Sherlock Holmes Murder Most Foul (49 page)

Watson imparts, “To preserve its success, the enterprise requires two practitioners, not one, Holmes.”

Holmes counters enthusiastically, “You have everything to gain, and nothing to lose, Watson. With your permission, I will enlist the support of Dr Verner, a relative of mine, who will be more than pleased to oversee the appointment. In the meantime, tomorrow morning, if possible, you may wish to notify the General Medical Council that you would like to advertise the position.”

Humbled by his support and kind advice, Watson expresses his gratitude, “I am profoundly grateful, Holmes. You have lifted a heavy burden from my shoulders.”

With the end of his pipe clenched between his teeth, Holmes runs his finger along the walking stick, “Your opinion, Watson.”

Relaxing, Watson lights his pipe, “Concerning what, Holmes?”

Holmes indicates the walking stick, “Why this, of course.”

Slowly leaning forward, Watson stares at the object, “Where on earth did that come from, Holmes?”

Holmes removes his pipe from his mouth, “Did Mrs Hudson not inform us this morning that a gentleman had called here last night, whilst we were at Marcini’s, and left this behind?”

Recalling their evening dinner, Watson grins, “By Jove, Holmes, that was a first-rate meal. Lestrade did us proud, he did not skimp on anything.”

“How did you find the
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Bordeaux claret?”

“A vintage year, Holmes.”

“Three bottles, I noticed.”

“Strictly for medicinal purposes, Holmes.”

“And the French cognac?”

“Self-indulgence, Holmes.”

Holmes laughs, “I applaud your honesty, Watson.” Standing, he hands him the walking stick, pointing to a broad silver band just below its head, “Pay particular attention to the inscription.”

Squinting at the inscription, Watson reads aloud, “To James Mortimer, M. R. C. S., from his friends of the C. C. H. 1884.” He looks up at Holmes, “It is quite obvious that the person who called here last night was a doctor.”

Holmes raises a tutorial finger, “A forgetful doctor, Watson.”

Watson demurs, “I say, Holmes.”

“Would you leave a personal item such as this behind?”

Watson chuckles, “Perhaps after the wine last night, yes.”

Holmes sighs tetchily, “Putting aside your gastronomical fervour for a moment, what do you think the initials C. C. H. represent?”

Watson shrugs his shoulders, “Something, something, hunt?”

Holmes elucidates, “Given that James Mortimer is a doctor, I think we can safely assume that his friends of the C. C. H. were also doctors. Therefore, H does not signify hunt, but hospital. For that reason, the name Charing Cross Hospital naturally comes to mind. Furthermore, the year, 1884, tells us that Dr Mortimer left the hospital nearly four years ago.” Retrieving the walking stick from Watson, he indicates its tip, “You will see, Watson, that the metal
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ferrule is worn down. Evidently Dr Mortimer does a lot of walking. A country practitioner, perhaps? And look here...” He runs his finger along the middle of the stick, “Teeth marks.”

Watson interjects, “Those of a dog, Holmes?”

“Precisely, Watson. A dog who carries his master’s stick, held tightly in its jaws. The teeth marks are too wide for a terrier and, in my opinion, not wide enough for a mastiff. Therefore, the dog may be a spaniel.”

Drawing on his pipe, Watson queries, “But that does not explain why Dr Mortimer called to see us in the first place, Holmes.”

Hearing the rat-a-tat-tat sound of the brass knocker on the street door, Holmes murmurs jovially, “I think we are about to find out, Watson.” He lays the walking stick down on the dining-table, “Would you be so good as to greet our guest? After all, you both belong to the same profession, Watson.”

Quickly putting aside his pipe, Watson rises from his armchair, “Certainly, Holmes.”

Opening the door of the apartment, he reveals Mrs Hudson stepping from the stairs on to the landing, followed by a tall, gaunt man, wearing a frock-coat and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. Watson smiles at her, “Is this the gentleman who called here last night, Mrs Hudson?”

Mrs Hudson nods, “Yes, Dr Watson. Dr Mortimer.”

Mortimer stares at Watson, “You are not Sherlock Holmes?”

