Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  “So it is. Let us see about the other.”

  The inspector gave a start. “But why−”

  “It is not uncommon for a person’s feet to be of unequal size, and it is not unheard of for some individuals to wear shoes of a size more appropriate for the smaller of the two. Ah, but observe! The right boot is not large enough to fit its matching foot, either.”

  “But what does that mean, sir?” asked Magillivray.

  “I told you earlier that the corpse’s jaw was not shot off to disguise the cause of death,” replied Holmes. “It was, instead, meant to disguise the identity of the victim. That Scudder’s boots do not fit these feet confirms that. This body does not belong here.”

  “The body does not belong here?” said Magillivray. “Do you mean to suggest that these are not the remains of Franklin Scudder?”

  “I thought I had asserted it most emphatically,” replied the detective.

  “Well,” the man from Scotland Yard said, crossing his arms. “I don’t know what Mr. Bullivant will make of that.”

  Holmes set the boots aside, and again I found myself yearning for some introduction to this person repeatedly referred to by both men, but about whom I knew nothing.

  My friend gave a deep sigh. “Well,” he said, “there is nothing here that will lead us to Mr. Scudder, wherever he now may be. I have found these rooms to be quite sterile, insofar as meaningful clues are concerned.”

  “But how was this body transported here?” the inspector asked.

  “I suspect that it arrived in the now-empty trunk which lies upon the sitting room carpet,” replied Holmes. “It could easily have held this corpse. Have any of the porters yet been questioned at length?”

  “No,” said Magillivray.

  “I suggest you talk to the one currently on duty. He or one of his fellows may have assisted in moving the trunk up here.”

  “And what of Scudder? He will not return?” the inspector asked.

  Holmes motioned toward the dressing table as I closed my medical bag. “I take those to be the man’s keys there upon that chain. I believe this is one bridge Mr. Scudder has most definitely burned.”

  “Aye,” said the inspector, picking up a key and comparing it to the one with which he had opened the rooms. “The two match, sir.” He turned toward my friend. “But there is no evidence you have found which suggests where Scudder went, assuming that our body here is someone else’s? And nothing concerning who fired that shot into the dead man’s jaw?”

  “Not a single datum,” answered Holmes. “No evidence whatsoever. And, more often than not, the complete absence of evidence is itself evidence of purpose. In this instance, it is evidence of one purpose in particular.”

  Before Magillivray could beg further explanation, a knock came from outside.

  We stepped into the sitting room, and the inspector opened the door to the flat, revealing a mousey young man whose dour face was framed by two policemen.

  “Why must I needs be brought back here?” the man whined. “Looking at that body the first time was more than enough for me.”

  “You were valet to the unfortunate Mr. Scudder?” asked Holmes immediately, before anyone else could respond.

  “I was, yes,” replied the man, who gave his name. “I saw to him now and then, but he wouldn’t take my advice and go to the doctor yesterday. He looked a fright, and I told him he needed the leeches. I’d already put him on to visiting a physician about his headaches—he saw some Dr. Blanding the other week, as I have already told you coppers, but this was far different.”

  The man’s gaze then fell upon me, and he noticed the medical bag in my hand.

  “You?” he asked. “Are you Dr. Blanding, perhaps?”

  “He is Dr. Blanding’s associate,” said Holmes before I could reply, and I discreetly declined to add any elaboration. “If you will merely remain here in the sitting room—there is no need for you to return to the bedroom, I assure you—I will have a few words with you.”

  Before stepping back into the hall, the two policemen nudged the valet past the door, which Magillivray quickly shut, and for perhaps ten minutes Holmes gently barraged the man with questions about Franklin Scudder, under the pretence that both he and Magillivray were from Scotland Yard. I could discern my friend’s disappointment all through the examination, and after the conversation had ended, the man was sent out to once more be retained in custody by the policemen.

  Holmes looked down at the carpet and pursed his lips.

