Sherlock Holmes (2 page)

“I’m confounded if I know what we’re doing here,” I muttered as I climbed out of the vehicle. “I hope you’re not expecting me to take a train. You said we were on our way to see Mycroft Holmes.”

Carter gave another infuriating smile.

“Look,” I said, trying to keep the accusation from my voice, “I’m not particularly fond of surprises. Are we here to meet Mr. Holmes or not?” I was aware that I was growing a little cantankerous, but I was simply looking to the man to give me a straight answer.

“We are,” said Carter. “He’ll be arriving in just a moment. We’re to meet him from his train. If you’ll come this way?”

“Very well,” I replied, following him through the main station doors.

Inside, the place was bustling, and I wrinkled my nose at the thick, familiar scents of oil and steam. Engines wheezed at two of the platforms, billowing clouds of smoke, which mingled in the still air, forming fleeting clouds amongst the steel rafters. They dispersed as I watched, rolling away across the underside of the glass roof and out into the pale afternoon beyond. The noise of chatter was close to deafening.

A crowd appeared to be concentrating around platform three, and Carter pointed it out, indicating that we should join it.

A train had just arrived, pulled by a recent model of electric engine, and the throng appeared to be predominantly comprised of people who had come to the station to greet their friends and loved ones.

“What train is this?” I demanded.

“The two o’clock arrival from Brighton,” said Carter, with a knowing grin.

“Brighton?” I echoed. “Then…” I trailed off. The very thought of it seemed too much. “Oh, it can’t be?”

I searched the platform, trying to discern the faces of the disembarking passengers: two clergymen with overcoats and hats; a portly fellow with a neat moustache; a young man with a harelip; an elderly woman with a scarf around her head; a group of three soldiers, each of them looking dour and forlorn. All of life was here. All except…

I saw him then, emerging from one of the first-class carriages, carrying a small leather case.

It had been some time, but that familiar, aquiline profile was unmistakable – the jutting, inquisitive chin, the hawk-like nose, the thinning black hair swept back from his forehead, now speckled with strands of grey. His face was lined, but he wore his age well. He looked lean and fit, and I found myself wondering if he’d finally given up on those dreadful chemicals he’d insisted on administering to himself for so many years.

He turned and looked in our direction, and I saw his eyes twinkle in recognition. His thin lips curled into a smile.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, rushing forward to clasp his hand. “Sherlock Holmes!”

“As enthusiastic a welcome as I could ever hope for,” said Holmes. “I see the war is treating you badly, Watson. You’ve lost five pounds.”

“The war is treating us
all
badly, Holmes. And it’s four. No more than that.”

“Five, I think, Watson, but let us not quibble. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s been too long,” I said. “London misses you.”

Holmes laughed, that familiar, exuberant, derisive laugh. “Really, Watson. I think it is only Scotland Yard that misses me. The criminals, I am sure, are quite satisfied with the arrangement.”

“And how are your bees?” I asked. I had not known what to make of Holmes’s declaration, all those many years ago, of his intention to relocate to the Sussex countryside to study the lifecycle of bees. At first I’d wondered if it had all been an elaborate joke, its punchline somehow lost on me, but it had soon become apparent that he was perfectly serious. He’d vacated our old lodgings at Baker Street, packed up his books, files and other ephemera, and moved himself wholesale to the country.

For a while afterwards I expected him to return to London with his tail between his legs, having found life in Sussex too sedentary, too downright
boring
, but it seemed his newfound interest in apiculture was enough to occupy his considerable mind. I’d visited him once in the interim, and found him quietly content amongst his hives.

“Fascinating,” replied Holmes. “I’m compiling a second volume of my observations. Human beings could learn a great deal from those magnificent creatures, Watson. Their social structures are defined and organised with admirable logic.”

I grinned. “I’m pleased to discover you haven’t changed at all, Holmes. All that country air must be doing you the world of good.”

“Ever the doctor, Watson,” he replied.

I suddenly realised that in my haste I had not yet established the reason for his visit. Surely he would not have journeyed into the heart of a war zone simply to make a social call? Although, I reflected, nothing at all would surprise me about Sherlock Holmes.

