The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes

by Loren D. Estleman

  Of course, there was a downside to the pleasures of travel. With time on my hands and Holmes locked in his cabin, I eventually found my way to the engine room, where I promptly lost every coin in my pocket in a friendly game of poker with the more genial, English-speaking members of the crew.

  The breeze had turned into a full wind as we headed into port, and it nearly toppled the hat off my head. When I grabbed upwards, I turned and came face to face with Sherlock Holmes. He looked refreshed, as if he had slept the entire way from London to Nassau.

  “You look a little lighter, Watson,” Holmes said, standing shoulder to shoulder with me.

  “It has been a pleasant journey.”

  There was little activity around us. I supposed that Pierre was readying our cabins for departure, and as the island drew closer I was anxious to stand on land, with the hope of seeing the Caribbean beauty Madame Taru again, very soon.

  Like a million other times since I had taken up residence with Sherlock Holmes, he seemed to be able to read my mind.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Watson,” he said.

  “Really, and what, pray tell, would that be?”

  “It is highly likely that Madame Taru is dead.”

  I wasn’t expecting such an announcement. For some reason it hit me hard, buckled my knees. I couldn’t imagine such a thing of beauty being taken from this world—but, of course, in our line of work, I had seen the worst mankind can do to one another. “How?” I whispered.

  “Murdered, of course. She was being stalked in London.”

  “Why didn’t you stop it? Tell her?”

  “She knew she would be in danger by engaging our services, Watson. Madame Taru was, and possibly still is, a skilled woman in matters of secrecy.”

  “What more haven’t you told me?” I was indignant, and did not care.

  “There’s always more to the story, Watson. You should know that by now.”

  4.

  Nassau was a collection of the old and new. While London always felt to me like it had always existed, there were parts of this island that looked as if they had just crawled up out of the ocean, fresh, unmarred by weather or time, and other parts that had remained the same since the time of Columbus.

  Even though my mood was dimmed by news of Madame Taru—at least, by the prospect of her death—I was immediately fascinated by the palm trees that dotted the shore.

  The view from the Gothic as we disembarked was of a flat scrubland seemingly risen out of the sea, and a small two-storey city plopped down on its edge. There were no rising towers or spires crowding each other out against the azure sky, like the skyline I was accustomed to. There was a bell tower, however, a cathedral of some type, but the style of it was less elaborate than any I had ever seen.

  Most of the wood frame buildings looked freshly built, and some of the trees were shaved off at the top, as if a brilliantly strong wind had snapped them in half, which of course was the case. A recent hurricane had left some damage in its wake, but had not wrought total devastation upon the charming island.

  Even though the Union Jack flapped happily from the flagpole at the end of the dock, it felt to me as if I was stepping onto foreign soil, onto a land so unfamiliar that it would take days, if not decades, to truly get my footing. Holmes, on the other hand, looked like he had been on the island since its creation, though he did stand out like a touring man in his traveling tweeds.

  “Did you know, Watson, that there are twenty-nine islands that make up the Bahamas?”

  He had offered no explanation for his lack of presence during the journey from London to Nassau, and I had not asked. As it was, he looked less nervous, less frantic than before we left. For all I knew, he had used the voyage as an opportunity to escape his cocaine dependency, and had come out the other side a new man. If such a thing were the case, Holmes, of course, would never mention it. Or the trials it had taken to accomplish such a thing.

  “No,” I answered, “I don’t know much about the islands, but I can say that this one has some of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen.”

  Holmes followed my gaze to the white sand that stretched out toward the horizon, and heartily agreed. Before he could launch into the full history of the islands, we were hurried down the dock to a waiting carriage by our steward, Pierre, who seemed rather happy to be rid of us. I would have tipped him, but a fellow Frenchmen with a year’s grease under his fingernails had taken my last farthing.

  It was then that I realized that we were being watched.

