The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  “So, yer friend is not in Manchester?” Benjie asked, as the train pulled into the station.

  “She is waiting just a short drive away.”

  Upon arrival, they walked to a trap that was waiting for them outside the station. The lad started when the steam-whistle blew its farewell. As the train moved out, Benjie had the unfamiliar feeling of being utterly alone in the world.

  As the doctor stepped onboard, he gave an order to the driver: “To the lodge, Brodie.”

  The carriage moved at a swift pace. Benjie’s eyes flashed side to side as the factory-dotted horizon of Manchester disappeared into empty rolling hills. The sky blackened with clouds. A slight drizzle added an increasing chill to the air.

  Thirty minutes later, the carriage slowed as it came upon a stately white, two-storey house some distance from the road. “Braunmoss House,” the doctor said, as the boy peered at the ivy-covered hunting lodge.

  The carriage moved into the driveway, then lurched to a stop before a large green door flanked with shutters. As the door opened, a tall, angular woman in an austere black gown emerged, and walked to the edge of the steps overlooking the driveway. Her murky eyes were set deep into her loose-skinned face. A grim delight was barely concealed in her features.

  As Benjie and the doctor climbed the stairs to the porch, the gaunt woman held out a gnarled hand. “So this is Benjie!” she said, almost to herself.

  Her hand, suspended in the air, reached out toward Benjie and twisted, palm up, as if she were envisioning the boy’s head in her hand. “We have some cakes waiting in the dining room. You must be hungry,” she cooed.

  The doctor whisked Benjie toward the sombre lady. “This is Lady Gregston, Benjie.”

  The lad nodded, and touched the brim of his cap, “Ma’am.”

  Her leathery hand pointed toward the house. Benjie obediently walked into the gaping doorway. As he crossed the threshold, Lady Gregston’s smile vanished. She turned to the doctor. “And, he is what we’ve been seeking, you say?”

  The man nodded. “A perfect match.”

  “What of the others?”

  “Their usefulness is limited, as you know. That is why we need Benjie.”

  “Yes, of course. And, you will take care of the others... as you have before?

  The doctor paused in mid-stride.

  “For an additional fee, of course,” Lady Gregston hastened to add. “Whatever you require.”

  Upon hearing this, Benjie turned to see the two forms silhouetted in the dimming grey light of the day. His smouldering fears ignited. His first thought went to his older brother.

  “Archie!” Benjie gasped, sotto voce.

  The door slammed shut.

  ***

  SHERLOCK HOLMES, Archie, and I departed almost immediately for 11A Aubrey Walk, the home where Tux reported last seeing Benjie. En route, Holmes shared his plan.

  “Watson, you will go to the front door, with Archie in hand, and make a forceful inquiry. Keep the person who answers at the door as long as possible. When your inquiry is rejected, as I suspect it will be, raise your voice in a shrill manner as a signal.”

  Archie and I parted ways with Holmes, and we made our way to an enormous black enamel door. Centered on the door was an ornate knocker - a gryphon clawing its way inside. A maidservant answered our raps.

  “I wish to see the master of the house,” I announced, presenting my card. “I am Dr. John Watson.”

  The maid bent over Archie. “Ya’ve been told. Yer brother’s not ‘ere.”

  “I insist upon seeing your master,” I stated. “Our business is with him.”

  “He is not at ‘ome,” the woman replied.

  “Where has he gone?”

  “I have no particulars, sir.”

  I interrupted the closing of the door with an insistent cry: “Please... I am a colleague. I must know of his whereabouts!”

  The woman cocked her head and squinted. “As I say, I don’t know, sir. I’ll give him yer card when he returns.”

  As the door moved again, I raised my voice. “Look here, my good lady, I must leave a message. Bring me a pencil and paper at once!”

  This masquerade continued for some time as I waited for the notepaper, and methodically scribbled a cryptic note. Then, from the corner of my eye, I spied Holmes stepping from the path beside the home onto Aubrey Walk.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will wait for further word.”

