Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  I was about to return to the fireside chair when the barkeeper arrived with a pot of tea and a plate of fresh, hot, buttered muffins that I took to most eagerly. The barkeeper also informed me that our Prussian friend had been in the bar again, asking after us.

  “I told him you’d gone out, sir,” the man said, “And that you did not expect to return until late on the morrow.”

  I passed him another shilling for his trouble.

  Meanwhile, Holmes slept through the whole thing.

  3

  The next twenty-four hours were among the longest I have ever spent. It felt more akin to the long stretches spent on watch in the Afghan hills rather than sitting in a cosy chair by a fireside in an English inn.

  Holmes tossed and turned in the throes of a burning fever. Twice more I had to slice the yellow infection from his skin, tossing the contagion into the fire where it hissed and sparked as if angry at the slight. As for myself, I remained thankfully free of any alien growths. But I was getting increasingly tired, and as darkness fell, I struggled to stay awake.

  The barkeeper came to my aid with strong coffee and several piping hot meat pies that did much to improve my mood. The growing noise of revelry from the bar downstairs likewise served to ensure my wakefulness, until the early hours of the morning, at least.

  But in every night there comes a silent time, and all too soon the bar below fell quiet until the last reveler was shown the door and I was left alone with the darkness and a sick friend.

  I started to imagine terrors in the shadows, a creeping carpet of yellow lurking just out of sight, and I am afraid to say I was in a bit of a blue funk for a time. A fresh pipe of tobacco did much to calm my nerves. After Holmes started to babble, I had my hands full looking after him, and the night nerves were forgotten for a while.

  At first the words Holmes spoke didn’t seem to make much sense; then I realized he was, despite being in the depths of fever, attempting to categorize our Prussian visitor using his own particular methods. Even then, I only understood snatches of it.

  “Left-handed, Heidelberg, prone to fits of temper. Passed over for promotion. Mother is Austrian …”

  I was not to get a chance to quiz Holmes on any of these deductions or to guess as to their veracity, for Holmes’ fever finally broke just before dawn, and he slipped into a fitful sleep. After giving myself another check for contagion, I finally felt able to allow myself to snooze, falling asleep in front of the fire.

  It was starting to get dark again when I woke. The barkeeper was backing away, having taken a tray from beside my chair.

  “Begging your pardon, sir. But you haven’t eaten your breakfast. I was wondering if you’d be wanting any supper?”

  A quick check of my pocket watch showed me that it was after six in the evening, and I had been asleep for almost twelve hours. With a cry I rushed to Holmes’ side, fearing the worst. But apart from still being sound asleep, there was no sign of any fever, nor of any new infection.

  After sending the barkeeper off with instructions to bring a light supper for both of us, I made some ablutions, delighted to discover that I too was free of any sign of yellow growth.

  Holmes woke minutes later and, despite seeming weak and pale, insisted on getting out of bed and getting dressed. Five minutes later, we were sitting on either side of the fireplace, and Holmes, despite my protestations, had lit up a cheroot.

  “Well, old friend,” he said. “It seems I will live.”

  Only then did I notice the glass jar on the mantelpiece. It was now completely filled with yellow growth, some of which was already showing signs of forming pustules.

  “We cannot allow this to fall into the wrong hands, Holmes,” I said. “We have now seen at too close hand just how virulent it can be. We should destroy it, here and now.”

  Holmes looked grave and shook his head. “It is our only bargaining chip,” he said. “But never fear. I will not allow it out of my sight. We shall destroy it together, when the time comes. But first, we must catch our rat.”

  At that point the barkeeper returned with a tray of supper. We ate in silence, a meal of fresh bread, ham and cheese that was most welcome. After that we each smoked a pipe and sat by the fire for several hours before I saw that Holmes was once more struggling to stay awake.

  I sent him to bed and finally, feeling like death warmed up, made my way to my own room, dropped fully clothed on the bed, and fell straight into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  3

  Holmes himself woke me the next morning. He rapped hard on the door to my room and came inside. He looked almost back to his usual self, although my doctor’s eyes told me that he needed more rest and less excitement.

  Holmes, as ever, was not one to take that kind of advice. “Our Prussian will be looking for us soon. Come, Watson. We are almost done here. I shall rest when we are safely back in Baker Street.”

  I got up, washed, and changed, and met Holmes in his room ten minutes later. I immediately noticed that the glass jar was not on the mantelpiece. Holmes patted at a bulge in his pocket.

  “I have it here, Watson. And never fear—I will see myself dead first before I hand it over to a foreign power.”

  I followed Holmes downstairs to the bar, where the barkeeper supplied us with poached eggs, toast, and tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. I was feeling quite fortified by the time the Prussian’s emissary made an appearance, and the endgame began.

  There was no preamble. A small thin, rat-faced man entered the bar and walked straight over to Holmes and myself. “Come with me,” he said. “The Captain is waiting for you.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow and indicated I should do as requested. I felt the comfortable weight of my service revolver swing in the overcoat pocket as I put the coat on before venturing outside.