I glanced back at Carter, who was politely watching us from the far end of the platform, allowing two old friends a moment of privacy to reacquaint themselves with one another. “The driver – he said it was Mycroft?” I began, the confusion evident in my voice. “I mean, when he came to collect me, he indicated it was Mycroft who organised all of this?”

“Ah, yes. Of course – it’s not yet been explained,” said Holmes. “Well, no fear, Watson. All will become clear in time.”

“Now look here,” I said, “I’ll not stand for any of your cryptic pronouncements. Not this time.”

Holmes put his hand on my shoulder, fixing me with his cool, penetrating gaze. His tone was suddenly serious, direct. “We have a case, Watson, of a most timely and sensitive nature.”

“A case!” I exclaimed. “I thought you’d
retired
?”

“As you so eloquently described, Watson, the war is treating us
all
badly.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Come. I shall explain further during the journey.”

He started off toward Carter, leaving me momentarily alone on the platform.

“You’ll be lucky,” I muttered, hurrying to catch up. “The damn thing makes an infernal racket.”

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

I was once again ensconced in the back of the automobile, bouncing along the King’s Road and feeling decidedly green around the gills. Beside me, Holmes appeared to be faring little better.

“I received a telephone call from my brother yesterday morning, just after breakfast,” he said, resting his head against the seat back and closing his eyes. I wondered if he were trying to imagine he were somewhere else, instead of flying along the road at an unconscionable speed inside a metal box. I certainly was. “He outlined for me his desperate concern regarding the situation in London, the effect the Kaiser’s bombing raids are having upon the morale of the people, even their support for the war.”

“Well, he’s not wrong,” said I. “I’ve felt it myself. The thought of Londoners dying in those dreadful blasts, the burr of the zeppelins drifting overhead – it sometimes feels as if the end times are upon us.”

“You always have had a penchant for melodrama, Watson,” said Holmes, with a chuckle.

“Melodrama!” I returned, with some consternation. “Holmes, the country’s at war! The enemy fly uncontested above the streets of the capital, dropping incendiary weapons upon the rooftops of our people. I hardly think it is melodrama of which I speak.”

Holmes remained silent, allowing my brief flare of anger to burn itself out. I knew he wasn’t chastised by my outburst, but in turn he knew me well enough to at least pretend that he was.

“I see the war has affected you deeply, Watson,” he said, after a minute or two.

“I rather suppose it has,” I agreed, my moustache bristling with something akin to embarrassment. I decided to steer the conversation back to the subject at hand. “Surely, though, that’s not the reason for Mycroft’s call? I mean, as celebrated a figure as you are, he cannot expect you to single-handedly boost the morale of the nation.”

“Quite,” said Holmes, with the hint of a smile. “No, I rather think there are those more suited to such pursuits. Mycroft’s request was far more specific, and better tailored to my particular field of expertise.”

I nearly suggested “obtuseness”, but the irony would have been lost on Holmes. “Go on,” I prompted.

“It seems, Watson, that the present atmosphere in London has given rise to a proliferation of suicides. There are three particular cases of which Mycroft has requested I apprise myself: a British Army officer, Captain John Cummins, who strenuously urged surrender before feeding himself to a tiger at London Zoo; a famed suffragette, Mary Temple, who wrote to
The Times
to renounce militant activism the day before throwing herself beneath an Underground train; and Herbert Grange, a Member of Parliament who worked at the War Office and is said to have given a pro-German speech to the House before hurling himself into the Thames.”

“Yes, I’m aware of all three incidents,” I said. “There’s been extensive discussion of them in the press. Does Mycroft believe there to be a connection between these unfortunate deaths?”

“That remains to be seen, Watson, although brother Mycroft rarely deals in absolutes. I suspect there is more to this matter than at first appears,” replied Holmes, as cryptic as ever. “What is abundantly clear to me is that three apparent suicides of high-profile individuals are not going to assist Mycroft’s efforts to raise the public spirit.”

“And so you agreed to come out of retirement to take the case?” I said. “To assist the nation in its hour of need?”