  Once settled in my flat, Holmes retrieved paper and pencil, and made a hasty sketch. “Look at this, Watson. What are your thoughts concerning this apparatus, which I noticed at Aubrey Walk?”

  I studied his drawing. “How big is it?”

  “The India-rubber hose is approximately five feet long. I believe that the three-inch tubes at either end are silver. The black bulb in the middle of the hose is a pump of some kind.”

  “Yes... yes. This apparatus is a medical device. It can be used in a variety of ways, but primarily for transferring blood from one individual to another.”

  “As I suspected!” Holmes exclaimed.

  “The fellow is a doctor, then?”

  “Not a physician,” Holmes remarked. “Medical research, it would appear from his laboratory. Are you acquainted with an individual called Rueben Rottenberg?” Holmes asked, holding a card to my eyes. “I found his box of cards in a desk drawer.”

  “No. However, a trip to the Royal College of Surgeons may tell us something.”

  “Excellent, Watson! I should appreciate it if you would explore that avenue.”

  Turning to Archie, Holmes gave further orders: “I suggest you put three of your lads on Aubrey Walk. Ask them to report here if the man in residence returns. And, of course, follow him if he leaves again.” As Archie waved off, Holmes added, “When your sentries are in place, Archie, return here. We must find Tux. Hurry!”

  The adolescent turned a worried face to Holmes. “You fear for me bruvver, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I do, Archie.”

  ***

  “BENJIE, it is time to earn that half-crown we talked about,” his furtive benefactor said. “Enjoy the cakes in the dining room. I will come for you soon.”

  Lady Gregston swooped in behind Benjie, prodding him toward a long mahogany table bearing plates of cakes and confections. Benjie’s stomach growled. It had been nearly seven hours since he had eaten.

  “Young boys like milk, don’t they?” Lady Gregston asked, pouring a glass full.

  “And ale,” Benjie replied.

  “Milk will do, for now. You must be strong and healthy if you wish to help Sir William and me. Eat your fill, Benjie.”

  Dark passions swept over her face as she watched Benjie consume the pastries. She nudged a plate of delicacies closer.

  “None for you, ma’am?” Benjie asked.

  “No, Benjie, I will dine later.”

  “Where has the doctor gone?”

  “He is preparing the room for you and my husband.”

  “Then, my work is for yer husband?”

  “Work? Not really, Benjie. We simply need some of your...”

  Benjie turned. “Blood?”

  There was no reply.

  Benjie moved back in his seat. “I don’t want this work, ma’am,” Benjie said, pushing his chair back.

  The lady remained motionless.

  Benjie stood, grabbed one more cake, and strode toward the hallway - immediately colliding with the doctor.

  “Benjie, Benjie, slow down - there’s nothing to fear here. Come along.” The cake dropped to the floor as the doctor’s hand grasped Benjie’s neck and steered him into the hallway toward a wide oak staircase. The colourless daylight forced its way through a stained glass window above the stairs. The muted crystalli
ne tableau depicted a fair-haired knight with his foot upon the throat of a dying dragon. The hero’s sword had pierced the neck of the beast, and blood poured from the wound.

  The man and the boy were soon padding silently down a dark corridor toward a room at the end of the second floor hall. The door was open. Someone was waiting.

  Benjie’s feet did not obey his mind that told him to flee. Like the ticking of a clock, his measured steps mechanically brought him toward the waiting chamber. A putrid smell permeated the air. In a dim corner, an old man lay under a canopied bed. His eyes were closed and his breathing was laboured. A long, narrow table stood next to the bed.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Sir William, this is Benjie.”

  With one last shove from behind, Benjie stumbled to the bedside. The old man’s eyes opened narrowly. He raised his right hand, and beckoned.

  Benjie moved closer.

  Suddenly, the old man’s hand struck out and grabbed the boy’s forearm. The vice-like grip belied the man’s seeming frailty. The youngster attempted to break the grip with his other hand, but could not. Benjie pulled away, but the bony hand, like that of death itself, held firm.

