Thirty-Nine Steps from Baker Street

by J. R. Trtek

  “I should like to survey the damage,” said Sherlock Holmes.

  “Yes, of course,” said Bullivant. “However, I suggest you do it somewhat later, when you will not be in the way of rescuers, and after we have finished our business here. I do hope no children were lost this time,” he added as we ascended the stair.

  “The lad was there when the bomb hit, we are given to understand,” said a constable later in the day.

  Holmes and I stood in the Boleyn Road, with the rubble from three houses still piled before us.

  “He was a grocer’s delivery boy, twelve or thirteen years of age, I understand,” the policeman said. “The young fellow was bicycling past, and the explosion killed him outright.”

  Afternoon sunlight cast stark shadows from the debris, which was still being cleared. The wounded and dead had long been removed, but we observed ample evidence that human lives had ended here.

  “And so from this location, the German aircraft proceeded south, toward where we huddled beneath Traill’s,” noted Holmes as we stepped carefully along the street. “Over Dalston, Hoxton, and Shoreditch and then on to the City itself before turning east.”

  “And they continued dropping bombs even then?” I asked.

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, and at the same time, apparently, a second group of aeroplanes reached the City as well.”

  “We will visit the destruction there also, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, whose eyes swept the scene as we continued along the Boleyn Road. “I wish to see as much as possible before nightfall.”

  “Do you truly hope to glean anything from these visits?”

  “I do not know, Watson. As I have told you repeatedly in the past, hope—even faint hope—must never be explicit in detection, but neither must it be absent entirely.”

  “But do you believe that attacks from the air such as these can lead you to the third German spy group? Why should there be any link between them?”

  “I have no indisputable case to make,” admitted Sherlock Holmes. “However, I believe it worth the effort. Consider, Watson: a prime target of both Von Bork’s operation and the earlier incarnation of the Black Stone was information about our navy—codes, deployments, weaponry, and the like.

  “But war has taken to the air in this new century,” he added while staring at debris lining the street. “We have our own aeroplanes, and our defensive guns here on the ground as well. Why would the Germans not wish to learn more of them, as they did of our sea forces in earlier years? Why should they not wish to enhance the devastation wrought by their own craft? At present, I know not what if any connections may exist between what we see here and what we believe a German spy group may be doing or planning to do, but if those connections exist, I mean to discover them.”

  “And are you certain, Holmes, that you require my assistance in this pursuit?” I asked.

  “Of course I am,” he replied. “And I assume you are as enthusiastic in your desire to return to Queen Anne Street and join in the hunt. The game remains afoot, Watson. Or perhaps, now, on the wing.”

  Holmes had halted during these remarks, but now he resumed walking, carefully picking his way amid the rubble. I watched for a moment and then set off after him. We passed on round a corner, walking through damage inflicted in Cowper and Woodsworth Roads, and it was there that we witnessed the anger of local residents.

  “Are you with the government?” a man of middle age with a dirtied faced demanded to know. “If you are, will you ask your owners what they’ll do about this? And what they’ll do about the Germans?” The man kept following us. “I’m talking about the ones living amongst us, you know,” he said again and again. “What’s to be done to the bloody Germans who have been living here?”

  Holmes merely nodded and walked on. I followed, and at our backs we heard the continued shouting of the man.

  “We’ll do it ourselves, if we have to!” he cried.

  I returned to Biggleswick the next day and gave my attentions immediately to Isham hospital. I now understood my tenure there was coming to an end, and I felt determined to make certain that the changes I had instituted during my short stay would be permanent. As I worked feverishly on a set of recommendations for Major Collins to pass on to my successor, I received a knock upon my door.

  “Enter,” I called.

  The door opened to reveal Launcelot Wake. The young man stood cap in hand, his thick hair appearing even more vigorous than I had remembered it. A cautious smile played across his face.

  “Colonel?” he said. “Are you available at present? May I have a word with you, if you are?”

  “Of course, Mr. Wake,” I said pleasantly. “Sit down, won’t you?” I suggested, motioning toward a chair that sat beside a filing cabinet.

