My Sherlock Holmes Read online

  The room was brightly lit. Harry was sitting there, shed of his vicar’s disguise, his bald spot and whiskers gone. He stood up as I entered, but gave no sign that he knew me. For all that I knew this was part of Mr. Holmes’s plan, it was a bit disconcerting to see him act like a stranger. Dr. Watson took a seat, and Mr. Holmes invited Mr. Moodie to sit also. “And, ma’am, will you please have a seat over there?” he said, indicating a chair next to Harry’s.

  When we were all seated, Mr. Holmes began to speak. “Mr. Moodie has generously made the long journey here from the Shetland Islands, to share with us his rather unique knowledge of certain events that took place in Edinburgh last year. Mr. Moodie, if you will?”

  Peter Moodie sighed and looked down at his rough hands, still holding his cap, then looked back up at us and with an air of resolution, began speaking in a Shetland burr so thick that even I had a hard time following it at times. “It’s a hard story to tell, and a harder one to have lived,” he said. “Some years ago, my only daughter, Elizabeth, left our home in Lerwick to go into service in Edinburgh. She was our youngest, the child of our old age, and very precious to us. She was a good girl, but life in the Shetland Islands had not prepared her for the ways of the city, and she fell prey to Sir Roderick Parr. He seduced her with promises of marriage and then deserted her when she told him she was with child. Her shame was so great that she almost starved rather than tell us what had become of her, but a friend heard of what had happened and sent word to us, and I traveled to Edinburgh and brought her and the bairn home. My poor child! She had been a pretty young woman, but when I found her, she was so pale and thin, and her spirit was broken, sir.” He stopped, and his hands clenched his cap as if they would tear it in two. “Lizzie and her child stayed with my wife and me, but she had been taken with the consumption while destitute in Edinburgh. Her baby sickened and died, and I thought it a mercy, God forgive me, given how it had come into the world. As for Lizzie, though we cared for her as best we could, the consumption took her last year. When she died, I lost my reason with grief. I had been a ship’s carpenter, but I was too old any more to go to sea, and all I could think about was finding Sir Roderick, if he was still alive, and destroying him like the dog he was. I’m sorry sir, but I get so angry when I think of him—”

  “It’s all right,” Mr. Holmes said. “Go on.”

  “All right. Well, Sir Roderick had some property outside Stirling, but at that time he was spending a great deal of time in Edinburgh. I found out where he was staying and began following him at a distance, finding out his movements and looking for the right moment to confront him. I soon found that he went almost every day to the office of the Yukon and Mackenzie Mining Company, and he seemed to spend a lot of time with another man from that office, named Stritch, who appeared from his accent to be from Canada. Parr was a big, rough bullying fellow, and Stritch seemed a little afraid of him.

  “As I stayed in Edinburgh and watched Sir Roderick, my mind began to clear, and I realized that he was nothing more than a swaggering bully, hardly worth hanging for and leaving my poor wife with even more grief. But at the same time I began to suspect that he and this fellow Stritch were up to no good. Sir Roderick spent a great deal of time drinking in a pub near the mining company offices, so I began spending time there, too. When he was in his cups, which was often, he let drop hints that he was making a great deal of money in some underhanded manner. ‘Lambs to the slaughter,’ he would say sometimes, laughing and flashing a roll of bank notes. Stritch would pull him aside and tell him to be quiet, but Sir Roder ick would laugh him off or get angry.

  “On seeing that Sir Roderick might be involved in something criminal, I thought I might get my revenge on him by turning him in to the law. But I needed to know more of what he and Stritch were up to. So I found work doing repairs and carpentry for the owner of the building. I could come and go as I please and was as good as invisible to the tenants.

  “I noticed that a third man sometimes visited the offices and that he was someone to whom Mr. Stritch appeared to be a subordinate. There was a narrow passageway behind Mr. Stritch’s office where I could stand and hear conversations taking place there. I took to listening when Sir Roderick visited, and when this third man showed up I went back there to see what he had to say to Stritch.

