Sherlock Holmes and the Nefarious Seafarers

by C J Lutton

  “On the contrary,” said Holmes in a very loud voice. “I have two reasons and every right to be here!”

  The Registrar continued to rail at Holmes, but Holmes was placid. “If you must, I suggest you call the police. In fact, why don’t you?” He poked the Registrar in the chest with his index finger.

  “You won’t because you are a coward. Aren’t you? I bet you cried like a schoolboy when the first mate set the lash to your back…” As Holmes rehashed the making of a checkered shirt in great detail, the Registrar became inchoate with rage, and Evans’ head reappeared at yet another window. He dropped a canvas bag to the ground and then feet first slid out of the window. Picking up the bag, the boy disappeared among the luggage and containers that littered the dock.

  “Holmes,” I said. “That is enough. We are getting nowhere.”

  Holmes gave me a sidelong glance, a measuring up. I responded with a nod of affirmation. “All right,” said my friend. “Come along, Watson.”

  As soon as we were clear of the building, Evans joined us. He handed the bag to Holmes. My friend opened the canvas sack and looked inside. “Excellent work, Evans. Outstanding,” he said.

  “Watson?” Holmes continued. “We now have a record of the various manifests of the ships. This information should go a long way towards answering our many questions.”

  Holmes whistled a lively tune as we searched the street for an unoccupied hansom. I bit my tongue rather than share my thoughts, although I was boiling over with anger. In fact, I did not notice the cold because of my fury. I waited until Holmes and I had both taken seats in the vehicle and the cabman had been given our address.

  Once again, the cabman shouted, “Get ye down, ye rascal.”

  Holmes turned to Watson and smiled. “Evans. He’s rather resourceful when it comes to catching a hansom, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, I noticed him slipping in to do your dirty work. If that boy had been caught—” I glowered. I hated that Holmes used the youth with such little regard to the child’s safekeeping. Oft times, my friend became so enmeshed in his adventures, so fervent about his tasks, that he lost all sense of proportion. In particular, he skipped over the problems and concerns that he created for others, whether they be Mrs. Hudson, or me, or Evans. Mrs. Hudson and I can take care of ourselves, I should say, but Evans is but a poor street urchin with no resources to draw on. Given Barlow-Smythe’s foul temper, I shivered to think of how he might have punished the boy for removing a book from the registry.

  Holmes lifted his chin in that imperious way of his that always irritated me. “But Evans was not caught. He’s a masterful thief, and if he were to be apprehended, I should go to my brother and demand Evans’ release. Come now, it is too cold and miserable to argue. Let us occupy our minds with other diversions.”

  8

  This argument was getting us nowhere. I decided I should table the subject for now. “All right, tell me how you knew all that about the Registrar.”

  “It’s elementary. What portion baffles you?”

  “The checkered shirt.”

  “The easiest part! Did you not notice that he was wearing a light muslin blouse? What man does that? The fabric was as soft as the down on a hatchling. Applying simple logic, one can deduce that the Registrar’s skin was tender where the lash had been applied right to left and then again, left to right. I, for one, cannot imagine the pain associated with a checkered shirt. Can you? As a medical man, it must fill you with horror.”

  “Too true.” I nodded. My colleagues had told me stomach-turning tales regarding such injuries. For example, rubbing salt into the open crevices of tortured flesh was a means of adding to the pain. This practice was barbaric in its cruelty and yet unwittingly an act of kindness. The salt aided the recovery process, a slow healing that might well take years.

  “What about the fact that his father has influence?”

  “Ho!” Holmes laughed out loud. “Holmes, do you truly see and hear without understanding? The man introduced himself as Reginald Barlow-Smythe the Third. Only a man who believes he has much to pass along deigns to saddle his son with such a pretentious name. As it happens, I’ve heard of Reginald Barlow-Smith, Junior, from my brother. He’s not so intelligent as he thinks he is, but he’s on a fast inside track in the race to win Her Majesty’s favour. Mycroft can’t abide the man. The fact that he was cognizant of my purported abilities tells me he’s not adverse to reading popular fiction. Only a young man of privilege would have the time and money to purchase a complete set of your fantasies.”

