The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (3 page)

The Bachelor of Baker Street Muses on Irene Adler

by Carole Nelson Douglas

Kings do not impress him, especially from Bohemia.

Women do not obsess him, with their vapors and anemia.

Watson is wrong. His brain thrives on opium dreams and smoke.

Yet sometimes they unite against him, and, uninvited, invoke

A vision of The Woman.

He brushed off a monarch's hand, but when it comes to her now,

He remembers a kindly touch to an aged clergyman's brow.

His injured cleric now seems a shabby trick, thought nothing of,

When she was fighting for her freedom and the cause of true love

Always paramount to The Woman.

Yet such cheek! Feminine features under muffler and bowler hat,

His own name appropriated at his very doorstep, audacious that!

His name, with the honorific “Mister” muttered in a youthful male tone.

He should have known. Not a former Baker Street Irregular grown,

But a woman in wolf's clothing.

All is fair in crime and punishment, and disguise a commonplace.

So she mastered it herself, but she was fair in more than face,

Accepting only her own honor from the prideful and possessive King,

Leaving her true adversary an eternal portrait of her leave-taking.

He too refused the Royal ring.

He smiles as he fingers the gold “sovereign” dangling on his watch chain.

Him she tipped.
The King she slipped. What an ironical refrain.

To sum up the same old story, that last letter left for him lingers near.

She called him hers, she called him dear, terms he had never longed to hear

From any woman.

And then Baker Street reclaims its own. He will no longer be alone.

Knocking at the lower door, footsteps pounding up a floor to his own
.

His blood is up, his pulses race, he wonders what new enigma he will find.

He banishes past and pipe dream, leaps up from his chair. And leaves behind

The Woman on his mind.

Kings do not impress him, especially from Bohemia.

Women do not obsess him, with their vapors and anemia.

He still finds his muse in opium dreams and smoke,

And the not unwelcome recollections they provoke

Of The Woman.

The Affair of Miss Finney

by Ann Margaret Lewis

It was in the third week of June, in 1890, that Sherlock Holmes encountered a case the likes of which he'd never before had the misfortune to solve. Women had always been a puzzling topic for Holmes. After my marriage to Mary, he exhibited no overt ill will toward my bride, and yet he made it clear that he was not happy about our nuptials. It is with the Miss Finney affair that I believe he came to see my wife with new eyes.

That day, I'd stayed late into the evening with one of my patients. In fact, I returned home at such an hour that I was certain Mary had gone to bed. The house was dark, save for a solitary gas lamp in the front hall that she left up for me so I could find my key in the dark. I did my best not to wake her, but instead turned the corner and surprised her in the hall, candle in hand. She wore her lavender dressing gown trimmed in white lace, and her hair fell to one shoulder in a single, blonde braid.

She gasped. “James!”

I smiled and kissed her cheek. It was a personal affection of ours that she'd address me in a form of my middle name. “I'm sorry, dear; I didn't mean to startle you.”

She placed her hand on her breast and sighed with relief. “That's all right. I wasn't expecting you to be there. My, but you were quiet.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Did you have anything to eat?”

“Yes. The housekeeper insisted on feeding me after the baby was born. Child gave us a bit of a fright, but ultimately it all went well.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl.” I smiled. “Charming little thing.”

Suddenly, the bell rang downstairs.

“Who might that be?” Mary asked.

“There's only one person who would ring at this hour.” I charged with a stiff gait down the stairs and swung open the front door.

Sherlock Holmes stood on the step. “I'm glad you are here, Watson. I see your wife is still awake. Excellent. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

Mary looked askance at me as I led my friend up the stairs. I gestured for her to precede us into our parlour. “Is something wrong?” she asked as I closed the door behind us.

“Mrs. Watson,” Holmes said. “I came here to find you, especially, in the hope that you might assist me.”

“I'm always happy to be of help, Mr. Holmes.”

He began to pace the carpet, his nervous energy evident in his stride. He removed his hat, and I realized his hair was mussed as if he'd been asleep. Whatever it was, it had apparently awakened him.

“In my entire career,” he said, “I have been fortunate that I have never dealt with a case such as this. I have always known it was possible that something of its ilk might walk through my door, but I'd hoped I'd never see it.” He stopped at my fireplace and continued in a hoarse voice. “It is heinous, monstrous, depraved, and vile. It is pure evil.”

“Whatever is it, Mr. Holmes?” Mary asked.

“There is a young lady, who waits for me now at Baker Street. I came here, leaving her in the care of the maid. I fear she has been ill-used.”

“Ill-used?”

“In a most unspeakable way.”

Mary's fingers went to her mouth. “Oh...”