  “Stritch addressed the other man as Colfax, or sometimes Jack. He would report on how the business was going, and it seemed that they spent time going over some accounts. Stritch also complained about Sir Roderick. ‘I don’t care how much business he’s bringing in,’ he said. ‘He won’t shut up, and it’s only a matter of time before he brings the law down on us.’ The first time or two, Colfax listened and told Stritch, ‘Just try to keep him quiet as best you can.’ But one day Stritch said to him, ‘Parr is saying he wants a bigger cut of the take or he’s threatening to go to the police himself and say we’ve tried to swindle him.’ Colfax heard him out and then said, ‘We’ve got to get rid of him.’ It was as simple as that.

  A few mornings later, I came to work and found the Yukon and Mackenzie office empty and deserted, with not so much as a sign on the door to tell what had become of the company. At the pub that day I heard that Sir Roderick’s body had been found in an alley in the Old Town. He had been garrotted and his money and watch taken. But his watch was found a street or two, away. It had been tossed into a sewer, but the chain had caught in the grate.

  “With Sir Roderick dead, I had no need for revenge, and I determined to return home. But before I did I went to the police to tell them what I knew about the Yukon and Mackenzie, thinking I might be able to help the people whose money had been taken. But I made the mistake of telling the police how I’d come to know of Sir Roderick, and instead of believing me when I told them he was one of the villains, they nearly arrested me for his murder.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Moodie,” Mr. Homes said. “Now, I have two questions for you. First, I would ask you to take a good look at this man over here,” he said, looking over at Harry and motioning him to stand. “Did you ever see him during your stay in Edinburgh?”

  Mr. Moodie turned in his chair and looked at Harry from under his pale eyebrows, for a long moment. Then he turned to Mr. Holmes and said, “No, sir, I have never seen this man before tonight.”

  “Does he in any way resemble Colfax or Stritch?”

  “No, sir. Both of them were considerably taller, and not stout. Colfax, in particular, moved like a military man. I believe I once heard someone call him Major, in fact.”

  Mr. Holmes nodded, as if satisfied. “My next question to you, then, Mr. Moodie, is in the conversations that you heard among the men involved in the mining company scheme, did you ever hear the name Harry Hudson mentioned?”

  Mr. Moodie looked surprised. “Why, yes, in fact.” I felt as though my heart had stopped beating. I heard Mr. Holmes say, “Can you tell us what was said about him?”

  “Yes. It was in one of the conversations between Stritch and Colfax. Stritch was upset and said something about how the last time he had run a store with Harry Hudson, there had been none of these problems and no d——d—pardon my language, ma’am—amateurs. Colfax answered, ‘Well, you’re not working with Harry Hudson, you’re working with me, and you’ll do as I say.’”

  Mr. Holmes motioned for Harry to sit. “Thank you, Mr. Moodie,” he said. “In case you are wondering, this man is Harry Hudson, and the lady next to him is his wife.” Mr. Moodie, looking a bit baffled, nodded to us. Mr. Holmes continued, “Now, if I may ask you one more favor, would you be willing to come with me tomorrow on a visit to Inspector Gregson of the local constabulary and tell your story to him?”

  “Yes, sir, I would,” Mr. Moodie replied.

  “Well,” said Mr. Holmes, sitting back in his chair. “Mr. Hudson, if Gregson is an honest man, as I believe him to be, you should be free to remain here unmolested after tomorrow. For now, I think a glass of brandy would be a good end to this evening.. Watson, if you would be so kind as to br
ing the bottle and glasses. I think Mrs. Hudson is a bit indisposed.” Because I had fallen into Harry’s arms, overcome with joy and relief.

  That night, after Mr. Holmes had put Mr. Moodie in a cab to the hotel where he was staying, Harry put his clergyman’s disguise back on and left also. “I’m not sure I entirely trust Inspector Gregson,” he said as we stood together in the hallway. “If he goes sideways, I may have to skip again. But oh, Jeannie me love, let us hope for the best.” And he kissed me once and disappeared into the dark, foggy street.