  My cheeks turned florid. “Really, Holmes. Since my so-called fantasies have caused you to be a person freely lauded by the populace, the aristocracy, and the police themselves, one might expect a modicum of appreciation rather than your ongoing attempts to shrink my success down to a size you can manage.”

  Holmes laughed again. “Touché, Watson. Touché. I believe my shallow words have done their job, have they not?”

  “What job is that?” I replied in a huffy tone.

  “Given how blasted cold it is, I had hoped that my words would succeed in igniting your anger. I cannot rub two sticks together to build a roaring fire in this cab, so I did the next best thing. I rubbed your ego the wrong way, and thus, I let your emotions heat up your body. It did work, didn’t it?”

  Cocking my head, I observed my friend. “Holmes? One of these days, I’ll forget myself and do you harm.”

  This time his laughter was explosive.

  Chapter

  Back at 221B Baker Street, we hopped out of our cab, and Evans jumped off the back of the carriage. Holmes tossed the cabman a coin that covered the cost of our trip, and this time he also paid for the ride that Evans had purloined. The lad skipped up the stairs ahead of us and opened our locked door with the greatest of ease. I turned to Holmes with the plan of remarking on this breach of privacy, but my friend only shrugged. “If Evans were not so good at what he does, I should have no use for him, Doctor. His bad habits serve to remind me how truly talented the child is.”

  After Holmes set the book on the dining room table, Evans darted around the room like a terrier in search of a rat. Without asking, he put another log on the fire. When he stretched out his small hands, I saw the chilblains, those swollen and red lumps that must have caused him considerable misery. “Young man,” I said in my most reassuring voice. “I shall ring for the girl to bring up a pitcher of warm water. Once it arrives, I want you to go into my bedroom and wash your hands thoroughly. Apply the sandalwood soap liberally to all surfaces. Once you are done, I shall apply a salve to your hands, one that will make the itching and burning subside.”

  “Ain’t no need, Doctor,” the scamp returned. “I ain’t got no gloves. Them fingers of mine will just get cold and itchy all over again.”

  Nonetheless, I rang the bell and when the maid appeared, I told her what was needed. “Bryony?” I asked, stopping her from making a hasty departure and hoping I had her Christian name right. She had only recently come to work here at 221B Baker Street. As Mrs. Hudson aged, Holmes and I despaired of her climbing the stairs while carrying heavy trays. We’d also noticed that our dear landlady’s eyesight was fading, as small tasks were no longer done to her original high standards. Rather than tax that kindly woman further, my friend and I told her that we’d decided to pay for a serving girl to help, and we’d blamed our increasing case load for the work the girl would do. Bryony was immensely suitable for her position, as she could not read but was keen to learn. This, we pointed out to Mrs. Hudson, was a chance for all of us to do a good turn. Working together, we could offer the girl food, shelter, and an education.

  “Do you know how to knit?”

  She nodded.

  “Could you do me a large favour? Would you use this money to purchase yarn and make this young man a pair of gloves or mittens? Is that within your abilities?”

  “I could do, sir, I could. Was there something else you was needing?” I instructed her to bring a pitcher of warm
water and then I gave her enough coinage to purchase a ball of yarn.

  “This is too much, sir,” she said, as her face pinked with embarrassment.

  “The money is for both the yarn and your labour, Bryony. Thank you for your diligence. You’re a good girl.”

  When she left, Evans examined his hands thoughtfully. “I ain’t never had a pair of gloves nor mittens. Coo. I’ll be warm as toast, I will.”

  During this small domestic exchange, Holmes pored over the large book that was entrusted with manifests of various ships. After flipping pages quickly this way, and then that, he had gone back and forth between one finding and another. His concentration was total. In fact, he’d taken the little black devil out of his coat pocket and put it between his teeth, although he hadn’t had the time to light it. A series of satisfied grunts suggested he had found information of some value.

