“You love challenges, don’t you?” he said. “Do they not excite your mind and keep you too entertained to stick needles in your arm? Embrace the challenge, Sherlock, and do not interfere in my affairs.”
“Or, indeed, your attempts to cover up some else’s affair,” muttered the brother back at him.
“Come along, boy,” Mr. Mycroft said to me, which caught me by surprise. I’d assumed we was all done.
“What? Me? Now?” I protested.
“I may have further use for you,” was the only explanation.
“I was figuring on sticking with your brother,” I said. “A murder case sounds like ever so much fun - unless you’re the victim, of course. But still, there’s an adventure to be had for certain!”
“I assure you, you will find it quite dull and unsatisfying. I have something for you that will be more to your liking, and suitable to you skills.”
I looked back at Sherlock Holmes, who had risen to see his brother off. It felt like a betrayal to leave his side, even if it was for another Holmes. But then he gave me an approving nod.
“Rest assured, whatever errand Mycroft has for you may prove more fruitful on the adventure front. I expect my own inquiries to be slow and tedious now that I must go about them with both hands tied behind my back.
“Be sure you return him to me in good working order,” he added to his senior sibling, pointedly.
“The boy can handle himself,” Mr. Mycroft said. “He made short work of poor Henry and infiltrated the inner sanctum of the Diogenes Club in mere moments. There lies a messenger boy who won’t let anything stand between him and his delivery. It is a useful talent, and a devotion to duty deserving of admiration. I can think of many uses for so promising a lump of clay.”
“As you will,” the detective agreed. “Wiggins is free to seek employment wherever he wishes.
“But a word of caution.” This he said directly to me in a lower voice. “Be ever mindful of Mycroft’s attempts to recruit you to his causes. Not all machinations of government are noble of intent or outcome.”
The stairs back down were an easier go for the elder Holmes. Once we were descending together, I had to speak up.
“That won’t put him off,” I said. “Sherlock Holmes will find a way to see it through.”
“Of course he will,” said Mr. Mycroft, as though there were no other possibility. “All I have done is complicate things for him and cost him valuable time, which is well enough. What might have taken him a few days to wrap up may now consume a week or more. Only then will he discover that there is nothing to the case. A promising murder, seasoned with intriguing circumstantial evidence suggestive of complexity upon conundrum, will prove to be a disappointing death due to natural causes. I could tell him as much now, but he will insist on discovering this for himself.”
“But why waste his time if the end result will be the same?”
“My brother is a creature of habit. Some of them are bad habits, self-destructive habits. You have, doubtless, observed for yourself the toll they take. Dr. Watson was instrumental in keeping such habits in check while they shared rooms in Baker Street. Now that he’s married himself off, Watson is no longer there to stem to flow of stimulants into Sherlock’s veins, and I fear for his good health. The longer a puzzle occupies his mind, the longer he will go without his favoured poison.”
“So you do care,” I said.
“Of course,” said Mycroft Holmes, as though I had stumbled upon the most obvious deduction that could be made. “He is, after all, family.”
Downstairs, the House of Commons had just let out. A steady flow of grand whiskers and fine suits flooded past us as the Members of Parliament went back to their lives outside the offices of government. More than a few nodded a respectful greeting to Mycroft Holmes, though none of them approached to distract him from whatever his current business might be. It was as if they all knew better.
“Look at them, boy,” commented Mr. Mycroft. “Sealed chambers filled with men who think they can change the course of history with nothing but talk. How little they suspect that the important decisions - the ones with the greatest impact - are arrived at by a different breed of men in another nearby chamber, who spend their time thinking rather than talking. Perhaps that is as it should be. The weight of the world should rest on shoulders that also bear great minds. Not with these glad-handers, whose loyalties are clouded by fickle mistresses and even more fickle voters.”
Nearing the exit, I reminded him, “You said you had a job for me.”
“Indeed!”
Mycroft Holmes stopped at the desk where we had first been directed upstairs.
“I need this,” he said, plucking the pen from the clerk’s hand.
“And this,” he added, tearing the next blank page from the ledger. The clerk looked taken aback, but raised no objection.
He scribbled something quickly onto the page in handwriting that was either difficult to decipher or outright coded.
“I have a message most urgent that must be delivered,” Mr. Mycroft told me, as we left the building. “Not to the master of the house, but to a seemingly minor party amongst the cooking detail in the basement. There is sensitive information to be acquired at a state dinner this coming Tuesday, and there is no one better positioned to overhear a private conversation during dessert than a well-placed member of the wait staff. The address is quite close, but the way will be barred. Guards are ever on duty to prevent unauthorized infiltration, and the building is filled with suspicious eyes who will question any perceived intruder.”
“Makes no matter, Mr. Holmes, sir,” I said. “I’ll find a means to wiggle my way in.”
“Good lad, that’s the spirit!”
He gave me a description of who I was looking for, and how I would know him when I found him, as he folded over his note a few times and handed it to me.
