Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 31

"But what about the tiara? How do I explain to James and Elizabeth..."

"Fabricate something. Your writing is testament to your skills in that discipline. Investigations continued in London, you were on the trail of the master criminal, a thrilling rooftop chase to their lair. They escaped in a death-defying leap into the Thames, but you were able to retrieve the tiara at great personal danger."

"A lie," I said, my heart sinking as I sat at the table, looking gloomily down on the tiara where Raffles had left it.

"Exaggeration, Watson, exaggeration!"

"What would Mary say?" I wondered, aloud.

My friend struck a match and it flared, illuminating his features in momentary sharp relief. His cigarette lit, he extinguished the match. "Mary was always a pragmatist, and would have seen that you did your level best to save your friend's embarra.s.sment, and above all, tried to help them."

"By summoning you from London on a mission of personal service to prevent their property falling into the clutches of a thief."

As the dawn light began to creep through the windows of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes drew thoughtfully on the cigarette, blowing smoke high into the air. "Ah, Watson. Sooner or later, everything becomes the property of a thief."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Mark Wright is a writer, journalist and producer who has written for many brands including Doctor Who, The Sarah Jane Adventures, Highlander and Blake's 7. He has written audio dramas, comic strips and novels and is a regular contributor to Doctor Who Magazine. For Big Finish productions he is the producer of the original science-fiction series Graceless and the co-producer of Iris Wildthyme and with Cavan Scott has contributed to the company's Doctor Who and Blake's 7 ranges many times.

Mark has recently turned his attention to the stage, with his short play, "Looking for Vi", being selected as a finalist at the Off Cut Festival 2011. At the end of 2012, shooting began on a film adaptation of the play, which will premiere in 2013. He lives in Yorkshire with his family.

WOMAN'S WORK

BY DAVID BARNETT.

Mrs Martha Hudson had carefully excised the pages from the latest number of The Strand Magazine with a sharp pair of scissors and had commenced pasting them with flour and water into a sc.r.a.pbook already bulging with similar cuttings when the bell rang three times in the cool stillness of the kitchen, signalling that there was someone calling at the door of 221b Baker Street.

She wiped her hands on her starched ap.r.o.n, filed the sc.r.a.pbook away in her carpet bag, which always hung beneath the butcher's block preparation table, and went to adjust the gas flame under the lamb stew she had just put on the stove; dinner was many hours away but the visitor was most likely bringing a conundrum or an enigma - something to interrupt her carefully planned schedule for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, at any rate. That was why she more and more often opted for stews of an evening, especially as the nights were drawing in: they were less likely to spoil as her tenants and charges allowed themselves to get wrapped up in whatever mysteries seemed to be increasingly landing upon the doorstep. The bell sounded impatiently again.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Mrs Hudson muttered under her breath, catching sight of the broom leaning against the range. She had been intending to brush the small back courtyard before dinner. She hoped whoever was now ringing the bell for the third volley of shrill chimes was not going to overly divert her from her work.

It was, as she might have guessed, Inspector Lestrade, bearing a parcel wrapped in newspaper that gave off a most disagreeable odour.

"Is himself in?" asked Lestrade, his moustache twitching, his ferrety-black eyes shining like pinp.r.i.c.ks beneath the brim of his derby.

Mrs Hudson opened the door wide to allow the inspector entrance to the hallway. She had beeswaxed the woodwork just this morning; the smell coming from that package was already wrestling the scent of her hard work to the carpeted floor and beating it into submission.

"Fish, Inspector? I already have a lamb stew on for his dinner."

Lestrade tapped the side of his not inconsiderable nose. "I doubt he'll want to eat this, Mrs Hudson, but I am rather hoping he might devour it, digest his findings and polish off the mystery attached to it."

"No doubt to help tip the scales of justice in your favour," nodded Mrs Hudson, taking Lestrade's coat and hat.

He looked at her quizzically, then shrugged. "Are they in the parlour?"

Mrs Hudson rapped on the parlour door and cleared her throat as she swung it open; one never quite knew what they might find in any of the rooms of 221b Baker Street, so it was always best to telegraph one's entrance. At one time she would have been surprised to find her lanky, hawkish tenant standing in his slippers and robe, arm outstretched and holding a rapier with its business-end at the throat of the perpetually perplexed-looking Dr Watson, but not any more.

"...thus you see, Watson, that a left-handed swordsman could not have comfortably severed the left ear of his victim unless he used an anti-clockwise flourish of the wrist, which we are told he did not but rather, in most expressive language, employed a most definite downward slash."

"Bravo, Holmes," said Watson through his walrus-like moustache, gently moving the point of the rapier away from his throat with the palm of his hand. "Now I don't need to read the rest of that mystery story."

"The perpetrator is a dreadful hack, anyway," said Holmes. "But my finely attuned senses tell me we have a visitor with a mystery of his own... of a rather squamous nature."

