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acdholmesfestTitle: Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of King William’s Diamonds
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only_po
Author:sherlockholmes
Rating: PG (mentions of drug use)
Characters: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade & a variety of supporting players and villains - one whose name I’m sure you’ll recognise...
Warnings: None
Summary. An old acquaintance of Doctor Watson comes to him with a terrible problem -- he has a haunted wardrobe in his flat and it’s threatening to kill... Obviously, this is a case for none other than the great detective, Sherlock Holmes!
Disclaimer/Author Notes I tried to keep this as close to canon as possible, but I did make a few stylistic choices: I went with the William S. Baring-Gould timeline. In the canon, Mary calls Watson ‘James’ & I’ve kept that. Special thanks to my Beta readers (The A-Team) [redacted at author's request]. I love it when a plan comes together.
PART I
Beneath several copies of Holmes’ monograph on the polyphonic motets of Orlande de Lassus, I uncovered my papers on a very intriguing incident that that I had not yet managed to record. In the upheaval that followed what I expected to be my friend’s final case (which unfolded on the cliffs near Reichenbach falls), I had thought the notes permanently lost. Quite pleased to be mistaken, I immediately set about preparing the case for publication.
A great number of our adventures begin in much the same fashion: Baker Street receives an unexpected stranger (or, on the rare occasion, a familiar Inspector) who has met his wit’s end because of some odd mystery or crime. Indeed, as I write this I recall the strange perdicament that happened immediately previous -- which I committed to the page under the title Beryl Coronet. Distress can do terrible things to the most rational of men, and far more to those already imbalanced, as I was soon to find out.
The weather in January of 1891 was dreadfully damp, and in the weeks that followed Christmas I had seen no less than fifteen patients who’d taken ill with violent coughs and chills. Even I was not immune to the bitter cold as it caused my old war wound to stiffen and ache. Retiring in the evenings to the warmth of my wife and our bed was my only relief. It was then quite frustrating, when on the morning of the 21st, I was woken in the hours that preceded dawn by angry, continuous knocking at the front door of my Paddington District practice.
I did my absolute best to ignore the incessant disturbance until my wife could bear it no longer. She shook me hard enough to dislodge the pillow (beneath which I had buried my head in an attempt to block the noise).
"What if it’s Holmes, James?" she said, her voice tired but certainly more alert than I felt.
"Holmes?" I murmured in reply. "Of course it’s Holmes, at this hour it could be no one else."
"You should answer the door," she said.
"If I leave him long enough," I began, adjusting my pillow to sink beneath it once more, "he’ll pick the lock and be in himself."
My wife’s hand was on the pillow in an instant and she pulled it from my grasp. I opened my eyes and looked at her in the dim, grey pre-morning light. Her eyebrows were raised and her mouth drawn up in a thin, dissatisfied line. I knew if I remained in my bed I would be faced with something much colder than a winter morning. Thus, with a heavy heart, I swung my feet over the mattress in search of my slippers.
So sure was I that my visitor was Holmes that I did not even take the time to draw back the curtain. Therefore, I was quite surprised to throw back the door to find another man entirely. He looked quite shaken and disturbed, and I could only hope it wasn’t due to the sight of me in my dressing gown. Nevertheless, I immediately straightened and tightened my belt.
"Sorry to trouble you at this hour, Dr Watson," the gentleman said, removing his hat and holding it respectfully in front of himself with shaking hands. He was a short man, slave to hollow cheeks and dark rings beneath deep-set eyes which gave him an almost skeletal appearance.
By no means am I as skilled in observation as my dear Holmes. It took me a moment to realise that I actually knew the man standing before me, though his appearance was significantly changed from the last time I had seen him. His name was Thomas Emery; he and I were fellow students of medicine before I entered the service. When I knew him he had been a brilliant, handsome young man with all the promise of a successful future -- but fate can be unfortunate for some. Not long after returning to England, I had learned by way of Stamford’s gossip that poor Emery had started to favour his access to morphine over his work. Stamford said that since then, Emery’s situation had taken a turn for the worse; he was now living in a small cellar flat on the north side of the Thames river, near the London bridge, and was no longer practising medicine.
His clothes, I realised upon quick inspection, were high-end but the fashion of a few years previous and many times mended. This information suggested to me that the man was either taking great care to preserve what money he had or else squandering his earnings on vice. His grey complexion seemed to imply the latter. I stepped back from the door to welcome him in. We had been friends once, after all, and regardless of his current station I believed that friendship should always be honoured.
"How can I help you, Dr Emery?" I said, "and please come inside. The weather isn’t fit."
Emery looked surprised to be recognised, and stepped over the threshold humbly. I will admit that I had already decided on the reason for his visit, and was trying to decide whether I would deny his request or supply his needs. The hour was an unfriendly one, and I wanted nothing more than to return to my room. I was still weighing the options as we made our way to the glowing remains of last evening’s fire. I remained standing, but offered him a seat.
He seemed nervous and for a moment or two, he attempted to ask me simple questions about my practice and my wife as though this were an average social call. The early hour did not afford me much patience, and while I fielded his inquiries I made it quite clear that I wanted to know the purpose of his visit immediately.
"You’ll think me mad," Emery said at last, clutching his bowler so tightly I nearly worried about its fate. "You truly will. For the last -- I think it’s four months, perhaps more, I’ve been -- well, they’re voices I’ve been hearing. Late at night, or sometimes in the day when I happen to be home in my flat. Voices, they’re coming from the cellar walls."
For the first time in my life, in that very moment, I found myself wishing that it had been Sherlock Holmes that roused me from my bed before five in the morning. Whatever reason he might have had, I knew it would be better than what I was currently facing.
"I don’t mind it," Emery added quickly. "The voices, I mean. Mostly they’re murmurs, bangs or clacks that sound almost like chains to me. Sometimes, sometimes it’s only laughter and I can ignore it. But more recently, it’s changed. More recently--"
"Dr. Emery," I said, loudly enough to make him jump. I wish I could record that I had treated this poor man much more gently, but I would never shy from the truth even if it did set me under a questionable light. "I find myself strained to believe that these voices are anything beyond your imagination. Could your hearing them be the result of the medications you ingest?"
My guest looked injured by my words, but only in the way that a man who was accustomed to these accusations might. He shook his head and looked at me with a gaze that I remembered from my youth, when Emery had been such an ideal pupil many of us strove to follow his example. "I know myself, Watson, and what I’ve done. I also know what I’ve heard and I would not be here at this hour were it not important. The voices, the spirits or whatever they might be, last night they spoke of murder! Murder of---of someone--I’m not sure, but I swear the name I heard was Edward."
Even then I only thought Emery to be distressed in the brain, that the chemicals had finally undone him in all the ways I feared they might. There were many nights when I still occupied rooms in Baker street that I would sit in my chair and watch Holmes drift with the assistance of cocaine or morphine and wonder if it might be the one time too many; that his unrivaled mind might not return unscathed from that dangerous induced journey.
My familiarity with the habits of Sherlock Holmes lead me to be sympathetic to my old friend’s plight, and after a few more minutes of his insistence that he was hearing something in his cellar I agreed to escort him home -- if for no reason than to offer his unsteady mind some reassurance. Perhaps if he witnessed that I could not hear what he could, it might help him reconsider.