  “It is exactly as I had suspected.” Holmes slammed shut the most recent volume of Lloyd’s Register of Shipping Vessels. “We were allowed to see a dummy ledger. You noticed, I am sure, that a great deal of pertinent information was missing. This is the real register. As we noted before, the Celestial and the Clarity are sister ships, nearly twins. Built at the same shipyard. Their registered tonnage is but four tons apart. All their other measurements are the same. In fact, they could be the same ship, save for one detail, of course. The Celestial is owned by the Crown. As one of the navy vessels owned by our dear Queen, she carries no passengers. Her crew is minimal. Her cargo is always the same.”

  “That is?” I prompted Holmes for an answer.

  “Gold, meat, and livestock.” My friend shook his head. “The Celestial sets out from Sydney once a month laden with goods from Australia. Do you recall that story in The Times? Eighteen years ago, the first ship with a compression refrigerator brought forty-one long tons of frozen beef and mutton from New Zealand to France. After that, William Davidson, the Director of the New Zealand and Australian Land Company, convinced the company to retrofit a ship, the Dunedin, with a refrigeration unit. The ship set sail with a cargo of 4,331 mutton, 598 lamb and 22 pig carcasses, 250 kegs of butter, hare, pheasant, turkey, chicken and 2,226 sheep tongues. Although it later was becalmed in the tropics, after ninety-eight days, the Dunedin docked in London. Inspectors found only one carcass to be spoiled. The Times hailed the voyage as a triumph: ‘Today we have to record such a triumph over physical difficulties, as would have been incredible, even unimaginable, a very few days ago.’”

  “Then the amendment to the vessel was profitable?” I asked.

  Holmes smiled. “Even deducting the expenses, the gain was beyond all expectations. Nearly five thousand pounds.”

  “Five thousand pounds British sterling?” I could not help but gasp.

  “Indeed, and that is only the profit realised from a journey one way. Not round trip. Once in London, the ship was emptied for a short hop to Lancashire. There the Dunedin was filled with cotton and wool from our mills. In essence, Watson, we are talking about an immensely profitable venture, this trade between Australia and Mother England.”

  Evans had washed his hands and I was applying salve to them when footsteps pounded on the staircase. What the devil? I wondered, as I put the cap on the glass jug. “Take this,” I urged Evans. “Rub it into your skin. Use it lavishly, as I can easily get you more. The pain and itching should subside.”

  9

  The words were only just out of my mouth when a courier rapped on our door. His knocks were made with a sort of frantic gusto. Holmes let the man in as Bryony slipped past him with the basin of dirty water. The messenger cast his round eyes about our flat, taking in the appointments and the curious vision of me holding Evans’ hands in mine. “Mr. Holmes? Mr. Sherlock Holmes? The lady, Mrs. Morel, bids you to come to her place right this minute. She’s heard news and she’s mad keen for you to hear it, too.”

  Throwing on our winter garments, we left so quickly that I almost forgot to lock the door behind us. Although I must admit, after witnessing Evans’ proud skills in lock picking, I doubted that a deadbolt was much use. Nevertheless, I turned and ran back upstairs to put the key to the lock. We could not chance the book of manifests stolen.

  I returned to the cab, huffing and puffing.

  “Good job, Watson,” Holmes congratulated me. “I should not like to lose that large journal. While it is possible that it shan’t be missed, we cannot afford to lose the head start we’ve gained from our newfound knowledge. With a bit of good luck, we might yet return Mr. Morel to the arms of his loving wife. If such a man really exists.”

  As happy as I would be to perform such a service for Mrs. Morel, those words “loving wife” settled on me like a heavy robe, dampening my spirits. My own sweet wife, who had died a few months before, had been a source of great comfort and joy to me. I missed her more each day. At times like this, I envied Holmes. His passion seemed reserved for his work. He was a thinking creature, rather than a man of sentiment. In point of fact, he had been trained for the role he played with such élan.