  Miss Lamington’s cousin closed the door behind him and pulled the empty chair forward, so that it sat opposite mine across the desk top. Bowing ever so slightly, Wake sat down and then drew forward on the edge of his seat.

  “I’ve come here because I’ve reached a decision, and you had a great deal to do with its making,” he said.

  “Oh?” I said, pushing my paperwork to the side and leaning back. I placed my right hand upon the desk. “What decision have you made?”

  “I’ve arranged to join the Labour Corps.”177

  I sat and stared at the young man, taken aback by his declaration.

  “I know it seems most odd, given my position with respect to the war,” Wake interjected before I could speak. “And you must understand that I have not changed that position. The conflict is unjust and unnecessary, and that is that. But it is a struggle that will not go away, and I’ve concluded that, since the fates have made me a government servant, I might as well do my work from a vantage point somewhere less cushioned than a chair in the Home Office.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not a matter of principle so much as self-indulgence, for I am certain I make a better clerk than a navvy.178 I enjoy fresh air and exercise, however, and feel in the need for more. That is all.”

  “Have you been contemplating this action only recently?” I enquired.

  “No, I have been thinking about it for some time, and I’m informing you of it first, Colonel Watson, because it was you who inspired me to consider it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, it was during that dinner at Fosse Manor just after Easter. You told us about what you saw in France, and I confess I was enthralled. It got me thinking about many things.”

  “Have you considered joining the medical corps instead?”

  “Oh no,” said Launcelot Wake with a gesture of dismissal. “While I may turn out to be a mediocre navvy, I am certain I would be a horrible stretcher-bearer. I could never match the qualities of the fellows you saw at the front, sir, but I believe I could be credible as a labourer.”

  “And OTC is out of the question for you?”179

  “I am a non-combatant and will remain so,” Wake avowed. “When I had decided upon the Labour Corps, I bicycled all the way to Cheltenham to learn more about it. I got drenched that morning, but it helped decide the issue for me.”

  “Was that in April?” I asked. “The day that you met Sherlock Holmes and me along one of the local roads?”

  Wake thought for a moment. “I suppose it could have been. Oh yes, it was,” he suddenly admitted. “I recall it now, for I remember that I lied to both of you about where I had gone. I did not wish anyone to know what I was contemplating.”

  “And you would have cycled to Cheltenham along the main road,” I added.

  “Yes, of course. The main road is the most direct route in any case, and given the bad weather that day, the only route by bicycle, really. Well, I will go now, Colonel Watson. It was my wish to tell you about what I am about to do before I inform anyone else. I am certain that my aunts will be at a complete loss for words when they learn my plans.”

  “If anything can produce such an effect, I believe it will be that revelation. I con
gratulate you, Mr. Wake, and I wish you the best.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll take my leave now.”

  “Here,” I said, rising an instant before the young man got to his feet. “Allow me to act as an escort of honour from the building.” I patted my chest while looking down at my papers. “I believe I am due for a bit of fresh air myself, if for only a few minutes.”

  “I would appreciate your accompanying me.”

  I took my cap and opened the door for Wake, who followed me down the hall and out the main entrance of the hospital. Beside the steps, where he had left his bicycle, I shook the man’s hand and once more wished him well.

  “I should be pleased to receive a letter from you now and then from France, when you are able to spare the time,” I said.

  “It will be a pleasure to write you, sir,” Wake declared. “You will be remaining here?”

  “In truth,” I said, “I have been informed that I am to be transferred yet again. I believe my new assignment will still be on the home front—London, I am given to understand. You may write me at my residence in Queen Anne Street.”

  I gave him my address and then sent him on his way. Watching Lake pedal off to the road and then down the lane toward Biggleswick, I felt minor satisfaction at having confirmed his innocence with respect to the Black Stone.

  Heeding my own excuse for accompanying Wake out of the hospital, I resolved to take a quick walk round the grounds and strode over to the west garden, where I saw a small group of unfamiliar faces: new patients, who must have arrived the day before while I was in London.