“Where I am to get this to?” was all I needed to know.
“The address is Number 10 Downing Street. Know it?”
How could I not?
“It’s only the second most famous address in all of London,” I said.
“The second?” asked Mr. Mycroft, looking genuinely perplexed. “What address could possibly be more celebrated?”
“221b Baker Street, of course.”
There was a funny look on Mycroft Holmes’s face as I ran off down the road to deliver his message. I wondered about it the whole way to my destination until I was able to place it. My parting words had had an unexpected effect on the great man. I think I might have actually made him feel a bit stupid.
The Case of the Golden Trail
by James Moffett
As I leaf through the vast notes accumulated over the first few months of 1890, I am struck by the tenacity of criminal minds intending to do harm to others and cause mischief in this great city. Truly, over the course of several weeks, my friend Sherlock Holmes was involved in no less than seven prominent cases. Some of these involved sensitive matters at a political or national level. Other were brought upon him by imploring officials from Scotland Yard. Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade visited the lodgings at 221b on a regular basis, seeking the assistance of the consulting detective.
Such notes as I now hold in my hands pertain strictly to those cases in which I have personally been involved - answering Holmes’s summons as I temporarily postponed my medical practice and my duties as a husband. Without a doubt, numerous other cases must surely have come along and occupied the ever-active mind of Sherlock Holmes during my absence.
While leaving aside the more influential and delicate cases, I shall divulge a little problem which was brought to the attention of my friend towards the end of January of that year, during a bout of uninterrupted work.
* * *
It was the start of a hectic week, and having accompanie
d my wife to the train station on her annual visit to relatives outside the city, I settled down for another busy day overseeing patients who flooded into my consulting-rooms.
That Monday morning I felt somewhat analogous to Sherlock Holmes’s typically active days, being presented with my own set of cases of a medical nature. Patients came to see me, while I listened to what ailments afflicted them, before assessing their physical condition and prescribing an appropriate treatment to resolve their problem.
By the time it was noon, I seemed to have finished my work for the day as I looked at the empty chairs in the outer room where my patients usually waited their turn.
At that moment, a young man walked in.
“Doctor John Watson?” he asked, peering at me with some trepidation.
Thinking it was another patient, I invited him to come in and returned to my desk. He timidly came forward and handed me a telegram, before nodding and taking his leave.
I took the paper and opened it up, to find the following note:
Little case in hand. Join me at 221b.
- S.H.
It was rather impossible to comprehend what perception the term “little” had in Sherlock Holmes’s brain, but at the same time it was not easy to refuse any summons from London’s greatest consulting detective. Surely, no matter what kind of case he had in hand, it would no doubt lead to a series of intriguing exploits and fascinating deductions which, on less drastic occasions, relaxed the mind and invigorated the senses.
Therefore, with the prospect of a fruitful afternoon, I left my lodgings and took a cab to Baker Street.
* * *
The short journey was a pleasant one. As ever, London’s streets were bustling with its inhabitants attending to errands and other duties, or simply enjoying the comforting sun which now filtered through a few clouds drifting along, high in the sky. Looking out of the cab window, I beheld the familiar atmosphere of Baker Street, which seemed to welcome me every time I trod on its roughened cobblestones. There were many memories of my stay there to which I still clung, together with the numerous adventures I had shared with Sherlock Holmes. Although I had been whisked away by the duties of a married life, I always relished the opportunity to visit my old abode and reminisce on past times.
It was in such a state of emotion that I alighted from the cab and made my way inside 221b.
Ascending the stairs, I felt embraced by the comforting atmosphere of those lodgings: The hint of a musty scent from shelved books in the passageway, the creaking floorboards, and the familiar murmur coming from within the closed sitting room, where I had been privy to many a story of desperate individuals seeking the assistance of Sherlock Holmes.
I approached the sitting-room door and opened it, only to be greeted by the sound of voices. Going inside, it appeared I had stepped into the midst of a gathering.
Sherlock Holmes was sitting on his favourite armchair beside the fireplace. His eyes were closed and each of his elbows rested on an armrest. He was surrounded by four familiar faces and, as he spoke to them in turn, he raised his right hand to the individual he was addressing, all the while keeping his eyes shut.
“Lestrade, I shall send you a telegram upon the discovery of that missing finger. Inspector Gregson, do take the precaution of having a few additional constables assist you with the investigation of that warehouse in Regent Street. Inspector Jones, I shall accompany you to the trial of Mrs. Edwards and impart any evidence which may be deemed useful.”
He paused a moment and opened his eyes, reaching out for a cup and saucer from the side table next to the armchair.
“Mrs. Hudson, more tea if you please.” He glanced behind Lestrade’s shoulder as he gave the order to the landlady who, having emphasised her discontent by a low wail, stormed out of the room, swiftly followed by the others.
“Ah, Watson! How good to see you,” he exclaimed, noticing my presence. “What can I do for you, Doctor?”
