Mycroft Holmes

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  It was more than mere relief.

  It was affection.

  He marveled at how different Port of Spain was from noisy, congested London. By nightfall, all one could hear was the sound of drums in the distance, the occasional lilting laughter, the soft, warm wind blowing through the cracks and the crevices of the town, which sounded like a child’s unconsciously carefree hum.

  He catalogued those factors that had troubled him so much at first: the dark and strangely brooding neighborhood with its mucky avenues, its beehive work ethic, and its exotic smells. The lean-to itself, with its well-used straw mattress, grease candles that pooled more than they burned, and the tattered King James Bible… not to mention the thin course of effluence that ran mid-street, and served as the neighborhood toilet.

  It all felt familiar to him now, as if he’d lived here for years.

  On the other hand, he was still too tightly wound, even at rest. He had always been rather strong and in good form, but now his shoulders, biceps, back, and abdomen were more suited to an adventurer than to a secretary in a stuffy London office. The culprits were a lack of food and constant exertion, to be sure. But this new musculature, plus the scar upon his cheek and the various and sundry wounds upon his body, did make him wonder how he’d be received back in England—if anyone would recognize him at all.

  England, he thought. England without Georgiana. It seemed impossible to fathom.

  He heard a knock upon the crossbeam outside, and then Huan’s voice announcing his presence.

  “Come in,” Holmes said, readjusting his leg so that his foot was elevated.

  Huan peeked in, with the usual grin on his face and a letter in his hand.

  “Cyrus, he asked Little Huan to check the post today,” he said. “And so he did. Though please forgive how late the hour, as he has only just returned…”

  “Thank you,” Holmes said, taking the letter. “Quite kind of your boy.”

  The envelope bore the stamp of the War Office, along with Parfitt’s ornate schoolboy hand, and Holmes frowned.

  “Would you like me to fetch Cyrus?” Huan asked, eyeing the letter.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Holmes assured him.

  He pictured Douglas as he had left him an hour before: engrossed in a Chinese game that involved a grid of black lines, and black and white stones. Holmes had watched for a few moments in order to pick up the fundamentals, but as he had never cared for table games, he had quickly lost interest. Douglas, on the other hand, had seemed engrossed and at ease with his old friends—there was no use spoiling his moment of leisure before their next foray into danger.

  He pulled his mind back to the present, and found Huan staring at his bare foot.

  “Your toes are the size of pecans,” he scolded.

  “I am aware of that,” Holmes said tightly.

  Huan shook his head disapprovingly and disappeared again, closing the curtain as he went. The small, soft breeze caused the candle to gutter and go out. Holmes felt around for the matches and relit it.

  As he did so, he wondered at his own sense of the dramatic. The trip back to the governor’s office did carry a certain amount of risk, but was it truly a “foray into danger”?

  You are being excessive, Holmes, he cautioned himself. Let us attempt to keep a clear head about it all. He moved as close to the flame as was reasonable, cut open the envelope, took out the letter and read.

  My dear Mr. Holmes,

  I hope that this letter finds you in excellent health!

  Holmes laughed aloud.

  If Parfitt only knew.

  As he continued, the awkward graciousness and banal niceties of Parfitt’s words reminded him of his former life—and so he read the following paragraphs with pleasure and a touch of homesickness.

  I am aggrieved to report that our esteemed employer, the Honorable Edward Cardwell, has not been so ~ in excellent health, that is ~ but has been plagued by a recurrence of gout. However, as he does not wish that you should fret yourself on his behalf, it would have been wiser for me to remain mum on the subject, as I am certain you have much to concern yourself and do not need to be troubled with more. Therefore, I pray you erase this sad news from your mind, though I do not, by this, mean to issue orders to my superior and esteemed benefactor!

  Dear heavens, man! Holmes thought with a hint of a smile, get on with it!

  Though of course I desire to impart a cheery hallo! ~ as does my aunt, who always refers to you as a top-shelf tenant and sends her warmest wishes ~ the real reason for my missive regards that most curious series of withdrawals and then deposits which you had mentioned before your departure.

