“It’s hardly surprising,” said Mr. Headley. “In a way, they’re a testament to the power of your imagination, and the depth of your creations. Never before in the Caxton’s history has a writer lived to see his own characters come to life.”
Conan Doyle took another sip of his whisky.
“If more writers did,” he replied, “it might well be the death of them.”
Holmes set aside his soup.
“Sir Arthur,” he said, “Mr. Headley has explained the situation to you as best he can. It’s most difficult and delicate, and we can see only one solution to the problem. I appreciate that it might place you in an awkward position, but you must stop writing about Sherlock Holmes.”
Conan Doyle shook his head.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve reached an agreement with Collier’s Weekly. Not only that, but the public will see me hanged if I’ve raised their hopes of more adventures only to shatter them within a month. And then, gentlemen, there is the small matter of my finances. I have a sick wife, two young children, and houses to maintain. Would that my other literary endeavors had brought me greater success, but no one mentions Rodney Stone in the same breath as Holmes and Watson, and I cannot think of the reviews for A Duet without wanting to hide in my cellar.”
“But the more Holmes stories you write, the more likely it is that you’ll bring a second Holmes—oh, and Watson—”
“Thank you, Holmes.”
“—into being,” said Holmes. “Would you want a second Sir Arthur wandering the streets, or worse, moving into your home? Think of William Wilson. You might end up stabbing yourself with a sword!”
Mr. Headley leaned forward.
“Sir Arthur, you now know that the fabric of reality is far more delicate than you imagined,” he said. “It may be that the consequences of two versions of Holmes and Watson having a physical reality might not be so terrible, whatever the personal or professional difficulties for the characters involved, but there is also the possibility that the entire existence of the Caxton might be undermined. The more the reading public starts to believe in this new incarnation of Holmes, the greater the chance of trouble for all of us.”
Conan Doyle nodded. He suddenly looked tired, and older than his years.
“Then it seems that I have no choice,” he said. “Holmes must fall again, and this time he cannot return.”
Dr. Watson coughed meaningfully. The others looked at him. The good doctor had finished his soup, for it was a pea-based delicacy of the highest order, but all the while he had been listening to what was being said. Dr. Watson was much wiser than was often credited. His lesser light simply did not shine as brightly next to the fierce glow of Holmes.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that the issue is one of belief. You said it yourself, Mr. Headley: it is readers as much as writers who bring characters alive. So the solution . . .”
He let the ending hang.
“Is to make the new Holmes less believable than the old,” Holmes concluded. He patted Watson hard on the back, almost causing his friend to regurgitate some soup. “Watson, you’re a marvel.”
“Much obliged, Holmes,” said Watson. “Now, how about pudding?”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle never visited the Caxton Private Lending Library, although an open invitation was extended to him. He felt that it was probably for the best that he kept his distance from it for, as he told Mr. Headley, if he needed to spend time with the great characters of literature, he could simply pick up a book. Neither did he ever again meet Holmes and Watson, for they had their own life in his imagination.
Instead he carefully set out to undermine the second incarnation of his inventions, deliberately interspersing his better later stories with tales that were either so improbable in their plots and solutions as to test the credulity of readers to breaking point—”The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire” being among the most notable—or simply not terribly good, including “The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter,” “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez,” or “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier.” He even dropped in hints of more wives for Watson, whom he didn’t actually bother to name. The publication of such tales troubled him less than it might once have done, for even as he tired of his creations he understood that, with each inconsequential tale, he was ensuring the survival of the Caxton, and the continued happiness of his original characters.
Yet his strange encounter with the Caxton had also given Conan Doyle a kind of quiet comfort. In the years following his meeting with Holmes and Watson, he lost his first wife, and, in the final weeks of The Great War, his son Kingsley. He spent many years seeking proof of life after death, and found none, but his knowledge of the Caxton’s existence, and the power of belief to incarnate fictional characters, to imbue them with another reality outside the pages of books, gave him the hope that the same might be possible for those who had been taken from him in this life. The Caxton was a world beyond this one, complete and of itself, and if one such world could exist, then so might others.