I looked at him and laughed. He reciprocated with a subtle frown, thinking my response inappropriate amid the hectic business he had just been conducting that morning.
“Well?” he pressed - his tone of voice somewhat more serious.
“Holmes, you asked me to come here,” I replied, presenting the telegram as evidence.
“Did I? Oh yes, capital!” He rose to his feet and beckoned me further inside. “Apologies, my good man. It has been such an enthralling day.” He headed over to the sofa, picking up several papers strewn over its covers as he consulted each one in turn.
“More cases then?” I enquired, looking around the room and recalling memories I had forged there.
Holmes mumbled something inaudible, as he intensified his search amid the papers. He shuffled through torn envelopes, stained letters, and old telegrams, before exclaiming triumphantly upon producing a soiled note.
“A curious little thing,” he said, handing me the piece of paper as he walked over to the Persian slipper which lay upon the side table. As was his custom, he extracted some tobacco concealed inside it and proceeded to light his briar pipe before sitting back down.
I opened the note, which ran thus:
sir holms ned yor help. ill bee baker street, after noon hour.
- will allen
I glanced at my companion for some guidance, receiving in return only a smile amid a plume of white smoke. Besides its ragged appearance, the paper was rather worn round the edges. The writing was more of a rough scribble, and barely legible.
“Our client is almost upon us if I read the note aright,” broke out Holmes’s voice. “But before that, allow me to make some trifling observations.” He rose from his chair and snatched the note from my hands.
“Let us see what we can make of Mr. Allen’s plight,” he said, grasping his magnifying lens and running it along the edges of the note. “I received this from one of the members of the Baker Street Irregulars, that modest army of young informers, scurrying around London’s streets, and every now and then assisting me in my cases.” He raised his head from his inspection and smiled, before proceeding with his examination.
“So what can this piece of paper tells us about Will Allen? Primarily, based on the type of pencil and paper used, along with the grammatical inconsistencies of sentence structure, it is rather transparent that our writer is of a lesser educated disposition.”
“Could he have just been in a hurry and missed a few words?” I proposed, moving beside Holmes to glance once more at the note.
“Doubtful. Look at how the inclinations of the ‘y’ and the ‘b’ have been produced, and the pressure in some of the strokes where the graphite from the pencil has brushed against the brittle paper. Both are an indication of a hesitant writer, as if he was uncertain how to proceed. The pencil has been held at an odd angle, as evidenced by the careless scratches at the bottom of each letter, giving the whole message its crooked appearance.”
Upon closer inspection, and with the assistance of the lens, it was evident how the letters flowed unevenly across the surface of the paper.
“In addition, there is also the matter of the brick dust. It infests the whole note and has clearly become ingrained in the minute crevices of the paper,” continued Holmes.
Indeed, the lens magnified the tiny reddish specks which would have gone unnoticed by the naked eye. Holmes sniffed the note and frowned.
“There’s a stale smell to it, indicative of a damp and cold site. Whether our client comes from such a place, or merely acquired this paper from there when seeking to write his note, cannot be determined at present. And yet, I see no reason why this shouldn’t be so. Surely our client has not been graced by fate and is in the same trials of life which beset the less fortunate inhabitants of London.”
Holmes paused once more and gazed intently at the scribbling. At that moment, a noise was heard from downstairs, foll
owed by furtive footsteps ascending towards Holmes’s lodgings. I could not be certain whether a life away from Baker Street had altered my sense of hearing, but each footfall sounded strange - significantly peculiar and distinct from any footstep of man or woman who had ever walked into 221b.
“But there is something else,” Sherlock Holmes suddenly added, ignoring the approach of the visitor as he took a second look at the intricacies of the writing. “Our client seems to be an adventurous individual with a stouthearted sense of determination, mixed with a sliver of frailty to him, which bears to the conclusion of our client being merely a child.”
The door to our lodgings was slowly pushed back and there stood the unmistakable characteristics of a young boy.
It was a most unexpected turn. Of the numerous adventures and clients seeking my friend’s assistance, never could I have thought the possibility of witnessing such an odd circumstance. That my companion’s client could have been a child never occurred to me. And yet, I now recalled the scribbled letters and syntactical disparities to which Holmes had pointed just then.
The boy stood in the doorway, gazing at each of us in turn. His face was grimy and his clothes were tattered and stained, as if they had seen their fair share of hard life in the city, even though he could not have been more than eight years of age. Holmes’s analysis on the poor state of the note’s author had been correct.
“Master Allen, it would appear,” said my companion with a gentle smile. “I am Sherlock Holmes.” He walked forward and invited the boy inside. Clearly, Holmes was not as surprised as I was at our visitor. He treated every one of his clients the same, no matter their age or situation.
The boy said nothing, and although he put on a stern expression, his eyes faltered as the towering figure of my companion ushered him towards the sofa.
As he sat down, with his legs dangling high above the floor, my friend gave him the note, which he in turn held timidly in his hands. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson came barging in, holding a cup of tea, with a most horrified look on her face.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 27