The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (56 page)

“I merely wanted to meet you,” Holmes said, and stuck out his hand. “I am Sherlock Holmes. I am sure you read about my involvement in the case.”

She didn’t take the offered hand. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “The world’s greatest detective. I suppose I should be honoured. Well, I’m not. People like you, they make their way by focusing on the inadequacies of others.”

Then her gaze met mine. Those intense blue eyes sent a shudder through me that I couldn’t hide.

“You must be Ned Zaleski. The newspapers mentioned you, too. You were the one who led the investigation until Mr Holmes came and took it all away from you.” Her words had an accuracy that hurt. I had never mentioned my displacement to Holmes as a problem, but I had resented it. More than I ever expressed.

She smiled, slowly, as if we shared a secret, and I remembered that morning, so long ago it seemed, when Holmes took his first action on the case. The last body had been discovered near my home. And until that point, I had been the focus of the investigation, the cop made famous by Lorena’s work.

She knew. She saw. And worse, she understood.
Jealousy,
Holmes had said,
is, perhaps, the most destructive of human emotions.

Lorena Haas had allowed jealousy to destroy her. Who would know what remark one of her famous passengers made that set her violent emotion free. But once freed, it led her back to Santa Lucia, to her home, the place where coming in second had destroyed her life. It didn’t matter that Kimberly Marie Caldicott had not succeeded. What mattered was that in high school, Kimberly Marie had become a symbol of everything Lorena could not have.

A symbol she killed over and over again with the weapon of anger. A knife. Holmes had been right again. Without asking her a single question, he had managed to confirm both her guilt and her motivation.

He was right, and I despised him for it.

Lorena’s smile grew, and I had to look away.

Holmes half-bowed to her, ever the English gentleman. “I thank you for your time,” he said, and knocked on the door. A guard let us out of the room.

I said nothing to Holmes as we walked back to the car. My skin was crawling and I was deeply thankful that he was scheduled to leave with the Santa Cruz Time Wizards the following morning.

When he returned to his home, he would not remember me. But, like Lorena with Kimberly, I would always remember him.

FRIDAY, 6:05 P.M.

It should have ended there, but it didn’t. As I dropped him off at the chief’s house for a celebratory dinner that I was not planning to attend, a voice pierced through the static on my police radio, announcing a body had washed on shore from the Santa Lucia River. The body was that of a young girl, missing for two days, and she had obviously been strangled.

As the dispatch fed the information, I imagined the scene: the bloated, black-faced body, tongue protruding, the neck of mass of welts and bruises washed clean of evidence by the river herself. A homicide unrelated to any other that would probably go down in the books as unsolved.

Holmes was watching me. “Loose ends happen,” he said, “only when we permit them to exist.”

My mouth worked, but I said nothing. Who had appointed him my teacher, anyway? I was just as good as he was.

He took his pipe out of his pocket and then pulled out a pouch of tobacco. “What Miss Haas failed to realize,” he said, “is that such jealousies prevent us from seeing ourselves clearly. She already had the perfect revenge: a good income, several jobs that put her in touch with something your society values. She had an interesting life, but instead, she constantly compared herself to an imaginary figure from the past.”

My jaw was clenched. After this evening, I would never see the man again. Yelling at him would do me no good.

He filled his pipe, and put it in his mouth, then shoved the tobacco in his pocket. Then he reached out a hand. I shook it, more out of a desire to get rid of him than courtesy.

“I am quite sorry,” he said, “that I will not be able to take my memories of you back to Baker Street. You have one of the keenest minds I have ever encountered.”

Then he let himself out of the car, and walked up the sidewalk to the chief’s house. The face of Lorena Haas rose in my mind. History would never record what the young Kimberly Marie Caldicott had thought of her. Perhaps Kimberly looked at her with respect and admiration, or perhaps she had noted, once too often, a talent that went unused.

I could follow Lorena’s path, and make Holmes a hated icon on which I could blame all my inadequacies. Or I could move forward.

I glanced out the car window. Holmes stood on the steps, his pipe in his mouth, his cap pulled low over his forehead. I nodded once to him. He nodded back.

Then I wheeled the car onto the road, picking up my mike and reciting my badge number. I would go to the river, with no preconceptions, and forget about technology. I would look for details, and I would open myself to nuance.

