Becoming Holmes Read online

  Just before six o’clock that morning, a good three hours before school begins, an enormously fat man emerges from the apothecary shop’s secret rear entrance, after sliding back the long painting of Hermes that hangs low on a wall of the laboratory. The gargantuan chap then edges along the narrow lane at the back of the building and moments later plods out onto Denmark Street from the alleyway five doors down. He is wearing a big floppy felt hat that looks like something a swashbuckling French musketeer might sport. It hangs down over his face, which is also obscured by long, strangely thick, black and white hair. He wears a coat so huge that it looks like two stitched together, and inside his bloated trousers is one of England’s most spectacular bellies, a shelf-like protrusion that extends a good three feet out at his middle, leading him this way and that as he waddles along. He turns north on Denmark, not south, heads up to Oxford Street, and then hails a cab. The first few will not take him, their drivers noticing his girth and perhaps taking pity upon their horses, but finally one allows him in and the vehicle sags like a deflated balloon and pulls away, westward, toward Hammersmith, Chiswick, and Hounslow.

  But magically, the hansom cab has two passengers by the time it reaches the far end of Hyde Park, and drops one of them there, a very thin one. He is an old man in the shape of a question mark and he is carrying a huge coat and gigantic trousers. He slowly strolls south toward Whitehall, leaving a sixteen-year-old boy in the cab to travel all the way to Hounslow.

  Inside the carriage, Sherlock grins at his plan. When the boy had seen Oberon Obese’s extraordinary trousers, an outlandish idea had come to him. He had considered how slight and light Bell had become and how his own height – he now towers over Bell – and the master’s unique shape might be put together in the guise of a single remarkable man. He then devised a scheme in which the apothecary’s forehead would be placed against his own midsection, the old feet on top of the young ones, and the rest of Bell’s withering little frame put inside those huge trousers with him and under two coats stitched together. Horse-tail hair (a key apothecary’s medicinal ingredient) was used for human locks under the hat.

  Within an hour, Holmes is on High Street in Hounslow. No one is following him. He must get back to the apothecary shop and then on to school without being detected. It has to seem, to anyone who might be observing, that today is a normal day for him. Bell has given him enough money to get to the far suburbs and back. They have agreed to meet near Hyde Park Corner at about the time Big Ben strikes eight and slip into the trees there to re-costume themselves as the Fat Man. Simply wearing padding underneath the big trousers was not an option – a mighty amount would have been needed to give Sherlock the girth he wanted and everything would have to have been stashed before he went to Hounslow and still be available when he returned. As well, he could not secretly watch the house as a huge Fat Man; he would have stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb in the suburbs. Neither would he have been able to effectively run away in such a disguise. And with Bell (magically) out of the shop and unobserved as such, the old man could spend his time near the Treasury, making sure that Grimsby was still going to work.

  Sherlock instructs the driver to turn off High Street at exactly the spot where Sir Ramsay’s carriage turned the other night, but stops him before he gets to the narrow road where the house sits. He asks him to wait there. The boy gets out, turns onto the little street, and cautiously makes his way along it until he comes to the front of the residence.

  The house looks quiet. Sherlock is guessing that it is nearing seven o’clock. It is likely that this “kept” woman has no occupation outside her home, but Sherlock is figuring she does something on her front step or beyond in the morning, even if she simply emerges to water her many flowers or goes out of doors to take the air. He desperately hopes that this is a perfect time for her to appear, otherwise this daring outing is for nothing. He needs to observe her again in the hope that doing so will help him unravel the exact nature of this secret. But he doesn’t have much time, hardly any at all.

  After another ten or fifteen minutes of nothing stirring at the house, the boy, who is by turns hiding behind the hedge he used the other night and strolling back and forth along the street, decides to do something he knows is very risky. He thinks of the danger Grimsby’s superior may be in. I have to learn something, anything.

  He walks past the house and stops right on the front walkway. He glances through the little front window and cannot see any movement inside. He looks down, but at first can’t make out any markings on the brick walkway, which is covered with a thin film of dirt. At least it hasn’t been thoroughly swept. Sherlock knows he shouldn’t, but he drops down anyway, onto his knees on the bricks. He examines them closely. There! He sees shoe prints. But there are several: faint ones from well-made, expensive footwear, and others, more clearly marked, from a gentleman of more modest means. He spots lady’s prints too, and lines, as if made by narrow wheels. He had thought that such indicators on the walkway might tell him something. But they have made things even more mysterious.