  “A benevolent if pitiful sort,” he declared. “If I’d had half a crown, I might as well have given it him and sent the man on his way, for he produced nothing of additional value. Holmes glanced about the sitting room. “There is no more use in my staying here, either, I fear,” he declared.

  “Do you wish me to convey anything to Mr. Bullivant, sir?” asked the man from Scotland Yard. “Or will you be reporting to him yourself?”

  “The latter,” was my friend’s crisp reply. “Indeed, I am to meet with him within the hour.” He turned toward me, a subtle smile upon his face. “You will attend as well, old fellow?”

  “Of course,” I said, somewhat stiffly. “If for no other reason than to once again see my dear friend Bullivant.”

  Holmes quickly turned away, and I suspected his movement toward the window was meant to disguise mild, involuntary chuckling.

  “As before, Watson,” he said in a light voice as he parted one set of curtains ever so slightly to glance outside, “we must not be seen together. I will employ the same rear door I used to enter this building. You, meanwhile, will descend the stair. In perhaps a quarter hour, a taxicab will pull up before the main entrance. Approach and make certain I am its passenger before stepping into the vehicle.”

  “I will.”

  “Now then,” Holmes said, addressing the inspector. “To all others, assert that the body in the bedroom is that of Mr. Scudder. Make your report to that effect, adding whatever valid details you wish to use in order to embellish the assertion, overlooking the observations made by myself and the doctor—indeed, omitting the very fact of our presence here. And recall the need to analyse that glass of liquid, though I expect it will yield nothing extraordinary.”

  “Of course. I believe the inquest is to take place tomorrow, sir.”

  “Everything presented there must support what I have just told you, Inspector Magillivray,” said my friend as he stepped toward the door. “And I will see you soon, Watson.”

  Immediately after Holmes had departed, Magillivray and I left the flat to stand near the stair in the company of one of the policemen who had escorted Scudder’s man.

  “The valet has been taken to one of the empty flats down the hall,” the inspector informed me. “We will walk him about these rooms later, despite any objections he may have to it. Of course, that will be after the wagon arrives to take the body away—which should occur within the next few minutes.”

  Magillivray then leaned close to me. “I will put up the show of a thorough investigation here, on into afternoon, just for the sake of appearances, as Mr. Holmes wishes. Oh, and if you have the opportunity, Dr. Watson, you might put in a good for me with Mr. Bullivant, whom you apparently know well.”

  I nodded in a self-conscious manner and then, having judged that enough time had elapsed, left the inspector and made my descent. As I came to the first floor, I saw a man approach the staircase. He was well dressed and athletic, with a drooping moustache set on a tanned face that appeared about forty years of age. We smiled briefly at one another, and I slowed, allowing him to gain the stair before I reached the landing.

  “Thank you much,” he said in a resonant voice before rapidly skipping down the steps to the ground floor, where I saw him stride hurriedly out the main entrance.

  “You have seen Afghanistan,” I whispered in jest to myself, for the man’s weathered face had reminded me of those words: Sherlock Holmes’s first comment to me, spoken that auspicious day in the laboratory at St.
Bart’s, a third of a century ago.6

  He who had preceded me down the staircase might well have seen Afghanistan recently, I reflected—or India or perhaps South Africa. I thought no more of the incident, however, as I reached the ground floor and stepped outside to gain the pavement, where I waited for a taxi bearing Holmes to appear.

  Five minutes later, it pulled up before me.

  “Go,” said Holmes to the chauffeur as I sat down beside my friend and closed the door. The vehicle shot off along the street, initially heading south, and Holmes leaned forward and lowered the hand that had been obscuring his face.

  “Well, Watson, are you now ready for my explanation of all this rigmarole?”

  “I am,” I replied cautiously. “But do you think it wise to talk of such matters here?” I added in a whisper, nodding toward the front of the motorcar. “Should we not find a more discreet place?”

  “I think this is perhaps the most discreet venue we have at the moment. Do you not agree, Jack?” Holmes asked the chauffeur in a loud voice.

