The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “My dear Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I was not even asking for such a thing - and my thoughts are more upon your health, which you have severely neglected.”

  “Neglect - what of it? The war is over, Watson and to that end I have funneled my energies. Now I rest as the world muses - give them something to celebrate over and perhaps they will leave me in peace!” He sniffed and added, “If you keep to the facts and not the window-dressing, you ought to finish before our guest arrives with Tuesday’s milk-cart.”

  Although his tone and wording was strident, I understood the warmth of his feelings. The Great Game, which he had played so well, had cumulated with the Great War, and now he and the world were equally spent. They had both shared the miserable truth that large emergencies do not remove the smaller ones. That he was still alive was a wonderment to me, I who have felt this astonishment far too much in my life.

  As I write with my pen in the past and my eyes upon the future, it occurs to me what an extraordinary life it has been to share it with such a friend as Sherlock Holmes. Long gone are the days when I was a shattered veteran of the desert, and he a young consultant on the verge of becoming an active force for justice. I have no regrets save in general: that of each case my readers saw, there were at least twenty left silent and unseen. Some patiently await their day in the vaults of Cox; some were remarkable for only a day - and became un-remarkable just as quickly. These “Mayfly Cases”, as Holmes once described them, were important for the intellectual exercise, and he viewed them with the absent respect a master musician gave to the importance of his warm-up scales. The most beloved of these must surely be that of the gentleman’s hat, which led to the discovery of a precious stone within a goose.

  But some cases fall into a category where they have taken on veritable lives of their own in the imagination of the public. These are what may arguably be termed “the immortal ones” for their continued attention and fascination. They remain as talked-about as they were upon the day they were emergent news. Most are our shorter adventures, such as the matter with the repulsive Roylott, and I have it on good authority that not a single British jeweler can pass the year without someone asking for a stone to emulate the aforementioned Blue Carbuncle. If Holmes bemoans my florid style, I admit that I am equally baffled by the never-ending pleas from my publisher, his wife, and even the random acquaintance upon the street, for these immortal tales.

  By now my reader has suspected my intention: I am permitted at long last to break silence and offer them what they have so often begged to read - A return to Dartmoor.

  I apologise now, for I will not satisfy the countless pleas for the impossible return of Jack Stapleton from a watery grave, or the marriage of his widow to Sir Henry, and it is certainly not about a return of a devilish hound. But I beg the reader’s pardon one last time, and suspend judgment until they have read the tale through. Crime has been the livelihood of Sherlock Holmes with all the necessity of a knot into a skein, and some knots need time to untangle.

  “Halloa!” exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, his interest sharp and his enunciation perfectly clear as he held his favoured cherrywood between his teeth. I looked up from my breakfast in time to see him leap from the table to the window to peer down his nose at the street below. “Now this is no light thing,” he observed to me without looking away. “Onion Johnny is about to pay us a visit.”

  My old wounds were paining me, but I threw down my napkin and went to see this marvel for myself. This time of day, the city was choked with early news-chaunters, messenger boys, and rented cabs as the public strove to move between train stations. Against the swarm of obstreperous humanity, a little Frenchman stumbled with an exaggerated, uneven stride we knew well. Like all of his kind, he stood out by the unmistakable costume of his profession as an oignon vendeur: A short coat over his striped shirt matched a navy beret upon his dark head. Like a tiny fisherman’s float in a great sea, he bobbed in and out of the confusion. He was hardly a prepossessing size to manage for himself, but he held a stout stick upon his shoulders, and upon that stick depended heavy braids of French onion, which slowly swung back and forth and encouraged others to make way.

  “I believe this is a first, Holmes. I’ve never seen him at Baker Street before the end of his work-day.”

  “To be sure he has from time to time, but he is not unlike a pony in a coal-mine. If he deviates from his schedule we may blame the path, for he lacks the imagination to wander off it himself. His world is shaped by clocks and blinkers.”