  In brief, our tenuous political climate has made it so that I have been officially entrusted with monitoring any unusual monetary exchanges from or to Prussia or France by way of the Bank of England. In that regard, I report to you now that the series of sums that originate in Luxembourg through our own Bank of England, and that from there are deposited in Jamaica, have escalated both in sum and in frequency.

  Though there is no direct link between Jamaica and Trinidad, there are oddities nevertheless. The first is that the sums, which were once negligible, are now rather substantial: up to thirty thousand British pounds per deposit. The second is that the sums never rest in England but are spirited off quickly to Jamaica.

  The third is the signatory. This appears to be Count Wolfgang Hohenlohe-Langenburg, related to Her Majesty the Queen in that he is first cousin to Ernst, Prince of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, who is in turn married to Feodora, Her Majesty’s half-sister. I am afraid I cannot account for the origin of the funds, nor state how they were utilized, and this last is troubling. I have done the requisite research on the Count, and he has no employment to speak of, nor any lands to administer. He seems wholly dependent on Her Majesty the Queen, who is also generous toward her half-sister Feodora.

  Holmes rubbed his eyes, and read the pertinent part again. This could be the monetary link to the purchase of islands—if indeed they existed—and to the slaves. If so, it would prove to be an almost insurmountable scandal for the Crown, were it to surface publicly.

  Whatever small sense of safety Holmes had entertained, it instantly dissipated. He and Douglas would have to get to those ledgers in any way they could manage.

  At that moment, there was another knock upon the cross frame outside.

  “Come in,” Holmes said.

  The curtain parted. It was Huan again, this time shadowed by the hunched little man with the saipan on his head, who served drinks and dumplings each night at the long table.

  “Charlie Woo,” Huan said. “Meet Mycroft Holmes.”

  The little man bowed, and then rose again, as eager and vibrating as a squirrel. He carried a carpetbag in his hand.

  “He will fix your toes,” Huan said, smiling.

  Holmes stared at them both.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said to Huan, “but he will do no such thing. I have never had anyone handle my toes, and I am not about to start now.”

  “Mycroft Holmes!” Huan said crossly and—in Holmes’s estimation—a bit too loudly. “You are free to do as you wish for your own sake, but I will not have you putting my dear and good friend Cyrus Douglas in danger because you are unable to run, or to fight! You will put your toes in his very capable hands, and we will hear no more about it.”

  With that, Huan closed the curtain behind him, doing so with a flourish, leaving Holmes alone with the small, hunched man—who bowed again, and opened his bag.

  33

  AT ONE A.M., AS THEY RODE AS NEAR TO THE GOVERNOR’S OFFICE as they dared, Holmes apprised Douglas of Parfitt’s letter.

  “Count Wolfgang Hohenlohe-Langenburg,” Holmes recounted. “It seems he is vaguely related to the Queen in that he is first cousin to Feodora’s husband, Ernst.”

  Douglas could not help but laugh.

  “Vaguely? In royal circles, the two may as well be twins!”

  “Yes, it was facetious,�
�� Holmes said, smiling.

  “And are you thinking he factors in, in some manner?”

  “Not yet,” Holmes admitted. “I know only that the money trail is suspicious indeed.”

  Putting that particular query aside, they dismounted, and made their way on foot to the back of the building. Seeing not a soul, they scaled the selfsame tree, with Holmes making good use of his cane, and vaulted onto the balcony again.

  In truth, he didn’t need the cane at all, for reasons he couldn’t understand. Back at the lean-to, the stooped little man had worked quickly. First, he had laid his hand flat against Holmes’s chest.

  “Will that heal my toes?” Holmes had asked sarcastically, but Charlie Woo had ignored him. Instead, he’d lifted his hand from Holmes’s chest, had pointed to his heart, and then had wagged his finger at him in a manner that Holmes did not appreciate at all—as if he were scolding him for being a naughty boy. But before he could protest, Woo had moved on. He had placed needles into Holmes’s skin—none on the broken toes themselves, nor even on his chest—rather at the top of his foot, at his ankle, even at his temple. Though he had expected the needles to hurt, they had not…

  What had ached, and substantially, were points of pressure in his hand, neck, and shoulders where Woo had pressed down with a two-fingered grip that brought to mind a seventeenth-century vise.

