Mycroft Holmes

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

The president, a pinched and persnickety sort who would have felt quite at home at any sacred institution of funds in London, first ascertained that Holmes was indeed a member of the esteemed British government. Then he and his minions, hand wringers all, painstakingly compared Holmes’s fiduciary letter to previous signatures of one Nestor Ellensberg.

  The bank president, in Holmes’s estimation, seemed not at all gratified to discover that everything was aboveboard, and that this young man—with his sun-burnished skin, an impressive scar upon his cheek, and a roguish air—had every right to the funds in question. Amidst stares and clenched-jaw whispers, with the minions at his heels like so many anxious ducklings, at long last the august head of the bank was obligated to release the combined sums into Holmes’s care.

  * * *

  The British cache alone was extraordinary—1.2 million pounds sterling in five-pound notes.

  The rest, taken together, equaled it.

  Two guards placed the money, stock, and coins in an enormous leather travel case that had been left by Ellensberg for just such purpose. The bank then provided, in addition to the guards, a driver, a carriage, and a horse. With great dispatch, these returned both Holmes and the suitcase to the Constance a quarter of an hour before it was scheduled to leave port. Rather than allow the retinue to accompany him aboard like a sullen parade, Holmes dismissed them all.

  Once they had departed, a few shillings persuaded two local lads to drag the suitcase up the gangway. The pieces of eight were the true burden, as most everything else was made of paper.

  It was only upon seeing a puzzled Douglas peering at him from the observation deck that Holmes realized he would have to come clean sooner, rather than later.

  * * *

  Once back on British soil, the first thing Holmes did was to ride Abie, so as to experience the freedom and exhilaration that only a fine horse—one who is an exquisite fit for its master—can provide. He was gratified to see that Parfitt had indeed taken very good care of him.

  Parfitt returned him with many thanks, along with the requisite amount of wistfulness, as Abie was a horse that one thoroughly enjoyed and therefore tended to miss.

  Abie, in turn, nuzzled Parfitt’s neck to show that he understood the boy’s dedication, and that the affection was reciprocal.

  Holmes had messengered a note to Sherlock to meet him on the banks of the Thames, and so he rode Abie to the designated spot. Then, a few moments before his brother was to arrive, he reached into his pocket and extracted two items.

  One was Georgiana’s likeness.

  The other was the pair of little backward-facing feet.

  He looked at them both, nestled in the palm of his hand. Complicit, somehow, belonging one to the other. Then, without recriminations or indeed much thought at all, he walked to the river’s edge, let them fall into the water, and watched them sink out of sight.

  “Brother mine!” Sherlock said, walking up behind him. “What strange, exotic ritual is this? And what has happened? I hardly recognize you!”

  Sherlock had guessed, from his stance alone, that something profound had altered him irrevocably. He turned and smiled, enjoying the look of utter shock on his brother’s face.

  “Sit down, Sherlock,” he said, “for I have much to recount.”

  48

  SUMMER HAD VERY NEARLY OVERTAKEN THE BRITISH ISLES WHEN Holmes and Douglas arrived at the village of Ascot, in Berkshire. A mere six miles from Windsor Castle, it was a healthy green swath of British countryside belonging to the Crown. For the past one hundred sixty years, the seventeenth day of June had—give or take a few intervals—seen the running of the horses in the Trial Stakes, the first race of the flat season.

  The royal carriages, which held Her Majesty the Queen and the royal party, made their formal procession up the Straight Mile. The spectators who had gathered to watch—some hundred thousand, by Holmes’s speculations—were beautifully turned out and eager. Perhaps not so much for the race to start, as to see and be seen.

  “Ascot,” Holmes quipped to Douglas, “is a social event with racing as an addendum.” He wore a gray morning coat and matching top hat, both purchased on German Street, and both so fine as to shame the topcoat that Georgiana had once favored. Though he was no longer saving for marriage, and though the money was now abundant, nevertheless he had blanched at the cost.

  He was finally persuaded to indulge by his distinguished dark-skinned “butler.” “Since you have been given access to the Royal Enclosure, perhaps a bit of extra decorum is warranted,” Douglas had reminded him wryly.

  Holmes conceded the point, calculating that if he could but utilize the outfit for twenty occasions or more, he could justify the exorbitant expense.