  Once again I was glad of the overcoat. A chill wind whistled off the North Sea. Thin sleet pattered in our faces as we were led down the quayside, but luckily we were not going far. A steamer sat at dock in the deepest part of the harbor, a tall two-funneled cargo ship. Das Schicksal was painted in tall white letters on the prow. The rat-faced man didn’t slow. He headed straight up a gangway to the main deck. Holmes didn’t pause either, and I followed him up the steep planking.

  The Prussian was waiting for us on the bridge. The rat-faced emissary stayed near the door, pretending to be casual, but sliding the storm door closed behind him, locking us in, and blocking our escape route should we need to go that way.

  “Do you have it?” the Prussian asked.

  Holmes patted the bulge in his pocket. “Do you have the money?”

  The Prussian laughed. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you, Mr. Holmes?”

  I already had my hand on the service pistol in my pocket, but I saw the almost imperceptible shake of Holmes’ head as he looked in my direction. Holmes had a plan, and I knew better than to do anything that might force his hand too early. I relaxed a fraction, but kept my hand on the pistol.

  Holmes put his hand in his pocket and brought out the glass jar. The foliage had by now completely filled the jar, leaf-like fronds thrashing against the inner surface, pustules popping.

  “It seems you have me at a disadvantage, Captain …?” Holmes let the question trail off, then replied to himself before the Prussian had a chance to interrupt. “Captain Hans Brugler, lately of the 8th Hussars if I am not mistaken. Most recently, however, you have been a cat’s-paw for … how can I put it delicately … the more warlike factions of your country’s military, and you have been involved in several thefts across the continent. The case of the harbor plans in Valetta was a particularly clumsy piece of work. And I see that your betters still enjoy the duel. How does it feel to have lost your last two encounters, Captain?”

  Holmes had kept his tone casual and light, but his words seemed to have struck the Prussian like a physical blow. The man had gone red in the face with anger. He pulled out a small pistol and waved it in Holmes’ direction. Holmes laughed and
shook the glass jar in the air in front of him.

  “Go ahead,” he said, laughing again. “But may I remind you what I am holding? If you need to know just what it can do to a human body, ask the good doctor here. He now has first-hand experience.”

  The Prussian never took his eyes off Holmes. “Give it to me,” he said, his accent coming through ever more strongly the more angry he became.

  Holmes feigned to drop the jar, then actually did drop it, only to catch it before it hit the deck. He laughed again. Despite having a pistol pointed at him the whole time, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  The Prussian, on the other hand, was getting unhappier by the second. He stepped closer to Holmes. I tightened my grip on my service pistol, aware at the same time that the rat-faced man had stepped away from the doorway and was reaching for something in his own pocket.

  “Time to go, Holmes,” I said. Then I had no time for thought, only action.

  Several things happened at once.

  The Prussian fired what I hoped was a warning shot. The rat-faced man made a lunge for his pocket and started to draw out a pistol. I took aim and fired, hoping that Holmes knew what he was doing. I hit my target, catching the man high on the chest. He fell away with a muffled scream of pain.

  I turned just in time to see the Prussian step forward and throw a punch at Holmes. Holmes dodged it effortlessly, his footwork impeccable as ever. He feinted left, went right … and drove the glass jar into the Prussian’s face with enough force to smash it. All fight went out of the man. He fell to his knees, hands covering his features, blood dripping through his fingers.

  “Now it is time to go,” Holmes said firmly. Taking me by the arm, he led me quickly to the storm door and, pausing only to help me drag the rat-faced man with us, moved quickly out onto the deck. He dragged the storm door closed behind us just as the Prussian hit it on the other side with some force. His screams were terrible to hear.

  “Let me back in, Holmes,” I said. “There’s an injured man in there.”

  “Too late, old man,” Holmes said, and stood aside to let me see.

  Only the Prussian’s head showed in the small porthole window, but that was enough to see that Holmes was right in his assessment.

  The glass jar had smashed his nose against his face, and sliced a deep cut across his left cheek. Yellow fronds thrashed in the wound, already sending down a burrowing root system. Pustules popped, sending a fine cloud of spores around his head like a halo. He screamed, inhaled, and further sealed his fate. Even as we watched the infection crawled into his mouth and his nostrils. His eyes went wide as he realized what was happening and he tried to pull the clumps of vegetation away, but only succeeded in tearing his wounds open even further, allowing the thrashing yellow growth easier access.

  “Help me!” he screamed, then could speak no more as his throat was filled with fronds. He fell away from the window, choking.

  I put a hand on the door handle, but Holmes pulled me away. “It’s already too late for him. You know that.”

  It wasn’t a question, and it didn’t need an answer. There was however, someone I could help. The rat-faced man lay at our feet, moaning and bleeding from the wound high on his chest. I did what I could for him, while Holmes stood at the door, looking back into the bridge room.

  When I was satisfied my new patient wouldn’t die on me I stood, just in time to see Holmes turn away, his face ashen.

  “It is done,” he said.

  3

  There is little left to tell. The police arrived, and at some point later, so did Mycroft and a team of boffins in protective clothing. Whitby was put in quarantine for three days; three days that Holmes and I spent in the comfort of the inn, being tended to by the barkeeper, who was grateful to take our coin to mitigate his loss of custom.