I never wanted to see Holmes again, and there was only one way I could make sure that happened.

I had to stop relying on suppositions, experts, and computers. I had to sharpen my own mind, and think for myself.

THE CASE OF THE NETHERLAND-SUMATRA COMPANY, by Jack Grochot

PART 1: SHERLOCK HOLMES FOLLOWS HIS INSTINCTS

Chapter 1

A SUSPICION OF WRONGDOING

We were eating a satisfying breakfast in our flat on Baker Street—poached eggs, slices of baked ham, fried potatoes, and toast that our landlady, Mrs Hudson, graciously had served—when Sherlock Holmes reached for the cinnamon shaker to apply the spice to his bread. He held his hand over the container and uttered a comment that caught me completely off-guard.

“Watson, it is an atrocious affair that Parliament has conjured up, creating a shortage of this tasty powder and causing the price of it to increase three-fold,” he complained. “The matter merits investigation, and I am inclined to launch a probe before the day is out.”

“What on earth does Parliament have to do with creating a shortage of your cinnamon and raising the price?” I asked, incredulous that there was a connection.

“Are you not familiar with current events in our government? Did you not read about the actions of our esteemed leaders in last week’s
Times
?” he growled.

“I missed reading the newspapers for several days last week because of my long hours of work at the hospital. The surgeries in which I assisted were more pressing on my time,” I explained, somewhat perturbed by his lapse of memory.

“Well, then, Doctor, let me fill in the gaps,” Holmes continued. “For some unknown motive, members of Parliament enacted onerous tariffs on imported spices from the Dutch East Indies, precluding an abundant supply. And since demand for them remains steady, the basic tenet of economics dictates the higher cost of my cinnamon. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that some chicanery lay behind it.”

Holmes sprinkled his cinnamon on his toast, more sparingly than ever before, and finished his munching without further word.

Holmes spent the remainder of the morning and the early part of the afternoon on a scientific experiment at the acid-stained, deal-topped table, busily transferring liquids from one vial to another in an effort to determine the chemical composition of a remedy for dropsy, or edema, which the manufacturer advertised as a secret formula.

“More quackery, Watson!” he announced, finally. “It is merely a pill made of ground-up rice to absorb the moisture in a teaspoon of water—a demonstration on which the medicine huckster relies to fool the public. I shall include this discovery in the article I am writing on deceptive business practices. Now it is time to visit the commodity exchanges in the City of London to hear what the spice traders have to say about the wisdom of Parliament.”

It was a pleasantly warm day, in the spring of 1887, so we walked to the Underground and were soon aboard a train that took us swiftly to the financial district, where Holmes, not surprisingly, knew how to navigate the narrow streets and locate the multi-storied, stone building that the traders occupied. The hustle-bustle of the exchange floor was a sight to behold as men dressed in black or navy-blue suits scurried to and fro among booths crowded with more men, inundated with slips of paper. They all held pencils in hand, or tucked them behind their ears, and they shouted numbers at one another that only resulted in confusion to the observer.

Amid all the commotion, Holmes cornered one of the participants in the mayhem and briefly engaged him in conversation, then indicated with his hand for me to follow him to the stairs leading to offices on an upper level. We came to a suite which was marked Bynem & Company on the opaque window of a door on the third floor. We entered and were greeted by a comely receptionist, who never looked up from the ledger into which she was jotting figures, but asked our purpose in a friendly voice.

“The perfume you are wearing is quite subtle, yet alluring, and it becomes your natural beauty,” Holmes responded, charming her in his special way with women, and causing her to glance in his direction. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a consulting detective. This is my associate, Dr Watson. We have come without an appointment to talk with Mr Bynem about a pressing matter only he can help resolve. Is he available?”

“I am familiar with your exploits, Mr Holmes,” the secretary replied, “because I have read Dr Watson’s thrilling stories in the magazines. I am certain Mr Bynem can find a few minutes to spare.” She disappeared into an inner room and returned moments later to report that he would be pleased to make our acquaintance but was puzzled about what information he might possess that would assist in an inquiry.

“I shall request that Mr Bynem explain it to you in detail after we have gone on our way,” Holmes told her, aware that her curiosity had been aroused. She showed us to his large oak desk and introduced us as if she had known us for some time, then promptly returned to her station out front.