Ignoring the question, Watson smiles at Mrs Hudson, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

Taking her leave, Mrs Hudson hurriedly descends the stairs.

Watson turns to Mortimer, “I am not Sherlock Holmes, but I am his close friend and associate. Won’t you please come in?”

Stepping into the apartment, Mortimer is immediately greeted by Holmes, “Ah, Dr Mortimer, I am Sherlock Holmes.” He retrieves the walking stick from the table and hands it to him, “I believe this belongs to you.”

Mortimer sighs with relief, “I can be so absent-minded at times. I thought I had left it at the shipping office.”

Watson closes the door, “Your dog has a name, Dr Mortimer?”

Taken aback, Mortimer nevertheless utters, “Why, yes. Toby.”

Holmes interjects, “A spaniel, by any chance?”

With a confounded expression, Mortimer stares at him, “How on earth could you have known that?”

Holmes indicates an armchair, “Make yourself comfortable, Dr Mortimer.”

Clutching his walking stick, Mortimer wearily sits in front of the fire. Holmes picks up his pipe and begins to tap tobacco ash from its bowl into the palm of his hand, “You have a country practice, Dr Mortimer?”

Leaning his walking stick against the side of the chair, Mortimer imparts, “Devonshire, Mr Holmes. Dartmoor, to be exact.” He turns to Watson, “Are you still practising, Dr Watson?”

Watson replies hesitantly, “Well, yes, part-time.”

Throwing the tobacco ash into the fire, Holmes seats himself opposite Mortimer, “And who referred you to me, Dr Mortimer?”

“Dr Theodore Verner of the Charing Cross Hospital. He said you could be relied upon.”

Holmes laughs, “Dr Verner, you say?” He looks at Watson, “It is a small world indeed, Watson.”

Watson smiles, “Apparently so, Holmes.”

Holmes apologizes, “Forgive me, Dr Mortimer, but it is not often a relative of mine speaks well of me. How may I be of assistance?”

Mortimer removes a folded manuscript from the inside pocket of his coat, “Have you heard of The Hound of the Baskervilles, Mr Holmes?”

Filling the bowl of his pipe with tobacco, Holmes replies tersely, “I deal solely in facts, Dr Mortimer, not superstitions.”

Mortimer taps the manuscript with his finger, “Then you have heard of the legend?”

Holmes lights his pipe, exhaling smoke, “A spectral hound that is purported to have plagued the Baskerville family for more than a century, since 1742? A hound which you believe was instrumental in the death of Sir Charles Baskerville some three months ago? Yes, I have heard of the legend, Dr Mortimer.”

Watson splutters incredulously, “How the dickens did you come by that information, Holmes?”

Holmes divulges, “The Devon County Chronicle, dated 20 of August of this year, Watson.” Again, he addresses Mortimer, “Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore, it is upon the logic, rather than the crime, that we must dwell. But before you continue, Dr Mortimer, allow me to clarify a point of interest. Baskerville Hall is fourteen miles from Princetown Prison. Five miles in the other direction is the only habitable village on the moor, Grimpen. Your medical practice is located there, is it not?”

Mortimer blinks at him through his spectacles, “Extraordinary, Mr Holmes. Quite extraordinary.”

Holmes raises a quizzical eyebrow, “I thought my inference was elementary. You are hardly likely to reside on the moor in a cave, are you, Dr Mortimer?”

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Located in the heart of the West End of London, the Diogenes Club, an eccentric gentlemen’s club where talking is absolutely forbidden and a cough is enough to get a member excluded, was co-founded by Mycroft Holmes.

A sedentary creature, Mycroft travels exclusively between his home, his office, and the club, spending as much time at the club as he does at his home and his office combined. Rumour has it that the bizarre rules of the Diogenes Club were introduced by him to reinforce his desire that he should never have to converse with fellow members.

Seated in a burgundy leather chair beside a blazing fire in the ‘Stranger’s Room’, Mycroft contentedly crosses his legs, savouring the aroma of the cognac in his glass. Upon hearing the measured footsteps of the concierge approaching him across the buffed floorboards of the large Georgian room, he looks up from his drink.