  As he had requested permission for Douglas to accompany him, he had also selected a double-breasted waistcoat with a turnover of quilted silk and an overcoat trimmed in fur. In truth, Douglas’s outfit had cost more than his, but it had seemed somehow less ostentatious. And since a black man not of royal blood could not attend a series of fittings for such a fine set of clothes, he had even hired a man of Douglas’s height and size to serve as mannequin, so that the tailoring would be as near perfect as could be managed.

  “Fur lining might be a bit excessive for a gentleman’s gentleman,” Douglas had mocked when he’d first laid eyes on it. “You have me gussied up like an Ethiopian princeling!”

  “Since we have been given access to the Royal Enclosure, perhaps a bit of extra decorum is warranted,” Holmes retorted with a grin.

  Regardless, Douglas wore it as he did his own more modest outfits, with an easy grace that belied any sense of discomfort he might have felt. After the Queen’s procession, the two men made their way to the Royal Enclosure, where Holmes showed his badge, as well as Douglas’s, signifying the Queen’s permission to enter.

  They were now among the most elite of the elite.

  A few moments later, Queen Victoria—in her usual mourning black and accompanied by her faithful Scottish manservant—arrived amid great pomp and took a seat at her private box. Sitting behind her was an array of lords and ladies, beautifully turned out. Beside her, by special invitation, was her rather delicate half-sister, Princess Feodora of Leiningen, on one of her rare visits to London.

  And on her other side—gazing on the still-empty racecourse as if he could not be bothered to engage with mere mortals—sat Count Wolfgang Hohenlohe-Langenburg.

  He was some fifty years of age, well dressed, bearded and portly, with a settled, self-satisfied countenance which said that the world belonged to him, and nothing could alter that fact.

  To accuse such a man of misdeeds is to court disbelief, if not outright hostility, Holmes mused, eyeing him.

  Moments before the first race was to commence, the Queen’s manservant, John Brown, glanced over at Holmes and nodded discreetly. Holmes rose and made his way to the Queen’s private section. When a guard stepped in his path, Brown signaled that Holmes be permitted into the inner sanctum.

  He bowed to Victoria as he passed. She dipped her head but did not look him in the eye. Then he went and stood directly in front of Hohenlohe-Langenburg, blocking his sightline and his light.

  The latter looked up at him mildly and blinked a few times, as if not altogether certain that he was real. He glanced at Victoria, but as she paid neither him nor the blond chap any mind, he turned back to Holmes.

  “Have I the pleasure of your acquaintance?” he asked icily.

  “Not at all,” Holmes said equitably, “but I believe you were very well acquainted with Adam McGuire, who met an unfortunate end. And you are also acquainted with Nestor Ellensberg. He has returned to Zurich, there to remain unmolested.

  “The Crown is now richer by 1.2 million pounds,” he continued, “a sum that you should consider well spent, as it prevents you from wasting the rest of your natural life in confinement.”

  The older man blanched. He glanced again at the Queen, but she sat ramrod straight and did not deign to give h
im even the smallest glance.

  Feodora looked over, curious.

  “You will also be gratified to note,” Holmes went on, “that the remainder, in various currencies—since they cannot be easily returned—shall be well spent on operations of mercy and the like. Of course, should you attempt to claim any portion thereof, I have it on good authority that the confinement you have thus far avoided shall be awaiting you.

  “And now,” he concluded, “I very much hope you enjoy the freedom that a fortune of birth has granted you, for surely others would never be so lucky.”

  Holmes was about to walk away when he was called over by an unmistakable brogue.

  “Mr. Holmes…”

  John Brown beckoned him to Victoria’s side.

  Holmes went to the Queen, and bowed low.

  She glanced at him with her indecipherable shoe-button eyes, and then leaned toward her half-sister.

  “Feodora,” she said languidly. “May I present Mycroft Holmes…”

  As Holmes bowed again, and Feodora dutifully extended her hand in greeting, the Queen raised her voice so that it could clearly be heard.

  “Mr. Holmes was able to recover more than one million pounds in five-pound notes that were somehow… misplaced.”

  “Oh!” Feodora said. “That is quite a large sum to go missing, is it not, Wolfgang?” she said, in an attempt to include her cousin in the conversation, for it appeared to her that he was being left out.