“Good Lord,” I whispered.

“She does not know the man who attacked her. He abducted her, rendering her unconscious with chloroform. The man gagged her, put a burlap sack over her head so she'd not know where she was, and later held a knife to her throat as he did... what he did. After, that he beat her and left her alone in this fashion for three days in some sort of prison, giving her only marginal food and drink, if any at all. Around ten-thirty this evening, she managed to twist herself free of her bounds and crawl through a coal chute to escape.

“A cabby named Preston, whom I know from other cases, brought her to me tonight believing I might help her. Even so, I have sent word to Stanley Hopkins at the Yard. He is a compassionate sort, someone a woman in this state might find consoling.” He shook his head. “Meanwhile, I have tried, in vain, to interview the lady at length, to glean more definitive details about her ordeal, but her upset renders her unable to speak of it coherently. Much of what I've told you I was able to deduce by observation, but when I attempted to examine the blood under her nails, she recoiled from me as if my hands were laced with acid.”

“The poor girl.” Mary shook her head.

“Mrs. Watson, I have the faculties to help this young lady, but she cannot reveal what she must to me because...” He paused, his lips turning downward in a troubled frown.

“You are a man,” she finished for him.

He nodded. “Despite her desire for my assistance, she is not entirely... comfortable... in my presence, which I understand completely given the circumstances.” He continued in a subdued voice. “Mrs. Watson, you've read your husband's narratives and you know that I have not always spoken of the fair sex in the most sympathetic terms. Nonetheless, I would never wish to see such grievous harm done to a woman.”

“I know that, Mr. Holmes,” Mary said in a gentle voice.

My friend averted his gaze from her and turned to pace the rug again. “The loathsome vermin who did this must be found, but without more data I am in the dark. There is grain powder and saw dust on her dress, along with mechanical oil, indicating she was kept at a mill or some similar place. Where, that is the question. I need her to reveal more. She fears me, though, which, while irrational, is, as I said, understandable.”

Mary nodded. “What would you have me do?”

“I would like you to interview her while the doctor and I listen from the adjoining room. Mrs. Hudson may have helped, but she is with her son this evening. Besides, I think someone close to her own age may comfort her. The housemaid would be of little use in this regard, for I need someone with a quicker intellect.”

“But, Mr. Holmes, I am not a detective. I am hardly qualified - “

“On the contrary, you are uniquely qualified for what I am asking. You are reserved, but not shy. You are also personable, and what she needs now is a friend. I believe she will respond to you better than I because, in addition to being female, you have a genuine, sympathetic character. And yet...” He leaned on the fireplace mantel and pressed his knuckle to his lips.

“What is it?” Mary asked.

“You have never done this before. Perhaps I am asking too much of you. It is just that I can conceive of no other way.”

“If there is no other way that you can think to manage this situation,” Mary replied, “then I must do it, must I not? At the very least I should do the very best I can.”

Holmes looked from my wife to me, and back again.

“All right, then. If you feel confident enough to try.”

“I confess, I am not entirely confident, but I will find my way. What sort of questions must I ask?”

“It is best to concentrate on her senses, what she smelled, heard, etcetera. Anything that she can remember to describe this man, for she could not see him. Also, the location is important. He took her someplace she'd never been before, to her knowledge.”

“Did she not come to your rooms from there?” I asked.

“She hid under a tarpaulin in barrel cart that was next to the building and allowed it to take her away, so she was not aware of the path she took. When that stopped, she apparently came upon Preston, who immediately thought to bring her to me. He wondered if he should to take her to a hospital, and in truth, that may not have been a bad idea considering her condition.”

“I should examine her, then, Holmes,” I said. “She will no doubt have some serious injuries with the treatment she's received.”

“I agree, but given her reaction to my touching her hand, doing that may be difficult at first. You should wait until your wife has won her trust.”

“Should I write down her answers for you?” Mary asked.

Holmes pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That would be a fine pretence. As I said, I plan to eavesdrop with your husband from my bedroom. I'll make an excuse and pretend to leave the house, perhaps that I am going to find the doctor. She need not know he is even there - you'll wait in my room, Watson - then I'll enter my bedroom from the hall. When I've heard enough, I'll return as if I'd returned from the outside. You may then show me what notes you have, so she does not suspect that I was listening through the wall.”

Mary sighed. Her clear blue eyes glistened once more with uncertainty.

“This will certainly be a challenge, Mrs. Watson,” said my friend.

“Yet you say you cannot convince her to speak to you.”

“No,” he said. “I am afraid this case is doomed to failure at my hands alone.”

