Sherlock Holmes

by Martin Rosenstock

  That was going to be difficult. The first item in the mains section was Fricassee of Braised Tiger’s Paw in a Béchamel Sauce. Further down I noted Polar Bear Rib Eye Steak à la Française and Fillet of Crocodile Tail with Lemon and Cayenne Pepper, along with Lion Steak in the American Style and Loin of Hippopotamus. Each had a number by them, which I took to be the price.

  “But Holmes, these are all—”

  “Animals which do not usually trouble the marble slabs of the fine butchers of England,” he said, calmly perusing the menu. “Anaconda, hmm. And chimpanzee. Intriguing.”

  I glanced around at the assembled diners, paying particular attention to their plates. The meals all appeared normal, and nothing in the actions of the people eating them suggested that there was anything remarkable unfolding.

  “I am bothered by the music,” Holmes said, frowning.

  “Just the music?”

  “Let me rephrase. Of the several things here that bother me, I am most bothered by the music.”

  “How so?”

  “Because it is recognisably by Brahms, but I cannot identify it, despite the fact that I am familiar with everything Brahms has written to date. I am aware that he destroyed something approaching twenty of his early string quartets because he was unhappy with them, and I can only assume that this is one of that number, somehow recovered or preserved.” He shook his head. “A restaurant serving rare and unusual food accompanied by rare and unusual music. Fascinating.”

  “I must say, Holmes, that I am not seeing the crime in all this – and I assume there must be a crime, if only because of Lord Elmsfield’s death. As far as I know, it is not illegal to eat lion, tiger, bear, or any other of the items on this menu.”

  “Indeed,” he responded, still frowning at the orchestra. “The Travellers Club in Pall Mall is well known for its occasionally exotic menus.”

  “But how does a restaurant such as this one obtain so many animals for its kitchen?” I asked. “Shipping the meat in from the various countries of origin would be difficult without salting or otherwise preserving it, and the menu does not mention that any of the meat has been preserved. I am sure that if there were large farms for these creatures in England we would be well aware of them. So, where are these animals from? Where are they housed? Who provides their food?”

  Holmes waved a dismissive hand. “That is the least of the questions that puzzles me,” he said. “There are currently one hundred and eighteen wild animal dealers in London alone, and many more outside. However, we have the curious circumstance of the missing meals. Why lion and no tarantula – which is a type of poisonous spider consumed as a delicacy in French Indochina. Why chimpanzee but no ostrich – which is—”

  “I know what an ostrich is,” I said testily.

  “And why no fish course?” He tapped his knife on the table in time with the music, which was obviously still on his mind.

  “They are all,” I pointed out, “dangerous animals. Except, of course, for the chimpanzee.”

  “Tarantulas are dangerous, if not deadly,” Holmes said. “So are sharks, and they are deadly. Neither is present on the menu. I believe, however, that you are stumbling close to the real answer. Chimpanzees are dangerous. They have been little observed in their natural habitat, but during the two years I spent” – he flicked a rapid glance at me – “travelling in Europe, Africa, and Asia I learned something about them from the natives who live nearby. They are aggressive creatures, strong enough to tear a man’s arm off.” He rapped the table suddenly with the knife. “And that is it, of course. Yes, the animals on this menu are all dangerous, but, more importantly, they are large and they are strong. Even the elephant, which I notice in the soup section and again as a main course, can easily trample a person to death.”

  I glanced at the menu again. Holmes was correct: Elephant Soup with a Herb Crust was the first dish listed.

  “Thirdly,” Holmes continued, “there is the issue of the numbers next to the items.”

  “Prices, surely.”

  He shook his head. “Unlikely. If they are prices then they vary wildly, from single numbers up to high double digits. You might argue that their range has something to do with the scarcity of the animal in question, but I would point out that when the same animal occurs several times in different dishes, the numbers are vastly different.” He smiled. “And, of course, there is always the old adage that if you have to ask the price then you cannot afford it. A restaurant as exclusive as this would not list its prices.”