  At that instant he hears voices approaching the door from the inside. He leaps to his feet, dusts off his knees, and begins to walk away as quickly and yet as inconspicuously as possible. He can hear the door open sharply behind him. He crosses the street, moving fast. Then, he realizes something.

  I won’t be able to see her!

  So, he takes another chance. Once he is twenty or so strides down the narrow foot pavement on the other side of the street, he turns around and walks back. He is praying that she is preoccupied with whatever she is doing, perhaps watering those flowers, did not see him striding away, and thus won’t be suspicious of his coming back. He looks toward the house as he passes. What he sees shocks him.

  The person who has just come out the door isn’t the woman. It is a man. Thirty-five years old, reasonably handsome, square jaw, dark hair, suit not particularly well tailored, short top hat, bag and meal in hand for a short journey: a clerk of some sort, off to London. The man has his back to Sherlock and seems to be struggling with something. The boy gets nearer the house. That’s when he realizes that the man isn’t struggling; he is embracing and kissing a woman rather passionately. And that woman, though now more modestly dressed, is without a doubt the same woman Sherlock saw the night before last in the arms of the Governor of the Bank of England!

  The boy has to stop himself from gaping. He moves on and comes to the end of the street and ducks down behind the hedge again. He looks back at the house. The man is departing in the other direction toward High Street where a Great Western Railway Station moves daytime passengers to and from London. The man turns and gives the woman a wave. She blows him a loud kiss, sending it flying down the street.

  What is this about? The footprints in the walkway from the less expensive set of shoes were all identical and more numerous than the Governor’s. If they belong to this chap, then he has been in and out of the house several times over the last night or two. Perhaps he was even in there the very night Sir Ramsay was here! But who is he? And WHAT is she? Does she entertain men in the early hours in her home? Is she a prostitute? Was the Governor merely one of her clients, just like this man? But did this one stay all night? And why did his affection for the woman bear all the hallmarks of a husband’s tender love? But the Governor embraced her with great affection too. Is this man sharing his wife and her favors? London and its environs contain much evil, Sherlock knows that. But this is something new again!

  He cannot stand there thinking. He must be on his way. If he doesn’t leave in moments, he will be late for his meeting with Bell and they will not be back at the shop in time for him to get away to school on schedule. It is imperative to keep any followers off his Hounslow trail. But just as he steps out from the hedge to walk down the street toward his carriage, the door of the house opens again. He ducks back down.

  The woman is coming out. She is indeed a beautiful lady, even when dressed in this modest outfit. Her auburn hair i
s pinned up under a blue bonnet that matches her dress. She has the face of an angel. Can this woman be a dabbler in extramarital games? And what she is pushing in front of her seems to bring that idea even further into question. She is steering a wheelchair along the walkway and out onto the foot pavement. In it sits a woman or a girl – it is difficult to tell from Sherlock’s vantage point. The invalid is wearing a dark dress and her face is covered with a veil. It is a hot day, thinks Holmes. Perhaps that is why.

  But the boy can’t look any closer. The woman and her companion are coming directly toward him! He slides away and strides around the block. As he does, he notices a park about a cannon shot in the distance at the far end of this residential area. The woman seems to be heading toward it. Sherlock moves on, as fast as he can go without drawing attention. He runs to his cab and instructs the driver to head to the city at double speed.

  He has a great deal to tell the apothecary, but no idea what it all means.

  10

  BEHIND THE VEIL

  Though Bell is thrilled by this latest Hounslow story, he too is unable to make sense of it. The following day is a Friday, and the boy goes back to school. Though it scares him to take a day off from his pursuit of the Governor’s secret – time may be running out – he thinks it best not to return to that suburban street right away. As well, he must have more time there during his next visit. In the morning, he sends a note round to Mycroft, asking him if all is well at the Treasury. He is relieved to receive a message back that evening with the following words: Interesting question; all is tranquil. Grimsby’s superior must still be at his desk, neither dead nor missing.