“Indeed. I explained to Mycroft that I would do so on the strict understanding that my old friend, Dr. John Watson, was to meet me from my train and accompany me for the duration of my investigation.”

I admit I felt a sudden flush of pride that Holmes should issue such a stipulation on my behalf. “But how did you know that I didn’t have a previous engagement?” I asked.

“My dear Watson,” said Holmes, with an appraising look. “Has Mrs. Watson not been in the country for some months, ever since the zeppelin raids began in earnest? Has your old regiment not patronised you with talk of advisory positions? Have your efforts to throw yourself into your literary pursuits not ended in dissatisfaction?”

“Why… yes,” I replied, deciding not to encourage a lengthy explanation of how he had reached his assertions. It was clear that Holmes had lost none of his acute observational abilities. “You are correct on all counts.”

“Then, Watson, are you not ready for an adventure?”

“More than you could ever imagine, Holmes,” I said, with feeling.

“Excellent!” he proclaimed, animated now. “And how fitting that it should begin at one of our most familiar haunts, a place to which we have both become greatly accustomed over the many years of our acquaintance.”

“Baker Street?” I ventured, my heart warming at the very thought of the place.

“Indeed not, Watson!” he replied, with obvious relish. “We are going to the morgue.”

I sank back into my seat, my enthusiasm suddenly dampened. “I can hardly wait,” I said.

* * *

It felt peculiar to return to a place that had once been so familiar, such a part of my life both professional and personal, and yet which, at the end of my career as chronicler of Holmes’s investigations, I had been overjoyed to leave behind me. It smelled the same: the tang of spilled blood, the musk of decay, the chemical stench of carbolic and bleach.

As a medical man and a retired soldier I was far from squeamish around the dead – I had carried out more than my share of dissections over the years, just as I had witnessed the mutilated remains of combatants on the battlefield. Yet something about the proximity of so
much
death left me feeling plaintive, morose. Perhaps it was that I most often had recourse to visit the place in order to play my part in the investigation of a murder, which in and of itself is a depressive business. The ingenious and elaborate methods that people devised in order to harm one another never failed to astound me.

Whatever the case, I could not claim to be cheerful to be back, although I admit to a certain frisson, a sense of feeling revivified at the thought that Holmes and I were once again engaged on a case. This, to my mind, was simply the first hurdle to be crossed.

A man was waiting for us in reception, wrapped in a vast, woollen overcoat, despite the weather. He was tall, broad around the shoulders and even broader about the waist. He wore a big, bushy beard, which had long ago gone to grey, and was standing with his arms folded across his chest, his expression brooding. He looked up when we entered, and his countenance brightened considerably.

“Mr. Holmes. You’re most welcome. Most welcome indeed,” he said, approaching Holmes with a hesitation akin to reverence. “My name is Inspector Gideon Foulkes.” He extended his hand and Holmes took it, shaking it briskly. “I’m sure you won’t recall, but we’ve met before, almost twenty-five years ago, during that business with the ‘iron men’. I was, of course, a mere constable in those days.”

Holmes smiled graciously. He was clearly not surprised that the Inspector remembered him. I suppose for many of the Scotland Yard men now in positions of seniority, Holmes was something of a mythical figure, a shadowy outsider who men like Lestrade and Bainbridge had brought in for assistance when their own abilities had failed them.

Some of them, like Foulkes himself, had even been serving constables during the height of Holmes’s relationship with the force. I recalled the case he mentioned; an investigation into the mysterious “iron men” who had carried out a plague of jewellery thefts in the autumn of 1889, although I fear I had no recollection of meeting him. It pained me to consider those events had occurred over twenty-five years earlier, when we were all much younger men.

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “You know why we’re here, of course?”

“Quite so, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been fully briefed,” replied Foulkes. “I’ve made all of the necessary arrangements.”

“Excellent,” said Holmes. “Then if you would be so kind as to lead on…?”

Foulkes paused, as if a little put out by Holmes’s lack of niceties or conversation, but then nodded thoughtfully, as if remembering that he should have expected no less. “Of course,” he said.