Sherlock Holmes

by David Marcum

  “‘I still say that when they get themselves a case which presents them with a tangled knot that they will be back at my door asking . . . no . . . begging for my assistance.’

  “‘And I say,’ continued Chen, ‘that the police would rather leave the knot tied than seek you out. You must apologize Mr. Holmes. You will eventually find yourself in trouble, trouble that will leave you needing assistance from the likes of Lestrade, and he will turn his back on you.’

  “You can understand that my opinion of the Yard was so low that I sneered at Mr. Chen’s concern and boasted that I would never need the Force. ‘No one who works for the Yard can defeat me on a mental or physical level. I cannot see how I would ever need assistance from that lot. But I assure you that they will indeed come to me. They may take a few days to come around, maybe even a week. Rest assured, they know when a superior intellect is required.’

  “Chen’s eyes glared into mine. I felt as though those emerald orbs were looking beyond my body, beyond my mind, and into my very soul. We stared at each other for perhaps a full minute before the man began scratching out another message to me. It took him awhile to compose his writing, and when he handed his communication over to me, I was startled by his statement.

  “‘Mr. Holmes,’ it read, ‘your arrogance shall be your undoing. As I have written, like yourself, I am a consultant for the force. I work directly with the officers in training them for combat situations. Like you, I also see the deficiencies in the Yard. But unlike you, I also see the good in them, the potential. They just need an effective Master to train them. You have the potential to be that Master, Mr. Holmes. The first step in doing so is showing a humble side to yourself. Apologize to Mr. Lestrade and he will respect you for it. Then you may begin to rebuild your professional relationship.’

  “‘Mr. Chen,’ I responded. ‘This discussion is over. There is the door. You have become a persona non grata. A good day to you.’

  “Chen’s eyes pierced me again, and he took his pencil out, flipped to a blank page in his book, and wrote me a final message.

  “‘You have claimed that you can defeat anyone who works for the Yard. Very well. Then I challenge you, Mr. Holmes, to prove your claim correct. I will give you five minutes to lay a single blow upon my body. If you succeed, then I shall leave here and you shall never see me again. I shall also provide you with a payment of £100. However, if you are unsuccessful, then you will immediately proceed to Scotland Yard and personally apologize to Lestrade and the other officers. As a token of appreciation, you will offer your services for free for the remainder of the week. Do you accept my challenge?’

  “I read the note and considered this challenge with slight trepidation. I had determined through Mr. Chen’s movements and actions that the man did have some skill. He was clearly attuned to his body and defeating him, I surmised, could be more difficult than one would assume. However, my misgiving about accepting the challenge was not due to any concern over losing the wager but of actually winning it. To defeat this man, I would have to assume he had the skills of a man much more youthful. I feared that in using this approach, I might injure him, possibly severely.

  “‘Sir, I am a top boxer, an expert fencer, and a skilled stick fighter. I do not wish to do you harm.’

  “I looked into Chen’s eyes Watson and I actually saw mirthfulness, as if the man were chuckling at me. Without writing a word, he merely offered me his hand. With a shake of my head and an utterance of ‘Very well,’ I accepted and we shook on it.

  “I offered a few moments of preparation. Chen shook his head no and wrote, asking if I had an appropriate timer. I acknowledged that I did, and while I went to my desk and searched for the correct sand vial, Chen went to the chimney and covered his hands in soot.”

  “In soot? What an odd form of defense. Was he planning on blinding you?” I asked. I was riveted by the narrative, and wondered if Holmes would accidentally, or even intentionally, cripple the old fool.

  Holmes opened his mouth to respond, then stopped himself, and instead took a few puffs from his pipe. He continued his narrative, not answering my question.

  “So there we were, Watson. Me, in the prime of my life, and Mr. Chen an old man. I held the timer aloft, and Chen gave a steady nod of his head. I lowered the vial and the grains of sand began to flow downward.

