by David Marcum
I was indeed feeling quite tired. “By the way, what will you tell Mrs. Snyder in the morning when she comes to ask about the flute?”
“I will tell her the truth, which is that there are mysteries in this world without solution.”
“She will not be happy to hear that.”
“Nor will I be happy to say it,” Holmes said as he walked toward his bedroom. “Goodnight, Watson.”
I went to my room and soon fell fast asleep. Hours later, I awoke to the sound of Holmes’s violin. He was playing one of Papageno’s songs from The Magic Flute, and he kept at it until the first morning light.
Blood Brothers
by Kim Krisco
13 December, 1913
London - the center of the civilized world, mother port, colonial throne... proud empress whose decadence and disenchantment spills out, beyond the poor districts and back alleys, into once noble households.
BENJIE was mesmerized by the silver florin spinning in the gentleman’s fingers.
“My boy, this is yours for a few minutes work.”
“What d’ya want?”
“A small thing really, Benjie. I’m... a doctor of sorts. I need a tiny vial of your blood for a patient.”
Benjie’s body recoiled.
“Just a thimbleful, is all.”
Benjie nodded, hesitantly. “For two bob, then.”
“Good boy. Let’s tell the dustman outside that he need not wait for you, shall we?”
The angular man put his arm around the twelve-year-old boy’s shoulder and led him out to the street where Tux, a flying dustman, was waiting to collect the ash, rubbish and debris.
“What’s this then?” Tux asked, as Benjie approached, empty handed, toward the waiting horse and cart.
The doctor held out a shilling. “I have a small task for the lad. I’m sure you can do without him for the rest of the day.” He pressed the coin into Tux’s palm.
The ageing dustman looked askance at Benjie, who nodded.
“Very good, guv’nor,” Tux agreed. “Ya can find yer way home, can’t ya, Benjie?”
“Sure, Tux.”
The dirty refuse collector shrugged his shoulders and, grumbling under his breath, grabbed the reins of his nag and urged it onward.
Benjie was led back into the doctor’s elegant home, and soon found himself lying on his back atop a narrow padded table.
“I’m going to prick your arm with a needle. Hold it still and steady. Close your eyes.”
Benjie shut his eyes; but they suddenly flew open when the doctor’s hand clamped his arm against the tabletop.
“Ow!” Benjie yelped, as the needle struck his vein.
“Quiet. This will only take a moment.”
The sting in Benjie’s arm lessened, and his body relaxed.
“There,” said the Doctor.
As the needle was pulled out, Benjie watched a bead of blood cut a scarlet track across his forearm.
“Wait here. I have to see to this blood now. I’ll be back directly.”
“Wiv two bob,” Benjie added.
“Yes... with your money.”
A short time later, the doctor returned to find Benjie sitting on the edge of the table. He twisted a silver coin before the youngster’s eyes, and then placed it in his outstretched hand.
“You are a singular boy, Benjie. I have a friend who is looking for a lad just like you. She would pay you well for your help.”
“‘Ow much?”
“A half-crown per day.”
The boy’s eyes widened as if the gates of El Dorado were opening before him. “Yer ‘avin’ me on now, ain’t ya, sir?”
“Not at all, Benjie. Would you be willing to go with me to see my friend? She is presently some distance away. I could have you back just after nightfall.”
“Before nightfall, sir. Mi’ muvver will worry if I’m late.”
***
SHERLOCK HOLMES and I had just returned from Africa. Our recent adventure made it clear that Holmes’s gentrified retirement in the Sussex Downs had come to an untimely end. Fortunately, my flat on Sheen Lane offered a similar hospitality to that which we had enjoyed, for so many years, on Baker Street.
As we made our way from Marylebone, the elegant brick and stone façades in Kensington peered at us through the December fog, creating an ethereal effect. The mist thickened, and an acerbic scent announced that we were approaching the Thames. The hansom offered a ghostly view of a waterman conducting a clumsy barge down the silent highway beneath Hammersmith Bridge.