  We kept a close eye on each other, but there was no sign of any new infection, for which I knew we could count ourselves dashed lucky. I told Holmes so in no uncertain terms as we sat by the fireside that first night. “You took a terrible risk, old man,” I said.

  “Not that much of one,” he replied after puffing on his pipe. “As soon as I knew who my man was … which was a simple enough deduction given his dueling scars, clothing, accent and the strange way he favored his left arm … I knew that, if goaded, his temper would get the better of him, as it has in a long series of well-documented fits of pique in his home country.”

  He sat back and puffed on his pipe contentedly.

  “And once a man loses his temper, I have him. Yes, releasing the contagion was a gamble, but it was in an enclosed space, and I was the only one close enough to be in any real danger. It was worth it to get our man.”

  I was by no means sure, but Holmes had already moved on to other things.

  There was only one other item of note in the whole affair: some weeks later a report appeared in The Thunderer of a boat lost at sea.

  According to the report, Das Schicksal went down aflame, with all hands, a hundred miles off the coast of Aberdeen.

  There were no survivors.

  The Case of the Jade Pendant

  EF

  Looking back, I realize that it was in the early spring of the first year after I made the acquaintance of my great friend Sherlock Holmes that I first discovered there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in my philosophy. It came as little surprise to me, for I had seen several things during my service in the East that had given me pause for thought. What did surprise me, however, was that Holmes, who I had always seen as a man of supreme rationality, was so prepared to consider more extreme possibilities.

  As it turned out, we were to have many adventures together that stretched rationality to its limits and beyond, and I shall write them all down in all due course. But that first will always stick in my mind as the one that showed me how far Holmes was prepared to strain his incredulity in pursuit of a resolution.

  It began quietly enough, with a knock on the door of 221B Baker Street.

  “Tell the lady to come right up, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes shouted from the apartment doorway. I had already been in his company long enough not to question how he knew the gender of our visitor, and contented myself with a seat and a pipe full of fine tobacco by the fire while Holmes’ latest consultation got under way.

  It was indeed a lady who made her way slowly up the stairs, and one who, in years past, had been wealthy. It was obvious that she had fallen on rather hard times, given the frankly shabby state of her overcoat and dress. The cloth had been of the finest quality in its day, but that day had passed several decades ago. Whatever her circumstances, she did not forget the lady she had once been, and introduced herself most formally.

  “I am Elizabeth McCallum Fraser, third and last Countess of Machill,” she said. Holmes rose and kissed her hand in the French manner before leading her to a seat opposite where I sat at the fire. She made a show of wiping the cushion for dust before sitting, which in other circumstances might have got her a rebuke for questioning the housekeeping standards of the redoubtable Mrs. Hudson. But Holmes let it lie, more intent on studying the lady as she settled before getting to the point of her visit.

  “You see before you, gentlemen, all that remains of a once-proud family.”

  That was all it took for me to make the connection.

  “I knew I recognized the name,” I said. “Was it your father or his brother who got the V.C. at Balaclava?”

  She smiled sadly. “That was my uncle, Tom. He and my father both stood on the “thin red line” in the 93rd Regiment. Father came home, Uncle Tom did not. I was only in my teens at the time, but I remember the funeral well. There were …”

  Holmes coughed, none too discreetly, and got a look that would have withered a lesser man in response.

  “I believe you will find it all pertinent, Mr. Holmes,” she said stiffly. “Father outlived his twin, but not by long. He succumbed the next year to a fever that he caught in Crimea, one that he never managed to shake off.
On his deathbed he presented me with a gift: a green jade pendant in the shape of an animal’s tooth. It is that pendant which has brought me here today. It was stolen from me, two nights ago now, and I would very much like to have it returned.”

  By this time, Holmes was beginning to pay attention. He stood and went to his filing cabinet, starting to look through the small drawers of file cards where he detailed the life and times of the city’s criminal classes.

  “Have the police been informed?” he asked.

  The Countess nodded. “But they are no better than common tradesmen, dragging their mud through my house and treating me as if I were a silly old woman. I have no confidence in their abilities whatsoever.”

  “Then, my lady, you have found a kindred soul,” Holmes replied. He started the questions that I knew would be forthcoming, inquiring after the lady’s address; the height above ground of the room from which the pendant had been stolen, the circumstances of the theft itself, even the weather conditions on the night of the burglary. With every answer he discarded file cards and picked up others until he was left with only two cards remaining.

  “Tommy “Glassy” Malone, or Mad Jack Kaminski. It will be one or the other, you mark my words,” Holmes said.

  A sardonic reply came from the doorway. “Duly marked,” the voice said.

  Inspector Lestrade stood there, a grim smile on his lips. “We found Malone on the Embankment this morning. Torn up something awful he was. Would you like to have a look? We can compare notes on the way.”

  “It seems things are moving along quickly,” Holmes said with a laugh. “Come, Watson, let us see if the Inspector is any better than a common tradesman.”