  I studied the heavy weight of his cargo again, and attempted to use Holmes’s methods. “He must have stopped selling his wares to come here.” For it was clear that he was desperately making his way to us; his face kept turning up to reassure himself that our rooms had not vanished in the curling fog, and I was certain it was relief in his dark little face to glimpse our forms behind the glass. For all his efforts, he was stymied by the slow march of brick-carters that blocked his crossing. Despite the anxiety of his situation, we had to smile as he stamped his foot.

  “And which of my methods have you used to determine this, Watson?” Holmes smiled around his pipe-stem and puffed cold vapours.

  “It is the meagrest of observations, I fear. I remember he told you once that his bundles weigh up to two-hundred-and-twenty pounds, and it would seem he has nearly that much to carry.”

  “A simple observation is often the correct one, Watson. Bravo! And bravo, Johnny!” For the little man had abruptly nipped down the street in order to get around the parade faster. “He shows initiative today! Well, Watson! At the very least we can say our breakfast-time has proven diverting.”

  Before long, our guest was gasping by our low fire. His wares had been abandoned for safe-keeping in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, and he strode in with his sun-darkened face flushed from exertion. A chapelet of the pink two-pound Roscoff onions swayed easily in his hand. Not for the first time I marvelled at how of a type he was. With his sharp-chiselled face and sable hair with piercing dark eyes, he could have been any man from the coast of France, all the way to the south of England.

  Unlike the usual vendeur, ours was well-versed in the English tongue, and he often used it to good effect.

  “I am aware that I am hours too early, Messieurs,” he began with his beret twisting in his hands. “But a sorry matter has come to my attention and I have in turn come to you on behalf of my brothers in trade.”

  “Come, come.” Holmes proclaimed generously. “The onions will keep. We are always glad to see you, regardless of the circumstances.” He lifted his pipe to the mantle. “There is a bit of tobacco which you may enjoy if it helps your blood cool from your travels.”

  “Ah, and I thank you both, but my duties keep and must be on my way. There are many Captain’s Heads that need their crew and I am to supervise the fleet.” Johnny flashed a quick grin of teeth and tapped his rope of onions. “I promised to make a matter known to you, and I must keep my word.”

  “By all means, Johnny.” Holmes smiled and leaned back, pressing his fingertips together. I have witnessed his management of the many different guests to his office, but Onion Johnny was a guarantee to put him in good cheer.

  “Sir Henry Baskerville is paying penance for the lost soul that was his relative.”

  “That is hardly news, Johnny.” Holmes said mildly. “It has coloured the papers and the gossip-halls since he returned from his constitutional.”

  “I know, Messieurs,” he nodded to us both, “and we have heard how he has given a new well to that Boys’ School, and money to the Madame Beryl’s family. I am speaking of the four burglaries of your West Country, where my brothers sell their onions.”

  “Hum.” Holmes opened his eyes and tapped his fingers. “As I recall from the news, Sir Henry prudently hired a detective for each of the burglaries to prove the culpability of the unlamented late Stapleton. All of them men of the law who c
an be trusted with such cases.”

  “It is Folkestone Court that concerns us.” Johnny lifted his heavy weight of onions in his agitation. “And Sir Henry has hired that Lestrade to solve this one. But the damages, sir, and the damages are only for the loss of property, and no one is thinking of the little page coldly pistoled by the thief.”

  Holmes exclaimed in surprise. “Well, this is most unusual. Surely a loss of life would be part and parcel of the damages incurred!”

  “The conversation was heard clearly by my kinfolk.” Our guest insisted.

  “Do continue.”

  “I cannot explain but if you were to go and see, we will pay you.” Before anyone could protest, the little man had a purse out and slapped it upon the table with his rope of onion, cheeks bright with high colour in his Gallic fervor.

  “You needn’t worry about the fee, Johnny. My rates are fixed, and you have given Mrs. Hudson as well as the Irregulars your excellent onions on credit,” Holmes murmured. “If you say I ought to go speak with Friend Lestrade, then I certainly can find the time.”