Holmes had suggested that we gather some newspapers along the way. So, when I heard the distant cry of someone shouting headlines, I rapped on the roof. The cab slowed down, and an adolescent boy began to materialize before me.
As the lad hurried to the carriage, I pulled a penny from my pocket. A recognizable voice piped up.
“Dr. Watson... Mr. ‘Olmes.”
“Ah,” I said, “it is good to see you so well, Archie.”
Archie is the leader of a gang of street Arabs whom Holmes calls the “Irregulars.” He employs this urban tribe from time to time to aid in his investigations. For many years, Archie has filled the shoes of his older cousin, Wiggins, as leader of this back-street brigade.
“Dr. Watson and I have been away,” Holmes said.
“Yes, sir, I’ve noticed. Mi’ muvver and me ‘ave bin lookin’ for ya.”
Archie baulked.
“Something’s wrong then, Archie?” I asked.
“Aye, sir. It’s mi’ bruvver, Benjie. ‘E’s gone missin’. Can’t find him nowhere, sir.”
“If you cannot find him,” I said with surprise, “then he is surely lost!”
Holmes cocked his head and leaned closer to Archie. “Give the good Doctor and me time to get settled, and come by. It appears you know the address.”
“I surely do, sir. Can I bring mi’ muvver? It’d be a comfort to ‘er to know as you might ‘elp us.”
“By all means,” Holmes answered. “Your mother is most welcome.”
Archie handed me the newspaper, and stepped back from the curb. “Thanks, sir.”
Holmes and I were off. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles was the only sound for some time... then, Holmes spoke: “It is important that we look after our urchin army, since we have been absent from our command, Watson. It would be only sensible to keep an eye on them, you know.”
“Holmes! A bit of compassion bubbles up in you, and you relegate it to pragmatism.”
As we drove to my flat, I leafed through the Daily Mail that I had recently purchased.
“Anything of interest?”
“Let me see... here’s one for you, Holmes: Mona Lisa Recovered. Thief in Custody. Vengeance his Motive. Ha! What do you make of that?”
“More than two years ago, I wrote to François Calchas, in Paris, suggesting he seek out any Italian custodian, or guard, that had worked in the Louvre. It appears that my advice has only recently been heeded. What do you find on page three?”
I turned the page and scanned the columns with my finger.
“King of Cottonopolis Missing, it says here. Sir William Hyde Gregston, whose family sits prominently on the board of the Royal Cotton Exchange, has gone missing. It seems as though his twin brother is suspected of foul play, and has been questioned by the police, who continue to search for Sir William. And, over here we have... well, it appears the Panama Canal is nearly complete. Roosevelt should be pleased.”
Then, an all too familiar story: “The body of a young boy was found in the Irwell River. Authorities are seeking information as to his identity.”
Holmes nodded. “There is a mystery there to be sure, but one which is not likely ever to be solved.”
My review of the Daily Mail was halted by our arrival at Sheen Lane. Within minutes, our driver delivered our trunks, marking the end to the adventure of The Kongo Nkisi Spirit Train.
However, there was little time for rest, for many of the troubles that unceasingly bubble up from London’s melting-pot take the form of a knock upon our door.
“That must be Archie,” I said, in response to the banging downstairs.
“That is not Archie’s knock,” Holmes observed. And of course, when I opened the door, Holmes’s words proved correct.
A footman stood on my porch. As I caught his eye, he nodded toward a carriage at the curb. An immense gentleman stepped onto the pavement, and steadied himself. He stood like a portrait by Sargent, looming over everything around him. The Victorian fussiness of his dress, however, could not conceal an anxiety that worked its way through the twitching features of his face. The footman bolted down the stairs to take the gentleman’s arm, stabilizing the corpulent body during its sluggish journey to my door.