Extending his arm, the concierge presents Mycroft with a sealed envelope, laying on a circular silver tray which he holds. Placing his brandy glass down on an occasional table next to his chair, Mycroft takes the envelope from the tray, dismissing the concierge with a wave of his hand.

Hearing the footsteps of the concierge recede across the room, Mycroft opens the envelope and withdraws a single folded sheet of paper from inside. Slowly leaning back in his chair, he begins to read the penned message.

221b Baker St, W.                                                              20 Nov. 88

My dear Mycroft,

As previously instructed by Lord Salisbury and your good self, I have now determined whether or not political radicals, intent on sowing the seeds of insurrection in and around Whitechapel, had indeed infiltrated the Mile End Vigilance Committee.

As a result of my investigation, I have discovered that a few mischievous rascals do, in fact, exist. However, they are hardly in a position of power to threaten the social order of this country. Therefore, this government should alter course. Instead of attempting to quell an elusive minority, it should devote
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its efforts towards enhancing the well-being of the nation. This government has reacted to fear. An illusionary fear spawned by itself.

Very sincerely yours, Sherlock.

Incensed by the contents of the letter, Mycroft exclaims, “Why, the impertinent...” Having broken the cardinal rule of the club, he clamps his hand over his mouth, slinking down into his chair and furtively looking around the room.

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This bitterly cold morning, a layer of frost has entirely covered the ground, the trees and the roofs of buildings.

Finding the main gates of St Patrick’s Roman Catholic Cemetery locked, Holmes, again disguised as Alfred Mipps, vigorously rattles the wrought-iron gates to attract the attention of the gatekeeper, housed in a gatehouse just inside the cemetery.

Reacting to the noise, the gatekeeper, Samuel Reece, hurriedly steps out of the gatehouse and, upon seeing his exhaled breath appear as vapour, shivers. Hastening towards Mipps, standing on the other side of the gate stamping his feet to keep warm, Reece begins to unlock the gates, “Didn’t fink there’d be anyone ’ere this mornin’. On account o’ the weather, like.”

Mipps breathes into his cupped hands, “Bleedin’ cold, innit?”

Pulling one of the gates open, Reece motions to the gatehouse with his head, “Step inside an’ warm yerself.”

Mipps nods, “I’ll take yer up on that, mate.”

Ushering Mipps into the gatehouse, Reece places the key to the gates down on a table beside an open book. Quickly closing the door behind him, he grins, “Make yerself at ’ome. Put yerself by the stove.”

Standing with his back to the circular stove, Mipps begins to feel its radiated heat permeating his chilled body. Relaxing, he notices the book on the table, “Yer read, d’yer?”

Reece smirks, “Daughter o’ mine says I should learn the Queen’s English.”

Mipps enquires, “Wot’s it ’bout, then?”

Raising the cover of the book to remind himself of its title, Reece replies, “‘A Tale o’ Two Cities’. ’Bout the French Revolution.”

Discarding his cockney accent for a moment, Mipps recites, “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”

Reece gawks at him, “A bleedin’ poet, are yer?”

Mipps chuckles, “Charlie Dickens, mate. ’E wrote the book.”

Reece looks at the cover of the book again, “So ’e did. ’Ow yer know that?”

Mipps retains his smile, “Learnin’ the Queen’s English, mate.”

Reece laughs, “Yer should come ’ere more often. Wiv yer ’elp, I might impress that daughter o’ mine.” He suddenly bites his tongue and then apologizes guiltily, “Sorry t’ be so bloody cheerful, mate. Come ’ere t’ pay yer last respects, ’aven’t yer?”

Mipps nods, “Marie Jeanette Kelly. She were buried ’ere day b’fore yesterday.”

Reece thoughtfully scratches one side of his forehead, “Ah, yeh. The Irish gel. Row sixty-six, plot ten. Bleedin’ rich, innit? She comes in ’ere wiv a name an’ ends up as a number.” He indicates the door with his thumb, “Feel up t’ it, d’yer?”