  As the second son, his mother did not dote on him. Yes, he was loved, but Mycroft, Sherlock’s older brother by seven years, had resolved that age-old question that plagues every dynastic family: Shall we have an heir? The arrival of Mycroft meant that Violet had fulfilled all her maternal duties to the Holmes family. Violet had done all that was required of her, and never again would she submit herself to such indignities. For seven long years, she enjoyed the accolades of the Holmes family as her husband and his kin adored their youngest member. Mycroft was precocious and an “easy” child, in that his chief pleasure in life was food. The promise of a crumpet with jam, a scone with clotted cream, or a biscuit with lemon curd was enough to gain his total compliance. True, the boy enjoyed the acquisition of knowledge, and his tutors were impressed by the ease with which he acquired mastery, but one could not rightly call Mycroft demanding. His desires were in perfect concert with what his parents wanted for their son.

  During these seven years, Violet enjoyed perfect freedom as a wife and mother. After producing the heir, having done her duty, she was essentially free to do as she pleased. Her figure had always been much admired, and after Mycroft, she quickly regained her former coveted silhouette. Her son reflected well on her, and she basked in the glow of his scholastic successes. Her husband had reached a pinnacle in his career, a lofty position that afforded the family every comfort plus entrée to the loftiest echelons of society. A home in the city, a country house, servants, carriages, couture clothing, and so on and so on. Violet had everything a woman could desire.

  And then she fell pregnant with Sherlock. It was, at the very least, a disappointment when Violet was forced to withdraw from the London social whirl. Sadly this pregnancy was not “easy” as the other one had been. Violet was older, and her body responded quite differently to her confinement. First came the terrible sickness that wracked her body so violently she burst blood vessels in her eyes. Next came the swelling that inflated her ankles, robbing them of their beauty. The glow she had enjoyed in her first pregnancy was replaced by the sallow, drawn look of her skin. As she spent more and more time in her own bed at home, Violet’s emotional reserves were drained. The lack of joyful companionship left her morose and angry. The fact that Sherlock, who has never been punctual as an adult, came late as a baby, sent his mother into such a deep depression that she was watched by a nursemaid night and day as a precaution lest she hurt herself.

  Sherlock was a breech birth. As a doctor, those simple words send a shudder through me. Oh, we do what we can, trying our best to turn the infant around. Encouraging the mother to adopt strange positions that may or may not entice the infant to change position. Yet at the last, we find ourselves helpless as the baby always does exactly what the baby wants. Knowing Sherlock Holmes as I do, I can affirm that his willpower is immense. I have been told he brought every ounce of this determination to his awkward pre-birth position. His mother's suffering was immense, and eventually t
he accoucheur had no choice but to resort to force. In the best of times, metal tongs are cumbersome. When a mother had already been in labor for seventy-two hours, as Violet had, they are both welcome and feared.

  And so, Sherlock’s arrival was more of a relief than a celebration. His mother looked on him and wondered how a mite so small could have wreaked such havoc on her life. Exhausted and in pain, Violet told her husband to take the child away. He did as asked, thinking she would soon be on her feet again when her spirits revived themselves. Alas, that is not how it happened. Violet turned her face from her newborn babe. She never looked on him with joy. Not once did she call the wet nurse and ask to hold him in her arms. Nor would she take subsistence. Instead, she closed her eyes and a week later, she died.

  I share this with you because I believe it explains much of my friend’s character. Without a mother’s affection to yearn for, he grew to rely on his keen intellect to make his way in the world. It’s not that Holmes has no passion, he does, but he reserves this passion for his work. This severance allows him to concentrate his energies on hunting down criminals.

  There are times—albeit few and far between—when I envy Holmes his detachment. In those moments when the pain of missing Mary is so raw that I can scarcely draw my next breath, how I wish that Holmes and I could trade places!

  10

  The frozen streets of London had been churned like butter, as the snow and ice were pummeled by the hooves of horses and the wheels of carriages and the soles of countless weary boots. The slop was disgusting and dollops flew up and stuck to every surface. When the watery mess mixed with fresh horse droppings, this became nearly intolerable. I was glad the temperatures were rising, but I hated the mess that was inevitable when traveling in London proper.