The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

‘See to it that you and your finger get some rest. The same goes for Mr Bride.’

‘Yes, sir. We will attempt to.’

Phillips left, after nodding to the rest of us, and adding an extra smile for Miss Norton.

The captain unfolded Murdoch’s note first.

‘It seems that Mr Murdoch and Miss Storm-Fleming have recovered one of her bullets. It was embedded in a wooden pallet that was propped up against a wall — just about where she said it would be. They are still looking for the other one.’

‘That is good news for Miss Storm-Fleming,’ I noted.

‘Indeed,’ said the captain, using a table knife to open the envelope of his wireless message.

‘This is from our London office,’ he said. ‘I did some checking of my own in relation to Miss Storm-Fleming. I asked our people at White Star to make some inquiries.’ Captain Smith studied the note. ‘Let us see...thirty-four years old...middle name Janet...no police record... periodic mentions in the social pages of the newspapers...a frequent international traveller. I am afraid this is not very helpful... What about your message, Mr Holmes? Does it shed any light on this matter?’

Holmes, who had returned to staring out of the porthole, paused for a moment, and then turned to rejoin the conversation. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Just a word of encouragement. He unfolded the note, which he had been holding in his hand, and began to read.

My dear Commodore,

I do not have to remind you how imperative it is that the documents in question be recovered immediately. We are all depending on the efforts of you and your companions. In my opinion, the matter could not be in better hands. Good luck!

Sincerely,

WC.

‘Holmes, who is this WC?’ I asked. ‘Does he work for your brother, Mycroft?’

‘More the other way around,’ he said. ‘Mycroft and I agreed on a few coded terms before I left, including the use of initials instead of names. This particular message is signed by Mr Winston Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty.’

T
HE
E
ARLY
M
ORNING OF
S
ATURDAY
13 A
PRIL
1912

T
hose of you who have read my work know that I am a man of few complaints. Indeed, I considered myself to be most fortunate to take part in the maiden voyage of this magnificent liner. But I must say that sea travel holds little appeal for me. I missed the comfort of my home in London and the company of my books. Perhaps even more, I missed long walks down London streets, watching people from all walks of life going about their daily routines. And, of course, there were the street urchins, those delightful little adventurers who were so full of energy and dreams, despite their poverty and limited prospects for the future.

I particularly remember the day I caught one of these enterprising tykes, all of eight years old, attempting to pick my pocket. I told him that I would not send him off to jail if he would accompany me to visit a friend. The friend in question was Inspector Wiggins of Scotland Yard, who was once himself a child of the streets. It just so happened that when the attempted theft occurred, I was on my way to have tea with the inspector.

We met at a small café along the Victoria Embankment. Wiggins
was not in uniform, but the boy was quite skilled at identifying police officers. I thought for a moment that the young man was about to bolt. But a smile from Wiggins and the offer of a custard pastry encouraged him to give us a little more time from his busy day.

After tea, and second helpings of pastry, Wiggins took the boy for a walk along the Embankment. I do not know what was said during that conversation but I do know that the boy has stayed out of trouble. I know this because Wiggins looks in on him from time to time.

These things occurred to me as I stood in my cabin, preparing to meet Futrelle for breakfast. At Holmes’s suggestion, I had knocked on the writer’s door before retiring for the evening. He gladly accepted my invitation to assist in the investigation. His wife, after three full days of activity, had expressed a desire to sit quietly, reading. She willingly gave him permission to play the detective, provided he returned in time to dress for dinner.

Futrelle and I were to spend the day in the second- and third-class sections of the ship, making discreet inquiries. Our orders from Holmes were simply to ‘go everywhere, see everything, and overhear everyone’. Admittedly, our prospects for gleaning useful information were limited. But then, where better to hide the documents than a place far removed from the area where they were stolen? There was also Futrelle’s earlier sighting of Brandon unlocking a gate and entering the third-class section. The captain had said this was completely unauthorized and threatened to place Brandon under arrest. But at Holmes’s request, he agreed simply to assign a crew member to keep Brandon under observation.

Miss Norton’s assignment was to work with the captain and crew in conducting the investigation into Bishop’s death. That included the continued interrogation of the stoker, Strickley, who had thus far refused to divulge any information. He continued to insist that he had
nothing to do with the break-in.

Holmes declined to discuss the details of how he planned to spend his day. But he did say that he had several lines of inquiry to follow involving our suspects. His most telling comment was that Miss Norton and I should not expect to see Commodore Winter until evening. From this I deduced that Holmes was about to abandon temporarily his disguise as the crusty commodore, and assume some new and less conspicuous identity.

At half past eight, I had just adjusted my tie and was brushing the jacket of my oldest brown suit, when I heard a knock at the door. I was surprised to find Miss Storm-Fleming outside, looking warm and comfortable in her golden brown dress and yellow woollen shawl.

‘Good morning, Doctor Watson. I would like to talk to you for a few minutes, if I may.’

‘Miss Storm-Fleming, please forgive me but I was just leaving for a meeting. Perhaps you would care to join me on deck for a moment, before my appointment?’