Within the next ten minutes I’d dressed, kissed my wife, and told her to expect me back within an hour. I joined my former friend in the cab that he’d left waiting outside. The ride from Paddington to London Bridge was mostly silent. I was pleased that the streets were still mostly deserted, though quite jealous of all those who had the luxury of remaining in their beds. I dreaded the day of business that awaited me upon my return, knowing that I would not be rested when I met my appointments.
Upon our arrival, Emery wasted no time leading me down the steps into his home. It was large, with a low ceiling and the sort of chill that could be expected from a room beneath ground at that time of year. It was a bit untidy, but by no means the victim of the infuriating levels of clutter I find in Baker Street regularly, and was sparsely furnished with the writing desk and bed pressed close to the stove and entrance, which left nothing in the back half of the room save for a large wardrobe that looked old and worn with water damage. This singular piece of furniture was pressed up against the farthest wall and it was at this that Dr. Emery pointed.
"They always come from there," he said, making another plain gesture towards the wardrobe. "The voices, I mean. I’ve moved everything away because at night, at times, it’s so loud I can’t sleep. But last night when they spoke there were more than there had ever been before -- I was curious, so I drew in and listened."
I lifted my walking stick to silence my friend, and then drew into the room -- fully intending to throw open the wardrobe doors and investigate it soundly. I had brought my stick along for this purpose, as I thought striking it might reassure the disturbed man. When I was a boy, sent to England from Ballarat for boarding school, I remember another in my room who was terrified of something non-existent beneath his bed. One of the prefects took a rugby stick to the imaginary creatures and this seemed to put the child at ease. I confess that it was my intention to employ the same tactic.
"I don’t hear anything," I said, after creeping across the floor. I reached forward to grab the door handle and froze when, suddenly, I heard a burst of laughter shriek out from inside the cabinet. I stumbled backward, unable to comprehend what had just happened. I had spent enough time at war to see and experience the worst of what humanity could do to itself, but those were disembodied voices that occupied Dr Emery’s furniture; I had no frame of reference as to what they might do, and the fright that shook through me rippled to the bone. Emery swears that I shouted, but the drugs have left his mind in no state that it ought to be trusted. Needless to say, were it a decent hour, I would have reacted with more rationality.
Without wasting a moment, I left the doctor in his cellar and hurried back to the cab. Faced with something as frightening and unexplainable as this, I knew there was but one thing I had to do: fetch Sherlock Holmes.
PART II
Although it had managed to creep past six by the time I reached Baker Street, I still expected to find my friend soundly asleep. The distance I’d put between myself and the London Bridge made me feel a great deal more at ease, and as I relaxed my mind by turning it to something lighter. The fact was simply that I was rather looking forward to disturbing Holmes in these early morning hours. Just harmless revenge for his always having the pleasure of rousing me at ungodly times. I was both surprised and disappointed when, upon entering our once shared flat, Holmes was not only awake but with company.
He sat in his blue dressing gown looking bright-eyed and pleased with an ample spread of tea and scones before him. At the other side of his breakfast table was Inspector Lestrade, looking disheveled, unhappy to be awake and as though he’d dressed as haphazardly as I had. As I walked in, Holmes turned to me and smiled.
"Ah, Watson! You’ve arrived just as I was explaining to Lestrade how important it would be to send for you! What luck!"
"Holmes, you must come at once," I said, and without wasting a moment I explained all that had brought me to Baker Street. I watched him as I spoke. Knowing him as well as I did I could tell by his changing expression that he found Emery’s strange wardrobe to be of great interest. The moment I mentioned hearing the voices myself, he leapt from his chair.
"That’s it! That’s brilliant, Watson." He smiled and pulled at the belt of his robe as he strode across the floor towards his bedroom. "Not a moment to lose! I’ll be with you in--"
"Stop it then!"
Both of us turned to look at Lestrade, who was wearing a look of utter annoyance. While I was telling my story, I had completely forgotten that he was even in the room -- but he made his presence known then, striking his hand against the table before speaking again. "You can’t see to that at all, you’ve other matters, Holmes."
"You’re right, I do." Holmes did not look at all deflated. "And I've enough hours to-day to see to both, I expect. If indeed there are two matters here."
"Pardon?" I said. I realised I was so consumed by the news I had to tell Holmes that only then did it occur to me how strange it was that Lestrade was already in Baker Street so early in the morning. I frowned, bemused. "Why are you here, Inspector?"
The Scotland Yarder shot a nervous look across the room to Holmes, who merely shrugged and waved his hand in the air carelessly. "You know my feelings on the matter, Lestrade," Holmes said before turning and disappearing into his bedroom.
"What matter is this?" In my mind, there was little that could outweigh the significance of discovering murderous ghosts in the cupboard of an associate, but I will perhaps always be the first to admit that Holmes worked in very mysterious ways. Still, it seemed strange to me that something was transpiring about which I was still unaware and it was with some scepticism that I awaited the Inspector’s response. I wondered if I had truly been gone from Baker Street so long that Holmes had taken Lestrade on as his new confidant in my stead. I had so much admiration for my dear friend and enjoyed having the opportunity to partake in his adventures with such enthusiasm that this was not a possibility I considered without jealousy.
"Ah." Lestrade slid from his chair and stood up, brushing the crumbs of his breakfast from his unpressed shirt. "I’m sure you’ve heard of Beauchemin jewelry on Upper Thames, "the inspector smiled, "being the married man you are, Watson. Well, as it stands Scotland Yard has reason to believe that the diamonds his offices been expecting, well, that someone means to get hold of these before him. They’re meant to arrive in a few hours time, and I came here see if Holmes heard anything on it."
I knew of Beauchemin, but I was also suspicious that Lestrade grossly overestimated my income.
"The truth is that I may have." Holmes emerged. He was dressed, straightening his collar and looking as though he’d been quite prepared for the day for hours and hadn’t disappeared into his bedroom only a moment before. He gave the Inspector a poignant look. "And I assure you that the matter will have my full attention as soon as I see to these voices that Watson has alerted me to."
"You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you at all, Holmes." The Inspector said, hands moving to his hips. "I know what you’re like with the time."
"You have my word that I--" Holmes began.
"I’ll be going with you to the Bridge then, and we’ll see about these ghosts. I trust myself to have a better eye on you than you would on your watch." Lestrade said, tapping the vest pocket into which his watch chain disappeared.
I half expected Holmes to protest or complain, because he rarely seemed to enjoy having the police around when he investigated matters -- especially when a situation arose that might require a certain law or three to be broken or utterly ignored. To be perfectly honest, I was surprised to see my friend’s face light up significantly when the Inspector announced his intention to join us.
"The cab is still downstairs," I said.
Holmes grabbed his hat and the three of us fell out onto the street. The return trip to London Bridge took longer than my initial journey because the city was slowly beginning to wake up. The smell of fresh goods and wood ovens rose from the bakeries, shop lights were turned on, and men and women began to populate the outdoors. I watched them all as I sat, cramped in a cab which was not built for three people. Though Holmes seemed comfortable enough, wedged between the two of us and humming something that fit the rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones.
When we finally arrived, Emery was outside waiting for us, looking chilled and ill-at-ease. The look of him reminded me of my earlier fear. At once, I felt near guilt at leaving him there on his own with the source of those voices, but I felt I’d beyond fulfilled my duty in bringing not only Holmes but a Scotland Yard inspector back with me. For that moment, due to my fraying nerves, I was equally as thrilled to have Lestrade's company as Holmes seemed to be.
"They’re all speaking again." Dr Emery shivered. "About the murder. They’re hushed, but they’re still talking. I’m positive..."