When he arrived on my threshold, he lifted a multiplicity of chins. “Sir George Talbot Gregston to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” A card was presented.
I ushered the distinguished guest into the parlour, where we found Holmes sitting at my desk, hunched over the newspaper.
“Holmes, Sir George Talbot Gregston to see you.”
“Yes, yes... Sir George.” Holmes looked up. “A fair trip from Manchester! But I expect that you have a house in London as well.”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes - and in Paris, Zurich, and Cadiz.”
“I suppose great riches are difficult to contain in only one home.”
The man smiled. “I am uncertain as to how to take your remark, Mr. Holmes. I was told you were inscrutable - and so you seem to be.” The man removed his topper and placed it on the table near the door.
“Please have a chair, Sir George,” I said, as Holmes arose from the desk to take a place near the hearth.
Once seated, our visitor spoke in quiet, measured words. “I am here... to seek your aid... in finding my brother, William Gregston. His recent disappearance has found its way into the newspapers. So, I suspect that you may have already heard about it.”
“Only minutes ago, as a matter of fact,” Holmes replied. “The Daily Mail had him as Sir William Gregston.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Holmes. The contributions of my brother and I to British industry were recently recognized.”
“No doubt your contributions to coffers of the Conservative Party were recognized as well,” Holmes remarked.
Gregston’s scowl was barely concealed by a feigned look of amusement.
“Mr. Holmes, it seems to me that it behoves us to graciously accept honours that others might bestow upon us. But, I digress.”
“At the risk of digressing further, I have, for some time now, felt that the honour of which you speak has been debased.” Holmes paused and leaned back in his chair. “But, I suppose this honour has whatever meaning one may wish to attribute to it.”
Our guest remained stone-faced for a moment as he took in the full measure of the man sitting across from him.
Holmes continued. “And, as you say, we digress. May I assume the efforts of the police are proving unsatisfactory?”
“Nicely put. They are not satisfactory. As you might suppose, their efforts are being directed by my sister-in-law, whose goals run counter to my own.”
I took up a place on the nearby settee. “Surely, you both share a concern for your brother’s well-being?”
“My concern is about my brother’s well-being - not necessarily for it.” He withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and dabbed the corner of his mouth where some spittle had accumulated.
“There is ill-will between you, then,” Holmes surmised.
“Exactly, sir. Our fraternal relationship was, I fear, destined to be oppositional from the start. Our father accumulated the great wealth that my brother and I now enjoy. We tend to the business, but that requires little genius, and only modest effort on our parts. The great mechanical looms grind on day and night with little active attention from us.”
The man shifted forward to the edge of his chair, and stretched himself upward in a prideful manner. “My brother and I are twins - fraternal - born minutes apart. Remarkably, during a difficult birthing process that led to our mother’s death, those in attendance did not make note of which of us was the first-born. And, Samuel Hyde Gregston’s staunch religious beliefs precluded his simply declaring an heir.”
“Most unusual, but one might think the matter would have been sorted out by now,” I said.
“Quite so. However, our father died at the age of eighty-three - when my brother and I were fifty-one years old. His singular last will and testament stipulated that we should have equal shares in the mills and related enterprises. However, the great bulk of his personal wealth, which is scattered over the globe, was to be held in trust for the son that survives the longest... with one stipulation.” The gentleman’s grim gaze turned inward as his mind grasped at some chiselled memory. “If my brother and I should both live to our eighty-third birthdays, the remainder of our father’s estate will be divided into equal parts between us.”
“May I wager a guess as to your current age?” Holmes followed.
“Exactly so, Mr. Holmes. My eighty-third birthday, and that of my brother, is on December the twenty-first - eight days hence.”
“Your brother has disappeared at a most inopportune time for you,” I noted.
“But... a most opportune time, for Lady William Hyde Gregston,” our guest observed.
His innuendo created an ill-omened pause before Gregston continued: “My brother has fallen into ill health recently. Liver difficulties, I am led to believe. He’s looked yellowish for some time, and has been losing weight in recent months.”