  “You must speak soon!” Johnny persisted. His urgency had not been appeased by this peace-making. He turned to go, and then stopped to wag a scolding finger upon my friend.

  “And do not again use my onions for your mischief! The Roscoff is a sweet onion. The next time you make a plaster, use one of those rude Spanish friars!”

  When we were alone we burst out laughing. “Rude Spanish onions!” I wiped my eyes. “So he reads Dickens?”

  “Many do, even the French.” Holmes had recovered his breath and was lifting the chapelet to test its weight. “Thirty pounds! This may be diverting. Crime has been very un-imaginative of late, and while this promises to be no different, at least we can be in the open air.” He chuckled. “Perhaps I owe our little friend recompense for offending his vegetables. Never argue onions with a Continental, Watson. Their proverbs centre on peeling away problems even as they weep for them.”

  “Anstruther has my practice while I recuperate,” I consulted the Bradshaw. “There is a train at two o’clock.”

  “Well, well. We have been cooped up like chickens in a rather dull London. A minor diversion in the open air with the famous Folkestone butter will be to our improvement.” Holmes examined the onion rope in his long fingers. “Not a single blemish. And what a fine head is this captain!” He prodded the crackly bottom bulb, which was markedly larger than the rest. “The captain suits this crew. Remarkable, is it not, Watson? The secret to so much fine British cooking rests within Roscovite soil where Mary, Queen of Scots once set her contrary feet. One can hardly imagine England without these little entrepreneurs, and yet they are a new pigment on the bright canvas of our country.”

  Holmes’s loquacity advertised a fine mood, which in turn led me to suspect this case may be more than a seeming plea to Lestrade on behalf of a legal fine-point. In this I wisely bowed to his instincts, for I would not go against the observations of the expert any more than Holmes would deny my diagnosis as a physician.

  We soon ticketed ourselves to the west. The London fogs cleared under a blue summer sky, and the city melted to silvery streams trickling across sloping greens by which droves of men and women drove flocks of geese to Leadenhall. I asked myself if Holmes expected the matter to stimulate his intellect in some way, for I knew nothing appealed to my friend so much as a thorny problem. After tucking the onions away to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, he had fallen into a brief stupor of concentration from which I knew better than to intrude.

  I distracted myself from the aches and pains aggravated by the train’s movement by pondering our visit. “I confess I have been puzzled about the news, Holmes. Why did Sir Henry employ Lestrade for one of the cases? It cannot be because they know each other.”

  “You are correct. It is because of the current owner of Folkestone Court, Abraham Quantock, wants redress for Stapleton’s burglary.”

  “The name means little to me.”

  “Did you glean nothing of him in the many newspapers, Watson?”

  “Holmes! I have read the exact same articles as yourself, and none have said more than the fact that he is a retired expert in properties from London.”

  “The absence of news can be the most illuminating. He originally served the nobility, but greed created too many compromises, and he is retired for the betterment of all to Folkestone Court, owned by his Aunt Oriana Quantock, a sensible dame. Alas, the shock of Stapleton’s attack contributed to her death, and this charming nephew took the estate.

  “Hypocritically, he demands the highest conduct from all, as though he were as worthy as his clients. One false step in his presence and vituperative violence is his reaction. I had the delight of the man whilst solving one or two small matters for my brother.” Holmes chuckled. “No doubt he thinks the title of baronet is still a young and upstart one, a purchased billet into the presence of his betters.”

  “Is Lestrade a bridge between Sir Henry and this fellow?”

  “There is some finesse in the baronet. Quantock must be wondering with every ounce of his ferocious will if Lestrade is secretly conducting business for the Foreign Office - for they are not without their extensive spies, and his former office employed them heavily.”

  “You do not paint a rosy picture. I begin to feel sorry for Lestrade.”