Holmes didn’t even seem to hear the troubled man -- he dashed down the stairs and into the cellar. I followed him down, reaching the doorway just as he threw himself upon the wardrobe, struggling to topple the wretched piece of furniture. I halted dead in my tracks, almost causing Lestrade to crash into me; my body recalled my earlier petrification and permitted me no farther.
Lestrade, who was in no way as restrained as I was, rushed around me to join Holmes in bringing over the wardrobe. I caught a glimpse of his face and knew that he was as confused by my friend’s methods as I, but as we both trusted him completely it was easy to follow his lead -- no matter how strange. Seeing the Inspector pulling at the cabinet was all I needed to pull my senses back to order, and I joined the other two men; together the three of us managed to bring it over onto its side. It hit the ground with such force that the wooden door closest to the floor cracked irreparably. Out of it tumbled a number of empty jars and cigar boxes, but Holmes took no interest in these. Instead, he climbed up onto the side of the wardrobe and crouched down to examine the wall behind.
"Holmes!" I said, "What in her Maje---"
But Holmes sliced his hand through the air to silence me and, after a moment, I heard why. The voices had returned, but they sounded quite different than they had before. Without the wardrobe in place to muffle them, they seemed quite normal and not at all as frightening before.
"Did you hear that?" One said, and my eyes fell on Holmes, searching him for a clue as to where it had originated as it continued. "That noise, that noise just now. Did you?"
"The trains," the other scoffed. "It’s always the trains, isn’t it? I can hardly think half the time with them trains."
"Ha! Ain’t the train’s fault you can’t think."
I stepped up onto the side of the overturned wardrobe, hand on my friend’s shoulder for support, and looked down at where he gestured. There, pressed low against the wall was a grate -- the noises, the voices, were coming from some chamber below the cellar!
Quickly, Holmes threw off his jacket and bent to stuff it into the bars so that anything we said would not travel down to the ears below.
"It’s just as I suspected!’ Sherlock said, dismounting from the side of the the wardrobe with an elegant leap. "Yes, it’s all quite clear to me now."
Lestrade and I exchanged glances. The Inspector rolled his eyes, and I turned back to address my friend. "Is it? Excellent Holmes, surely. But to what on earth are you referring?"
"Oh Watson," said Holmes. "It’s a wonder I manage to accomplish anything given how often I must supply you with explanations. But there isn’t time now, so I’ll enlighten you on the way. Come along as well, Inspector, on this rare occasion you might prove yourself useful. We’ll go on foot--we’re only a few paces from Arthur street."
The three of us made for the door, but before we reached it, Holmes doubled back to clasp Dr Emery’s arm and offer him a firm handshake. I couldn’t quite read the expression on the other man’s face, but I assumed he felt both relief and embarrassment at the discovery of the true nature of the voices.
"Doctor," my friend said, still clutching tightly to the other man’s hand. "You have done me a great service today, one that I won’t soon forget." Then, the detective leaned in closer to Emery: "And might I suggest a seven percent solution of---"
"Holmes!" Lestrade and I shouted in unison.
PART III
We were halfway to our destination when Lestrade stopped with a gasp. Both Holmes and I turned to look at him as he exclaimed with a shout of victory: "By George! It's the trains, of course!"
The Inspector jogged the short distance to catch up with Holmes, looking more pleased than ever before. "The South London railway moves beneath Upper Thames street before it travels under the river to to the Borough station. That means--"
"It means that when dear Watson came to me with his tale of voices, I knew exactly what the thieves had in mind: to use the underground as a way of overtaking the delivery of diamonds. I had, of course, already researched the name Beauchemin in my index and knew that the head jeweller’s name was Emmett, thus when Watson announce that his wardrobe ghosts meant to murder someone by the name of Edward, there was no doubt in my mind that what we had on our hands was no coincidence."
"But what were they doing beneath Emery’s cellar?" I exclaimed. With all the assistance that Holmes had offered the Inspector in the time that I’d known them both, it was easy to forget that Lestrade was a detective himself and in infrequent moments such as these he even managed to prove it.
Holmes’ elation for Lestrade’s deduction seemed to dissipate, and he nodded in response to my question. "This little detail is troublesome at best. It is my hope that we’ll uncover that mystery once we’re underground."
"Do you mean to tell me we’re going down into the tunnels?" Lestrade said.
"Yes, yes of course that is what I mean." He gave the Inspector a playful tap on his cheek. "Why else would I have asked you along, Inspector? While your mind might slow my process, I’m certain your badge may, in this case at least, speed it up!"
We hurried on to King Williams station, knowing well that we were racing time. We had no way of knowing when the heist of diamonds might occur, or how immediate the threat on Emmett Beauchemin’s life truly was. As always, I was acutely aware that I was far past the time I had told my wife that I would be returning. I considered myself an incredibly lucky man to have found a woman so understanding of my unreliability due to my other duties, when Holmes required me, and I trusted that my practice would be in her able hands until I returned.
Holmes was correct in thinking that Lestrade’s presence would be crucial. He was able to stall the train and gain us access to the tunnel within a matter of minutes. I had only managed to take the train two or three times since it opened to the public a month previous. I will admit that Mary and I took it for the novelty of trying something new the first time, but it did prove a quicker mode of transportation when I needed to visit a patient on the south side.
Walking into the depths of the tunnel and seeing the walls dance and shift in the flickering light of our oil lanterns was quite different from sitting on one of the inward facing benches on board one of the carriages, looking out the small rectangle windows at the strange lights and shapes that rushed by as the car moved forward. The atmosphere was altered considerably. Holmes, ahead of us both, ran his hands along the wall and spoke to himself as he went. He stopped suddenly and turned, bringing the light to his face -- he looked practically vampiric in the distorted shadows. "Quickly, come here, the both of you."
We hurried forward to see what he’d found. There before us was a space less than three bricks wide and curved in such away that unless a man had been searching with a hand upon the wall, they might walk along past without realising it was there at all. Holmes put the light in the length of his arm but frowned. "We are too far for this passage to lead anywhere near Emery’s cellar. Which could only mean that there might be any number of these channelling off from the main tunnels. An entire underground network...." Holmes pressed his lips firmly together, his fingers travelling up the stone. I could tell that he was lost deep within his own thoughts and ponderings and for a moment I thought I might need to say something to bring him back to the task at hand when Lestrade cut in to do it for me.
"Oy," he boomed. "I don’t quite know how long it’ll be before they forget we’re down here and send a train -- so we ought to get on."
"Right, of course." My friend rocked forward, planting his weight on the front of his shoes and lifting his heels from the ground once before spinning on his feet and taking off farther down the tunnel.
Without the landmarks of London that I was used to, the trip seemed much longer. I couldn’t imagine how Holmes managed to keep his bearings in the darkness, but I did trust him. Soon we came across another small indent, much like the first. We lined up single file, Lestrade slid in first with Holmes behind and myself bringing up the rear. My hand tightened around the shaft of my walking stick as I prepared for whatever mystery lay ahead.
I suppose that what I had expected was a den of criminals and thieves, spread out over maps of London’s hidden underground web. I was shocked to instead push into a dimly lit room with a single, elderly man hunched over in his chair. He lifted his head, looking warily at Holmes and Lestrade before turning his attention towards myself.
"Who are you?" He said in a dry voice.
"Police!" Lestrade said, "stay where you are!"
"I certainly shall." The man said, his voice calm as relief relaxed his features. "Thank goodness, thank goodness you’re here -- I was certain I would be left to die!"