  “I decided to end this as quickly as I could by sending a couple of quick jabs to Chen’s upper torso. I would restrain my use of force, if not my fighting technique. I took my boxing stance. Nothing unconventional. I was prepared to have the fight over and done before the one minute mark.

  “Chen stood still. He did not take any fighting stance, just stood there, arms at his side, his feet shoulder width apart, and his eyes mocking me.

  “I jabbed twice, but the man was agile and actually shifted his body to the left and right so my jabs never contacted. I went through again, this time following with a left hook. I thought I had him, but as I hit forward, Chen dodged, then grabbed my arm, and with a sweep of his feet, he had me slammed into the floor of my flat.

  “Slightly dazed, I pulled myself up, shook my head, and stood. I turned to face Mr. Chen, who was still standing in the same pose. Feet evenly spread, arms at his side, and his mocking eyes laughing at me.

  “I knew that his skill level was much higher than I first suspected. I decided to try a slightly different approach. I took my fighting stance and slowly moved toward the old man. I did not want to harm him, so I had ruled out any blows to the liver or uppercuts to the chin. Still, I thought that I would fool him a bit by throwing an uppercut with my right that would purposely miss and then, while Chen was dodging the blow, follow through with a left cross to his chest.”

  “Well played, Holmes. Since you weren’t going for a knockout, just for a win. I assume that you connected.”

  “You assume wrong, my dear Watson, for Chen was as fleet-footed as a fox. When I threw the uppercut, not only did Chen dodge, but he stepped to my side and, with a swift motion of his hands, he pushed down on my chest while sweeping my legs. I toppled over backwards, and crashed to the floor.

  “I wasted no time returning to combat. When my body hit the floor, I rolled to my left and sprang to my feet. A glance at the timer let me see that the sand was halfway down. I reflected on my knowledge of stick fighting and how I could use some of those techniques in assaulting Chen. Clearly he knew how to counter boxing, but would he be able to foresee my movements if I mixed my styles and used boxing with some hand motions of fencing and stick fighting?

  “I decided to fight nonstop for the remaining minutes, and I went on full offensive. I did not let up at all. I tried tripping him up, hitting pressure points, even wrapping my arms around him to pull him to the floor . . . but it was to no avail, Watson. Every move I made he foresaw. It was one of the few times in my life when I met a person who seemed to have a gift for second sight, like what you and others accuse me of having. However, like myself, Chen simply used logic to counter my every move. After being sent crashing to the floor a good half-dozen more times, I sprang to my feet from the ground, but my legs buckled. I had to grab a chair for support, and as I clutched the fabric on the top rail, I eyed the timer and saw that the sand had reached the bottom of the glass. Indeed, I noted that it had some time ago.

  “‘Mr. Chen,’ I carefully said, slowly turning my face towards the man. ‘We had an agreement.’

  “Chen stood now with his back to the doorway. His deerstalker still neatly adorned his head and his flowing inverness rested over him. He was maintaining a relaxed pose, with his hands at his side and feet solidly on the ground, shoulder width apart.

  “Looking at him, I saw how much I had failed in my task. Not once did I connect with Chen. He looked as composed as he did when he entered my domicile fifteen minutes prior. I searched for the words to say something, and as I did, Chen took out his pad of paper, wrote a note, and this time carefully tore the paper out of the binding. The note fell to the floor
and Chen gave a slight bow to me, opened the door, and disappeared into the hallway.

  “My brain was still trying to catch up with what had occurred, and so it took me a minute or so to pick up the note left on the floor.”

  Holmes paused in his narrative to take the final swig of his brandy.

  “Don’t leave me in suspense, Holmes,” I begged, for I knew when Holmes paused and got lost in his head, it could take minutes for him to return to the present. Holmes beamed, happy to see his tale had captivated its audience.

  “The note read,” Holmes explained. “‘Scotland Yard in one hour. Clean yourself up.’”

  “Of course,” I chuckled gleefully picturing Holmes after taking his lumps. “I’m sure your hair was disheveled and your clothing unkempt after all those falls.”