  You can imagine what it felt like to wait the next morning, after Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson left to fetch Peter Moodie and keep their appointment with Inspector Gregson. To see Harry that one time and then perhaps never again was almost crueler than not to have seen him at all. I hurried back from my shopping and got hardly any work done, what with running to the front window at every sound of wheels or hooves on the street. It seemed an eternity before Holmes and Watson returned—and Harry was with them. I thought I would faint. Holmes asked us both up to his rooms, and once we were there, he explained, with an air of triumph, what had happened. “Our conversation went even better than I expected. I knew Gregson had corresponded with the police in Edinburgh regarding the case and was aware of Peter Moodie’s story and his identification of Stritch and Colfax. He had already begun to doubt the story told him by the informer, and Moodie’s statement made it clear to him that he had no case against Mr. Hudson. So he has promised that Mr. Hudson will not be arrested for Parr’s murder, assuming no further evidence appears implicating him in the Yukon and Mackenzie Mining Company scheme. As for Colfax and Stritch, they seem to have vanished from the face of the earth.”

  Harry looked thoughtful. “Well, I can swear that I had no more involvement in the Yukon and Mackenzie scheme than I have told you, so unless another peach comes along with a better lie, I’ll cause you no more trouble, at least about that. I hope that Stritch is all right. I’ve heard of Col fax. He’s a cold-blooded, dangerous character, and I don’t know why Stritch would have had anything to do with him. But Stritch was rather gullible—an odd thing to say of a confidence man, but true in his case. If I had to hazard a guess, Colfax is back in Canada, and I wouldn’t be surprised if poor Stritch was at the bottom of the ocean somewhere—Colfax isn’t kind to his partners in crime.”

  E.F. What a grim story!

  Mrs. H. Yes, indeed. But it brought my Harry back to me. And it turned out that Stritch was alive after all. He was nabbed in Canada, and confirmed that Harry had nothing to do with the mining scheme or the baronet’s murder. Colfax was never found, as far as I know.

  That day I cooked Harry’s favorite dinner, roast leg of mutton, potatoes, and turnips. I asked Peter Moodie to join us, but he had been invited to stop with an old shipmate and his family. But Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson dined with us, to celebrate Harry’s safe return.

  Harry said he was as pleased as could be to be tucking into a good dinner. “The grub in Italy is well and good, if you like that sort of thing,” he said, “but oh, how I missed good English meat and potatoes.”

  He told how Mr. Holmes had met him in Paris and gained his trust—“It was clear to me that he had done more than simply accept Gregson’s story. I was amazed at how much he knew about that affair in Edinburgh—a good deal more than I did, certainly.” At Holmes’s request Harry had had a photograph taken of himself and given it to Mr. Holmes, along with an address where Mr. Holmes could send a telegram to him. They agreed on a phrase by which Mr. Holmes would identify himself as the author. A few weeks later a telegram came from Mr. Holmes instructing Harry to come back to London. Harry did so, and you’ve heard the rest.

  Mr. Holmes told how he and Watson had traveled first to Edinburgh, to speak with the police inspector in charge of investigating the Parr homicide and the Yukon and Mackenzie fraud. He confirmed that no one he had questioned had described anyone resembling Harry among the schemers. Mr. Holmes already knew something about Mr. Moodie from his earlier correspondence, and his importance to the case became even clearer on talking with the inspector. So Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson took a steamer to Lerwick and spoke with Mr. Moodie in person. That interview further confirmed that Harry was not among the men involved in the scheme. Mr. Moodie kindly agreed to come with them to London, and Mr. Holmes sent his telegram to Harry before they left Lerwick.

  Dr. Watson ate better than he had in days, and went on about how good the mutton was and how ill he had been on their voyage. “It was a miserable passage,” he said. “I have never been so sick at sea. And when we got to the Shetland Islands, they were as barren and storm-swept an outpost as I have ever seen. Little stone huts on the moor, peat fires, cold and wind. Even the mutton tasted of fish. I was told the sheep eat seaweed, for lack of good grass to feed on, and their diet flavors their meat. I couldn’t eat it. But Holmes, here, hardly seemed to notice it.”

  Harry offered to pay Mr. Holmes for all he had done. “It may take some time, because I have to get back on my feet,” he said, “but you’ll get every shilling.” But Mr. Holmes wouldn’t take a penny. He said he’d be amply repaid if Harry would teach him some of the techniques of confidence men and give him introductions from time to time to people who might be useful to him. Harry was more than willing to help. In fact, he and Mr. Holmes became fast friends.”

  E.F. Really! How was that?