  Hohenlohe-Langenburg tried to speak, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. He could manage little more than a nod.

  “Mr. Holmes is a man whom I hope to convince to come and work for the Crown, for he has our highest trust and esteem,” declared the Queen.

  “I cannot imagine I shall be very hard to convince, Your Majesty,” Holmes said with a smile. Then, as the first race of the season was about to commence, the Queen excused him from the Royal Presence and he resumed his seat next to his friend.

  “Satisfying?” Douglas whispered.

  “Beyond,” Holmes whispered back.

  Revenge, he thought. Not ethically sound, perhaps. But sweet.

  He could purchase the building outright, he speculated as he watched the horses run—the one that housed his beloved Regents Tobaccos. And although Douglas had already paid to restore his family home, why not provide funds for Douglas to start a colored orphanage in London, one named after his wife and child.

  After all, the Pennywhistles could run the shop. What need was there for Douglas to torture himself day in and day out with the smell of tobacco? At least until they found a physician who was more to their liking.

  “You are humming to yourself, Holmes,” Douglas interrupted.

  “Not ‘La Donna è Mobile,’ I hope,” Holmes asked with trepidation.

  “No. More like Bach’s Mass in B Minor. ‘Gloria,’” he responded with a laugh.

  Holmes laughed too, and turned his attention back to the race.

  The horses were all fleet of foot, but in the end, Green Riband took the prize.

  Everyone applauded.

  Holmes sighed contentedly.

  He had not bet this time. He’d had no need.

  One of those buildings, he mused, could be near his present abode—he had seen a nice one for sale, if in need of renovation, on Baker Street. His brother Sherlock would soon graduate and might require a pied-à-terre in London, family life being what it was.

  And of course, Mrs. Hudson would make a very fine landlady…

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THE AUTHORS WISH TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE FOLLOWING FOR their invaluable help in bringing this project to fruition:

  Deborah Morales, intrepid and fearless producer (and all-around mensch); Steve Saffel, whose editorial skills (and patience) are nonpareil; Miranda Jewess, for her marvelous attention to detail; and Leslie Klinger, for his love of Sherlock Holmes and his persistence in freeing him.

  We would also like to thank the Titan team for going above and beyond for us: Nick Landau, Vivian Cheung, Laura Price, Alice Nightingale, Emma Smith, Julia Lloyd, Paul Gill, Chris McLane, Ella Bowman, Katharine Carroll, and Hayley Shepherd.

  About the Authors

  KAREEM ABDUL-JABBAR

  AT 7’ 2” TALL, KAREEM ABDUL-JABBAR IS A HUGE HOLMESIAN IN every way. An English and History graduate of UCLA, he first read the Doyle stories early in his basketball career, and adapted Holmes’s powers of observation to the game in order to gain an edge over his opponents. He played basketball for the Milwaukee Bucks (1969–1975) and the Los Angeles Lakers (1975–1989), scoring 38,387 points to become the National Basketball Association’s all-time leading scorer. Kareem was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame in 1995. Since retiring, he has been an actor, producer, a coach, and a New York Times best-selling author with writings focused on history. His previous books include Giant Steps, Kareem, Black Profiles in Courage, A Season on the Reservation, Brothers in Arms, On the Shoulders of Giants: My Journey Through the Harlem Renaissance, and the children’s books Streetball Crew: Sasquatch in the Paint, Stealing the Game, and What Color is My World?—which won the NAACP Award for “Best Children’s Book.” In 2012 he was selected as a U.S. Cultural Ambassador by former Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton. Currently he is chairman of the Skyhook Foundation and a columnist for Time magazine.

  ANNA WATERHOUSE

  A PROFESSIONAL SCREENWRITER AND SCRIPT CONSULTANT, Anna Waterhouse has worked alongside film and TV legends to repair structure and dialogue. She has consulted for premium cable miniseries and basic cable series, co-producing a feature-length documentary for Mandalay/HBO. She was supervising producer and co-writer (with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) of the critically acclaimed feature-length documentary On the Shoulders of Giants which won the “Best Documentary” NAACP Image Award and two Telly awards in 2012. She has written several how-to screenwriting seminars for Writers Digest and teaches screenwriting at Chapman University in Southern California.