Mycroft Holmes and the Edinburgh Affair

by Janina Woods

  Sherlock didn’t even look at me, just rattled down his explanation. He was lying flat on his stomach on the ice of the Thames, brushing aside the freshly fallen snow with the sleeves of his coat. He had a magnifying glass in his hand and peered closely at the edge of the area, where the freshly frozen ice met with the regular river freeze.

  “Anything else?” I asked and kneeled down next to him.

  I could’ve examined the evidence myself, but it was much easier to let my eager brother prove himself. He would relay the details to me and I could figure out the conclusion, just as we had done it all our life. I preferred to call this method efficient, while he called it lazy, when I had always thought it smart only to exert as much energy as you really need to.

  “The type of saw used is surgical. For amputations mostly.”

  Watson joined Sherlock on the ground and took the magnifying glass from his hands. I rose to my feet and took a long look at the two men, who were lying on the ice as if they were children, playing with the snow.

  “How can you tell?” Watson finally asked.

  “The cuts are smooth and regular. They have been made with a very fine edge - too fine for any regular saw. There are, of course, smaller saws for artistic work, but they lack the durability of the ones you use to cut through a leg bone in under a minute. The work here would’ve been done quickly, as any interruption could’ve derailed the whole plan, and there is no other tool both as durable and efficient,” Sherlock explained. “Inspector Lestrade. Any thefts of surgical instruments recently?”

  “Actually, yes. A manufacturer had a few crates of medical implements stolen, which were packed and stashed at a dock to be shipped to India, of all places. It wasn’t a big theft, and no one was killed, so it was quickly put to rest,” the inspector recounted, while still jotting down my brother’s deductions on his notepad.

  “When was that?” Sherlock asked, stood up and patted the accumulated snow from the front of his coat. I gave Watson a hand by holding out my cane for him to pull himself up.

  “About two months ago. I’d have to look up the exact date.”

  “I assume you never found the thieves,” I said. A statement, not a question.

  “They roam free still. No one saw them. One morning the crates were in the warehouse, the next morning they were gone, without any sign of intrusion. We speculated that the employees of the dockyard themselves must be the culprits, or at least involved, but we couldn’t nail them properly. The manufacturer wasn’t happy, but it wasn’t a big loss for him. A generous trader took pity and paid extra for another set of instruments, which made their way across the ocean without interruption. Case closed.”

  “The name of the benevolent sponsor?” I asked.

  “Arthur Chapman,” the inspector said. “He wanted to apologise for the theft. He stated that he felt somewhat responsible, as the crates were stolen from one of his warehouses. As it became clear that we wouldn’t be able to recover them, he came forth with the offer.”

  I exchanged a look with my brother and shook my head slightly, in a way that indicated he better stay away from the man. Chapman was known to me, as he had been tied up in a Secret Service investigation a few years back, and I didn’t want Sherlock to stick his nose into that particular business. Though my insistence on his distance would probably only encourage him. Well, he was old enough to look after himself.

  “No doubt that this is indeed meant for me then,” I stated.

  “And you know that because...?” Lestrade asked.

  “Because the deed could have been carried out months ago, if the tools were already in the culprits’ possession, but they waited until now, not two days after my brother returned to London,” Sherlock explained.

  “How could they have known that there would be enough ice on the Thames to make... all of this? Two months ago we didn’t even have snow yet. This came as a surprise to all of London!” Watson exclaimed.

  I narrowed my eyes at the doctor and his insightful comment, not in doubt, but in a careful approval of his thought process.

  “Obviously the plan had always been to use body parts, so the surgical saws would’ve been employed in any case. This seems like an improvisation from someone who can’t resist a touch of the dramatic. Anyone come to mind, Mycroft?”

  “Hmm, yes. Several people, in fact,” I looked at my brother. “And I don’t like most of them.”

  “You can’t stand them?” Watson asked.

  “Well, yes. That much is true. But I meant that I don’t like the implications those names carry,” I answered, carefully not to let the inspector learn too much.

  For anyone to know of my return so precisely - which they had to, to carry out the plan in such a swift manner - there had to be an inside man. And that meant inside the Secret Service. Oh, I had a wealth of colleagues who would just love to get rid of me. I wouldn’t put it past some of them to warn me off in such a dramatic fashion. Maybe there would be another message coming. Something more precise. This was merely a prelude - an opening to shock me and anyone who saw it. To draw the necessary attention for whatever it was that would follow.

  So someone had finally snapped. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was disappointed. Well, no matter. I didn’t know if it was actually someone within the Service, and there was no use fretting over speculations.

  “Our first step will be to find whoever stole those surgical saws,” I said after a slight pause. “Sherlock, if you would be so kind?”

  My brother nodded reluctantly and I saw a flash of worry in his eyes. Of course he knew that it was important to follow the trail, but it was obvious that I wanted to divert his attention from the other lines of enquiry. Lestrade immediately offered to show Sherlock and Watson the records of the theft, but was surprised when I asked to accompany them.

  “I thought you just delegated the work to me,” Sherlock stated.