  The person at the wheel, a blond-haired youth barely twenty years of age, twisted round for an instant.

  “I reckon it’ll at least do, sir.” He smiled and then quickly returned his attention to the street ahead before making a sharp turn toward the west.

  I glanced at Holmes, who said, “Did you not observe that the vehicle’s taximeter is idle?”

  “Yes.” I took a moment to think. “And so our chauffeur is one of your agents.”

  “He is. Jack, this is Dr. Watson.”

  “The Dr. Watson,” said the youth, briefly looking back in our direction once more. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  I smiled as he turned back round to watch the traffic.

  “An American,” I whispered.

  “Very good,” Holmes said. “Yes, his name is Jack James. I signed him on in Chicago.”

  “My,” I remarked, “you’ve been quite far afield these past several months, have you not?”

  * * *

  1 Marylebone is a district of London, formally within the City of Westminster, encompassing not only Watson’s Queen Anne Street residence but also the famed house at 221 Baker Street where he and Holmes shared quarters for years.

  2 This is likely a reference to the occasion, two decades earlier, of Holmes’s reappearance after being presumed dead following his duel with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. As chronicled in “The Adventure of the Empty House,” a disguised Holmes accosted Watson and only later revealed his true identity, prompting the doctor to faint—for the first and only time in his life.

  3 The Birlstone affair is recounted in The Valley of Fear, published later in 1914. Holmes’s comment refers to the fact that Professor Moriarty was initially introduced to readers in an earlier story, “The Final Problem,” where Watson supposedly learns of the detective’s nemesis for the first time. However, in The Valley of Fear—which takes place before “The Final Problem”—Watson appears to already be familiar with Moriarty.

  4 The Martyrdom of Man by Winwood Reade was a book viewed by Holmes as “one of the most remarkable ever penned.” Watson’s opinion of the work appears to have been somewhat different.

  5 During the years 1912 and 1913, only one new Holmes story appeared: “The Adventure of the Dying Detective.” In September 1914, however, The Strand Magazine would begin serializing The Valley of Fear, mentioned in footnote 3. When, earlier in this chapter, Watson speaks of writing as a means of coping with Holmes’s unexplained silence, it is likely that he is referring to the composition of that novel.

  6 Holmes’s first words to Watson, as reported in A Study in Scarlet, were actually, “How are you? You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.”

  CHAPTER TWO: HEADS OF CERBERUS

  “Some time ago,” said Sherlock Holmes as our taxi turned into Wimpole Street, “I was approached by my brother, Mycroft, on behalf of the British government—”

  “A government which, at times, he is,” I interjected, remembering the pronouncement Holmes had once uttered about his massive sibling.

  “Well, Mycroft’s bureaucratic horizons, if not his girth, have contracted ever so slightly in recent years,” the detective advised me. “They now encompass only a portion of the government rather than its entire expanse—in particular, that aspect associated with the gathering of intelligence.

  “He came to me more than two years ago with a request that I undertake important business for his superiors. Engrossed, as I was, with my continuing study of bees and comprehensive work on The Whole Art of Detection, I politely declined.

  “Two weeks later I refused him once more, with an emphasis that was not altogether congenial to the notion of family. A few days after that, I was visited a third time. The entreaty in that instance, however, was brought by the premier himself. His manner was less insistent than Mycroft’s, but of course the weight of his station was far greater. As I told you earlier today, I could not refuse him.”

  Holmes smiled thoughtfully.

  “And so I entrusted my bees to a worthy assistant, grew this goatee, and changed the colour of my hair, as well as my wardrobe,” he said, raising his arms as if to display them.

  “And altered your personal habits in no small degree, to judge from the stench of cheap cigars that never leaves you.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes wistfully. “I fear my briar and cherrywood will never be the same.”

  “I am certain your pipes will forgive you in time.”

  “Let us hope so. But then, Watson, if you now are accepting rides in motors, I can be granted my own excursions away from past practice.”