  “Then what are the numbers?”

  “If we knew that, we would be significantly closer to solving this case. And that brings me to the most significant question of all. Have you seen the ‘specials’?”

  “I have not.”

  Quickly I turned the parchment page. Another one was located behind it, covered with the same flowing calligraphy. I scanned the list.

  “The items aren’t named,” I stated. “Just listed: ‘Special Number One’, ‘Special Number Two’, up to fifteen – which does seem a little excessive for ‘specials’. I mean, they can hardly be that special, can they?”

  “Oh, I think they can,” Holmes muttered darkly. “And I would draw your attention to the numbers beside the items.”

  “They all seem quite low,” I said, confused. “Single numbers mostly, none above twenty. What does it all—?”

  Holmes abruptly raised his hand off the table in warning.

  “Are you ready to order, gentlemen?” the waiter asked from beside us.

  “I have a few questions,” Holmes replied calmly. “For instance, what wine would you recommend to go with the elephant?”

  “Ah,” the waiter said. “Our soup is made with the forefoot of the animal in question, which is fibrous and strongly flavoured, but sweet – somewhat like oxtail. I would venture something robust to match it; a Barolo, perhaps. As to the sliced tongue, it is more gelatinous, with a robust and gamey flavour something like venison. With that I would suggest something slightly more refined. A Beaune, I think.” He hesitated momentarily. “Alternatively, if you gentlemen are seeking something more exotic, we have several bottles of snake wine, which we make ourselves by steeping Chinese banded kraits in rice wine.”

  “Excellent.” Holmes nodded, leaning back in his chair. “My friend, may I order for you? I think we will both have the honey badger rillettes as a starter, and then the crocodile tail fillets to follow. As for the wine, I think a bottle of Montrachet to start.”

  “An excellent choice,” the waiter said, leaning over and taking our menus. “The rillettes are served with toasted bread, of course, and the crocodile comes with a selection of garden vegetables and new potatoes.”

  As he moved away, weaving deftly past the tables, I leaned closer to Holmes.

  “Safe choices, I presume,” I said, “and I thank you for that. But what is a honey badger?”

  “An animal native to Northern Africa and Asia. Despite the name, the honey badger is essentially a giant weasel. They are vicious, fearless things with hugely long claws and skin like armour, fully a quarter of an inch thick. I once saw one of them attack a pride of six lions, and see them all off.”

  “During your time in Africa,” I grumbled.

  “Don’t get tetchy.”

  I gazed into Holmes’s face, wanting to say something about that time in our lives when I thought he was dead, but instead I saw something over his shoulder that gave me pause.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Lord Robert St. Simon.”

  Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “An unfortunate coincidence. I received no telegram from his valet, but that does not exclude him from membership of this strange club we find ourselves in. It has been several years since he retained me on that business of his missing bride, but I suspect he will remember my face. Has he seen us?”

  “He has called over one of the waiters and is looking towards us.”

  “His disposition?”

  “Unhappy.”
>
  “Of course. We are not the kind of people that belong here; he suspects that we are working on a case, and he is concerned that our presence means that their activities will be exposed. We need to leave, and quickly.”

  We stood up together, but as we turned towards the exit I heard a bell ringing, and several waiters moved rapidly to close off the main entrance. Glancing around, I saw that all of the diners were simultaneously extracting black silk hoods from their pockets and pulling them over their heads. For a second, I wondered why – we had already seen them – but only for a moment, for as soon as the hoods went on the waiters, and the maître d’, pulled the blindfolds from their faces. Obviously in case of emergency the staff would need to see, and the diners would need to protect their identities.

  “Quickly,” Holmes urged, “while their eyes are still adjusting to the light!”

  He made as if to head towards the entrance, but I pulled him back and nodded towards the other side of the room, from where the waiters had been bringing the salvers of food. “That way!”

