The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II (38 page)

“Well, Mr. Plum seemed to lack at least one of those. I've never seen a man with no startle reflex.”

I proved I had one when Holmes stood abruptly, shouting, “
Agaricus gardneri
!” No sooner had he risen than Holmes fell to his knees.

“Watson, move your knees!”

I bounded from my chair and Holmes immediately stuck his head under its skirting. He shouted, “My tea!” then reached out a long arm.

I handed him his half-empty cup, heard a triumphant crow, and then he emerged, smiling. “I was afraid my mushrooms had succumbed, but it seems luminous
Agaricus gardneris
is far more resistant to neglect than Mrs. Hudson.”

Now, it's not uncommon for Sherlock Holmes to inform a room of his final deduction before he's granted us knowledge of his first, but often I can belatedly follow his logic. This was not one of those times. “Mrs. Hudson?”

Holmes dusted his knees, handed me his empty tea cup, then sprawled languid into his armchair again. “Haven't you noticed? When the clock went eight, our dear landlady started muttering. By a quarter past she began banging pots. By half eight her pique was so great she over-roasted the potatoes, which has only increased the muttering and the pots. Watson, we've again neglected to inform Mrs. Hudson when we want dinner.”

The kitchen noises were indeed much louder than usual, and I hastened to go apologise to our landlady, when Holmes waved a hand.

“Sit, sit, she'll be up shortly and we can beg forgiveness then. We could no more prevent the dear lady from feeding us than we could hope to outwit every criminal in London.”

“Lord knows you keep trying to achieve both,” I said. While my friend laughed, I hesitantly approached my chair.

“It's all right. I moistened the mushrooms with my tea. It'll be interesting to see if a bit of milk fat fattens up the spores. Soon I'll be able to add an even dozen
Agaricus gardneri
to the Kew herbarium's sparse collection.”

I resisted the urge to peek under my chair and took my seat, jotting
Agaricus gardneri
in the margin of my notes, never sure when just such abstruse detail might be useful later. “So, you were about to tell me how human reflex gave that imposter Plum away.”

“I take it you thought it unusual that the man didn't startle when Constable Margola snuck up behind him, dropping that weighty book on the floor?”

“I know how powerfully the human body will protect itself. The instinct to snatch your hand from a candle flame or jump at an unexpected noise is all but impossible to resist.”

Holmes tapped out his pipe, began cleaning the stem with a bit of wire. “‘Unexpected' being the key! Constable Margola is an eighteen stone man. To be sure he moves with a rare grace, but you cannot be that large without affecting the things around you, even the air. Why do you think I became a consulting detective, Watson?”

Trusting this sudden deviation was driving a point home, I said, “Because you're very good at it.”

“Precisely! My skill is for noticing small things, and for recognising when those things add up to something larger. The same goes for a man like Mr. Plum, who probably learnt early on that he had an exceedingly fine-tuned ear, that he could hear things others did not. Such as a student's misstep on the keys of a piano, the stealthy tread of a heavy man, or the slight gust of air as a large book falls to the floor. In short, Plum was prepared for the sound, which is why he did not startle.”

“And this betrayed him?”

Holmes was now sitting fully upright. “A deaf man would have felt the vibration of that weighty tome striking the floor just behind him and turned - that same protective reflex of which you spoke. That Plum did not was all I needed. After I crowed ‘
Ah ha!
' the man realised his error. His immediate and simple human reflex was guilt - which was the same as an admission.”

I sighed. “Of course! He could have passed off his error if he'd simply maintained his charade. It's always so simple when you explain, and I'm surprised that that still surprises me.”

“Another human reflex, I expect,” said Holmes, who then took up his position of a half-hour previous, peering at me over the tips of his fingers. “Now you have your account drawn up, all it needs are the romantic embellishments.”

A harsh wind rattled the windowpanes and again the snow was falling thickly. I rifled through the notes in my lap. “On its own, the Smith-Mortimer Succession may be a bit short, perhaps we can flesh it out with another one of your small cases. What of that incident last week with the Grosvenor Square furniture van?”