  One spot in particular, in Holmes’s right hand—the soft flesh between the metacarpal and the phalanges—had caused his head to pound so intensely that he’d feared an aneurysm. He very nearly told the man to cease this madness and be gone, but his curiosity bested him. And so he’d remained quiet, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing until the pain had dissipated.

  At that juncture, he had been shocked to find that not only had the ache in his head disappeared, but so had the ache in his toes—along with the little man in the saipan. He had left without a sound.

  While Douglas had surely realized that Holmes was no longer limping, he’d said not a word about it. Holmes, for his part, had remained equally mum—he would not give Douglas the satisfaction—though he did notice a small smile playing at the corners of his friend’s lips each time he chanced a look down at Holmes’s foot.

  * * *

  The balcony door was secured this time, but Douglas administered a deft kick to the handle, and the thing groaned open.

  Once inside, Holmes jammed the walking stick against the door to prevent unwanted visitors. Douglas found a couple of small candles and put them into service, and they set about scouting for the sales ledgers. Practiced in the bureaucratic arts, Holmes quickly located them inside a locked bookcase, its miniscule key still fitted neatly inside the lock.

  “Their security is not the best,” he sniffed.

  “Few things on the island are,” Douglas noted.

  Thankfully, the ledgers were in perfect order, catalogued and cross-referenced by years and locations.

  “Now let us see which have changed hands in the last ten years or so,” Holmes muttered, and he handed one to his friend. As Douglas labored through his first record book, he eyed Holmes speeding through half a dozen.

  “With two hundred and thirty unnamed islands to scan,” Douglas muttered, “I shall never make fun of your quick reading skills again.”

  They searched in silence for a while, acutely aware of any noises that came from outside.

  Holmes found three islands, equidistant from Venezuela and Trinidad, that had been sold in 1868 and 1869, and he quoted the ledger number to Douglas, who nodded.

  “Here’s one,” Douglas replied, “sold in March 1860. It sits close to those you’ve found, according to mark on the map and sale number.”

  Holmes sighed. “Now I see why no one bothered to hide these. There is nothing contested here, not one nefarious thing—all these sales are legitimate. There is no mention of the terrain, either. What could grow there? Sugar? Cotton? In a climate like this, with such varied topography, it could be anything.”

  Douglas picked up the only ledger that remained to be perused, while Holmes walked into the little antechamber where Beauchamp, the governor’s aide, kept his desk. It was locked, but he picked up a paper cutter, jammed the point at just the right angle between the drawer and the frame, and it quickly gave way.

  Among various files of little interest, he found a large sealed envelope. On the envelope itself were numbers, written in a prim, neat hand. They matched those of the islands that had been bought.

  Inside was a promotional pamphlet that was every bit as well executed and costly as the Sultana’s. But rather than praise a steamship, this one advertised human beings.

  * * *

  The daguerreotype showed a group of thirty or so Africans in an idyllic island setting, posed on the sand in three rows. The first row was comprised of children, most between eight and twelve—an age where they could begin to earn their keep. They were smiling and appeared to be well cared for.

  The second consisted of florid young women with strong thighs and good hips, nearly all of childbearing age. And the back row featured men, solidly constructed and able-bodied, with their arms slung about each other’s necks and grinning at the camera obscura, as if they had just enjoyed a spirited game of rounders.

  Behind them, in the gleaming water, was moored the very same steamship featured in the flier that had been slipped into the unmarked envelope at Emanuel’s house.

  Holmes turned to the back of the pamphlet—and felt his legs go limp. He sat down hard at Beauchamp’s desk.