  The old man’s lips trembled as he spoke in a dry, hoarse tone: “Hmmm, So young!”

  The doctor came forward and touched the old man’s arm. His hand relaxed, and Benjie jerked free.

  The man pressed a half-crown into Benjie’s hand. “Here. Now, as you did before, I want you to lie on this table. There will be a small prick again. You must be quiet and still for a while longer this time.”

  A muddled feeling overtook Benjie. It was as if he were in a dream - watching himself climb onto the table. It was someone else’s arm being strapped to the tabletop - not his. It must be another’s eyes staring at the water-stained ceiling above.

  The doctor opened a black bag resting on a nearby dresser, and extracted a hose with shiny needles on both ends.

  “Close your eyes, Benjie,” came the command.

  Benjie braced himself for the stab. The puncture came once - then again, before his arm was released. The boy turned to see the doctor open a tiny valve at the other end of the hose, and slowly squeeze the black bulb. Blood spurted from the end of the tube, spattering across Benjie’s face and lips. It tasted like wet pennies in his mouth.

  ***

  SHERLOCK HOLMES was perusing a notebook he had taken from the Rottenberg home, and making notes, when I returned from my investigation at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Archie was quick upon my heels, having posted members of his urchin brigade around the house at Aubrey Walk.

  “There may be a few threads in this expense ledger upon which we can pull, Archie, but Tux is our best compass. Let us find that antiquated dustman.”

  Then, he turned to me.

  “Good hunting at the R.C.S., Watson?”

  “Yes, the library offered some tasty morsels for us.”

  “Join Archie and me, if you will, and make your report while we search for Tux.”

  As our carriage departed, I shared what I had learned: “Rottenberg calls himself a haematologist. He’s published several papers on the genotyping of blood. Are you familiar with the practice, Holmes?”

  “Yes. An Austrian - Landsteiner - has recently classified blood into several types. Certainly, this process of identifying blood will be useful in future investigations.”

  “Indeed, as there are four types,” I said. “In addition to genotyping, Rottenberg published an article in The Lancet with a rather novel and fantastic theory that new blood can revitalise degenerating organs in the human body.”

  “Fantastic, possibly, but the idea is far from novel. In the late sixteenth century, Pope Innocent VIII was said to have been given the world’s first blood transfusion to keep him from aging.”

  “A legend, surely, Holmes!”

  “One would hope so, for it was said that Innocent drank the blood of ten-year old boys.”

  My body froze in fear.

  “Yes, Watson.”

  Holmes’s eyes shot to Archie, who seemed lost in thought.

  As Tux was an itinerant, finding him was no simple task. However, we were not surprised when the costermongers, and the Covent Garden flower women, pointed us to a public house set in the centre of Whitechapel Road. Sitting as it does, at the great east-to-west artery of the city, this ancient establishment served as a hub of dubious commerce.

  As Archie, Holmes, and I approached, we saw a mixture of good and evil countenances lined up along the benches outside. Leaning against one corner of the public house stood a gentleman sporting a brilliant red scarf, and wearing a slouch hat. A steel hook protruded where his left hand should have been.

  “‘Ooky, we’re lookin’ for’ Tux,” said Archie. “‘Ave ya seen’im?”

  The man twisted himself around. “Yes, Archie - ‘round the back. Is Benjie at ‘ome?”

  “No, Alf. That’s why we need the old geezer.”

  We stepped around to the rear of the inn. There sat Tux, hunched over a mug of ale - foam dripping from the ginger-grey whiskers that wrapped around his jaw. His once white jacket was smudged, torn, and buttoned high upon his chest, as it was too small to enclose his great pear-shaped belly. When he saw Archie, he lowered his head and made himself small.

  “Tux, these are my friends, Mr. ‘Olmes and Dr. Watson. We need to talk to ya about Benjie.”

  Tux shook his head, and pushed away the mug. “Poor Benjie. I can tell ya, guv’nor, this ‘ole business ‘as knocked me off my perch.”

  Holmes and I took seats adjacent to the musty man. Archie stood behind us. “Tell me what you know about the house where you left Benjie.”