  A waiter made a grab for me as I led the way across the restaurant. I shoved him in his chest and he fell backwards onto a table, sending food, plates, and cutlery flying into the air. The diners were all sitting rigidly with their hoods on and their hands in their laps, waiting for the waiters to deal with this unfortunate interruption to their meals.

  The line between us and the kitchen was not straight. We had to circle around several tables that stood in the way. Two more waiters approached, one from each side. Their faces were twisted into fearsome masks; their eyes narrowed as they grabbed steak knives from two tables.

  I lashed out at the one nearest me as he approached, attempting an uppercut to the jaw. He ducked to one side and jabbed his knife towards my chest. Snatching a bottle of wine from an ice bucket, I smashed his wrist down against the surface of the nearest table, fortunately without breaking the bottle, and then brought it sweeping up to connect with his chin. He flew backwards, feet leaving the floor, and moments later he was measuring his length on the ground.

  I heard a grunt from where Holmes had been standing. I looked over, to see that he had stapled the waiter that had been heading towards him to one of the few empty tables, using three carving forks strategically thrust through the material of the man’s jacket. The waiter was struggling, but the utensils held him firmly down.

  Another waiter lunged towards us from my right as we approached the swing doors into the kitchen. I scooped up a soup ladle from a tureen and whacked him across the head. He fell sideways, into the lap of a scandalised but black-hooded lady who did not know what was happening.

  The kitchen was a brightly gas-lit hall tiled in white, with tables running down the centre and ovens and stoves lining the walls. Steam rose from countless pots and pans to gather in great coils and curtains in the high ceiling. Cooking implements hung from hooks on chains seemingly disappearing into the steam. Chefs de cuisine, sous chefs, chefs de partie, commis chefs, sauciers, kitchen porters, and dishwashers busied about their duties, paying us scant attention as we ran past them. Through arched gaps in the walls I glimpsed nightmarish visions of great carcasses hung on hooks being stripped of their skin and their meat – carcasses of animals I could not even identify. Bizarre skulls decorated with scraps of flesh sat discarded on the tiled floor, staring at us through blank eye sockets. It was the kind of thing one might see in the kitchens of hundreds of restaurants across London, but reinterpreted by the hand of Hieronymus Bosch or Gustav Doré.

  Within a few moments we were across the kitchen and out through a large scullery into the open air of an alley somewhere in Battersea. Holmes had an encyclopaedic knowledge of London’s back streets, and so he took charge, guiding me left, then right, then left again in a dizzying sequence that left me breathless and confused. We ended up on the south bank of the Thames somewhere in Southwark, amid a forest of masts and spars and ropes belonging to the various boats and ships docked along the quayside.

  “What now?” I asked breathlessly. “Back to Baker Street?”

  Holmes shook his head. “The proprietors of that hidden establishment – or, rather, whoever is behind it – have already shown a willingness to kill to protect their secrets, and Lord Robert St. Simon is well aware of where we live. We need to nip this business in the bud, and quickly.”

  “And what is this business?”

  “I have yet to establish that to my complete satisfaction.” He shook his head. “I am missing something – something important.” He closed his eyes, and I could almost see him walking through locales he recollected, picking up and examining the various items he had investigated during the course of this case, hunting for clues he had overlooked.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed suddenly, slapping his hand on the edge of the quay. “The detritus!”

  “Detritus?” I repeated stupidly, and then I remembered. “The material in the turn-ups of Lord Elmsfield’s trousers?”

  “The very same. That dirt was not to be found in the hidden restaurant, nor anywhere around it. It is of a type found north of the river, not south, and to the west. We are dealing with two locations, not one! Our eminent peers have been visiting somewhere else apart from this restaurant!”

  “Another restaurant?”

  “Unlikely. I believe we are now looking for the source of the rare meat in this restaurant.”

  “Somewhere north and west. That covers a great deal of ground. How will we find this source?”

  “With help,” Holmes said. He put his fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle: two notes, followed by a gap and then two lower notes. “That should alert any of Baker Street Irregulars nearby; many of them sleep in warehouses along this side of the river. They’re always eager for a half-crown.”