She answered my invitation with a mischievous smile. ‘I brought a visitor,’ she said.

‘A visitor? I don’t...’

She looked down the corridor to her right and beckoned to her guest. A moment later, a small boy came forward and stood by her side. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a matching blue cap.

‘This is my friend, Tommy,’ Miss Storm-Fleming said. ‘Tommy, meet Doctor Watson.’

Attempting to conceal my puzzlement, I extended my hand to the short, young gentleman. ‘How do you do, young man?’

He looked at me, wide-eyed, and then back at Miss Storm-Fleming. Then, after placing the book he was carrying under his arm, he reached out and shook my hand.

‘I hope we do not disturb you, but I told Tommy earlier that I would introduce him to you, and this seemed as good a time as any.’

With a burst of energy, Tommy suddenly chose that moment to overcome his shyness.

‘Doctor Watson, I have read everything you have written about Mr Holmes! I brought this book, hoping you would sign it for me. My mother said I should not bother you, but...’

‘No bother at all, Tommy. How old are you?’

‘I’m ten now, eleven next month.’ He hesitated for a moment, looking down at his book, and then up at me. ‘Do you suppose Mr Holmes would let me join his Baker Street Irregulars? I’m really observant and he wouldn’t even have to pay me...’

‘I am afraid all those adventures happened a long time ago, Tommy. All of the Irregulars are grown up now. One even works for Scotland Yard.’

Tommy’s excitement crumbled as he listened to the bad news.

‘But I am sure that if Mr Holmes ever decides to recruit a new team of Irregulars, he would be proud to include a fine young man like you. I will mention your name to him.’

‘My surname is Roberts. I live in London with my parents when I am not at school.’ He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a wrinkled business card. ‘This is my father’s card, from where he works. If you contact him, he will give me the message. He reads your books too.’

‘Cox & Co., a very fine bank. I go there myself... Let us see, what have you here?’ I took the book he was holding and walked over to the dressing table.
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, I remember that case very well. Have you read it?’

‘Twice, I’m on my third time now.’

I opened the book to the title page and began to write. ‘Three times!
I am flattered. How do you find time to play with your friends, with all this reading?’

‘On this trip, he has been standing by the rail most of the time, watching the children play down on the third-class deck,’ said Miss Storm-Fleming.

‘A little bored, Tommy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, me too sometimes.’ After completing the inscription, I returned the book to him. ‘There you are, young man, and I will let you know if Mr Holmes needs any help.’

‘Why don’t you run along now, Tommy,’ said Miss Storm-Fleming. ‘I need to speak to Doctor Watson. And don’t forget to say, “Thank you”.’

‘Thank you, very much, Doctor Watson.’

‘My pleasure, Tommy.’

The boy turned and walked towards the door.

‘Oh, Tommy, before you leave, what is the number on the outside of my cabin door...without looking, now?’

‘Why, C28, sir.’

‘Excellent! You are a very observant young man. You will make a fine detective.’

The boy grinned from ear to ear, grasped his book tightly and skipped out of the door.

‘Thank you, Miss Storm-Fleming, for that introduction. I approve of your taste in friends. Shall we walk towards the hall?’

‘I made friends with you, did I not?’ She smiled, but her face lacked the energy and spirit that I had seen so often over the past few days. I could tell that at this particular moment, she was very much in need of a friend.

‘I understand that you and Murdoch found one of the rounds fired from your gun. Did you have any luck in finding the other?’

‘No, but they are still looking.’

‘Do not be concerned — I think the captain believes you. He is suspicious, though, that you may not be telling him everything.’

‘And what is your opinion, Doctor Watson?’

‘I must confess, I sense there is something more.’

Miss Storm-Fleming lowered her eyes and then folded her arms, as if feeling a chill in the air. After a moment’s contemplation she began walking faster along the hall. ‘If there is something more, do you trust me enough to remain my friend?’

‘Indeed, Miss Storm-Fleming. I would also like to think that you trust me enough to confide in me.’

‘And is there anything
you
would like to tell
me,
Doctor Watson?’

We turned to each other and smiled.

‘Whatever your deep, dark secret, take care,’ I said. ‘You have had more than enough adventure for one voyage. Try to be a typical passenger, for a change.’

‘Why, Doctor Watson, I would never dream of being typical,’ she replied, as she hastened her step away from me.

Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of perfume and the warmth of her smile.

T
HE
M
ORNING OF
S
ATURDAY
13 A
PRIL
1912

O
atmeal porridge, vegetable stew, fried tripe and onions, Swedish bread and marmalade and, of course, tea. The third-class dining room offered a hearty breakfast and delightful conversation. Futrelle and I had seated ourselves at a long table, next to a Scandinavian family. Jan and Lise Svensson, their son and two daughters were on their way to Massachusetts, where Jan had a position assured on his brother Sven’s fishing boat. Both Jan and Lise were fluent in English and their children were rapidly developing a basic knowledge of the language. In their early thirties, the couple had mixed feelings about leaving their home and loved ones. But Sven’s letters had gone into detail about how living in America had offered opportunities for his own children, and how happy his family was. And, above all else, Jan and Lise wanted a better life for their children.