Lestrade nodded and laid his package on the coffee table. The stench became even more p.r.o.nounced as he unwrapped it, to indeed reveal a fish, perhaps twelve inches from nose to tail, its dark scales dappled with white. Its eyes were gla.s.sily blank and a long slit had already been carved in its underside. Holmes regarded it intently, then closed his eyes.

"Salmon?" he said hesitantly.

Mrs Hudson coughed, her sudden expectoration sounding something not unlike Char! Char!

"Ah, but wait..." said Holmes. "Salvelinus leucomaenis," he murmured after a moment, his steely eyes snapping open. "Commonly known in England as white-spotted char, though not entirely a common fish." The detective bent forward and sniffed. "Dead for some time, I fear. You were not hoping to extract a confession from it, Lestrade?"

Watson chuckled. "More likely, he wishes us to catch the murderer!"

"Murder most foul!" exclaimed Holmes. "At least going off the smell of the d.a.m.ned thing. You have a mystery for us regarding this fish, Lestrade?"

"I do," said Lestrade stoutly.

"Then the game's afoot!" said Holmes, laughing delightedly, but to blank looks from the gathering in the parlour. He sighed. "It is a game fish, you see. And in length about twelve inches."

"Ah, the game is a foot!" said Watson, clapping his hands. "Oh, you are clever, Holmes."

Holmes smiled, and Mrs Hudson cleared her throat. "Will you gentlemen be requiring any refreshment?"

"Tea, Inspector Lestrade?" enquired Holmes. "Or something stronger...?"

Lestrade eyed the brandy decanter on the sideboard. "Oh, perhaps something a little more warming..."

As Watson went to do the honours, Mrs Hudson nodded. "I'll be in the kitchen, then."

But as she closed the parlour door behind her, she paused then put an ear against the woodwork, listening intently to the voices within.

"Yesterday afternoon," said Inspector Lestrade, finishing his brandy and offering his gla.s.s to Watson for a refill, "this was dropped off at the Commercial Road police station along with a letter signed by one Melvin Jacobs, informing us he had just purchased it from Billingsgate Fish Market."

"He purchased it himself? Has he no housekeeper? Or wife?" said Watson, sitting down with a fresh brandy "Presumably he is not of a position to employ a housekeeper," said Lestrade. "And the letter said his wife is laid up with a very mild case of typhus."

"Our Mr Jacobs lives in Aldgate," p.r.o.nounced Holmes. "He is a member of the Jewry, and practically dest.i.tute."

"How on earth can you know that?" said Lestrade. "As it happens, he didn't put his address on the letter..."

Holmes sat back smugly. "Jacobs is a Yiddish name, of course. And there was an item in the newspaper about a typhus outbreak near the Aldgate synagogue. You said yourself he cannot afford a housekeeper, and he was not working on a Friday, so without a proper paying situation. Enough money, though barely I surmise, to purchase a fish to be served gefilte, as is the Yiddish tradition, on the Jewish Sabbath-Sat.u.r.day, which is today."

"Genius," said Watson, sipping his brandy. He pointed at the fish. "Though it's not on his table. What's wrong with it?"

Lestrade procured a pencil from his inside pocket and poked it into the slit along the length of the fish's belly. "He began to prepare it, all right. Then he found this..."

Beneath the skin was an even more glittering prize. Along the length of the fish's innards were gems and jewels-two diamond rings, a ruby on a golden chain, garnets, a brooch, emeralds...

"A veritable treasure trove!" exclaimed Watson. "That fish has been eating well!"

"Better than Mr Jacobs, I'll warrant," said Holmes.

But Lestrade had not finished. He flipped over the fish with his pencil, the booty within scattering along the newspaper wrapping, to reveal a deep x-shaped scar on the previously hidden flank of the char.

Holmes leaned forward, his eyes narrow. "Not a process of the gefilte method of preparation, or certainly not one I have heard about," he said.

"A mystery, indeed, and one which I thought might whet your appet.i.tes." Lestrade nodded.

"Moreso than the fish," said Watson. "Having said that, can we keep hold of it?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't see why not, for a day or two."

"I'll get Mrs Hudson to put it on ice in the pantry," said Holmes. "We'll keep the gems in our safe."

"Excellent," said Lestrade, standing. "Then I'll bid you gentlemen farewell, and look forward to your thoughts."

Watson rang for Mrs Hudson to see Lestrade to the door, and when the inspector had left, Holmes called for his housekeeper to enter the parlour.

"What do you make of this, Mrs Hudson?" he said, indicating the char.

"Nice bit of fish, or it was," she said, sniffing. "You don't see white-spotted char often. A little past its best, mind."

"Ever seen a fish stuffed with gems?"

She shook her head, studying the jewels spilling out of the char. "Can't say as I have, Mr Holmes."

"Put it on ice for us, Mrs Hudson. Watson, put the gems in the safe. I think we need to cogitate upon this mystery."