  “True. But I still need to look into some things at the Yard. Recent criminal developments, most importantly.”

  “I suppose I can’t turn you away, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade sighed.

  “I’d be very grateful if you could accommodate me at the Yard for a few hours.”

  He knew he couldn’t refuse me directly, because I had the right to look into any police documents I wanted, though I rarely took advantage of the privilege. He had to give me access, that much was true, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for me, because it definitely wasn’t easy for him. As far as most Yarders were concerned, I wasn’t officially allowed even to enter their offices. It was always a chore for him to get me what I needed to see, without any suspicion.

  “And your interest in the records is all related to... this?” asked the Inspector and gestured in the general direction of the rotting flesh.

  “I assure you it is. The case has my full attention.”

  Chapter Four

  After Lestrade grudgingly agreed to my request, our group adjourned to Scotland Yard by means of a police carriage. We agreed on staging a pretend arrest, so he could slip me by the entrance and into one of the archives, where I could browse the recent records of the Yard at my leisure, while he busied himself with my brother and the doctor. I could see a certain satisfaction in the inspector’s eyes, as he handcuffed me in the carriage, even if it was just for show. Well, if that was what it took to get him to cooperate, I was willing to indulge him for a little while.

  As expected, none of the officers on the premises spared me a second glance. My invisibility was further aided by Sherlock’s presence, who drew everyone’s eyes towards him automatically. Lestrade exchanged a few words with the guard to the offices and led me inside, directly towards the archives.

  “If you would be so kind?” I said and held out my cuffed hands in front of me, as soon as he had closed the door behind us.

  The inspector huffed
a laugh. “I don’t think I should be, but I will.”

  I thanked the man after the cuffs had found their way back into his pocket and I rubbed my wrists - not because they hurt, but because I wanted him to see it.

  “You know your way around still, I assume? Good. The open issues won’t be in here, but I’ll get someone to collect and bring them to you.”

  “That’s perfect. But no one else should see me in here.”

  Lestrade sighed. Deeply.

  “And while I’m running this errand for you, can I get you something else?” he quipped. “Some tea, maybe? Or a comfortable cushion?”

  “A spot of tea would be lovely,” I replied, entirely aware that his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  “Well, then it’s too bad that you can’t leave and get some, isn’t it?”

  And just like that he slammed the door behind him. I would let this slide. It wasn’t the Inspector’s fault that he had to help me in this case, and I understood his anger to a certain degree. On the other hand, he had manoeuvred himself into this position by closely associating with my brother. There was only so much understanding I could muster for anyone, who committed this foolish error voluntarily.

  Resigning myself to a few hours of reading, I walked through the dusty room to a desk in the back, which was situated under a window. While the daylight wasn’t brilliant today, it was still a lot brighter here, and I took off my outerwear to stash it on the windowsill. I let my fingers roam briefly over the wood of the desk, feeling the smooth surface, worn down by decades of use.

  Outside of the window I could see into the courtyard of the building, and the red brick wall opposite, almost hidden behind the steadily falling snowflakes. In my mind, it was like the Yard had only recently moved into these buildings, and they still felt somehow foreign to me, but I reminded myself that it had been almost ten years. The desk made me feel strangely at ease after that realisation, as it was probably as old as me, carried over from the old headquarters, still useful in its purpose.

  I shook my head. There was no time for this now. At least that’s what I told myself. In reality, I had some hours yet until I would dare show my face at the Diogenes again. While the Service wasn’t your typical workplace, most of my colleagues left the building for the night, and I had little desire to talk to any of them. This was a good use of my time until then.

  While I was used to being a target, it was usually just because my job put me in the line of fire. To have something directed at me personally was new, and therefore somehow exciting. Yes, of course I knew the danger it carried, but the fear of the unknown was much smaller than the exhilaration I felt of not having to fall back into the rut of life in London. I’d rather live with a murderer at my back than die of boredom in the Diogenes Club.

  In that regard I was similar to my brother, only I had the peace of mind to endure stretches of emptiness and revel in my laziness instead of fighting it. Still, I didn’t like to sink into it too far, because once I let myself go, it was hard to pick up speed again. This was why my occupation suited me so well, as I was frequently forced to move my arse out of the comfy armchair in front of the fireplace.

  The filing system of the Yard was well known to me, so I quickly collected the files I had set my mind to, and accumulated a sizeable stack on the desk. With every recent, important incident at my disposal, and a few selected older cases of names I felt my mind needed a refreshment of, I set out to work. But not five folders into the stack, the door at the other side of the room opened again. I froze until I heard the Inspector clear his throat.

  “Mr. Holmes?” he asked after he had closed the door behind him.

  “At the windows.”

  For a man so tall and lean, Lestrade had a surprisingly heavy step, which was partially owed to the thick winter boots he had chosen to wear. I turned to find him emerge from behind a shelf, and without ceremony, he dropped an additional stack of paper onto the desk.

  “I need these back as fast as possible. We can only keep the records of the open investigations away for so long, even under orders from higher up.”