“Very well, then.” Mary nodded. “Let me dress and we shall go.”

After a few moments, Mary emerged from our bedroom dressed in a simple, emerald green gown accented with ivory, with her hair neatly wrapped in a bun. She carried over her arm two other gowns and personal linens.

“I thought perhaps she might like some clean clothes. These dresses are different sizes.”

“Very good, Mrs. Watson,” said my friend. “Let's be off.”

We summoned a hansom cab. As we made the short drive to Holmes rooms down the street and around the corner, Holmes gave my wife some additional guidance on the sort of questions to ask. He then added, “You should be aware that she is in the condition she was in when she arrived. The maid wanted to clean her up, but I asked her to wait until you have seen her.”

Holmes led us up the stairs, gesturing us to be quiet. He directed me to enter his bedroom door, and when I did, I went immediately to the small peep hole Holmes had created in the wall to see into the sitting room. In the room it was hidden by a moulded glass wall decoration that expanded the field of vision so one could see the entire room laid out. As I peered through the hole, I froze for a moment, mortified at the site that met my eyes.

A young woman around the age of three and twenty sat in the chair at Holmes's hearth. Her pale red hair was ratted and dirty, and her fair skin layered in grime. Her dress, a soft pink calico, was ripped in several places and soiled with oil, muck, and dust. She was missing a shoe and her stocking was rent, leaving her foot nearly bare. A crocheted afghan blanket of red and blue had been laid about her shoulders, and yet she still shivered as she lifted a cup of tea to her swollen lips with fingers cut and covered with dirt and blood. Black and blue bruises coloured her right eye and cheeks, the sides of her mouth, her arms, and red, raw burn wounds circled her wrists.

I looked at my Mary, who had preceded Holmes into the room, and I could see alarm in her opened lips and widened eyes.

“Miss Finney,” Holmes said in a quiet voice.

The young woman twisted in her chair as if stung. “Mr. Holmes?” Her voice had the lilt of Irish.

“This is Mrs. Watson. She is the wife of my dear friend, Doctor Watson.”

“The gentleman who writes of you?”

“Yes. I thought she might keep you company while I find the doctor. I am hoping he will assist me with your case.”

“Oh.” She blinked at Mary with pale blue eyes that seemed lifeless. “Thank you, Mrs. Watson.”

“You are so very welcome.” Mary walked across the room and tugged the bell rope. “Why don't I have the maid bring up a wash basin with warm soap and water, and we can clean your wounds a bit? Won't that make you feel a little better?”

“I think that's an excellent plan, Mrs. Watson,” said Holmes. “Meanwhile, I shall be on my way. Good-bye, Mrs. Watson, Miss Finney.” He nodded his head and stepped into the hall, closing the door solidly behind him. He then entered his room silently from the hall and came to stand beside me near the wall, to listen.

The maid answered the summons and brought Mary's requests. Mary then sat before the young woman on the ottoman to ring out a towel with warm water and soap.

“Thank you, Mrs. Watson,” Miss Finney whispered. “You are very kind.”

“Why don't you simply call me ‘Mary',” my wife said. “We are about the same age, are we not?”

“I am twenty-five,” Miss Finney said. “My name is Melinda.”

“Melinda is a beautiful name.” Mary smiled warmly. “Let me start with your face, dear.” She began to clean the young woman's cheeks with gentle touches.

“Mr. Holmes is a good man,” my own lady continued as she worked. “On our ride here he told me he wants to help you, but you'll need to tell him more of what happened to you.”

“I know,” Miss Finney said with a quivering voice. “But... it's so difficult to... talk about it... there's so much...”

“I cannot imagine,” Mary agreed. She patted the young woman's face with a dry towel. “But perhaps if you and I break the whole ghastly thing up into tiny, little pieces, discussing it won't be so trying. In fact...” Standing, she went to Holmes's desk and took up a piece of foolscap, pen, and ink. “I shall write some notes, and we can tell him these little pieces when he comes back.”

“Little pieces? What do you mean?” Miss Finney's pale eyes were wide.

Mary set the paper next to her on the side table. “Thinking about everything at once is just overwhelming, so we focus on one little thing at a time. For example, when you were in the room alone, I understand your eyes were covered so all you could do is listen. Did you hear anything?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Miss Finney swallowed hard. “The rats.”

My eyes shot over to my friend standing across from me. He winced.

“Good God,” I whispered.

Holmes again held his finger to his lips and I went silent once more to listen.

“Shall I roll up your sleeves, dear, so I can wash your hands?”

Miss Finney tenuously put forward her arms, and allowed Mary to wash the dirt, blood, and ichor from her arms and fingers.