“You believe, then, that your brother is ill, dying... or already dead,” I said in summary, as I jotted in my notebook.
Our guest smirked and raised his brows. “I will pay you handsomely, Mr. Holmes, if you can report the whereabouts and condition of my brother to me before the twenty-first of December.”
Holmes clasped his hands together in front of him, and stretched back in his chair.
“I’m afraid your case falls outside my scope,” Holmes declared.
“How much would it cost for it to fall within your scope, Mr. Holmes?”
“As remarkable as it might seem, more money than you possess.”
Gregston grimaced. “A pity! I shall not waste any more of my time... nor yours.”
And with that, the pompous gentleman rose, retrieved his hat, and left the apartment.
As I watched Gregston’s carriage depart from the parlour window, I commented to Holmes: “So much for brotherly love!”
“Yes, they are hardly Castor and Pollux, are they?”
“No indeed, Holmes. With some, when they succeed in this world, all that they possess is money.”
Then, as if to emphasize the extremes of our social circle, Archie and his mother arrived, as the dust from Sir George’s carriage settled in the street.
Archie’s mother wore a mouse-coloured dress and a dingy white apron. As she tidied her salt and pepper hair behind her head, I noticed that her rough hands were corded with blue veins. She wore the indelible stamp of a woman stooped under the weight of a hard life.
“Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson... I’m most beholdin’ as you’re takin’ the time for the likes of us,” Archie’s mother began. “It’s Benjie, sir. ‘E’s gone missin’.”
“We’re worried, sir,” Archie added. “Scoured the city, we did - me and the rest.”
Holmes studied the unassuming woman. “We took you from your work,” Holmes observed. “It must have been a particularly difficult stain that you were cleaning.”
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The woman’s eyes widened. She glanced at her son Archie, who was nodding. “As I told ya, muvver, Mr. ‘Olmes can see what ain’t there.”
“Smelling the lingering scent of ammonia, and knowing that you hail from St. Giles, I surmised that you were cleaning and patching old clothing to sell,” Holmes explained. “No mystery there! When did you last see Benjie?”
Archie chimed in again, “About two days ago, Benjie took up with one of the last flyin’ dustmen - a fella by the name o’ Tux. The old codger ‘urt ‘is self, and needed ‘elp wiv ‘is collections.”
“All seemed good, sir,” the woman said. “My boy was grateful t’ave a few pennies to share. So proud as ‘e could ‘elp to put food on the table. But, at the end of the day, it weren’t Benjie coming home, but Tux - the grimy old geezer, telling us as a gentleman ‘ad offered Benjie a fine bit of work along the way.”
The woman’s eyes brimmed with tears. “We waited for Benjie... but ‘e never came, sir. I’m frightful worried. There’s bin a couple o’ young boys gone missin’ lately from the Dials, and thereabouts.”
“You went to this gentleman’s home?”
“That very evenin’, Doctor,” Archie assured us. “To the front door. Told ‘em as I was lookin’ for my bruvver, and wanted to talk to the gentleman of the ‘ouse.”
“But he never came,” Holmes surmised.
“Right again, Mr. ‘Olmes!”
Holmes’s alarm was revealed only by the insistent tapping of his forefinger on the arm of his chair. “I think it is important that we make further inquiries.” Then, turning to Archie’s mother: “At the moment, it may be best for you to return to your home. If you have no objection, I should like Archie to accompany us. He will be able to make a report.”
“Oh, Bless ya, Mr. ‘Olmes! Yer words ‘ave given me new ‘ope.”
***
BENJIE stared out the train window as the asphalt streets of London dissolved into muddy roads. The doctor’s face was buried in his newspaper during most of the long journey from London to Manchester. The boy’s uneasiness increased when he was told that there would be a carriage ride from Manchester-Piccadilly Station. He was moving further and further from home.