When the housekeeper had gone, and Watson had locked the safe, the doctor said, "Is this a two-pipe problem, Holmes?"

The great detective settled back into his chair. "Something a little stronger, I think."

Watson unlocked the wooden cabinet by the bookcase and pulled out two gla.s.s vials. He waggled them both at Holmes. "Morphine or cocaine?"

"Morphine, I fancy. Aids the mental processes somewhat."

Watson locked the cocaine away and handed the vial, and a small syringe, to Holmes. "Very good. While you're, ah, cogitating, I think I'll have a small nap. See if inspiration strikes."

Half an hour later, there was quiet over the parlour, save for the gentle snoring of Dr Watson and the fevered, low moans of Sherlock Holmes.

In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson rifled through the store where she kept old newspapers for bunching up and aiding with the lighting of the fires in 221b Baker Street. It had been a warm autumn so there had not been as many blazing hearths as the previous year, and she also burned the oldest dated ones first, so the number of the Ill.u.s.trated London Argus which she was looking for had not yet been despatched to the fireplace.

There it was, the early edition from four days ago. She took it to the worktop and flicked through until she located the item she was looking for.

It was a small piece headlined THEFT OF PRICELESS JEWELS FROM LADY MORRIS HOLIDAYING IN PARIS, and told in florid language how the head of one of London's most affluent and established families had been holidaying with her son and retinue in the City of Lights when persons unknown struck at their hotel room, making off with a range of highly valuable and irreplaceable gems and jewellery items.

The report listed some of the items that had been taken: "Two diamond rings, one of them given to Lady Morris upon her engagement to Lord Morris of Fife, sadly deceased these five years; a gold necklace with a ruby stone; an emerald necklace; two garnet rings and a mother-of-pearl and gold brooch."

Stolen in Paris, and ending up in the belly of a white-spotted char at Billingsgate Market? They were well-travelled jewels, and no mistake. Mrs Hudson carefully folded the newspaper to display the news item and crept into the parlour, where Dr Watson was snuffling into his moustache and Mr Holmes curled, foetus-like, in his chair, his feet jerking as though he was a dog a-dream. Mrs Hudson tutted softly and removed the syringe from his forearm, placing it with distaste upon the salver with the brandy. She would never understand Mr Holmes and his chemical addictions. Mr Hudson-G.o.d rest his soul!-had always said, before he lost his life on that African field, of course, that a stout ale and the occasional whisky at Christmas should be enough for any man. He wouldn't have liked her mingling with these cocaine and morphine types. But Mr Hudson was long gone, and Mrs Hudson had to make ends meet, and if that meant renting out half the building (and re-badging the two halves 221a and 221b for the benefit of the Post Office) to the likes of Mr Holmes, and keeping house for him and Dr Watson, then so be it. She had to confess, she'd never had as much fun before she took on her tenants, not since Mr Hudson had died. So let them have their little foibles.

Dr Watson, as though sensing another presence in the parlour, began to snort more loudly. Quickly, Mrs Hudson placed the folded newspaper into the long, slim fingers of Sherlock Holmes, then stole out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

"Great Scott, Watson, I think I might have stumbled upon something!" exclaimed Holmes as Mrs Hudson laid out afternoon tea.

Watson harrumphed and sat bolt upright. "Just resting my eyes. What is it, Holmes?"

The detective produced the newspaper with a flourish. "Mrs Hudson, did I come into the kitchen while I cogitated?"

"I believe you did, Mr Holmes," she said. "You were looking in the bin where I keep the old papers. I asked if I could help but you were quite single-minded."

"Something must have occurred to me," said Holmes. "Look, Watson! This description of the jewels stolen from Lady Morris in Paris. Ring any bells?"

"By Jove, Holmes, they are the exact gems found in that blasted fish! Then we know who they belong to... but how did they get from Paris to London?"

"Imagine..." said Holmes, rising from his chair. "A thief, or thieves, common Parisians... they steal into Lady Morris's hotel room, loot her jewellery box, and flee... they make their way to the Seine docks-all dark doings are conducted at city docks-to sell on their haul... a fight ensues between the ne'er-do-wells-no honour amongst thieves, Watson!-and the jewels fall into the river, to be swallowed by a pa.s.sing white-spotted char!"

Watson frowned. "Is that probable, Holmes?"

Holmes peered down his nose at the doctor. "I have said more than once, Watson, that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Watson reached for his tea. "I dare say you're right, Holmes. It's just... well, we haven't exactly eliminated much so far, impossible or otherwise."

Holmes glared at him. "And you have a more suitable hypothesis?"

"Well, not as such..."

"Then let us away to Lady Morris, to return her jewels. Mrs Hudson, we shall be back for dinner and that wonderful lamb stew I can smell bubbling on the hob."

"Very good, Mr Holmes," said Mrs Hudson. That would just give her enough time for an errand of her own. To Billingsgate, before the fish market closed for the day.