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  He shook his head regretfully. “I made an unwarranted assumption, Watson. Please remind me of this moment whenever I display signs of smug superiority again.”

  “That could mean quite a few reminders,” I said quietly.

  Holmes continued as if he had not heard me. “I assumed that all of the peers and eminent men who gave their servants tonight off were surreptitiously heading for the same place – the hidden restaurant. However, I did not check to see who was there, as I did not wish to arouse suspicions by looking around too eagerly. Nor did I have time to check with my Irregulars to where they followed those other men. I now suspect that perhaps half of those men headed elsewhere. Perhaps they choose where they wish to go of an evening, or perhaps they have some kind of rota. I need to know where those other peers went!”

  It was, perhaps, five minutes later that a thin red-haired lad wearing a cloth cap several sizes too large for him slipped out of the shadows with a low whistle.

  “Gallichan,” Holmes said, “good lad. I need you to find out—”

  “Where all those blokes we was following went,” the boy interrupted. “I thought you’d want to know, so I hung around. You gave us the impression we’d all be convergin’ on the same spot, but near enough half the lads followed their geezers onto the Sewer.”

  “The Underground!” Holmes exclaimed. “That explains the smoke and the ember-damage of Lord Elmsfield’s suit. Another mark against me, Watson.”

  “I will make a note,” I promised.

  “Which line did they take?” Holmes asked Gallichan.

  “Metropolitan, Mr. ’Olmes. They all sat in different carriages, but on the same train. The lads kept an eye on them, but when the train got to Wembley Park it was taken out of service for some reason. Everyone ’ad to get off, but when the lads looked around their geezers ’ad gone.”

  “And what happened to the train?”

  “It went off, didn’t it? Probably to the sidings or somethin’, to get repaired.” The boy shrugged. “Or whatever they do to them things. I dunno.”

  Holmes flipped a coin towards Gallichan. “Get yourself and the lads some pie and mash and jellied eels. You n
eed building up. The next time I see you, I want that hat to fit your head!”

  “Thanks, guv’nor!” the boy exclaimed, catching the coin deftly and vanishing into the shadows.

  “We know where we must go, then,” Holmes said. “The Metropolitan line, near Wembley Park.” He considered for a moment. I could see his fingers twitching, as if he wanted to be riffling through his files. “Wembley Park,” he said, “was opened less than three years ago. Initially, I believe, it was used almost exclusively by the Old Westminsters Football Club, but there were plans by a group of financiers to build a large sports, leisure, and exhibition centre on the site. They even intended to construct a massive tower to dwarf the one in Paris, but their plans fell through and only the base of the tower was built. I wonder if, during the construction of the station, something else was constructed – something more secretive.”

  We walked across Westminster Bridge and descended into the smoky depths of the District Railway. After a ten-minute wait on the gas-lit, wood-floored, tile-walled platform, during which Holmes was sunk in his own thoughts, a steam engine painted in dark red pulled slowly into the station, sending plumes of smoke roiling up around the semi-circular ceiling and reminding me of the kitchen through which we had so recently run. The engine pulled several long, wooden carriages, and we opened one of the doors and entered the long compartment. Despite the fact that I had been with my friend when he solved the murder of Arthur Cadogan West a mere two months previously I was unused to the Underground, and so looked around in interest and some trepidation. The entire carriage was one empty space, with upholstered benches running along each side and gas lamps at regular intervals along the walls. I wondered mordantly how the lamps were kept fed with gas, and what the risks were to human life. Tunnels, wooden carriages, and fire were not, in my estimation, a good combination.

  The train set off with a degree of rattling and a greater degree of noise: the squealing of metal wheels on metal rails, the creaking of the carriage’s timbers, and a deep rumbling as the noise of the engine echoed back to us along the brick tunnel through which we travelled. The entire process left me feeling nauseous, and I vowed to keep using horse-drawn carriages on the surface as much as possible. Holmes, I knew, was a devotee of technological innovation. I was not.