"He’s bound," Sherlock snapped, unable to keep the shock from his own voice. I turned to look at him, stunned. So rare was it that he and I were both on the same level -- and equally as confused -- that hearing such uncertainty in his voice sent a shiver of gooseflesh up both of my arms.
"Holmes?" Lestrade looked at him, clearly thinking the consulting detective’s tone to be as disturbing as I. The Inspector took a step forward to help the elderly man.
But Holmes would not budge in the direction of the captive. Instead he raised the lantern to look around the walls, as though he was sure there was something about the scene he had overlooked.
"Holmes?" the old man said, bent over in the shoulders and trembling with the weight of his years. He turned his head upwards, which was the only movement the ropes that held him tightly to the chair would allow. He ran his tongue over his cracked and dry bottom lip before he spoke again. The look of the man unsettled me greatly, but I dismissed it as the result of an exceptional day and listened as he spoke again. "Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock turned to the man, surprised to hear his name. "I am Sherlock Holmes."
"Then," the man said slowly. "Then I have something for you. Something I was told to give you--- I...."
Holmes wasted no time with pleasantries. He crouched over the elderly man, startling him mightily and demanded a name.
"Emmett!" he shouted, "Emmett Beauchemin! If--and if you’re Sherlock Holmes, this belongs to you. I was told to give it, here!"
He held out a small velvet bag which my friend took at once, open and tipped into his hands. I could see, as I drew closer with my lantern, a shimmer of diamonds spill out on his palm. Holmes sniffed and turned the bag over. Clearly spotting something else within, he nearly turned the diamonds out onto the floor until I offered my hand to catch the cascade of precious gems.
He stretched two fingers into the bag, pinched something and pulled it out: it was a simple white card, it contained no watermarks or other indications of where it had originated. The fibres themselves, Holmes would go on to later say, were as boring and bleached as Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. On one side there was nothing, and on the other in the finest handwriting I think I had ever seen, the following was inscribed:
te videbo mox
Carefully, Holmes replaced the card into the velvet bag and looked back at me like he was surprised to find me next to him. He swallowed hard and found a spot on the wall to focus his attention instead.
"Gentlemen," he said slowly. "I’m afraid to tell you both that the all the diamonds but these in our possession have been lost. I’m sorry."
Without waiting for either of us to respond, he dashed from the room leaving Lestrade and I down one lantern. Not knowing what else to do, I emptied the contents of my hand into the pocket of my vest to aid the Inspector in bringing the hostage out from the depths of the tunnel.
The train operator had alerted nearby officers walking their beat so that by the time we found our way back to the train platform, there were more men there to help us. Holmes wasn’t with them, and it shocked neither myself nor the Inspector that not one of the men had any recollection of my friend slipping by. It mattered little to me because I knew where to find him.
It wasn’t quite midday by the time I reached Baker Street, but my morning was so long that it felt much later. I left Lestrade with the old man he had found in the tunnel, but I could tell by his lack of interest in Emmett's interrogation that he thought the man to be a dead end. Secretly, I wondered if Lestrade simply believed that if Holmes claimed the diamonds were lost, there was no reason to assume otherwise. The Inspector was an excellent detective, and quite a few times I'd seen him attempt to present his own solutions for a variety of cases or dismiss my friend's wilder deductions as ridiculous. However, his admiration and respect for Holmes ran deep and his faith in the man's methods, no matter how eccentric, were practically religious.
Entering Baker Street, I nearly gagged on the thickness of tobacco that greeted me. Holmes was curled in his chair, half hidden in the fumes emitted by the pipe he held in one hand. He did not acknowledge my entrance, but after a moment he started speaking as though continuing a dialogue.
"I don’t understand it," he said between the pauses required for him to attend to the stem of his pipe. "How could anyone know that I would learn of those voices -- that Emery would lead to the necessary distraction? From what you said, the two of you were barely acquainted -- unless he was somehow an accomplice, but no -- no, his fear seems quite genuine. There was no murder, it was all a trick. Who would go to such lengths, Watson? Who could even be capable or have the influence to have underground passages built into the very structure of the underground tunnels?"
I was worried for my friend, for I had never seen Holmes quite so foiled. Failure was not within his repertoire and having some knowledge of his less than favourable habits, it troubled me that he might endanger his own health in light of these events. Instead of saying anything in response to him, I crossed the room to the windows and threw them open, hoping that cutting the smoke with some fresh air might do him well.
Standing there and looking down at the street, I noticed a hansom pull up outside. Lestrade stepped out quickly. I wish I could say that seeing him gave me some hope that Scotland Yard had managed to pull together a clue on their own to uncover the culprit, but the stern look on the man’s face as he moved to the door, letting himself in without bothering to knock, told me not to be so optimistic.
"Lestrade again," I called over my shoulder to Holmes, who groaned at the notion.
"Has my day not been plagued enough?" He stomped his feet onto the floor before rising from his chair.
The Inspector’s shoes sounded heavy as he made his way up the stairs. He flung the door open and stepped into the room looking strangely disappointed. It was as though he’d wanted to remain as sure-minded of Holmes’ abilities. That the idea that Holmes could be wrong about something -- follow the wrong lead or take a wrong turn -- wasn’t something he’d ever thought about.
But no matter how sure someone is of their ability and senses, occasionally they do follow the wrong tracks. During one of our other cases, The Sign of Four, Holmes and I enlisted the help of one of the greatest hunting dogs ever bred, and even he couldn’t tell the difference between the trail of creasote he was meant to follow and the same dark liquid spilled from another source. Mistakes happen to the best men -- and dogs, as it were.
"Beauchemin Jewellers were robbed, Holmes." Lestrade said. "While we were troubling about in the tunnels, Holmes, the shipment was meant to arrive and it never did."
"I was aware," Holmes snarled, "I hope you haven't come all this way just to tell me what I already know, Inspector."
Lestrade seemed to hesitate. I knew that he wasn't intimidated by my friend's terrible mood, but I imagined he had the same concerns for Holmes that I did and so perhaps worried what damage more unpleasant news might do.
"Matter of fact," the Inspector said, reaching into his Ulster. He rummaged into an interior pocket as he continued. "I have. At the jewellers, in the safe. We found a man -- dead. Emmett Beauchemin."
"That's impossible -- he was with us in the tunnel!" I said.
Lestrade pulled out what he was looking for and tossed it to Holmes, who snatched it from the air and brought it up to his nose to examine. I realised what it was immediately -- a costume wig. I'd seen Holmes with a great number of them when he had to disappear into disguise to speak to witnesses or move about the unsavoury areas of the city undetected. The colour and style of the wig matched the hostage we'd encountered in the tunnel.
Holmes seemed to calm a touch as he turned the wig in his hand before placing it gingerly on the arm of his chair like it was some kind of shapeless housecat. "I see. And where is he now?"
"Vanished," Lestrade said. "He was gone before I'd even left King William Station, I thought nothing of it at the time until I learned of the murder."
Holmes nodded again and turned away to look at the fire. We both stood watching him, utterly unsure of what to do. I had never seen my friend in a state quite like this. In the face of an unsolved murder and robbery I would never have expected Holmes to seem so uninterested. Unless, of course, he already knew the answer. I cleared my throat.
"Who is he, Holmes?" I asked.
"A problem, Watson." He plucked the velvet bag from where it rested on the table next to his pipe and pulled out the white note card from inside. He turned it over in his hand a few times before leaning forward and tossing it into the fireplace. "A final problem."