Shortly after Conan Doyle’s death in July 1930, copies of the first editions of his later collections duly arrived at the library, as well as another copy of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes with its enlightening manuscript addition. By then Mr. Gedeon was the librarian, and he, Holmes, and Watson endured a slightly nervous couple of days, just in case the plan hatched by Watson and enacted by Conan Doyle had not worked, but no new incarnations of Holmes and Watson appeared on their doorstep, and a strange warm gust of wind blew through the Caxton, as though the great old edifice had just breathed its own sigh of relief.
A small blue plaque now stands on the wall of the Caxton, just above the shelf containing the Conan Doyle collection. It reads: “In Memory of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1859-1930: For Services to the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository.”
IRREGULAR
by Meg Gardiner
Suicide, they say. She hears them outside as she leans towards the open window.
The woman in pearls mumbles it, sitting on the curb under city lights. Her face scratched by fragments of safety glass, posh frock bloody. She waves away the paramedic again, insisting she’s fine, but refuses to look there.
The footballer spits it, pacing the pavement, mobile to his ear, speaking to his agent. Pausing to beg a cigarette from a cop guarding the scene. Still so shaky ninety minutes after the thing, he doesn’t care if onlookers snap him smoking. He’d just pulled up in the Merc when it happened. Jesus. Nearly killed us.
The dog walker sobs it. Yes, I saw, she tells the detective, wiping her eyes. She had no warning. The woman simply plunged from the night sky into the windshield of the Mercedes outside the Mayfair Capital Bank. Straight down into the glass, from . . . she looks up at the window.
Shaz jerks back into the shadows.
Under the flashing lights of the ambulance, the silver Merc is a bier. The young woman is embedded in the sunken windshield, like she’s lying in a bed of shattered ice. Glittery mini-dress blown up around her hips. Long legs askew, as pale as curdled cream. A strappy sandal dangling from her foot. Her face is turned away.
So much sparkle. It burns Shaz’s eyes, puts a buzz in her ears. Why would the girl take hours to glam up, just to Superman out a fourth-story window?
Blue lights strobe the office ceiling. Shaz calls a number, the private mobile. “As advertised. Victim took a bloody long drop. She had no chance.”
“Witnesses?”
“Say she jumped.”
But none of them saw her take the leap.
“Get snaps and stop by the office,” he says. “Fallon will have your fee.” He rings off.
Fallon will have her fee, in cash. They could transfer the money with the swipe of a thumb—she’s sixteen, she has a bank account. And fifty pounds for this nighttime reconnaisance, it’s a trifle to them. But they want her to spend time coming by. Showing obeisance.
Her word of the day, obeisance.
They know she needs t
he dosh. Fifty quid: She’ll put it away. For university. Someday.
Around the corner, from the lifts, come footsteps and radio static. Shaz darts out of the office into the hallway. The detective and a uniformed PC round the corner.
The PC points his flashlight at her. “Oi. Step away from that door.”
She widens her eyes, deerlike. “What’s wrong?”
The detective reads the logo on her uniform shirt. CLEAN-TEQ. She’s wearing rubber gloves, holding a dust rag.
“Did you enter that office? Touch anything?”
“No, sir. What’s the emergency?”
“Have you seen anybody on this floor tonight?”
Behind him, the door to the stairs cracks open. A little face peeps out. Shaz shakes her head, like she’s answering the question. The door shuts.
“The building’s closed,” the detective says. “You’re off the clock.”
The PC escorts her downstairs. As the lift doors open she sees a thin boy skitter out of the stairwell and slip through a side door before the cop spots him. Well done, Harry.
Beyond the lobby windows a crowd clusters, wraithlike under the strobing lights.
“Was it an accident?”
“Not your concern.” The PC points at the exit.