  I advanced to introduce myself, when one officer in particular caught my eye. He had a moustache now, and his face had aged significantly in the past three years, but there was no mistaking the man.

  “Excuse me,” I said, stepping up to him. “Captain Ashley Tate?” I asked. “Forgive me, but I have forgotten your given name.”

  He glanced up at me, and I could see in his eyes all the signs of shell shock. I gave him whatever time he required in which to form a response, and after a few seconds, he smiled weakly and said, “No, it is Cap-cap-captain, as you just said. Oh, wait a moment. Sorry, it is Edward, yes.”

  Squinting, he shielded his face with his one free hand, his right arm being restrained by a sling, and studied me for several minutes.

  “I know you,” he said at last. “I don’t recall your name, either, but you were the fellow who was in that aeroplane landed near Birmin-birmin-birmingham. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  “I am that person, yes. Colonel John Watson,” I said, extending my hand. “I am head of this hospital.”

  “Well, fancy that,” he said, grasping my right hand weakly with his inverted left. He allowed me to shake for both of us, and I then released his limp fingers.

  “Have we a chair?” he asked of no one in particular. “Indeed, fancy this,” he repeated. “I remember you. You were in the aero-aero-aeroplane, weren’t you? The Midlands? Just after the start of the war?”

  “Just before, actually,” I said, pulling up an empty chair. Two of the other new patients watched with vacant eyes and then returned to contemplating the garden in its midsummer glory. “I see you are back in Britain for a time, then?” I noted, leaning forward toward Ashley Tate.

  “Yes. Oh yes,” he replied, gesturing to his bandaged arm. “I got my blighty wound, I did.”180

  “So I see.”

  “Dear Old Blighty,” whispered Ashley Tate. “So you are head of this place, you say? Been here long?”

  “A few months,” I said. “And you arrived yesterday, I believe.”

  “Indeed, yesterday. My blighty wound,” the officer repeated, cradling the sling in his free hand. “And there was the other thing,” he said, his manner suddenly changing. He smiled. “Do you know about it?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. Do you wish to tell me about it? If you would rather not, I can—”

  “It was an ordinary raid,” Ashley Tate began calmly, an odd look in his eye. “We were to commence the attack at dawn, but it was cloudy, you see, and so all was still dark. We advanced mightily, but the Germans were just letting us walk deeper into a trap. My company was destroyed, and I myself was shot twice.

  “The Germans then started advancing themselves. Came walking right over us, bayonetting and shoo-shoo-shooting those who still moved. I had to lie still,” Ashley Tate said. “I could not move. I could not breathe—that is, I know I must have kept breathing, but I could swear I didn’t. And my arm had been smashed up rather badly,” he added, lifting his sling ever so slightly. “But even if I didn’t move, they might have speared me. Spear me if I move; spear me if I don’t move.”

  Ashley Tate’s eyes held the recollection of his fear, but he continued to relate his tale in clinical detail.

  “I wan-wan-wanted to make time stop, you see. And it did. That’s how I stopped breathing. Everything went dark. And the next thing I knew, I was being gently prodded. I was sure it was a Hun with a bayonet, ready to run me through. And then I heard a voice with a touch of Dorset in it. I opened my eyes and saw a shadow holding a screw picket. That’s what it was nudging me with: a bloody screw pi-pi-picket.181

  “It was night, you see, and the shadows were one of our wiring parties. They found us—except all the others were dead. And time really had stopped, Colonel, for it was two days after I’d fallen. I looked up at the man with the picket and told him to take me away,” he said with sudden urgency. “I begged them to pull me out of there!”

  I reached out and took his good arm by the elbow, to steady him.

  Ashley Tate looked me in the eye, anguish washing across his face before it abruptly vanished.

  “That’s a nice little story, isn’t it, sir?” he asked in a suddenly abstracted tone. “Did you appreciate it?”