Recipient:
only_poAuthor:
sherlockholmesRating: PG (mentions of drug use)
Characters: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade & a variety of supporting players and villains - one whose name I’m sure you’ll recognise...
Warnings: None
Summary. An old acquaintance of Doctor Watson comes to him with a terrible problem -- he has a haunted wardrobe in his flat and it’s threatening to kill... Obviously, this is a case for none other than the great detective, Sherlock Holmes!
Disclaimer/Author Notes I tried to keep this as close to canon as possible, but I did make a few stylistic choices: I went with the William S. Baring-Gould timeline. In the canon, Mary calls Watson ‘James’ & I’ve kept that. Special thanks to my Beta readers (The A-Team) [redacted at author's request]. I love it when a plan comes together.
PART I
Beneath several copies of Holmes’ monograph on the polyphonic motets of Orlande de Lassus, I uncovered my papers on a very intriguing incident that that I had not yet managed to record. In the upheaval that followed what I expected to be my friend’s final case (which unfolded on the cliffs near Reichenbach falls), I had thought the notes permanently lost. Quite pleased to be mistaken, I immediately set about preparing the case for publication.
A great number of our adventures begin in much the same fashion: Baker Street receives an unexpected stranger (or, on the rare occasion, a familiar Inspector) who has met his wit’s end because of some odd mystery or crime. Indeed, as I write this I recall the strange perdicament that happened immediately previous -- which I committed to the page under the title Beryl Coronet. Distress can do terrible things to the most rational of men, and far more to those already imbalanced, as I was soon to find out.
The weather in January of 1891 was dreadfully damp, and in the weeks that followed Christmas I had seen no less than fifteen patients who’d taken ill with violent coughs and chills. Even I was not immune to the bitter cold as it caused my old war wound to stiffen and ache. Retiring in the evenings to the warmth of my wife and our bed was my only relief. It was then quite frustrating, when on the morning of the 21st, I was woken in the hours that preceded dawn by angry, continuous knocking at the front door of my Paddington District practice.
I did my absolute best to ignore the incessant disturbance until my wife could bear it no longer. She shook me hard enough to dislodge the pillow (beneath which I had buried my head in an attempt to block the noise).
"What if it’s Holmes, James?" she said, her voice tired but certainly more alert than I felt.
"Holmes?" I murmured in reply. "Of course it’s Holmes, at this hour it could be no one else."
"You should answer the door," she said.
"If I leave him long enough," I began, adjusting my pillow to sink beneath it once more, "he’ll pick the lock and be in himself."
My wife’s hand was on the pillow in an instant and she pulled it from my grasp. I opened my eyes and looked at her in the dim, grey pre-morning light. Her eyebrows were raised and her mouth drawn up in a thin, dissatisfied line. I knew if I remained in my bed I would be faced with something much colder than a winter morning. Thus, with a heavy heart, I swung my feet over the mattress in search of my slippers.
So sure was I that my visitor was Holmes that I did not even take the time to draw back the curtain. Therefore, I was quite surprised to throw back the door to find another man entirely. He looked quite shaken and disturbed, and I could only hope it wasn’t due to the sight of me in my dressing gown. Nevertheless, I immediately straightened and tightened my belt.
"Sorry to trouble you at this hour, Dr Watson," the gentleman said, removing his hat and holding it respectfully in front of himself with shaking hands. He was a short man, slave to hollow cheeks and dark rings beneath deep-set eyes which gave him an almost skeletal appearance.
By no means am I as skilled in observation as my dear Holmes. It took me a moment to realise that I actually knew the man standing before me, though his appearance was significantly changed from the last time I had seen him. His name was Thomas Emery; he and I were fellow students of medicine before I entered the service. When I knew him he had been a brilliant, handsome young man with all the promise of a successful future -- but fate can be unfortunate for some. Not long after returning to England, I had learned by way of Stamford’s gossip that poor Emery had started to favour his access to morphine over his work. Stamford said that since then, Emery’s situation had taken a turn for the worse; he was now living in a small cellar flat on the north side of the Thames river, near the London bridge, and was no longer practising medicine.
His clothes, I realised upon quick inspection, were high-end but the fashion of a few years previous and many times mended. This information suggested to me that the man was either taking great care to preserve what money he had or else squandering his earnings on vice. His grey complexion seemed to imply the latter. I stepped back from the door to welcome him in. We had been friends once, after all, and regardless of his current station I believed that friendship should always be honoured.
"How can I help you, Dr Emery?" I said, "and please come inside. The weather isn’t fit."
Emery looked surprised to be recognised, and stepped over the threshold humbly. I will admit that I had already decided on the reason for his visit, and was trying to decide whether I would deny his request or supply his needs. The hour was an unfriendly one, and I wanted nothing more than to return to my room. I was still weighing the options as we made our way to the glowing remains of last evening’s fire. I remained standing, but offered him a seat.
He seemed nervous and for a moment or two, he attempted to ask me simple questions about my practice and my wife as though this were an average social call. The early hour did not afford me much patience, and while I fielded his inquiries I made it quite clear that I wanted to know the purpose of his visit immediately.
"You’ll think me mad," Emery said at last, clutching his bowler so tightly I nearly worried about its fate. "You truly will. For the last -- I think it’s four months, perhaps more, I’ve been -- well, they’re voices I’ve been hearing. Late at night, or sometimes in the day when I happen to be home in my flat. Voices, they’re coming from the cellar walls."
For the first time in my life, in that very moment, I found myself wishing that it had been Sherlock Holmes that roused me from my bed before five in the morning. Whatever reason he might have had, I knew it would be better than what I was currently facing.
"I don’t mind it," Emery added quickly. "The voices, I mean. Mostly they’re murmurs, bangs or clacks that sound almost like chains to me. Sometimes, sometimes it’s only laughter and I can ignore it. But more recently, it’s changed. More recently--"
"Dr. Emery," I said, loudly enough to make him jump. I wish I could record that I had treated this poor man much more gently, but I would never shy from the truth even if it did set me under a questionable light. "I find myself strained to believe that these voices are anything beyond your imagination. Could your hearing them be the result of the medications you ingest?"
My guest looked injured by my words, but only in the way that a man who was accustomed to these accusations might. He shook his head and looked at me with a gaze that I remembered from my youth, when Emery had been such an ideal pupil many of us strove to follow his example. "I know myself, Watson, and what I’ve done. I also know what I’ve heard and I would not be here at this hour were it not important. The voices, the spirits or whatever they might be, last night they spoke of murder! Murder of---of someone--I’m not sure, but I swear the name I heard was Edward."
Even then I only thought Emery to be distressed in the brain, that the chemicals had finally undone him in all the ways I feared they might. There were many nights when I still occupied rooms in Baker street that I would sit in my chair and watch Holmes drift with the assistance of cocaine or morphine and wonder if it might be the one time too many; that his unrivaled mind might not return unscathed from that dangerous induced journey.
My familiarity with the habits of Sherlock Holmes lead me to be sympathetic to my old friend’s plight, and after a few more minutes of his insistence that he was hearing something in his cellar I agreed to escort him home -- if for no reason than to offer his unsteady mind some reassurance. Perhaps if he witnessed that I could not hear what he could, it might help him reconsider.
Within the next ten minutes I’d dressed, kissed my wife, and told her to expect me back within an hour. I joined my former friend in the cab that he’d left waiting outside. The ride from Paddington to London Bridge was mostly silent. I was pleased that the streets were still mostly deserted, though quite jealous of all those who had the luxury of remaining in their beds. I dreaded the day of business that awaited me upon my return, knowing that I would not be rested when I met my appointments.