Holmes slumped in his chair again. “Oh, Watson, I'm no help with these! That was so obvious, even the greengrocer suspected. I've no idea why the duchess came to me, though I was happy to pocket the fee. Barium of Baryta does not come cheap.”

“Well, what of the Account of the Red Room? The problem of the Marques of Breadalbane? The Case of the Misplaced Gavel? How about - “

When Holmes scowled and slumped further in his chair I knew he was moments from a serious brood that might have him reaching for a particular diversion for which I have no fondness. “You once mentioned the case of Vamberry, the wine merchant. I recently asked Inspector Lestrade about it.”

Holmes straightened in his chair the smallest bit, eyes narrowed. “Pray tell, what did the inspector say?”

“He said you solved the case because Vamberry was vain.”

Holmes sat straight up in his chair. “As ever the inspector does not see what's in front of him waving the equivalent of semaphore flags! It was the smell of tar!”

As if that were that Holmes slumped again, and it was at this time Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray and pointedly did not look at either of us. She put a pot of tea on the crowded dining table, laying around it a Scandinavian repast of small plates. Beef, roast potatoes, bread, horseradish, pickled onions, sliced gherkins. She did this in silence, and in silence Holmes and I rose and came to the table. While I took my seat and made apologies for our neglect regarding supper, Holmes opened one of the innumerable drawers in his card cabinet and extracted a long packet, loosely wrapped in a pretty pale tissue paper.

“You are far more patient than we deserve Mrs. Hudson,” he said, holding the packet toward her, “We've been saving these for just such a moment. Please consider them one of many future apologies for our being such trying tenants.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at Holmes and then at myself. I mirrored Holmes's expression. There was nothing else I could do. I had no clue what was in the package.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the thin packet with a wary eye, then unwrapped it. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!” she said, face quickly spangled in smiles. Pushing newspapers, magazines, and dinner plates out of the way, Mrs. Hudson spread the contents of the packet on the table. Those contents were these: Feathers. Dozens of gleaming feathers from chaffinches, siskins, kingfishers, herons, and peacocks.

Suddenly I remember what I had seen but not quite observed on upward of twenty journeys to and from crime scenes: Holmes snatching something up from ground or a shrub, then pocketing it. Feathers. For months he had been collecting feathers.

“We hope these will suit your millinery efforts dear lady, and have assurances from the veterinarian at Holland Park that when the white peacock drops his finery he will save that bounty for you.”

Mrs. Hudson looked from Holmes to myself again, then walked to the window. Shortly she buffed away a non-existent smudge on the glass, sniffing softly. After a few moments she nodded at us, collected her avian finery, said, “I already know just what to do with the chaffinch,” and left.

As we settled down to our dinner Holmes said, “I sometimes think that good human relations are like detective work. If you observe but the smallest thing about someone and then perform a kindness related to it, most people are touched out of all proportion to your efforts.”

As usual, Holmes seemed to underestimate the magnitude of his gifts. Instead of saying this, I thanked him for including me in his considerations to our dear landlady.

“Ah, but that's a small apology offered to you as well, Watson, for not only am I a trying tenant, I'm aware I'm not the most common of flatmates,” my friend said, waving as if by example to the unseen mushrooms beneath my chair.

I did not tell Holmes it was just such small excitements that added the grace of colour to an often-dreary world.

“Pass the horseradish if you would Watson, and let's hear more of Lestrade's version of this story.”

I did as asked, claimed the gherkins, and continued retelling the tale of Vamberry the wine merchant, just as I would tell it to you, dear readers.

“Vamberry was the Spanish Infanta's wine merchant, Mr. Holmes, reported to be her most loyal servant, above reproach, or so they thought until he scarpered with her small pleasure craft and only enough gold coin as he hoped would go unmissed!”

Sherlock Holmes stopped dead in the doorway of Scotland Yard.

“Sorry sir,” said Inspector Lestrade, hastening forward, “I didn't mean to jump right in. We're a bit eager to have a solution to this mess. You know how things stand with Foria.”

Sherlock Holmes followed Lestrade through Scotland Yard's busy corridors. “Strained as always. The Forian royal family seem to find the rest of humanity a disappointment, just so many idlers and dilettantes.”

