Becoming Holmes Read online

  It happens as he suspected.

  Just as the minute arm on the big clock, which he can see inside the front doors of the bank, reaches six, Sir Ramsay Stonefield appears. But at first, that is all that goes according to plan. The very moment the ornate carriage arrives, the crowd of supplicants moves forward like hounds attempting to tree a fox. The Bobbies strain to hold them back, and Sherlock is caught in the midst of the mob, barely able to see his target. They shout out their needs.

  “Sir Ramsay, I have a business plan!”

  “I simply need a modest loan!”

  “Sir Ramsay, my relations are well placed!”

  But the Governor of the Bank of England magnificently ignores them. Every one-in-a-million opportunity falls on deaf ears. His liveried footman, dressed in red family colors and white stockings, leaps down from the back of their shining black conveyance and opens the door. The man himself descends from the carriage looking glum, as if he is already disgruntled with his day. He places his incredibly tall stovepipe top hat upon his head, runs his fingers down his golden chain to extricate his pocket watch from his pin-striped waistcoat, glances at it, and then snaps it shut.

  “Spot on, James!” he announces to his driver. “Now clear these citizens from my path!” He waves his walking stick at the Bobbies and then the crowd.

  Glimpsing him between heads and armpits and waving hats, Sherlock observes what he can. First, the accent: London born, Mayfair or Knightsbridge, Oxford educated, Balliol College. Clothes: Savile Row tailor, ostentatious without boasting. Age: fifty-five or -six but looking ten years older. Attitude: Fastidious, meticulous, concerned about being on time and on schedule. Expression: Sad, preoccupied. Sir Ramsay turns back to the carriage as if he has forgotten something. He asks his footman to open the door again. Sherlock can see a woman inside, about the great man’s age. Stonefield appears, for a moment, as if he might kiss her, but stops. He waves. She weakly waves back. And then, in a walk (and one’s gait speaks volumes) that is intended to be brisk but takes much effort to be so, he goes up the steps and indoors.

  Sherlock has learned a great deal. But the appearance of the Governor’s wife, obviously Lady Stonefield from the cut and material of her clothing, and curiously with him on his morning trip to work, has the potential to tell him much more. As the others race after the Governor, the boy rushes the other way, to the carriage, and purposely stumbles so as to land, face against the glass, just before the carriage departs. He sees the Governor’s wife, all alone, an expression of extreme sadness upon her face. Under her black bonnet, she stares out the other window, looking like the loneliest woman in the world.

  “Get away from there, you swine!” calls the footman from the carriage’s runners behind, about to leap down and manhandle Sherlock Holmes. The driver turns at the same instant and looks as though he wants to use his whip on the boy.

  “I beg your pardon, sirs!” cries Sherlock and jumps back. The carriage wheels away.

  But Holmes is smiling. The Governor indeed has a secret. And he shares it with his wife. It is of an intensely personal nature. There is no bitterness about it. They are together in their sadness; together in a secret?

  He also deduces that the Governor, so concerned about time and schedule, who has arrived exactly one half hour before the bank opens, will be met by this same carriage at exactly one half hour past closing time.

  I know his schedule.

  The boy makes his way west, back toward Denmark Street and the apothecary shop. He can put in a full day of work and still get back here by half past four.

  They are hiding something. I shall track them, and it!

  6

  THE GOVERNOR’S SECRET

  There is a great deal to do at the apothecary shop these days, since the master’s stamina has been failing so much. Lately, the old man has even taken to napping during business hours, very unlike him. But still, Sherlock can’t bring himself to do all the cleaning, the tidying, the cataloguing of medicines and alkaloids that should be done this late morning and early afternoon. In fact, he spends a great deal of his time simply polishing the three statues of Hermes and staring off into the distance. Bell, trying to stifle his cough as always when his apprentice is around, doesn’t mind this lack of industry, for he knows the boy’s brain is finally engaged in something that fascinates him.