  A palm tree, taller than the rest, stood off to the right of the dock, just between the wildness of the scrub and the beginning of civilization; a cut road led straight into Nassau, and buildings sprouted up there right away. On the other side of the tree, inches off the road, a man stood and watched us carefully. His skin looked just as bronze as Madame Taru’s, and he had the same strong jaw and penetrating eyes. He was younger than the woman who had visited us in London, no more than twenty, if that, and dressed in casual trousers, a white linen shirt that exposed his bare skin underneath, and no shoes. He did his best to try and not be noticed, but the sun cast his tall shadow across the beach, and there was no mistaking it for anything other than that of a man on a covert mission.

  “It looks like we have drawn some notice,” I said to Holmes, as quietly as I could.

  He looked up, scanned the land in front of us, and promptly said, “I don’t see a thing, Watson.”

  And he was right. There was no sign of the boy at all. It was as if my imagination had conjured him, and then just as quickly pushed him into retreat, as if he was nothing more than a black cloud, fallen to the ground then whisked away by the persistent ocean breeze.

  5.

  The Victoria Hotel stood atop a hill overlooking the harbor and city, as stately and grand an affair as one could imagine. It stood four storeys tall, was rounded on each end with an elaborate foyer in the center, and was freshly whitewashed so that every board and plank looked brand new.

  A cricket field had been cut into the grass at the back of the hotel, and at midday it was dotted with men and women, dressed in the proper whites, having a go at the game. It all looked very familiar, with the exception of the palm trees and the perfect blue sky overhead that never seemed to change.

  Holmes and I were quickly ushered to our respective rooms, nearly ten times the size of the accommodations aboard the Gothic, and much more stable. My knees still swayed with the rhythm of the sea.

  I expected that we would jump right into our search for the piece of art that had been stolen, an odd sculpture of a cat—an ocelot—in a deep sleep, curled in a high circle so that its back was exaggeratedly raised in the air. But that was not the case. Time was given to unwind from the trip, and dinner was soon served as night blanketed the island.

  Holmes treated himself to broiled squab on toast, and I indulged in the scope that my palette expected, mutton with a nice caper sauce. Afterwards, we both took pleasure in pear fritters drizzled with a delicate cognac glaze.

  Holmes was oddly quiet throughout the meal, and only opened up and seemed at home once he stepped out onto the veranda for an evening cigarette.

  “We will return to London on the next ship out,” he said after exhaling slowly from a long draw on the cigarette.

  “And when will that be?” I stared out into the darkness, fascinated by the starry sky that was reflected on the gentle sea. It looked like smooth oil covered in sparkling diamonds.

  “Monday next, if all goes well.”

  I didn’t answer. I was hoping for a month, not days, on the island. The salt air was comforting, as were the gentle waves that washed ashore, the sound of which floated upward to the hotel as if an orchestra was playing softly below us. Given the opportunity at that moment, I would have never returned to London. But I knew that was impossible, just a fancy. Before long I would encounter a deep case of homesickness, and beg to be on the next ship, even if it was a lowly trawler.

>   “I’ve been worried about you, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said, standing before me with half a cigarette left to smoke.

  “I appreciate your concern, but I have felt the same of you. You have been largely absent on this trip, and beforehand, you were as agitated as a bull being dragged to slaughter.”

  “I am perplexed by the seriousness of this case.”

  “It seems fairly simple, though the travel is out of hand; a big to-do on your part, I’d say.”

  Holmes’s right cheek twitched quickly, then straightened out, as if it would pain him to smile. “Some cases are more challenging, and require our presence. I have fortified your accounts for the return trip, if you’re concerned about the losses that may need covering after your recent engine room excursions.”

  My instinct was to demand an explanation as to how Holmes knew what I had been up to, but that would have been ridiculous. Sometimes, I felt as if I had a tick attached to the back of my neck that told him of my every move and deed. I hate ticks.

  Instead of protesting, I shrugged. “That’s kind of you, Holmes.”