  “I can appreciate you,” I replied. “As to fully appreciating your experience, however, we have other men here who are certainly able to. Indeed, I think there is a fellow whom you should get to know. Blaikie is his name.”

  “Will we have a lot to compare—him and me?” Ashley Tate enquired with a chuckle. The chuckle expanded into a high laugh and then abruptly stopped. “So tell me—Colonel Watson, you said it was?” Ashley Tate said, wiping his eyes. “Tell me, did you succeed in that mi-mi-mission of yours three years ago?”

  “Yes, in large part,” I replied. “Thanks to you. And Captain Harper.”

  “Ah, Harper,” he said. “Good old Ce—”

  I watched him struggle to get the name out.

  “Good old Ce-ce-cecil. Ran into him more than once over there, you know. His squadron was based near our brigade. Always envied the RFC boys for the huts they slept in. Beats a dugout any day.”

  “I met with Captain Harper in France as well,” I noted, “and I have corresponded with him since. A letter from him arrived only the other week.”

  Ashley Tate nodded. “I see,” he said. “Yes, yes. I would enjoy reading that, if you would allow me the plea-plea-pleasure.”

  “Of course.”

  The officer leaned back and sighed. “Too bad the fellow bought it.”

  It was as if the entire world went silent. There must have been birdsong and the rustling of dry leaves in the midsummer breeze, but my ears were deaf to them once I heard those last words.

  At some point I felt fingers grasp my elbow. Ashley Tate, his good hand clasping my forearm, shook me ever so slightly as he leaned forward.

  “Colonel?” he said. “Colonel, are you quite all right?”

  “Yes,” I said in a flat tone. “I am fine. I—”

  “Did time stop for you, too?”

  I opened my mouth but had no words to speak.

  “You did know, did you not?” he asked. “About Har-Har-Harper. I assumed you knew.”

  “I do—I did know,” I assured him, not wishing him to think he had caused me distress.

  “But you said you received a letter from him last week.”

  “I received a l
etter about him,” I said, heaping deceit in a great mound.

  “Were you told the details?” Ashley Tate asked. “It happened in our sector, you know. I heard it from one of the stretcher-bearers who saw it happen.”

  “Tell me,” I said, pleading rather than demanding. “Yes, please tell me the story as you received it.”

  “It was during Arras, of course,” the officer said, and I sat up straight at the news, for the last letter I had received from Cecil Harper—the one I had as yet failed to answer—had been written just before that battle. Delayed by the not uncommon errors and inefficiencies, it had arrived into my hands long after the pilot had died, I now realised.

  “Yes, Arras,” repeated Ashley Tate. “Some wounded had been taken to a burnt out farmhouse, where the doc-doc-doctors were treating them. The Huns started pouring artil-artil-artillery into the little valley where the house was, and I’m sure they would have eventually hit the place and taken out everyone inside.

  “Then along comes Harper in the sky. Don’t know if he was returning from a mission or just starting out on one, but from his vantage point, he must have sorted out what was happening, and so he swooped down and drew the German fire away from the farm-farm-farmhouse.

  “The surgeons were able to finish and then evacuate the wounded. The Boche kept their sights on Harper, though, and one shell tore off parts of his wings, sending the aero-aero-aeroplane into a vicious spin, according to the stretcher-bearer who saw it all. Old Cecil crashed behind the German lines.”

  “I see.”

  “The Huns gave him a decent burial, we were told, and one of their planes flew over our lines to drop his possessions in a packet.” Ashley Tate leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I suppose they still do that sort of thing for the airmen now and then. Nothing like that for us on the ground, though. Yes, there is still a bit of honour up in the clouds, wouldn’t you say? And just hell in a mud field for those of us in the poor old bloody infantry, eh?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Mud.”

  Two nurses came round then, and I rose from my chair before putting my hand on the officer’s shoulder.

  “We will talk again, Captain,” I assured him, and he gave an anxious smile. I then left Ashley Tate and the other officer patients in the charge of the two nurses and walked back to my office, feeling as though I trod a path made of fragmented bone.