  “I may not be home until late, very late,” says the boy when he leaves. Bell merely nods with a smile. Sherlock runs when he gets outdoors. He must discover Stonefield’s secret soon.

  Despite starting out an hour beforehand, he still takes the short route to the City and the Bank of England. He goes north, follows Oxford Street east over the brand new Holborn Viaduct, then up the hill along Cheapside, and re-enters the financial district. The crowds are even thicker than this morning. It seems as if all of London’s more than three million inhabitants are in the streets, a rush hour unparalleled on earth. As usual, the sounds almost deafen the ears, and talking on these busiest thoroughfares must be done in a shout. Though most every road is jammed with horses and vehicles, when he arrives at the bank just past four o’clock, still nearly half an hour before he anticipates the Governor will appear, the Bobbies have cleared a space in front of the entrance. The boy waits anxiously.

  The carriage appears exactly on time, bearing, as Sherlock strains to confirm, Lady Stonefield. It is very curious, indeed – a wife who rides to and from work with her husband. He can see that her sad expression has not changed. And she remains in her mourning clothes. The great man comes out exactly on time and is led to his conveyance by burly lower bank officials, all young men who part the crowd without difficulty. Sir Ramsay’s footman holds the door and nods to him. As Stonefield steps in and the footman takes his place, the carriage sags and creaks with their weight. Sherlock spies the Governor inside, taking his wife’s hand as he shouts “Drive on!” The carriage slowly negotiates its way into the tight traffic.

  Following them will not be difficult. The carriage will have to move at a crawl through London at this hour, and Sherlock will be able to keep it within sight. In fact, at times he actually has to wait for it, leaning against shop walls or canopy struts. It takes more than an hour to get back down Cheapside, along Oxford Street, and then south of the British Museum and Irene’s old Bloomsbury neighborhood. They pass north of the apothecary shop and continue west toward Soho. Sherlock is not surprised at where they seem to be heading. West is where the wealthy live. Soon they turn south on elegant Regent Street with its tall, curving buildings built with the shape of the road, and then west again into Mayfair.

  Holmes has little reason to ever come to this wealthiest of London’s neighborhoods, but it isn’t just that that keeps him away. It was here, three years ago, that he found the Whitechapel murderer, and it was here that his mother was poisoned. He is thankful that today the carriage doesn’t pass by the same streets, but comes to a halt in the north of the neighborhood at Hanover Square. A statue stands at the south end of a green park full of pigeons. It is beautified with a gorgeous garden in full bloom. Tall, stately homes, all imposingly Georgian in style and more than one hundred years old, line the square.

  Sherlock stands in the park and stares at the scene, feeling insignificant. Sir Ramsay and Lady Stonefield are soon set down at the front of their beautiful five-storey mansion. Now, I know where they live. Their stone exterior has been painted purple. Big bay windows, twenty-four in total, run across every floor. A wrought-iron fence lines the frontage, which is just a step or so from the foot pavement. Stairs lead down to the servants’ work area and a beautiful wide white set leads up to the impressive front door with a crescent window above it. The entrance opens and two liveried footmen come out to usher the owners inside. The couple hold hands, moving slowly, passing the four small Corinthian columns that support the stone awning on the porch, and enter. It is an unusual show of affection – many aristocratic couples barely see one another during a day, let alone deign to touch. Sherlock strains to
look into the house’s interior but can only glimpse the gleaming giant chandelier in the vestibule and the carved wooden staircase leading upward.

  But he isn’t particularly interested in the home’s interior. No housebreaking for him this time, at least not yet. He has been training himself not to be impulsive, not to take chances before he must. All could be lost with a rash move. Besides, if the Governor and his wife have difficulties, something they want to hide, it is more than likely that it did not originate inside those doors. It is more apt to be some sort of business trouble of Sir Ramsay’s. That is what Sherlock will investigate first – any unusual out-of-doors and after-hours movements on the Governor’s part. The boy decides that he will stay here all evening, even into the night, and see if anyone suspicious comes to the door or if the Governor goes out. He hopes he will be in luck. He keeps thinking about Lady Stonefield’s sad expression, her black clothing, the couple’s constant attentiveness to one another.