Upon our arrival, Emery wasted no time leading me down the steps into his home. It was large, with a low ceiling and the sort of chill that could be expected from a room beneath ground at that time of year. It was a bit untidy, but by no means the victim of the infuriating levels of clutter I find in Baker Street regularly, and was sparsely furnished with the writing desk and bed pressed close to the stove and entrance, which left nothing in the back half of the room save for a large wardrobe that looked old and worn with water damage. This singular piece of furniture was pressed up against the farthest wall and it was at this that Dr. Emery pointed.
"They always come from there," he said, making another plain gesture towards the wardrobe. "The voices, I mean. I’ve moved everything away because at night, at times, it’s so loud I can’t sleep. But last night when they spoke there were more than there had ever been before -- I was curious, so I drew in and listened."
I lifted my walking stick to silence my friend, and then drew into the room -- fully intending to throw open the wardrobe doors and investigate it soundly. I had brought my stick along for this purpose, as I thought striking it might reassure the disturbed man. When I was a boy, sent to England from Ballarat for boarding school, I remember another in my room who was terrified of something non-existent beneath his bed. One of the prefects took a rugby stick to the imaginary creatures and this seemed to put the child at ease. I confess that it was my intention to employ the same tactic.
"I don’t hear anything," I said, after creeping across the floor. I reached forward to grab the door handle and froze when, suddenly, I heard a burst of laughter shriek out from inside the cabinet. I stumbled backward, unable to comprehend what had just happened. I had spent enough time at war to see and experience the worst of what humanity could do to itself, but those were disembodied voices that occupied Dr Emery’s furniture; I had no frame of reference as to what they might do, and the fright that shook through me rippled to the bone. Emery swears that I shouted, but the drugs have left his mind in no state that it ought to be trusted. Needless to say, were it a decent hour, I would have reacted with more rationality.
Without wasting a moment, I left the doctor in his cellar and hurried back to the cab. Faced with something as frightening and unexplainable as this, I knew there was but one thing I had to do: fetch Sherlock Holmes.
Although it had managed to creep past six by the time I reached Baker Street, I still expected to find my friend soundly asleep. The distance I’d put between myself and the London Bridge made me feel a great deal more at ease, and as I relaxed my mind by turning it to something lighter. The fact was simply that I was rather looking forward to disturbing Holmes in these early morning hours. Just harmless revenge for his always having the pleasure of rousing me at ungodly times. I was both surprised and disappointed when, upon entering our once shared flat, Holmes was not only awake but with company.
He sat in his blue dressing gown looking bright-eyed and pleased with an ample spread of tea and scones before him. At the other side of his breakfast table was Inspector Lestrade, looking disheveled, unhappy to be awake and as though he’d dressed as haphazardly as I had. As I walked in, Holmes turned to me and smiled.
"Ah, Watson! You’ve arrived just as I was explaining to Lestrade how important it would be to send for you! What luck!"
"Holmes, you must come at once," I said, and without wasting a moment I explained all that had brought me to Baker Street. I watched him as I spoke. Knowing him as well as I did I could tell by his changing expression that he found Emery’s strange wardrobe to be of great interest. The moment I mentioned hearing the voices myself, he leapt from his chair.
"That’s it! That’s brilliant, Watson." He smiled and pulled at the belt of his robe as he strode across the floor towards his bedroom. "Not a moment to lose! I’ll be with you in--"
"Stop it then!"
Both of us turned to look at Lestrade, who was wearing a look of utter annoyance. While I was telling my story, I had completely forgotten that he was even in the room -- but he made his presence known then, striking his hand against the table before speaking again. "You can’t see to that at all, you’ve other matters, Holmes."
"You’re right, I do." Holmes did not look at all deflated. "And I've enough hours to-day to see to both, I expect. If indeed there are two matters here."
"Pardon?" I said. I realised I was so consumed by the news I had to tell Holmes that only then did it occur to me how strange it was that Lestrade was already in Baker Street so early in the morning. I frowned, bemused. "Why are you here, Inspector?"
The Scotland Yarder shot a nervous look across the room to Holmes, who merely shrugged and waved his hand in the air carelessly. "You know my feelings on the matter, Lestrade," Holmes said before turning and disappearing into his bedroom.
"What matter is this?" In my mind, there was little that could outweigh the significance of discovering murderous ghosts in the cupboard of an associate, but I will perhaps always be the first to admit that Holmes worked in very mysterious ways. Still, it seemed strange to me that something was transpiring about which I was still unaware and it was with some scepticism that I awaited the Inspector’s response. I wondered if I had truly been gone from Baker Street so long that Holmes had taken Lestrade on as his new confidant in my stead. I had so much admiration for my dear friend and enjoyed having the opportunity to partake in his adventures with such enthusiasm that this was not a possibility I considered without jealousy.
"Ah." Lestrade slid from his chair and stood up, brushing the crumbs of his breakfast from his unpressed shirt. "I’m sure you’ve heard of Beauchemin jewelry on Upper Thames, "the inspector smiled, "being the married man you are, Watson. Well, as it stands Scotland Yard has reason to believe that the diamonds his offices been expecting, well, that someone means to get hold of these before him. They’re meant to arrive in a few hours time, and I came here see if Holmes heard anything on it."
I knew of Beauchemin, but I was also suspicious that Lestrade grossly overestimated my income.
"The truth is that I may have." Holmes emerged. He was dressed, straightening his collar and looking as though he’d been quite prepared for the day for hours and hadn’t disappeared into his bedroom only a moment before. He gave the Inspector a poignant look. "And I assure you that the matter will have my full attention as soon as I see to these voices that Watson has alerted me to."
"You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you at all, Holmes." The Inspector said, hands moving to his hips. "I know what you’re like with the time."
"You have my word that I--" Holmes began.
"I’ll be going with you to the Bridge then, and we’ll see about these ghosts. I trust myself to have a better eye on you than you would on your watch." Lestrade said, tapping the vest pocket into which his watch chain disappeared.
I half expected Holmes to protest or complain, because he rarely seemed to enjoy having the police around when he investigated matters -- especially when a situation arose that might require a certain law or three to be broken or utterly ignored. To be perfectly honest, I was surprised to see my friend’s face light up significantly when the Inspector announced his intention to join us.
"The cab is still downstairs," I said.
Holmes grabbed his hat and the three of us fell out onto the street. The return trip to London Bridge took longer than my initial journey because the city was slowly beginning to wake up. The smell of fresh goods and wood ovens rose from the bakeries, shop lights were turned on, and men and women began to populate the outdoors. I watched them all as I sat, cramped in a cab which was not built for three people. Though Holmes seemed comfortable enough, wedged between the two of us and humming something that fit the rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones.
When we finally arrived, Emery was outside waiting for us, looking chilled and ill-at-ease. The look of him reminded me of my earlier fear. At once, I felt near guilt at leaving him there on his own with the source of those voices, but I felt I’d beyond fulfilled my duty in bringing not only Holmes but a Scotland Yard inspector back with me. For that moment, due to my fraying nerves, I was equally as thrilled to have Lestrade's company as Holmes seemed to be.
"They’re all speaking again." Dr Emery shivered. "About the murder. They’re hushed, but they’re still talking. I’m positive..."