  “Inspector, I assure you I won’t keep you from doing your work.”

  “You already do,” he grumbled. “I give you half an hour for these, then they’re going back.”

  Lestrade drew out a chair and placed it next to the desk. I looked up and frowned.

  “Did you think I’d let you be alone with them? I know that you’re officially above all doubt just because you’re... well, you, but these are sensitive matters and I’ll see to it myself that they’re not tampered with.”

  I was simultaneously offended and delighted and decided to leave it at that. With a nod I turned towards the papers under Lestrade’s scrutiny, and just then there was another knock on the door. The Inspector calmed me with a gesture and went to open it. It struck me that he must’ve locked it behind him, so as to preserve my secret. I heard him exchange a few words, and then he appeared again with a tray bearing a large pot and two heavy mugs. I could already smell the aroma of a strong, black tea.

  “It’s frightfully cold outside, and I feel like I need something to warm me up. It would be rude not to offer you some of it as well,” Lestrade said quietly as he set down the tray, avoiding my eyes.

  “That’s very kind of you,” I replied amiably.

  He just shook his head.

  A little over twenty minutes later, I had sorted through the open investigations and consumed two cups of tea. I pushed a few files towards Lestrade for him to clarify, but he didn’t have a detailed overview over the cases of his colleagues. There were just too many and he had his own hands full already.

  Most were easily explained. Thievery, crimes of passion, fraud... in short: a collection of the most common incidents in the city. A few stood out. An unusual break-in, for example. The theft of a rosebush. A leopard that had run away. Probably already frozen in this weather, the poor animal. But what caught my eye was the reports of several people who had gone missing within the last two days.

  Genevieve Carson, governess. Robert Sutton, barrister. Victor Rowley, shop owner. Rachel Hadlee, nurse. Alexander Thompson, newspaper editor. Patty Langdon, mother of three. Alan Barclay, teacher.

  It was immediately clear what all of these people had in common: They were in positions with high responsibility and would be missed fairly quickly upon not fulfilling their duties. It made me wonder how many more unreported disappearances of less visible people there had been, and just how these seven people could be connected to each other. I told as much to Lestrade, who just shook his head.

  “People go missing in this city all the time. This is hardly unusual.”

  “It’s quite a large volume in just two days,” I said as I wrote down the names and a few more details in my notebook. Alexander... maybe... but no, the last name was all wrong.

  “Be that as it may, I don’t think it’s a special occurrence. The weather has been abysmal and extraordinarily cold. Dozens of people are freezing to death in the streets every night - probably even now. As soon as the snow melts, we shall find the lifeless bodies of countless beggars. It’s not a stretch to believe this could happen to people of better standing.”

  “That may be an explanation, but I will look into it regardless,” I countered.

  “I thought this was your brother’s work.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the inspector and wordlessly pushed a piece of paper across the desk. He picked it up with reluctance, but then his eyes grew wide as he quickly took in the details I had written down.

  “These are... all of them?”

  I also handed the rest of the reports over

  “Not all. You can figure the rest out by yourself. Except for the rosebush. I’d advise you to go to the greenhouse at the address I’ve provided immediately, lest there be a murder over a stolen flower.�
��

  “Who’d do such a thing?”

  “You’d be surprised how competitive these people can be.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, Mr. Holmes.”

  My half hour was up. Lestrade took the papers and my notes, then excused himself. I was not to leave the room on my own and was to wait for his return at night.

  Chapter Five

  It was rather late when I finally retreated to the Diogenes Club, where a footman opened the door for me without comment. The air inside the building was very warm. It was almost stiflingly so after the crisp winter atmosphere I had endured on my walk over, and it temporarily took my breath away. I quickly adjourned to my rooms on the third floor to divest myself of coat and scarf, so I could again breathe easily.

  Once in the room, I switched on the electrical lights and locked the door behind me. I didn’t expect that to help me in case of an attack, which I couldn’t discard from my mind even in these sacred halls, but it would potentially give me a few additional seconds to react. After all, someone had advised me to be careful, and with everything that had happened, I assumed the note had a definite connection to my current predicament.

  The room lay in an uneasy twilight, but I refrained from pulling back the curtains. There was no need to publicly announce my return just yet. It was all still as I had left it, only that the club had made sure it was cleaned during my absence, unlike my house. No confidential information was kept here, and I usually left the room unlocked when I was out even for a longer time, because I had nothing to hide. Within the club, there was no need to conceal, as every agent was sworn to utmost secrecy and brotherhood.

  Well, at least that was the idea...

  There was a pile of neatly arranged envelopes on my desk, which I knew to contain a wealth of information. Some people at headquarters usually record the most important happenings in London for me while I’m on a mission, so I can quickly get a proper picture upon my return. Political squabbles and alliances were part of the mix, as were intrigues in London society and beyond. I had compiled a list of people and organisations, of which I wanted to have every move documented, and with my status within the Service, I could order enough people around to satisfy my hunger for information. This was only a small part of my dedication to the occupation that set me apart from the other agents.