“To what do I owe this honour?” Mr Bynem began after his employee had closed the door to give us privacy.

Holmes minced no words in getting to the point. “I suspect something nefarious in Parliament’s imposition of burdensome taxes on spices originating in the Dutch East Indies,” he allowed to the trading firm’s president. “Tell me what you know of the situation. If anyone has inside knowledge, it would be someone such as yourself, Mr Bynem.”

“I welcome your question, Mr Holmes, because I, too, believe there was wickedness in the vote,” Mr Bynem alleged, “but I have no proof, only the opinion of our lobbyist, David Behrens. He is convinced that the majorities of both the House of Commons and the House of Lords were influenced by the speeches and the back-room dealings of one member in particular, Lord Ashton Pritchard. Lord Pritchard, you will recall, was mentioned two years ago during the notorious prostitution scandal, but he was otherwise untainted due to his cleverness.

“I can tell you that his powers have effectively shut down the importation of chili, turmeric, ginger, vanilla, cloves, allspice, cardamom, nutmeg, and pepper from the island of Sumatra, the fourth largest producer in the world.”

“And cinnamon,” Holmes added. “We mustn’t forget cinnamon.”

“Yes, cinnamon as well, of course,” Mr Bynem agreed. “But for what reason Lord Pritchard proposed the high tariffs is a mystery to us all.”

“You have provided me with important clues, Mr Bynem, and with them I can perhaps solve that riddle,” Holmes concluded, though not before asking him to share the content of their conversation with his receptionist. “She is on pins and needles to learn about it,” Holmes said offhandedly.

“Miss Miller is on a mission to learn every aspect of my business,” Mr Bynem remarked. “She is determined to become the first woman on the exchange. A woman speculator, imagine that!”

On the way out, Holmes stopped at her desk and she gazed admiringly at his gaunt face, eagerly waiting for him to say something charming again. “I think I have paved the way for you to be taken into Mr Bynem’s confidence,” he informed her. “I wish you well in your pursuits.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes, you are truly a considerate gentleman,” she answered politely, with a hint of flirtatiousness. “And please keep us apprised of Mr Holmes’s adventures, Doctor,” she said to me approvingly.

I correctly anticipated the next move Holmes would make, asking him if our destination was Whitehall to call upon the lobbyist, David Behrens.

“Precisely, Watson,” Holmes concurred. “Behrens will no doubt furnish the data to put us on the right scent.”

We rode in a landau with two tourists en route to Bond Street for a shopping excursion, then transferred to a cab that took us to Whitehall in central London, where row after row of government offices were mingled with those in the private sector. Lobbyists for all branches of the economy were located in a cluster of red-brick buildings that fronted on the main road. Behrens’s office was not difficult to find with the address Bynem had given to Holmes.

We were fortunate to encounter Behrens at his desk, because he was not, as usual, roaming the halls of Parliament, which was in recess for the Easter holiday.

Behrens was taken aback by Holmes’s direct approach and attempted at first to remain diplomatic, but when he heard Lord Pritchard’s name, he lost his composure.

“The man is a scoundrel to be sure,” he cried out to Holmes. “I must live with these politicians on a daily basis, and work with them to achieve compromises, but Lord Pritchard is impossible when it comes to cooperation. His agenda is purely personal gain and anything that interferes with that viewpoint is ignored. He represents only himself in matters before the legislators.”

“How did he come to promote the unprecedented tariffs on spices from Sumatra?” Holmes wanted to know.

“He argued in speeches that the commodity traders were not paying their fair share of taxes and suggested the high tariffs as a proper start,” Behrens remembered. “But behind the scenes he was coached by a tall, bearded, well-dressed man in his fifties with a crooked nose who kept his identity hidden. I know for a fact that the man wrote those speeches, because I witnessed him handing sheets of paper to Lord Pritchard, who carried them to the lectern and commenced his tirades.

“Despite the oratory about fair taxation, I would wager Lord Pritchard’s motive for supporting the increased tariffs was his own profit, if his history runs true to form.”

“That is a serious accusation,” Holmes commented, “and I shall keep it in the back of my mind as I continue my investigation. As for now, I shall concentrate on determining the identity of Lord Pritchard’s tall, bearded confederate with the crooked nose.”