  “By now Quantock knows why Sir Henry employed Lestrade: Our unimaginative friend has no fear of living man. He will not concede to a title nor flinch at a powerful name. No, Watson, Lestrade is an excellent bridge between the two opposing poles of Baronet and Buffoon. He may trust our assistance if he so needs it. For all his flaws, he is honest enough to admit them.”

  “It all seems peculiar. Sir Henry restores the honour of his family name by making restitution for Stapleton’s crimes. Wouldn’t Quantock reciprocate by only asking for the value of his lost property?”

  “And that is the question that begs.” In his lap rested his collection of newspaper clippings. “If one relishes irony, here is a feast. You will never see a province so charming and rich with creameries as Folkestone, where it is said the native-born cannot swallow his tea without butter. Quantock is as cold and thin as the lands are fat. He is pure puffery, Watson! Folkestone Court is respectable only by age and history. The family money begat itself in the Navy, but you will find this Quantock’s feet high and dry. He would imply that the house and its holdings has always been his, but in truth he received it in exactly the same way as Sir Henry did Baskerville: there was no-one left to inherit. Here, Watson. What do you think?” He placed the open book in my lap.

  On the collected front page rested the proud face of our friend the baronet, standing before seemingly endless rows of winged insects in tight glass frames. By coincidence or design, a small speckled moth matching his necktie sat on the wall behind his shoulder.

  SIR HENRY RESCUES RARE COLLECTION FOR SCIENCE

  The article itself was dull and rambled to tangents, but the gist was plain: As the owners of Merripit House had suffered for tenants after the scandal of the Stapletons, and Beryl Stapleton wanting nothing from her former life, Sir Henry had purchased the property. His first act was to rescue the collection of insects, for they were fragile in an unheated house.

  The article included a quote from MRCS Mortimer, who was pleased that science would benefit. All that was left, he assured the readers, was the appropriate place for the collection.

  Almost hidden in the far corner was a tiny legal missive: Sir Henry had successfully applied to have one Jack Stapleton recognised permanently as Jack Stapleton, and not as his former identity of Rodger Baskerville. The law agreed that it was highly unusual to change the name of a dead man, but as he had willfully changed it in life, they saw no reason not to accept Sir Henry’s plea. As easily as that, the line of Rodger Baskerville vanished from the Baskerville records.


  “I see nothing more than I did when I first read this.”

  “Exactly.”

  Holmes pulled back his book and wasted no time in raining copious notes upon the pages. I left him to it and amused myself in the countryside.

  Our stops grew further apart as industry dissolved to agriculture. By the time we eased into Folkestone, there was little more to see than lazy slopes of rich green meads and herds of Folkestone’s legendary White Cattle, peppered with small stone shelters freckling the greensward amongst ancient standing stones. The hedgerows were cleverly sculpted of ancient blackberry under bloom as white as the cattle itself. The scene was breathtaking.

  Holmes prodded my arm. “That would be Folkestone Court.”

  I followed his gaze up the tallest of the gentle rises to see what I had presumed a large standing granite was actually a creaky stone lump of windows and bottle chimneys. Long ago its high rock walls must have been impressive; now it was an ageing dowager refusing to conform to her age, and clutching the pearls at her throat in the form of the strings of white cattle lowing upon the hill.

  A herd of these cows browsed behind a lively country market against our stop. Under their placid eyes, two Johnnies laced their onions upon sturdy bicycles and took off, wobbling under the weight of their chaplets. A third held office before a swarm of sharp-eyed country cooks as a boy chalked the transactions on a blade of slate.

  Before long we saw Lestrade, smartly dressed with a walking-stick under his arm. His lean face twitched, and his sly dark eyes glittered in amusement.

  “Pale as a mushroom, Lestrade.” Holmes scolded. “Of what use is country air if you cannot breathe it?”

  The little Yarder drew himself to his full height and looked up at Holmes. “Easy for you to say,” he complained. “I’ve been indoors!” He sighed and glanced about. “I got your wire just in time. Come. I’ve rooms.”