  “It wasn’t just that, Watson. No, my ego was bruised far more than the physical assault to my body, for after reading the note, I glanced at the mirror which hung to the left of the hearth.

  “When I saw my reflection, it was more ghastly than I imagined, for besides the mess of my clothing and bruises upon my visage, my body, from the scalp down to the toes, was covered in small spots of soot.”

  “Small spots?” I inquired. “You mean from when Chen tossed you to the ground?”

  “No, Watson. These were precise hits to my body, or perhaps I should say taps to my body. You have seen me practice some fighting forms?”

  I thought of the strange ways Holmes contorted his body which he referred to as exercise and nodded my head.

  “Chen did the same. There are several forms of combat which imitate wild animals.” Holmes held up his left hand and beaked his fingers and thumbs together. “Some strike like the beak of a condor,” he explained, then shifted his hand so his fingers were curled and the base of his palm was exposed. “Some strike like the claw of a tiger, or even the mythical dragon.”

  “I always wondered what you were about Holmes. Now, this makes sense. But imitating animals – is it really as effective as an uppercut to the jaw?”

  “Just as effective. At times, even more so. Chen used his fingers and palm to show me what he could have done to me, for as I examined my body, I saw that Chen had left marks on all of my most debilitating pressure points. Soot was upon my upper lip, at my kidney and liver. Even my nerve points on my arms, legs, and feet had dust markings. Other points along my front and back as well. The man had shown me that, had he the desire, he could have incapacitated me in seconds, or taken my life, had he made that choice.”

  “My word. The man sounds almost superhuman.”

  “Not in the least, Watson, for as I said, he used his physical capabilities to the extent that I use my mental ones. Everything he did was based on knowledge, skill, and precision. I admit that I was impressed, even in awe of the man.”

  “And what did you do next, dear fellow?” I asked.

  The detective gave a wry grin and played Devil’s Advocate. “Well, what do you think I did?”

  “Holmes, you are stubborn and hate to concede when you have made a mistake,” I started, my voice filled with gaiety and having fun at my friend’s expense. “You are also proud, and your pride had not only been bruised, but fully beaten.”

  Holmes let out a guffaw at my description. “Bravo!” he called out while his body shook with merriment. “You know me well, old friend.”

  “And yet,” I beamed, “You are most surely a man of honor and respect. Therefore, I must conclude that even though you loathed your duty, you cleaned yourself up, went to the Yard, and apologized to Lestrade.”

  “Excellent, Watson! You know me like no other,” Holmes conceded while still chuckling in merriment. He composed himself and explained, “I arrived at the Yard, and with every officer I encountered, I made sure to find some way to compliment, and offer my services for free for the remainder of the week. By the time I reached Lestrade’s office, most of the force was scratching their heads, wondering if I had gone mad.

  “When I saw the inspector, I sincerely apologized for my behavior, and told him that most of his work had been impressive and that I did not give him the credit he was due. I conceded that he did solve most of his cases without my assistance, and that the force was lucky to have him.

  “Lestrade frowned deeply as he sat at his desk, listening to my words. As my compliments increased, his frown only deepened. Finally, he held up his palm and said, ‘Let me stop you right there, Mr. Holmes.’

  “I paused and we both stared at each other for a brief moment. Lestrade continued giving me a black look, and he finally said, ‘So, I see you’ve been paid a visit by Mr. Chen.’

  “I was going to speak but again Lestrade stopped me, ‘Don’t bother saying it, Mr. Holmes. I can tell. Chen’s one of our finest associates. His fighting techniques have saved many an officer in a dark London street corner. He saw me this morning after he had word of your insults towards me and the force. He asked if I would continue working with you if you came here today and apologized for your harsh words yesterday.’

  “‘Of course, I said I would. But I know you, Mr. Holmes, and I thought that would be an impossibility.’

  “Lestrade continued glowering. I offered Lestrade my hand and again, I apologized. He stared down, mulled it over, but he slowly lifted his right hand and we shook.”

  “And that was that,” I said to Holmes. “And you continued working with Lestrade.”