  It was another daguerreotype, this one of a handsome couple standing side by side and smiling at the photographer: Georgiana and the American, Adam McGuire. The advertisement read:

  BEG RESPECTFULLY TO INVITE THE ATTENTION OF ALL INTERESTED PERSONS

  For the past Four Years, Adam McGuire, Esquire, and Miss Anabel Lynch, an Educated Woman, have Served as the New Countenances of the Trade. They and other Investors Hailing from the Four Corners of the Globe, from Luxembourg to the United States and from South Africa to Timbuktu, Solicit Your kind Participation in Same.

  (Meetings shall take place in London at prearranged and agreed-upon times.)

  Holmes shook off the horror he felt.

  “Luxembourg,” he said aloud. “And South Africa.”

  Douglas came to stand behind him and stared over his shoulder. He noticed the likenesses of Georgiana and McGuire.

  “There they are,” Holmes murmured. “The faces of the ‘new slavery.’”

  “I am profoundly sorry, old friend,” Douglas replied.

  Holmes marveled how often, on their journey, words had proved lacking, but how—in the last analysis—words were all that people had to try to comfort one another. How strange it was that the mere knowledge of Douglas’s friendship mitigated the pain somewhat.

  “I understand why Luxembourg should prove suspicious,” Douglas said, changing the subject. “But why South Africa?”

  Holmes recounted Georgiana’s keen interest in the diamond mines on land owned by those Dutch farmers, the de Beers.

  “One year ago, on the day of our engagement,” he concluded, “it seems that she was…” He paused there, for the truth was entirely ironic. “…otherwise engaged. Clearly, she used the knowledge I’d given her for the cause—”

  They heard a rattle at the door. Someone on the other side was turning the doorknob, but to no avail.

  They had been discovered.

  Then, the pounding and pushing began, along with imprecations in Russian. Douglas quickly stowed the books in their original bookcase, locked it again, and moved for the balcony.

  On impulse Holmes grabbed a ledger entitled “Waterways 1580 to Present,” and followed Douglas out. The two threw themselves over the railing and onto the tree, clambering down as quickly as they could—only to find two of the three pasty-skinned security guards waiting for them at the bottom.

  34

  BY THE TIME HOLMES’S FEET HIT THE GROUND, HE WAS SO undone that he could barely face
this new and deadly challenge. He would have liked nothing better than to raise his hands in defeat, but the Russians did not seem to be interested in prisoners, but rather victims.

  Douglas was to be their first. After a brief scuffle, he had dispatched one guard with a forceful kick to the throat; but now his partner seemed intent on making him pay for that infraction. He had a gun pointed at Douglas’s temple.

  “You die!” he raged, his hand shaking.

  That flair for the dramatic was the pause that Holmes needed. In a split second he unsheathed the walking stick, revealing a long, sharp knife. With his last burst of energy, he raised it up and charged at the man, stabbing him through the chest with such force that it pushed him backward against the five-finger tree and impaled him there.

  Holmes stared, immobilized by what he had just done.

  By then the guard on the ground was beginning to recover his senses. With one move, Douglas yanked the long knife out of the Russian’s chest. The body fell to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

  Douglas then spun the knife around and pointed it at the prone guard’s throat. The man froze, then lay flat on the ground with his hands upraised.

  “Go,” Douglas commanded, stepping back.

  No translation was needed. The guard stumbled to his feet and ran off.

  Holmes just stood there glued to the spot, still clutching the portion of the cane that formed the sheath. He watched the blood trickle from the open wound in the dead man’s chest. His eyes were open and seemed to be staring at Holmes, their gazes locked.

  Douglas grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him away.

  * * *

  By the time they’d reached the horses, Holmes was pointing back at the dead guard and trembling.

  “Why in heaven’s name did you pull out the knife?” he whispered to Douglas. “The man might’ve lived if you hadn’t.”

  “He was already dead,” Douglas asserted, “and you know that as well as I. When I removed the blade, blood did not spurt out, because there was no longer a heartbeat to propel it.” With that, Douglas wiped the blade on his horse’s blanket and handed it back to Holmes—who fell back and refused to accept it.