Outside, Shaz jams the rubber gloves in her back pocket. Her real shift, at a Euston office tower, starts at midnight. Harry waits for her in the crowd, watching a police photographer shoot the Mercedes. The camera flash reflects from his eyes like lightning.
Outside the Marylebone headquarters of Croft Security, the surveillance camera swivels and the door buzzes open. Shaz snakes through. Harry shadows her, silent as a stone.
Richard Fallon greets them at the top of the stairs. Croft’s second in command is florid and bright eyed. “Here you are. Brilliant.”
Fallon escorts them towards the corner office. Through its open door Shaz sees Michael Croft. He sits tapping his mobile against the arm of a Saxon leather chair. His face is brooding beneath the blue flicker of the flatscreen, tuned to Sky News. His client paces.
“Stay calm,” Croft says. “Gathering information takes time. The incident happened only two hours ago.”
“I can’t. I have to know what happened to her. You’re the security consultant—I’ve retained you to stay calm and find the truth.”
Nic Ramsey is in his early thirties, dressed in a banker’s sharp black suit but jittering like a nervy teenager. At least like the nervy teenagers Shaz knows. Fallon raps on the door.
Croft waves them in. “Report. You got access to the roof?”
Harry’s cheeks shine with heat. “No, sir. Door’s deadbolted. No way to open it. Brand new keypad, but it ain’t hooked up. Press the buttons and the display says, ‘seek assistance.’”
Croft processes that. “Did you find anything noteworthy in Miss Kendrick’s office?”
Ramsey stops, taken aback. “This is your street team? Are you having a laugh?” He points at Harry. “This kid can’t be ten.”
“We needed intelligence from the scene,” Croft says. “That meant getting inside despite the presence of the police. And nobody slips past the cops better than these two.”
“Except the boy’s wrong. Somebody threw Holly off MCB’s roof,” Ramsey says.
His words land like a smack. Shaz pauses, and says, “The window in her office was open.”
Ramsey spins on her. “No, it wasn’t.”
Croft’s eyes narrow. “Why do you say that?”
“She never opened it,” Ramsey stammers. “Street noise. It was practically painted shut.”
Croft’s voice is a needle prick. “If you lie, I can’t help you. Garbage in, garbage out.”
“You want to strap me to a polygraph machine? I came to you.”
“Polygraphs are unreliable. But your flushed face, the visible throbbing of your pulse in your carotid artery, and the whiteness of your knuckles reveal everything such a test would.” Croft waves at the room. “Moreover, infrared cameras register changes in body heat. High-def audio equipment analyzes vocal tics for deception and dishonesty. It’s most sophisticated.”
Ramsey seems to shrink.
“Tell me again what happened, this time sparing the fabrications,” Croft says.
Ramsey shuts his eyes. “Dammit. Oh, Holly. Calling it suicide is a way of destroying her twice.”
Croft looks at Fallon. “Pour Ramsey a whisky.”
At the sideboard, Fallon splashes Macallan into a tumbler. Ramsey takes it. “I feel like I’m being interrogated at 221B Baker Street.” He raises the glass to Fallon. “So, thanks, Watson.”
Fallon’s brow knits. Croft smiles fleetingly. His voice turns soothing.
“You didn’t actually learn of Miss Kendrick’s death this evening from your colleagues.”
Ramsey sighs and tosses back the drink. “No. Though I did attend the bank’s summer party. At the Royal Academy. So did Holly.”
Party, Shaz thinks. That’s why Ramsey’s suit is speckled with glitter, like Holly’s dress.
Croft says, “You and Miss Kendrick detoured on the way there for an assignation?”
Ramsey blinks. “How . . .”
“You’re repeatedly rubbing your pocket handkerchief. I presume she helped—” He cuts a glance at Harry. “—ah, put you back together, before going to the Royal Academy.”
Ramsey’s hand hovers near the pocket square. He lowers it. “We were seeing each other. I need another drink.”
He heads to the sideboard. Shaz thinks: For a grieving boyfriend, he hardly seems torn up.