Holmes didn’t even seem to hear the troubled man -- he dashed down the stairs and into the cellar. I followed him down, reaching the doorway just as he threw himself upon the wardrobe, struggling to topple the wretched piece of furniture. I halted dead in my tracks, almost causing Lestrade to crash into me; my body recalled my earlier petrification and permitted me no farther.
Lestrade, who was in no way as restrained as I was, rushed around me to join Holmes in bringing over the wardrobe. I caught a glimpse of his face and knew that he was as confused by my friend’s methods as I, but as we both trusted him completely it was easy to follow his lead -- no matter how strange. Seeing the Inspector pulling at the cabinet was all I needed to pull my senses back to order, and I joined the other two men; together the three of us managed to bring it over onto its side. It hit the ground with such force that the wooden door closest to the floor cracked irreparably. Out of it tumbled a number of empty jars and cigar boxes, but Holmes took no interest in these. Instead, he climbed up onto the side of the wardrobe and crouched down to examine the wall behind.
"Holmes!" I said, "What in her Maje---"
But Holmes sliced his hand through the air to silence me and, after a moment, I heard why. The voices had returned, but they sounded quite different than they had before. Without the wardrobe in place to muffle them, they seemed quite normal and not at all as frightening before.
"Did you hear that?" One said, and my eyes fell on Holmes, searching him for a clue as to where it had originated as it continued. "That noise, that noise just now. Did you?"
"The trains," the other scoffed. "It’s always the trains, isn’t it? I can hardly think half the time with them trains."
"Ha! Ain’t the train’s fault you can’t think."
I stepped up onto the side of the overturned wardrobe, hand on my friend’s shoulder for support, and looked down at where he gestured. There, pressed low against the wall was a grate -- the noises, the voices, were coming from some chamber below the cellar!
Quickly, Holmes threw off his jacket and bent to stuff it into the bars so that anything we said would not travel down to the ears below.
"It’s just as I suspected!’ Sherlock said, dismounting from the side of the the wardrobe with an elegant leap. "Yes, it’s all quite clear to me now."
Lestrade and I exchanged glances. The Inspector rolled his eyes, and I turned back to address my friend. "Is it? Excellent Holmes, surely. But to what on earth are you referring?"
"Oh Watson," said Holmes. "It’s a wonder I manage to accomplish anything given how often I must supply you with explanations. But there isn’t time now, so I’ll enlighten you on the way. Come along as well, Inspector, on this rare occasion you might prove yourself useful. We’ll go on foot--we’re only a few paces from Arthur street."
The three of us made for the door, but before we reached it, Holmes doubled back to clasp Dr Emery’s arm and offer him a firm handshake. I couldn’t quite read the expression on the other man’s face, but I assumed he felt both relief and embarrassment at the discovery of the true nature of the voices.
"Doctor," my friend said, still clutching tightly to the other man’s hand. "You have done me a great service today, one that I won’t soon forget." Then, the detective leaned in closer to Emery: "And might I suggest a seven percent solution of---"
"Holmes!" Lestrade and I shouted in unison.
We were halfway to our destination when Lestrade stopped with a gasp. Both Holmes and I turned to look at him as he exclaimed with a shout of victory: "By George! It's the trains, of course!"
The Inspector jogged the short distance to catch up with Holmes, looking more pleased than ever before. "The South London railway moves beneath Upper Thames street before it travels under the river to to the Borough station. That means--"
"It means that when dear Watson came to me with his tale of voices, I knew exactly what the thieves had in mind: to use the underground as a way of overtaking the delivery of diamonds. I had, of course, already researched the name Beauchemin in my index and knew that the head jeweller’s name was Emmett, thus when Watson announce that his wardrobe ghosts meant to murder someone by the name of Edward, there was no doubt in my mind that what we had on our hands was no coincidence."
"But what were they doing beneath Emery’s cellar?" I exclaimed. With all the assistance that Holmes had offered the Inspector in the time that I’d known them both, it was easy to forget that Lestrade was a detective himself and in infrequent moments such as these he even managed to prove it.
Holmes’ elation for Lestrade’s deduction seemed to dissipate, and he nodded in response to my question. "This little detail is troublesome at best. It is my hope that we’ll uncover that mystery once we’re underground."
"Do you mean to tell me we’re going down into the tunnels?" Lestrade said.
"Yes, yes of course that is what I mean." He gave the Inspector a playful tap on his cheek. "Why else would I have asked you along, Inspector? While your mind might slow my process, I’m certain your badge may, in this case at least, speed it up!"
We hurried on to King Williams station, knowing well that we were racing time. We had no way of knowing when the heist of diamonds might occur, or how immediate the threat on Emmett Beauchemin’s life truly was. As always, I was acutely aware that I was far past the time I had told my wife that I would be returning. I considered myself an incredibly lucky man to have found a woman so understanding of my unreliability due to my other duties, when Holmes required me, and I trusted that my practice would be in her able hands until I returned.
Holmes was correct in thinking that Lestrade’s presence would be crucial. He was able to stall the train and gain us access to the tunnel within a matter of minutes. I had only managed to take the train two or three times since it opened to the public a month previous. I will admit that Mary and I took it for the novelty of trying something new the first time, but it did prove a quicker mode of transportation when I needed to visit a patient on the south side.
Walking into the depths of the tunnel and seeing the walls dance and shift in the flickering light of our oil lanterns was quite different from sitting on one of the inward facing benches on board one of the carriages, looking out the small rectangle windows at the strange lights and shapes that rushed by as the car moved forward. The atmosphere was altered considerably. Holmes, ahead of us both, ran his hands along the wall and spoke to himself as he went. He stopped suddenly and turned, bringing the light to his face -- he looked practically vampiric in the distorted shadows. "Quickly, come here, the both of you."
We hurried forward to see what he’d found. There before us was a space less than three bricks wide and curved in such away that unless a man had been searching with a hand upon the wall, they might walk along past without realising it was there at all. Holmes put the light in the length of his arm but frowned. "We are too far for this passage to lead anywhere near Emery’s cellar. Which could only mean that there might be any number of these channelling off from the main tunnels. An entire underground network...." Holmes pressed his lips firmly together, his fingers travelling up the stone. I could tell that he was lost deep within his own thoughts and ponderings and for a moment I thought I might need to say something to bring him back to the task at hand when Lestrade cut in to do it for me.
"Oy," he boomed. "I don’t quite know how long it’ll be before they forget we’re down here and send a train -- so we ought to get on."
"Right, of course." My friend rocked forward, planting his weight on the front of his shoes and lifting his heels from the ground once before spinning on his feet and taking off farther down the tunnel.
Without the landmarks of London that I was used to, the trip seemed much longer. I couldn’t imagine how Holmes managed to keep his bearings in the darkness, but I did trust him. Soon we came across another small indent, much like the first. We lined up single file, Lestrade slid in first with Holmes behind and myself bringing up the rear. My hand tightened around the shaft of my walking stick as I prepared for whatever mystery lay ahead.
I suppose that what I had expected was a den of criminals and thieves, spread out over maps of London’s hidden underground web. I was shocked to instead push into a dimly lit room with a single, elderly man hunched over in his chair. He lifted his head, looking warily at Holmes and Lestrade before turning his attention towards myself.
"Who are you?" He said in a dry voice.
"Police!" Lestrade said, "stay where you are!"
"I certainly shall." The man said, his voice calm as relief relaxed his features. "Thank goodness, thank goodness you’re here -- I was certain I would be left to die!"