  Tux’s head lifted, and his brows crunched together. “It wasn’t me as left him, guv’nor. ‘Twas Benjie’s choice. Gotta respect a man’s choices, Doctor.”

  “Benjie is a boy,” Holmes said. “Nonetheless, what can you tell me about what you found at the house on Aubrey Walk?”

  Tux settled back in his chair. “Not what ya might call fancy goods - but first-rate glass, fine cork from an old ice box one time, an’ clo’es like new - soiled is all.”

  “Soiled how?”

  Tux took on a look of confusion. “I dunno, guv’nor. Blood, could be.”

  “Blood!” Archie exclaimed. “Tux, if one drop of Benjie’s blood gets spilled, ya old splodger, you’ll find yourself in the chutes with th’other dust.”

  “Was it the blood then, or something else, that caused the householder to bring you, and not the parish dustman, to their home?” I asked.

  “I can’t say. I makes me own way in this world, guv’nor. I believe as what happens to a man’s stuff before it goes into his dustbins is no business of mine.”

  Holmes leaned in. “I suggest you make it your business, or you may find the law coming down on you.”

  Tux screwed himself further down into his chair. “Among the dust, I often found empty bottles - for medicines, I believe.”

  “Did you ever notice anyone visiting the house?”

  “Well, once, a carriage were outside whilst I gathered the dust. It ‘ad a crest on it, as I recall.”

  “What was on the crest?” Holmes asked.

  Tux’s weathered face screwed up into a knot, and his eyes closed. “A shield of a kind - blue and yellow, it were, and... sitting atop it, a great silver ‘elmet.”

  “Can you recall any words?”

  “There was words written on it, but not so’s I could read ‘em.”

  Holmes cocked his head and squinted. “I have a proposition for you, Tux,” Holmes said. “What would it cost me to rent your cart and horse, and borrow your jacket and hat?”

  Tux chortled. “A bit long in the tooth to be takin’ up in the streets, aren’t ya, Mr. Holmes? I’m not sure as I can stand the
competition.” He laughed, obviously enjoying his rough jest more than we.

  “My career will be less than a day in length, and I will make but one call,” Holmes answered. “All will be returned to you to-morrow.”

  Tux assumed a serious look. “A good day can bring me as much as a pound, would ya believe?” he said, shaking his head side to side.

  Holmes smiled. “You may be a good dustman, but you’re a dreadful liar, Tux. You can have your pound - however, it will cost the loan of your trousers and shoes as well.”

  Tux’s eyes flashed upwards, and his mouth hung open for a moment. “It’s a bargain, sir,” he said, holding out his grimy hand for a shake.

  Holmes grasped it loosely, and sealed the deal.

  Archie was sent to fetch Tux’s garments to my flat, and the cart and horse to Holland Park, near Rottenberg’s home. Holmes planned to masquerade as Tux to gain entry to the Aubrey Walk residence once again, and to put his own keen eyes on the dustbins therein. When we entered my lodgings to await Archie’s return, Holmes bolted toward the bookshelves behind my desk.

  “Do you have a book on heraldry, Watson?”

  I pointed. Holmes retrieved it, and began leafing swiftly through the pages. He stopped, and poked his finger sharply into one of the pages. “Yes... yes, of course!”

  ***

  BENJIE found himself emerging from a sombre gloom - dizzy and disoriented. He was lying down, but not in the bedroom. He heard a wee voice: “You’ll be fine in time. They’ll bring ya broth soon.”

  Benjie turned his head to find a pale face framed in the darkness. “I’m Jake. I’ve been ‘ere a long while. What’s the day - do ya know?”

  Jake had a boy’s body, but his face was wizened. The muscles of his cheeks were twitching, and his eyes blinked rapidly.

  “They’re takin’ blood from all of us, ya know,” Jake said.

  “Us?”

  Jake turned back. Huddled against the far wall of the dank room was another form.

  “Tom and me. What do they call ya, eh?”

  “Benjie. Where are we?”