“We were at the party barely half an hour when Holly got a phone call and left. Abruptly.” He shakes his head. “That call is the key to what happened. It has to be related to the allegations.”
“Allegations?” Fallon turns to peer more closely at him.
“There was a breach in the computer system at the bank. Customer account data was stolen. There was . . . innuendo . . .”
Croft nods at Fallon, who brings up information on the desktop computer. “Mayfair Capital Bank manages twenty billion pounds in assets for its private clients. The breach has been traced to MCB’s Investment Management Division—where Holly Kendrick worked.” He looks up, eyes avid. “She was suspected of the theft.”
“She didn’t do it,” Ramsey says.
Croft says, “You followed her to the bank.”
Ramsey hesitates, then admits, “Yes. I was worried. Because she was afraid.”
“Of whom?” Croft’s face darkens. “You entered via the back door to avoid the guard at the front desk. But now you fear that when the police review the CCTV footage, they’ll spot you.”
“No. Holly took a cab to the side entrance and went in the back. And the security cameras are being upgraded. They’re offline. As you—”
“So the rollover of security systems was the perfect time for her to destroy evidence and cover her tracks.”
“She didn’t do it. And she didn’t jump.”
Shaz clears her throat. “The Mercedes was parked directly below her office window.”
Ramsey throws his hands up. “Expert testimony from Baby Spice.”
“And pitch perfect.” She bites back, Idiot.
Croft flicks a remote at the flatscreen, bringing up the photos Shaz had snapped. “Ramsey. The Mercedes. Do you recognize the woman and man?”
Ramsey collects himself. “That’s Amelia Gordon-Lennox. Managing Director. And—”
“Crikey.” Fallon approaches the TV. “It’s Jeroen Dijkstra. The Chelsea striker.”
Croft steeples his fingers. “Why do you insist Miss Kendrick went off the roof?”
Ramsey deflates. “All right. I went up to Holly’s office. It was dark. No sign of her. And the window was shut.” He glares at Shaz. “Then I heard footsteps in the stairwell.”
“Describe the footsteps,” Croft says.
“Clicking heels. Light. Hers.”
“What did you do?”
“Opened the stairwell door. Called her name, got no answer. Climbed a flight and called again. Then . . .” He chokes up. “I heard the screaming from the street. I ran down.”
“And came directly here.”
“No, I wanted to help but she . . . Holly was . . . I couldn’t . . .” He scrapes his fingers through his hair. “There was nothing I could do.”
Fallon says, “Except beat it before the cops saw you.”
Ramsey’s fists close. “I know I’m in trouble. Amelia Gordon-Lennox saw me. She’ll tell the police. But I’m not here just to save my own skin. Holly’s office window was shut. If your street team didn’t open it themselves, somebody else did. After Holly fell.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Croft, I don’t know who else to turn to. Help me. And Holly. Please.”
“You have every assurance.” Croft stands and shakes Ramsey’s hand. Then he nods at Shaz and Harry. “All right. Good work.”
Harry is staring at the photos on the flatscreen, transfixed. Shaz nudges him from the office and they follow Fallon downstairs. Her fifty quid is in an envelope on the front desk. At the door, Harry hesitates.
He gazes up at Fallon. Whispers: “The car looked like a wrecking ball dropped on the windshield. The lady, she was proper smashed.”
Fallon sets a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Never intended for you to see such a sight. The police should have put up a screen. Hold in your mind, though—it was over in an instant.” He hands him a twenty pound note. “Chin up.”
Harry slips from under his grip and out the door. Shaz follows. On the street, Harry pauses under a streetlight. The twenty is crushed in his small fist. Though he tries to act hard, he rubs a hand across his eyes.
The streetlight illuminates a shiny smudge he’s left on his cheek. Shaz wipes it off with her thumb. Harry sniffs and says, “I’m not a baby.”
“Of course you’re not, love.”
From the doorway, Fallon gives them a sad gaze. The door clicks shut.
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 4