremost among them being, what had become of the quilted bag?

  George had seen his brother leave with it in tow; it had been the cause of their quarrel. Charles was to use it to collect… something. So, why did he and Douglas not come upon it when they rescued him?

  Had Charles left the bag somewhere? Perhaps in the storehouse behind the carriage, where he may have spent the first night and may have planned to spend the second? Had the men been after that bag, and not Charles? But if so, why had he and Douglas not spied it upon their persons?

  He bounded down the stairs two at a time to share his news with Mycroft and Douglas. But as he neared the kitchen and saw the light flicker underneath the door, and heard Mycroft laugh at something Douglas had just said, he wondered at the wisdom of revealing what he knew.

  On the one hand, his brother could certainly help with the deductions. He might even come up with questions he had not thought of, for Mycroft did not lack for imagination: an essential trait in anyone who pursued the sleuthing arts.

  On the other hand, he would be unlikely to permit Sherlock to go after those fifteen somethings Alvey had spoken of. Mycroft would think it dangerous or, worse still, useless.

  No, Sherlock would have to pretend he had learned nothing from the boys. Mycroft would commend his attempt while being secretly relieved, as he was not in the least enamored with his predilection for crime. And if Douglas was disappointed that nothing had come of the questioning, he would be gratified that Mycroft’s younger brother would no longer be underfoot.

  Thus decided, Sherlock pivoted on his heel and tiptoed quietly back up the stairs.

  20

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, LITTLE MORE THAN A MONTH FROM HIS nineteenth birthday, was finally on a case, certain that it went well beyond the wretches of Nickolus House with their miserable births and bottomless needs. Ideas were coming to him almost faster than he could contain and categorize them. It was as he had always suspected: the thrill of being at the scene of the crime, of examining it and interviewing those who had tasted misfortune, was infinitely more satisfying than simply reading their piteous tales in newspapers and ferreting out an answer that did no one a jot of good. From this moment on, he would pursue mysteries that he could see, hear, touch, smell and even taste. For it was this, not armchair deduction, that made him feel alive.

  And so he had quietly retreated upstairs and shut his bedroom door, only to spend the early hours wide awake and invigorated, waiting for the moment that he might get back to work. He even forsook—for the first time in months—jotting down the details of his latest spar with the twins, for another obsession had surpassed it.

  If anyone had chanced to walk in, they would have seen him lying on the bed fully clothed, in utter darkness, his feet still shod and hanging off the edge of the bed, his hands folded comfortably in his lap. He could have passed for a corpse positioned just so within its coffin. But although his body was in repose, his brain was as charged as that of Mary Shelley’s fabled monster.

  After following a trail of speculation down one path and another, he always returned to Occam’s razor, otherwise known as the law of parsimony: the simplest explanation is often the most likely.

  The trick now, and one he had to perfect at all costs, was to take the solution he was not yet certain of, and work backwards, retracing each vital step.

  * * *

  Dawn on Friday the 29th finally broke, sodden and bleak. And when Dr. Bell’s assistant arrived to take Charles’s body, it was Sherlock who steadied little George’s shoulders and swore to him that his brother would not be ill used.

  The assistant’s cart rumbled away, and the little farewell committee, which also included Douglas, Mycroft and Huan, made its way back inside. Sherlock paused, once again considering what he had learned from the boys the previous night: once a month, somewhere in London, someone put up a code that Charles, and possibly other boys, were “collecting.” What could the code be? Why would it need collecting? And why fifteen?

  The most obvious collection was money or drugs. But would anyone trust these young paupers with money? And if drugs, to what end? Why would skullduggery be necessary when opium and morphine were perfectly legal?
<
br />   And who was Gin, to whom the collection went? And why once a month?

  Here the trail, even Sherlock had to admit, immediately grew cold, as nearly anything could have a monthly schedule—even an individual might be in London but a dozen times per year.

  Though it was an important clue, at the moment it was as wide as the proverbial road that led to destruction.

  Luckily, there was another detail that he had not bothered to reveal to Mycroft and Douglas: that this very morning Charles had been due to go collecting.

  Sherlock returned upstairs for his vielle and short staff, both of which had proved so useful to him during his stay at Nickolus House, and grudgingly picked up the shaving kit he had been forced to purchase by his brother. After a moment’s pause he opened the kit, extracted the camel-bone straight razor, scissors and tweezers, and placed them in his jacket pocket; then he threw the case—which still held the strop, shaving soap, bowl and brush—underneath the bed.

  Finally, he went to the boys’ dormitory to deputize Alvey Ducasse and Joe McPeel, swearing them to the utmost secrecy, for he had found a use for them.

  That accomplished, Sherlock sprinted out of the front door to his first assignation, only to find Huan and Mycroft’s carriage waiting.

  “Your brother, he will give you a ride!” Huan said, smiling.

  “Oh, no need, Huan, I am only going to Edwardes Square, to the Quinces’,” Sherlock shot back. “A handful of miles, the walk shall do me good!”

  “I insist,” said Mycroft’s voice behind him. “You must save your strength for your studies.”

  Sherlock did not dare look at his pocket watch and thus draw his brother’s suspicions, so he glanced up at the sky, at what passed for the sun of a London November. From what George had told him, or at least what he inferred from the proximity to the tannery and Charles’s departure, he would commence his rounds at nine. Sherlock had been determined to do the same, but it was already a few minutes past eight.

  He’d been hoping to run to the abandoned storehouse to try to retrieve Charles’s quilted bag, but there’d be no time for that now. He had a fifty-minute ride to Edwardes Square. From there, he could hightail it back on foot four miles through Kensington and across Hyde Park… Not ideal, but it would have to do, now that his brother had stepped all over his carefully wrought plan.