  He doesn’t have to wait all night. Just before midnight, after all the lights have gone out in the house, a single groom brings one of the Governor’s smallest carriages, a two-person, speedy hansom, from their stables to the front door. And then, out comes the Governor! He looks up and down the street and across into the park. Sherlock drops off his bench and under it. Then he hears the slight crack of the groom’s whip and the horses moving away.

  With that, Sherlock’s plan is in ruins. There is almost no traffic in central London now, and the hansom is trotting out of Hanover Square at a good pace. The boy leaps to his feet and charges after it. But he knows that he cannot keep up for long. When it reaches Oxford Street, he sees a solution – but he will have to act quickly. He spots several cabs on the street, their horses munching in oat bags.

  “Cab!” he cries.

  In seconds, one has pulled up to him and he has offered all he has in his pocket – two shillings and sixpence – to the driver to follow the Governor’s hansom without being detected. The man looks at him and hesitates, then looks at the coins and tells him to get in.

  It turns out to be a long trip. They head south down beautiful Park Lane skirting the edge of Hyde Park, then turn west and drive through the wealthy neighborhoods of Knightsbridge and Kensington, and then along Hammersmith Road and out of the central London streets and into the suburbs. Sherlock keeps expecting them to stop. But the carriage continues to move. Where could he be going at this late hour? The road is nearly deserted. On past Chiswick they go, then into Kew where the serpentine River Thames curves up to meet the road. But they keep moving, all the way into the burgeoning village of Brentford.

  The driver looks back.

  “I can’ts go much further on those coins of yours, guv. Either we turn back soon, or you walk from wheres we land.”

  Sherlock nods for him to continue.

  Several miles later, now a good ten or more from London, as they enter a place called Hounslow, the driver brings his cab to a halt on its High Street.

  “That’s it, sir. Either we turn ’round ’ere, or it’s you on your pins back to London.”

  Sherlock leaps from the cab. They can’t be going much farther. He runs with all he has after the carriage. It turns off High Street down a narrower road. He has to use his long legs to keep it in sight. Then it turns another corner onto an even smaller street. He loses sight of it. Desperate that his entire night’s work will be for nothing but sure that the carriage, finding its way along narrow streets in Hounslow, must be nearing its destination, he puts his head back and sprints for the corner. But when he gets there, he stops dead in his tracks.

  The carriage has pulled over. It is sitting on the side of a little residential street. He spots the driver still up in his position on the box, then looks ahead of the vehicle and sees the Governor walking alone, glancing around as if he is worried that he is being observed.

  I cannot follow him. If I do, they will see me.

  So, Sherlock doesn’t turn onto the street the Governor has taken. Instead, he sprints even harder than before straight down the road he is on to the next corner, turns left there and races along that street until he comes to its first corner, turns left again and sprints up it until he finally comes to the end of the block. He has run three-quarters of a square and is now at the far end of the street that the Governor and his carriage are on. As Sherlock turns the corner, he sees Stonefield walking in his direction. Many of the two-storey homes here are row houses, connected to each other but a little better than working class, not broken down, and kept tidy and clean. Sherlock crouches behind a short hedge. Sir Ramsay stops at one of the houses! The boy had only seen him from behind when he alighted from his carriage. Observed from the front, it is evident that he is carrying a small bouquet of flowers. Way down the street, Sherlock can barely see the black carriage, still waiting on the side of the road.

  The Governor of the Bank of England looks both ways. For an instant, his line of sight goes right toward Holmes. The boy ducks even lower. Stonefield turns back and quickly raps on the door with his walking stick: six knocks, three short and three long. The door opens and he goes in. Sherlock cannot see who has ushered him inside, but after a few seconds he stands up and closely observes the appearance of the home. It is much like the others though a little nicer, brightened up with a fresh coat of paint and decorated with an unusual number of flowers in small boxes. They are all red geraniums. The door is a mere three or four feet from the foot pavement, connected to it by a little walkway. He commits every detail to memory.