  “Of course, Watson, and the inspector continues to improve. I slowly prod him along as a Master must with a Pupil. There will come a day, I foresee, where I will feel that leaving a case in his hands will be as safe as if I had it in my own.”

  “And what of Mr. Chen? Did you continue working with him?”

  “Yes, Watson, but the hour is late, and I feel those tales will have to wait for another day.”

  NOTE:

  1 – Apoplexy: Term for stroke in 19th century

  The Adventure of the Amateur Emigrant

  by Daniel D. Victor

  Family and friends insisted that The Amateur Emigrant be pruned . . . even though that which was excised not only was every bit as finished as the parts deemed publishable but also was integral to an understanding of the situation as Stevenson saw it and to the work as a whole.

  – James D. Hart, Introduction

  From Scotland to Silverado

  by Robert Louis Stevenson

  I

  Rare were the days that Sherlock Holmes dragged the large tin box to the centre of the sitting room and surveyed the contents therein. But no sooner had I returned from my surgery one mid-December morning in ‘94 than I saw him in the middle of the room puttering with the papers and artefacts that filled the old box. Perhaps he’s seeking distraction, I speculated. Mrs. Hudson was off preparing for the Christmas holidays, I had been consulting with patients, and Holmes himself had recently completed his investigation into the singular affair of Professor Coram and that business with the Golden Pince-Nez at Yoxley Old Place. Of course, he might also be researching a case.

  Whatever the reason for the appearance of the box, I should confess that the sight of it had always aroused in me a twinge of jealousy. Careful readers will recall that the contents of the receptacle in question represented a part of Holmes’s detecting career in which my presence was nowhere to be found. In point of fact, the collection consisted of notes and memorabilia saved from Holmes’s earliest cases, those investigations undertaken before he and I had met in 1881. Here were his notes on the Gloria Scott, the Musgrave Ritual, the Tarleton Murders, and that strangest of tales involving the aluminium crutch – all fascinating glimpses into the world of crime, to be sure, but all lacking any contribution or analysis from me, the scribe Holmes once had called his Boswell.

  The bulk of the material consisted of papers gathered into small stacks, each held together by red tape. There were numerous such bundles, yet I knew that beneath papers lay additional treasures, specific objects Holmes had preserved from the investigations themselves
– the peg of wood and attached ball of string from the Musgrave affair, for example, or the leather hand-grip from the aluminium crutch.

  “A trip into the past?” I asked my colleague.

  “Quite so,” said Holmes. “I have always held that a periodic review of former cases helps stimulate the brain. Through such analysis, one may discover recurring patterns in the criminal mind. You may recall, Watson, how my recollection of the Hindu snake charmer of Brixton helped me predict the behaviour of the villainous Dr. Grimesby Roylott and his so-called ‘Speckled Band’.”

  I did not recall the anecdote he cited – presumably because he had never bothered to report it to me. Yet all I said was, “Certainly, Holmes, but these things here,” – I made a dismissive gesture in the direction of the tin box – “represent cases from your callow youth.”

  “However true, old fellow, such observations are still ripe for the picking – though today I must confess that I’m looking for a set of papers that are more nostalgic than instructive.”

  I had no idea to what he was referring, but none the less I watched him continue to riffle through the bundles. In the process, an unbound collection of pages caught my eye. Unlike the other papers, which were held together by the ubiquitous red ribbon, these appeared torn from a notebook. What’s more, though written in a tiny, cribbed style not unlike that of Holmes himself: The lettering on these pages appeared shaky, and the spaces between lines much wider than in the writings of my friend.

  “What are those?” I asked, pointing at the sheets in question. “They’re different from the rest.”

  Holmes’s long fingers reached for the papers I had identified and lifted them out of the box.

  “The very thing I was looking for,” said he. “You have excellent eyes, old fellow. Perhaps it takes a writer to spot the work of a fellow scribbler. These pages are the work of my old acquaintance, Louis Stevenson – Robert Louis Stevenson to the world at large.”