  “Yes, but perhaps I should make clear that—”

  “In any case,” Holmes went on, “the endeavour upon which the premier set me is no less than that of neutralising a German espionage ring that resides here on our own island. The government’s hope was that I might turn this nest of spies to our country’s advantage.”

  My eyes widened at the revelation.

  “The group is headed by one Heinrich Von Bork. 7 He is the nephew of Count Von und Zu Grafenstein, whom you may recall.”

  I searched my memory, at first to no avail. Then, abruptly, I remembered.

  “Klopman, the nihilist, would have assassinated the count had you not intervened by extinguishing gas lights in the hotel lobby.”

  “And I would not have done so had you not detected that trace of cinnamon in the papal emissary’s drawing room, Watson. Your olfactory abilities always surpassed mine. Tell me, have you yet set your pen against that particular case as well?”

  “I have not, though I thank you for suggesting it.”

  “Hum. The reading public will have me to blame, should your inevitably distorted version of events ever see the light of day. But on with my own tale. Von Bork is an extremely clever man, truly in a class by himself, and capable of great mischief. You see, things had been going wrong for our nation’s government in recent years. They were not events that the public would have noticed or even have inkling of, but to men such as Mycroft and Bullivant, they were setbacks that appeared most ominous.”

  “That brings up a point in need of clarification—”

  “Many of our agents in other lands found themselves under suspicion. Some were being caught without apparent effort, and no one could understand why all this was happening. There was evidence, however, of a strong and secret central force.”

  “Holmes, might you please—”

  “And then pressure was brought to bear upon me to look into the matter.”

  “Can you not—”

  “Bullivant—more properly, Sir Walter Bullivant—is a spymaster,” my friend said abruptly. “He is among the foremost players of the game, a chief of the Secret Service, reporting directly to Mycroft. He is my immediate superior, in fact.” Holmes smiled. “Forgive me for leaving you twisting in the wind, so to speak. I could, of course, not fail to observe your most curious expressions at the several mentions of his na
me back in Scudder’s flat.”

  “Well,” I said with exaggerated disdain, “that simple introduction just uttered would have sufficed at the time.”

  “I was well aware of that,” said my friend coyly. “However, I thought it necessary that you suffer for the injustice levied upon my goatee.”

  “Consider me to have been suitably punished. And is Magillivray one of Bullivant’s men as well?”

  “The answer is both yes and no. Magillivray is a go-between of sorts. He is Sir Walter’s clandestine man in Scotland Yard, yes, feeding Bullivant information and doing his bidding, but he is not privy to any of the Secret Service’s, well, secrets. He follows orders without knowing their purpose, but I believe that more should be confided in the man. He lacks a certain imaginative quality, but the inspector is both clever and tenacious. As a fully informed participant, Magillivray would be a much greater boon to Bullivant than he is at present.”

  “Before I left Scudder’s building, he indicated he would put up the pretence of a thorough investigation.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “I had already passed on to him that directive from Bullivant, and Magillivray will comply wonderfully, I am sure. Sir Walter, you see, does not wish the public to view that anonymous corpse as anything but a case of suicide, which no doubt is what Scudder himself intended.”

  “You believe the man is still alive and at large?”

  “Of course.”

  “And who was—is Scudder? A spy, I gather.”

  “You are correct,” replied Holmes. “He is a rather accomplished American agent whose information of late has been shared with Whitehall.8 There are indications he has uncovered something of great importance but not yet correlated all his evidence in order to bring a full report to his government, a representative of which is supposed to be present when I—we meet with Sir Walter presently.”

  “And now that I am somewhat acquainted with Sir Walter Bullivant, I suggest you continue with your own narrative, Holmes. I fear my question diverted you. You were speaking of Von Bork and his spy apparatus.”

  “Yes. Having been persuaded to look into the apparent disruption of our own intelligence gathering machine, I discovered the cause to be Von Bork’s previously unknown organisation, which operates out of a wonderfully gabled house overlooking the Essex shore—a residence that is, ironically, not that far from my own abode on the South Downs.