"He’s bound," Sherlock snapped, unable to keep the shock from his own voice. I turned to look at him, stunned. So rare was it that he and I were both on the same level -- and equally as confused -- that hearing such uncertainty in his voice sent a shiver of gooseflesh up both of my arms.
"Holmes?" Lestrade looked at him, clearly thinking the consulting detective’s tone to be as disturbing as I. The Inspector took a step forward to help the elderly man.
But Holmes would not budge in the direction of the captive. Instead he raised the lantern to look around the walls, as though he was sure there was something about the scene he had overlooked.
"Holmes?" the old man said, bent over in the shoulders and trembling with the weight of his years. He turned his head upwards, which was the only movement the ropes that held him tightly to the chair would allow. He ran his tongue over his cracked and dry bottom lip before he spoke again. The look of the man unsettled me greatly, but I dismissed it as the result of an exceptional day and listened as he spoke again. "Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock turned to the man, surprised to hear his name. "I am Sherlock Holmes."
"Then," the man said slowly. "Then I have something for you. Something I was told to give you--- I...."
Holmes wasted no time with pleasantries. He crouched over the elderly man, startling him mightily and demanded a name.
"Emmett!" he shouted, "Emmett Beauchemin! If--and if you’re Sherlock Holmes, this belongs to you. I was told to give it, here!"
He held out a small velvet bag which my friend took at once, open and tipped into his hands. I could see, as I drew closer with my lantern, a shimmer of diamonds spill out on his palm. Holmes sniffed and turned the bag over. Clearly spotting something else within, he nearly turned the diamonds out onto the floor until I offered my hand to catch the cascade of precious gems.
He stretched two fingers into the bag, pinched something and pulled it out: it was a simple white card, it contained no watermarks or other indications of where it had originated. The fibres themselves, Holmes would go on to later say, were as boring and bleached as Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. On one side there was nothing, and on the other in the finest handwriting I think I had ever seen, the following was inscribed:
Carefully, Holmes replaced the card into the velvet bag and looked back at me like he was surprised to find me next to him. He swallowed hard and found a spot on the wall to focus his attention instead.
"Gentlemen," he said slowly. "I’m afraid to tell you both that the all the diamonds but these in our possession have been lost. I’m sorry."
Without waiting for either of us to respond, he dashed from the room leaving Lestrade and I down one lantern. Not knowing what else to do, I emptied the contents of my hand into the pocket of my vest to aid the Inspector in bringing the hostage out from the depths of the tunnel.
The train operator had alerted nearby officers walking their beat so that by the time we found our way back to the train platform, there were more men there to help us. Holmes wasn’t with them, and it shocked neither myself nor the Inspector that not one of the men had any recollection of my friend slipping by. It mattered little to me because I knew where to find him.
It wasn’t quite midday by the time I reached Baker Street, but my morning was so long that it felt much later. I left Lestrade with the old man he had found in the tunnel, but I could tell by his lack of interest in Emmett's interrogation that he thought the man to be a dead end. Secretly, I wondered if Lestrade simply believed that if Holmes claimed the diamonds were lost, there was no reason to assume otherwise. The Inspector was an excellent detective, and quite a few times I'd seen him attempt to present his own solutions for a variety of cases or dismiss my friend's wilder deductions as ridiculous. However, his admiration and respect for Holmes ran deep and his faith in the man's methods, no matter how eccentric, were practically religious.
Entering Baker Street, I nearly gagged on the thickness of tobacco that greeted me. Holmes was curled in his chair, half hidden in the fumes emitted by the pipe he held in one hand. He did not acknowledge my entrance, but after a moment he started speaking as though continuing a dialogue.
"I don’t understand it," he said between the pauses required for him to attend to the stem of his pipe. "How could anyone know that I would learn of those voices -- that Emery would lead to the necessary distraction? From what you said, the two of you were barely acquainted -- unless he was somehow an accomplice, but no -- no, his fear seems quite genuine. There was no murder, it was all a trick. Who would go to such lengths, Watson? Who could even be capable or have the influence to have underground passages built into the very structure of the underground tunnels?"
I was worried for my friend, for I had never seen Holmes quite so foiled. Failure was not within his repertoire and having some knowledge of his less than favourable habits, it troubled me that he might endanger his own health in light of these events. Instead of saying anything in response to him, I crossed the room to the windows and threw them open, hoping that cutting the smoke with some fresh air might do him well.
Standing there and looking down at the street, I noticed a hansom pull up outside. Lestrade stepped out quickly. I wish I could say that seeing him gave me some hope that Scotland Yard had managed to pull together a clue on their own to uncover the culprit, but the stern look on the man’s face as he moved to the door, letting himself in without bothering to knock, told me not to be so optimistic.
"Lestrade again," I called over my shoulder to Holmes, who groaned at the notion.
"Has my day not been plagued enough?" He stomped his feet onto the floor before rising from his chair.
The Inspector’s shoes sounded heavy as he made his way up the stairs. He flung the door open and stepped into the room looking strangely disappointed. It was as though he’d wanted to remain as sure-minded of Holmes’ abilities. That the idea that Holmes could be wrong about something -- follow the wrong lead or take a wrong turn -- wasn’t something he’d ever thought about.
But no matter how sure someone is of their ability and senses, occasionally they do follow the wrong tracks. During one of our other cases, The Sign of Four, Holmes and I enlisted the help of one of the greatest hunting dogs ever bred, and even he couldn’t tell the difference between the trail of creasote he was meant to follow and the same dark liquid spilled from another source. Mistakes happen to the best men -- and dogs, as it were.
"Beauchemin Jewellers were robbed, Holmes." Lestrade said. "While we were troubling about in the tunnels, Holmes, the shipment was meant to arrive and it never did."
"I was aware," Holmes snarled, "I hope you haven't come all this way just to tell me what I already know, Inspector."
Lestrade seemed to hesitate. I knew that he wasn't intimidated by my friend's terrible mood, but I imagined he had the same concerns for Holmes that I did and so perhaps worried what damage more unpleasant news might do.
"Matter of fact," the Inspector said, reaching into his Ulster. He rummaged into an interior pocket as he continued. "I have. At the jewellers, in the safe. We found a man -- dead. Emmett Beauchemin."
"That's impossible -- he was with us in the tunnel!" I said.
Lestrade pulled out what he was looking for and tossed it to Holmes, who snatched it from the air and brought it up to his nose to examine. I realised what it was immediately -- a costume wig. I'd seen Holmes with a great number of them when he had to disappear into disguise to speak to witnesses or move about the unsavoury areas of the city undetected. The colour and style of the wig matched the hostage we'd encountered in the tunnel.
Holmes seemed to calm a touch as he turned the wig in his hand before placing it gingerly on the arm of his chair like it was some kind of shapeless housecat. "I see. And where is he now?"
"Vanished," Lestrade said. "He was gone before I'd even left King William Station, I thought nothing of it at the time until I learned of the murder."
Holmes nodded again and turned away to look at the fire. We both stood watching him, utterly unsure of what to do. I had never seen my friend in a state quite like this. In the face of an unsolved murder and robbery I would never have expected Holmes to seem so uninterested. Unless, of course, he already knew the answer. I cleared my throat.
"Who is he, Holmes?" I asked.
"A problem, Watson." He plucked the velvet bag from where it rested on the table next to his pipe and pulled out the white note card from inside. He turned it over in his hand a few times before leaning forward and tossing it into the fireplace. "A final problem."
no subject
Date: 2012-10-23 08:22 am (UTC)