“That will take some tricky legwork,” Behrens noted as we departed. “I hope your efforts bear fruit.”

“Unfortunately, my method will involve more drudgery than tricky legwork, although I pride myself in the latter,” Holmes offered, indicating he already had devised a plan.

Chapter 2

PERSISTENCE PANS OUT

Holmes decided to travel back to our diggings, because it was nearly the dinner hour and the administrative offices of Parliament were closing for the day.

“The bureaucrats have adjourned to the pubs by now, so I shall be forced to delay my research until tomorrow morning,” he grumbled as we made our way to the Underground.

We had foregone lunch because of the ample breakfast Mrs Hudson prepared, and I was famished when we alighted from the train at Charing Cross. Since we were so close to the Strand and our favourite restaurant, Simpson’s, I persuaded Holmes to stop for a meal, even though he rarely gave food a thought when immersed in a case.

Over a carafe of pinot noir before, we ate the dish featured on the blackboard. Holmes pondered the blemished reputation of Lord Pritchard and wondered how a character so soiled could have been rewarded with an appointment for life to the scarlet-robed body of lawmakers.

“It speaks poorly of the patronage system,” Holmes criticised, taking a sip of the delightful red wine. “The American revolutionary, Thomas Jefferson, accurately depicted an informed electorate as a barrier against threatening elements in a free society. Radical as the idea might seem, British nobles who control the fabric of the House of Lords Temporal would do well to heed Jefferson’s advice and permit the public to choose all the secular members of Parliament. Such a composition might reduce the ungodly price of cinnamon.”

While we walked back to Baker Street, we each enjoyed the flavour of Cuban cigars, purchased at the newsstand along with a copy of the evening
Star
that we later shared on the sofa in our sitting-room.

Afterward, I wrote a few paragraphs of an article about Holmes’s invaluable assistance to Scotland Yard in the Arnsworth Castle business, then grew suddenly tired and went up to bed. I left Holmes in his lavender dressing gown, sitting in the wicker basket-chair with his spindly legs outstretched and crossed, drumming his fingertips on his knees.

* * * *

When I awakened in the morning after a restful night, Holmes already had drained half the coffee pot and was attired in a jacket and tie. He poured a cup for me and urged that I hasten my pace so we could leave to catch the eight o’clock train to Whitehall.

“My research time will be cut in half if you would be good enough to join me in hunting the solution to the name of the mystery man, Watson. The offices at the Palace of Westminster open at nine, and we should be at the House of Lords Library when the door is unlocked because our day promises to be a long and arduous one,” he warned.

We arrived on the white marble steps of the library wing a few moments before an attendant swung wide the huge, carved-oak door and admitted us to a series of carpeted, ornate rooms containing large, heavy volumes of minute books dating back to 1295 A.D.

Holmes inquired of one of the record keepers seated at a long, polished desk where we could locate the most recent minutes, and he showed us to a shelf close to the entrance.

“Each volume represents a transcript of the proceedings for one session,” the gentleman whispered, “and this shelf divides the sessions from the beginning of the year.”

“Our task, Watson,” Holmes revealed, “is to peruse the events and mark down the calendar day on which Lord Pritchard made a speech about commodity brokers or tariffs. I’ll examine the minutes for one session while you take another. This little chore alone will take hours, and then we have still one more.”

We opened the first volumes on a counter near the shelf and began the labourious process of going page after page, until Holmes located an entry he sought on the fifth of February.

“Reading the verbatim rendition of his speech, I have concluded that Lord Pritchard is like a goose—he puffs up his chest and honks,” Holmes jested. “We have only two more months of verbiage to wade through before our task is complete.”

“I found one!” I said excitedly in a low voice when I came across a verbose oration on the fourteenth of February.

We finished the research at about one in the afternoon after discovering two additional windy orations on the twentieth of March and the third of April, the day the vote was cast to raise the tariffs.

By now, my empty stomach was gurgling, and I convinced Holmes that I would soon faint from hunger. He reluctantly conceded to break for lunch at an interesting tavern we had passed on our way to the library. We gobbled a roasted turkey sandwich and baked beans, then resumed the inquiry in a small room adjacent to the one where we had examined the minutes.