  “Someone has to look out for you.”

  I was obsessed by the fate of Madame Taru, and could wait no longer to find out what had become of her. “Do you know what has happened to Madame Taru, Holmes? I am quite hoping that you are wrong about her demise.”

  “Wrong?”

  “You said she was dead.”

  “No, Watson,” he said, taking a final draw of the cigarette, “I said she may be dead, but that she was skilled in such matters of secrecy.” Holmes smiled fully then, and extinguished the orange tip of the butt on the bottom of his shoe.

  At that moment, I heard footsteps approaching from behind us. As I turned, I heard the familiar lilt of an island voice I had dreamed of.

  “I assure you, Dr. Watson, I am very much alive.”

  6.

  I was pleased to turn and see Madame Taru, though the look on Sherlock Holmes’s face did not match my enthusiasm. He was tight, drawn up like all of his breath had escaped him.

  “I did not expect to see you so soon, Madame Taru. Or should I say, Susheena,” Holmes said with a hard stare.

  Madame Taru—or Susheena, I didn’t know which, but assumed the latter was the truth—lowered her head briefly, then returned the glare. “I knew I was taking a risk visiting you, putting you on the trail.”

  “But you had no choice,” Holmes said.

  “No, the governor instructed me to contact you.”

  “I will grant that your means were impressive, but your first failure was hiring your brother as a foil. His left foot is shorter than his right, just like yours. I was curious of the similarity as I watched him stalk you from my window. I was only assured of my suspicion on our arrival, when he watched us and, of course, left his tracks in the sand. I knew that you were alive and had tried to outwit me, and, of course, the governor.”

  Susheena had lost the regal air that she’d carried in London. She had looked like a dignitary, a proud woman on a mission. Now she looked like a tall servant, dressed in a lowly, simple sack dress, her feet bare, dropping her several levels on the social scale.

  “It is not what you think,” Susheena protested. “I have come here to beg you not to reveal my involvement to the governor. He will be disappointed in me.” Her words were steady, still magical in their lilt, but less so as her true character began to show itself.

  I watched Holmes carefully, curious at how he was going to deconstruct this woman’s apparent crime.

  “I take it,” Holmes said, “that the rounded ocelot has been returned to its proper place.”

  Susheena nodded woefully. “Yes.”

  “With all of the papers intact? The copies destroyed?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  Silence returned to the air, only the noise from inside the hotel and the distant waves of the ocean making themselves known.

  “There is no shame in what you have done,” Holmes finally said. “The governor’s papers are private, and it is up to him if he wishes to make the pages of his journals public. I have instructed him to be more careful. He is a man, madam, just a man. Not married, with needs and an appetite that are normal in such a paradise as this.”

  “I was only trying to protect him,” Susheena said.

  “Perhaps,” Holmes said. “But it was your brother who sought to benefit from the affair. Extortion is a serious crime. Especially extortion of a government official.”

  “So it was never a matter of theft at all,” I said.

  “No, Watson. The governor contacted me when he was in London on a recent visit to the Houses of Parliament. I was well aware of his delicate situation before Madame Taru graced our presence. The trick was to tell if it was a real theft, if she was part of the scheme.”

  “You feared she would be killed in the meantime, if she was not involved,” I said.

  “The governor has some strong enemies in this country and at home. He is a strict man, who rules with a hard fist, but fairly,” Holmes answered. “I was not sure what was at stake. Which is why I chose to come here and see for myself.” Holmes looked over to Susheena and said, “I’m sorry to tell you that your brother has been arrested, and has been taken to the local authorities for processing.”

  Susheena nodded. “He has always been trouble, that boy. I had no idea that he betrayed me. He helped in the replacement of the piece, then put it back once the fear of getting caught was at hand. I was resigned to the papers being where they belonged. It was the governor’s choice to document our time together, and I couldn’t protect him forever.” She paused, looked to the sky, then back to Holmes. “It will all come out anyway, won’t it? The knowledge of our love will be a scandal.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Holmes said.