  Mrs. H. Mr. Holmes, of course, was a student of crime, and he found Harry and his trade intriguing. And Harry was a very intelligent man, though self-taught. They would talk together for hours, each smoking his pipe—especially after Harry left the trade and bought a wine shop with his friend Maurice—Mr. Delagnes. Harry taught Mr. Holmes a great deal about certain kinds of crimes and introduced Mr. Holmes to many people in the London underworld who were of great help to him. Mr. Holmes even called upon him now and then to help him with some of his cases. In fact, Harry and I both taught Mr. Holmes how to use stage makeup. I helped him with some of the disguises Dr. Watson wrote about. Do you remember the case Dr. Watson wrote up as “A Scandal in Bohemia”? Where Mr. Holmes first met Irene Adler?

  E.F. Oh, of course.

  Mrs. H. I always thought Mr. Holmes had something of a soft spot in his heart for that Miss Adler. Well, I made him up as a Nonconformist clergyman for that one, and Harry showed him how to walk. And we did an out-of-work groom, if I remember aright. Eventually he became quite good at makeup himself.

  E.F. What happened to Mr. Hudson? Is he—

  Mrs. H. Alive and well, my dear. At the moment, he’s on an ocean liner to America. I know that sounds surprising, but Harry, dear man, just can’t give up the game. He takes a sea voyage every now and then and makes the cost of it back playing cards. Just to keep his hand in, he says. Sometimes I go with him, but I don’t enjoy it as much as he does. There just isn’t enough to do on a ship. So this spring I decided to stay home and enjoy my garden. But my dear, it’s getting late, and you have to walk to the village. Did you take the train from Edinburgh?

  E.F. Yes.

  Mrs. H. Then I won’t keep you. If you start now, you’ll be in plenty of time to catch the afternoon train. If you see Mr. Duncan, the ticket master, would you please tell him that the man who sold Otto to Mr. Holmes has another litter of pups for sale? Otto has started a bit of a craze for Baskerville dogs here—not to mention fathering some impressive puppies around the village. Several people in the neighborhood have Baskies now, and it looks as though we’re likely to become another outpost for the breed. Good-bye, dear, and thank you for coming by and listening to an old lady chatter. Be careful as you pass the Murrays’ farm. They have a Basky, and sometimes they let him run free on their land. Oh, I think I can hear him now.

  It was true. Otto looked up and whimpered at the sound before rising to stand at Mrs. Hudson’s side as she saw me out the door and waved a last good-bye. And as I passed through the gate again and turned onto the lane, I heard it again in the distance, the long, ascending howl described b
y Dr. Watson. Even in the clear light of a May afternoon, it seemed chilling and sinister, like the moor which showed darkly at the top of the hills behind me. As I walked back to the village, looking back from time to time to make sure I wasn’t being followed by the source of that doleful cry, I thought of the surprises my interview of Mrs. Hudson had revealed, and how, in more ways than one, she had brought the dark tales of Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes to life in the serene fields and glens of the Scottish countryside.

  IRENE ADLER

  To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex … there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

  —“A Scandal in Bohemia”

  by CARA BLACK

  Cabaret aux Assassins

  NICE, 1914

  Neige Adler’s beetle-black eyes narrowed as she paused in the shadows cast by the fringed areca palm. The woman reclined on a wicker chaise, her face sunken, her hands folded in prayer but Neige knew she’d come too late.

  “I’m sorry. Very sorry,” the nurse said, taking Neige’s arm, guiding her across the clinic sunporch. “Your mother passed away a half hour ago. Very peacefully.”

  No matter their differences, she’d loved her mother. And Neige knew her mother reciprocated in her own peculiar fashion. Tears welled in the corner of her eye.

  “Merci, sister.”

  She set down her travel portmanteau and crossed herself. Her mother looked tranquil. At last.

  Eighteen-year-old Neige, wearing rimless spectacles and her chestnut hair upswept, sat down. Her shoulders slumped. In the distance, the peach-washed and tobacco-tiled buildings of Nice sloped to the turquoise Mediterranean. Hot air hovered in the cloudless Provençal sky. Outside the hospital window, small lemon-colored finches twittered on the balcony railing. Slants of light, and the scent of orange trees wafted from the garden below.