  Half an hour later, the door opens again. Sherlock peeks around the hedge. The Governor is coming out. His head appears first as he looks both ways, up and down the street. Then he takes a step forward before turning to face someone in the doorway. Sherlock can see that it is a woman, a young woman, wearing a modest dress, though it is of a fashion that is slightly above her station. It is form-fitting and complete with a bustle on her behind. Sherlock Holmes, now sixteen, notices her lovely shape. Her pale skin and scarlet lips shine in the glow of the gaslights as she smiles.

  The Governor of the Bank of England takes her into his arms!

  Sherlock is so shocked that he stands up. The hedge is no more than a few feet high and he is clearly visible from the waist up. Stonefield turns in his direction. Holmes ducks down. He crouches there for a few moments, breathing heavily, praying that he has not been spotted. He counts to thirty and then peeks out. The Governor is calmly walking away, back up the street to his carriage in the distance.

  He didn’t see me.

  Despite the fact that Sherlock has to walk twelve miles home to Denmark Street in London, he isn’t upset, not in the least. He has something by the tail: a devil, or perhaps two. What he has seen may be the beginning of a trail that leads, somehow, to Grimsby. There is nothing in the world that he would rather do than bring down that little thug, and bringing him down may save not just one life but many more.

  Blessed with Sigerson Bell’s training in the arts of self-defense, the boy isn’t distracted by the fear that he might be accosted on the way home. He knows how to steer clear of trouble, and if trouble comes his way, he can knock it down. And anyway, his horsewhip is tucked up his sleeve.

  So, he has time to think clearly about what he saw. Three things are apparent to him by the time he reaches home just before dawn. The first was obvious the instant he saw the woman emerge from the house – he has seen the Governor’s secret. The second is a little more complex and he spends more time considering its exact nature – it is likely that Malefactor knows this secret too; or is it just Grimsby? (Though the boy doubts the little one could mastermind this scheme himself.) And just before Sherlock gets to the shop, chewing on possibilities, a final idea begins to dominate his mind – if this is simply the case of the Governor being a bad boy, if this is solely his dirty secret, then why are both he and his wife, whom he seems to dearly love and genuinely have compassion for, always so sad, together?

  It doesn’t add up. He considers
it again.

  What if I could make it add up? What would it all mean then?

  7

  BAD MAN

  The shop is silent when he wakes at nearly noon the following morning. Sigerson Bell, despite his poor health, is still going out to see patients these days.

  “I have a man, a bricklayer in Lambeth,” said the apothecary yesterday afternoon, explaining where he would be the following morning, “who swallowed a whistle whilst officiating at a local children’s football match. He moves about the neighborhood whistling whenever he becomes excited and absolutely playing tunes when he is, uh, aroused, shall we say, by his lovely wife (and she is a most buxom woman, I might add) when she advances upon him in their marriage bed. She has insisted that I get it out or she does him grievous harm. It cannot be good for his digestive track either. I do not want to cut him open from stem to gudgeon, so I am developing a battle plan that may involve extricating said whistle from an aperture that is … not his mouth.” The old man had raised his furry white eyebrows at Sherlock in a knowing look.

  Thus, the shop is quiet. But when the boy finally gets out of his wardrobe and begins making his tea and heating a pair of the apothecary’s legendary calf-brain scones, he keeps thinking he hears something. A bell always tinkles when the outer shop door opens and several times he stops to listen, wondering if it has gently jingled.

  The coals are still hot in the fireplace. The boy stirs them, thinking of the note he left for Bell last night, telling him what he had been up to, what he had seen in Hounslow. He had done so because he knew the old man would appreciate it, love it, in fact. Sigerson Bell seems to thrive on intrigue and deeply enjoys the pursuit and destruction of evil. The two of them are well suited. He had asked his master to burn the note after he read it. He knew the old man would take joy in doing that too. It is nowhere to be seen.