Lestrade gestured to a chair across from his desk, signaled a passing constable for coffee. Only once the steaming cups arrived did the men take a seat.

“I don't know much about that, but I do know this mess might make a mess of diplomatic relations. We've promised to not only find out why Vamberry fled, but why to England.”

Holmes eyebrows rose and he replaced his cup upon its saucer. “Most interesting. The Infanta, like the Borgias from whom she descends, is famous for both her superb capacity to rule and her lack of sentiment to those who betray her. With a little effort, perhaps we can give the lady the answers she craves.”

“Well you'd be the man for that, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade leaned across his desk, dropped his voice. “You may have noticed some of my men have a roughness about them. You employ softer ways, put people at their ease, and I'm afraid you will need that, as Mr. Vamberry is exceedingly tight-lipped. To be perfectly honest, I think we'd get more from a stone. Or at least another go at his boat.”

Holmes steepled his fingers. “Tell me about it.”

Lestrade shrugged, “The boat? Not much to tell. It's one of those new-fangled vessels that can be sailed by one man, though roomy enough for two. A pretty thing, all full of gilt and carved follies. Apparently the Infanta once let Vamberry take his boy and hers out on it.”

“Interesting,” said Holmes, leaning forward in his chair.

Lestrade placed his hands on his knees, ready to respond to a sudden burst of energy. Certainly Mr. Holmes would ask to see the boat now, or the suspect, perhaps someone's left shoe. It was never entirely clear where Sherlock Holmes would start an investigation, and so Lestrade had learned to expect anything.

What he got was nothing.

Instead of bounding to his feet, Sherlock Holmes leaned back, crossed his legs, and reached for the coffee that Lestrade had himself made - truly it was the only way to get a good cup.

While Lestrade is often startled by Mr. Holmes's tendencies to dash about a crime scene, falling upon his belly and looking beneath carriage wheels, this precise opposite of his usual behaviour was frankly disappointing. However, Lestrade is not an inspector at Scotland Yard for nothing. He's keen of eye and so he knew Sherlock Holmes was –

Holmes paused in pursuing a gherkin with his fork. “Did he call himself keen-eyed, Watson? Did he really?”

Even in her pique Mrs. Hudson makes a fine roast potato. I finished mine with relish, sipped some port. “Oh, he did indeed, as his retelling of the case advanced, both you and he gained ever-greater powers of cunning and deduction.”

Holmes laughed and then looked at me side-eyed. Suddenly it was I who did the deducing. “Yes, Holmes, be glad Inspector Lestrade is not your biographer, for by the end of any story he told, I suspect you'd be able to fly, and he the wind beneath your wings!”

Eventually we'd finished with our supper and our laughter. Port in hand, we again settled by the fire. Holmes doffed a hat he wasn't wearing, “I find myself grateful for a restraint I never realised you show, dear biographer. Do please continue.”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, don't you want to see the boat?” Lestrade asked. “As I said, we've gone over the craft carefully and found nothing.”

“Soon. Tell me, what do you think of the Infanta's wine merchant?”

The inspector leaned over his desk again, keen to share his finely-observed opinions. “He will not look at any one of us, much less talk. I think there's something sinister about Mr. Vamberry.”

“Why?”

“He's arrogant! Not once has he addressed me by title or name, he simply says ‘you.' He's what I suspect you'd call imperious. He twice told me to fetch him tea. He's treated my men as if they are here to buff his shoes. And when I told him we'd called you and who you are, he said you'd be no better than a dancing bear at finding what he never took.”

Holmes laughed, “That might prove quite true, one never knows.”

“Don't be hard on yourself, Mr. Holmes. He doesn't know how well regarded you are here. Anyway, you might form your own opinion, as they're bringing the man himself through now. Mr. Holmes, this is Constable Hynes and Mr. Vamberry.”

Sherlock Holmes stood to find standing before him two small, dark men. Only one looked off in the middle distance as if he were alone in the room.

It was to this one Holmes addressed himself. “Mr. Vamberry, I am Sherlock Holmes. I'm delighted to meet a member of the distinguished Infanta's household. I hope you'll answer a question or two for me.”