  “Is there nothing that you can do?” she pleaded.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Holmes said. “I’m afraid not.”

  7.

  The trunks were stacked on the dock, awaiting loading onto the ship that would see Holmes and I back to London. The sky was perfect, cloudless, and the air was comfortable in its temperature. It was as pleasant a day as one could ever hope for in a paradise like the Bahamas.

  “I feel bad for the governor,” I said, standing in wait next to Holmes. “He had no choice but to resign his office and return home, without Susheena.”

  “He knew the risk.”

  “Risk? Do you really think it is that simple, Holmes, that matters of the heart are just a calculation of risk?”

  “You really don’t want my answer, do you, Watson? So why ask?”

  I exhaled loudly. “You are destined to spend your life alone, with nothing more than the thoughts that swirl inside that thick head of yours, and the pleasure of being right more than you are wrong.”

  “Oh, Watson, please. I am not alone. I have you, and that’s not a calculation at all. It’s a matter of fact. You are my friend, and there’s nothing more that I could wish, or hope for, than that.”

  for Liz and Chris Hatton

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE PLATED SPOON

  LOREN D. ESTLEMAN

  Predating Sherlock Holmes by a year (1886), Nick Carter is the American bridge between Holmes and Bulldog Drummond: clean-cut, two-fisted, cerebral, and a master of disguise. The creation of Ormond G. Smith and John R. Coryell, he appeared in hundreds of dime novels and pulp magazines—including Nick Carter Weekly—but is virtually forgotten today, despite a 1972 pilot for a TV series starring Robert Conrad. (He’s not to be mistaken for the “Nick Carter” who appeared in a flurry of paperback spy novels in the 1970s.) In The Adventure of the Plated Spoon, he teams up with Holmes, Watson, and Mrs. Watson to smash a conspiracy that still plagues us: human trafficking. It is published here for the first time, by permission of the author.

  I.

  I Misplace My Wife

  Readers who are unfamiliar with the chronicles involving my friend, Sherlock Holmes, may not assign much weight to an appalling
tale cast with unspeakable villains, all centred upon so homely an item as a table utensil; yet I ask them to be patient until I have presented all the evidence.

  In April of 1897, my wife, Mary, and I were preparing to join another couple for an evening at the Lyceum, where Henry Irving and Ellen Terry were appearing in Hamlet after a triumphant tour of the Continent. I was laying out my tailcoat when the bell rang.

  “It can’t be the Anstruthers,” said Mary. “It’s too early, and we’re to meet them on the way.”

  “Perhaps it’s a patient. I’ll try to be brief.”

  It was a commissionaire, with a message:

  Watson,

  I REQUIRE YOUR IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE IF NOT TIED UP.

  P.S. IF TIED UP BREAK YOUR BONDS

  “How impertinent.” Mary looked sternly at the uniformed courier. “Tell him we weren’t at home.”

  “You know him as well as I,” I said, reaching for my overcoat. “He’s only brusque in matters of urgency.”

  “The rest of the time he’s merely rude. What about our engagement?”

  “We have two hours. If I’m late, I’ll meet you at the theatre.”

  “Be sure you have time to dress. Bad enough to miss the curtain without arriving looking like a vagabond.”

  I shan’t try the reader’s patience with the details of our evening’s excursion, although they present interest sufficient to support a full accounting elsewhere. The conundrum turned out to be child’s play (if only for Holmes), but it took time enough to deprive our friends and my wife of the pleasure of my company in our box.

  The house was dark when I returned. I crept up the stairs as quietly as possible, cursing inwardly the lateness of the hour and the impossibility of finding an open florist’s shop, however inadequate a bouquet of posies would prove towards raising my marital stock. Grateful as Mary was to Holmes for the affair that had first brought us together, his continuing dependence upon my aid, to the detriment of my domestic responsibilities, had sorely tried her stores of good will.