  Holmes is ready when Saturday dawns. He will have the whole day to himself. He must strike now; he must go back to the suburbs and discover more while he can; he must take whatever chances are necessary. The Fat Man ruse may not work many more times.

  He knows that the best course is to arrive at precisely the same hour as last time. The English are creatures of habit – witness the Governor’s tight schedule at the Bank of England. Sherlock is guessing that the woman, whether the man is there or not, and whether he travels to work on a Saturday or not, will go out with the person in the wheelchair at about the same time. It must be their routine to take the air at that hour.

  He is also guessing that they will walk to that park. So, he wears different clothes under the Fat Man costume this morning, the paraphernalia of a dustman.

  Bell and Holmes execute their shop escape perfectly again, and Sherlock arrives at the little Hounslow street on time. The woman comes out when expected with the wheelchair and her companion. The man does not appear. Without waiting for them to pass by, the boy quickly makes his way to the park ahead of them. He has brought a broom, a dustpan, and a sack, all easily concealed in the Fat Man costume, and is hard at work cleaning the park when the other two arrive. Trusting that they didn’t see him on his last visit and in his ability to play his part, he plans to get very close to them.

  The park is rectangular in shape and not very big, about one-quarter the size of a football pitch. A rather clumsy statue of the Duke of Wellington sits in the middle, with six gravel footpaths leading to it like spokes in a wheel. Sherlock heads toward the center to gain the best vantage point in the park. Six black wrought-iron benches with wooden seats face the statue and six more are stationed looking toward the lawns between the footpaths. Each of those lawns is decorated with a bed of flowers.

  The person in the wheelchair is confined to it and only goes out of doors briefly. So, where will they go first? She will be taken to see the flowers. Which ones? What are the probabilities? Likely, the most beautiful bed before the others. She won’t want to wait, and the woman pushing her, having to contend with an invalid’s frustration over being confined to a chair, won’t deny her, will want her happy immediately. I must be there before they arrive. I cannot appear to be seeking them out in any way.

  Sherlock quickly evaluates the flowers. Each bed seems to be the same size and features the same blossoming brilliance of colors in this mid-June morning.

  Which one? He thinks back to what he knows of the people in that home, the little he knows. He pictures the exterior of their house, summoning a clear photograph in his mind.… Geraniums! That’s what they have in their flower boxes. They must be the favorite of someone in that house. Dickens loved red ones. They have been mentioning it in the papers. It is in the news. There is a high probability that they will look for geraniums.

  Sherlock surveys the park and finds a bed bursting with blood-red geraniums. He begins to walk slowly down a footpath toward the bench closest to it. His shoes crunch on the gravel. He smells the sweet fragrance of the flowers on this dewy English morning and heads out onto the grass behind the bench. He assumes the wheelchair will be positioned right near here, directly in front of these beauties. Though he doesn’t look up, he uses his peripheral vision to see that the woman pushing the chair comes to a sudden halt when she enters the park and notices his presence. For a moment, he wonders if she will turn back to the house.

  No!

  But she moves forward.

  That was curious. Why did she hesitate? She noticed me. It is as if she doesn’t want to be in the park when anyone else is in it. Is that why they always come early? But she must have decided that a mere dustman wasn’t of concern. Is she ashamed of being with the one in the wheelchair? And if so, why?

  He keeps his distance, eyes on the ground, searching out rubbish littered on the grass. He finds the butt of a cigar, an empty bottle of tincture of opium, and the broken-off cover of a book, and sweeps them all into his dustpan and drops them into his sack. As he does, he glances toward the other two. The woman pushing the chair is keeping her eye on him as well. But she brings the invalid up the exact footpath that Holmes suspected she would follow. She turns the chair toward the geraniums, lowers her head to the veiled face and speaks to her in a low voice, sounding kind and caring.

  What are they saying?

  He wants to know. But he dare not get closer. Then the woman does something that changes his mind. She reaches down and pulls the veil from the other one’s face. Sherlock is still behind them.

  I must see her.

  He moves toward them, walking much faster than before. The woman seems alarmed and quickly drops the veil back over the invalid. Sherlock is so close that he can hear the seated one’s voice. It sounds muffled, as if she were bound with a gag in her mouth. The woman leans down and speaks quietly to her again, even quieter than before, almost in a whisper.

  What is this about?

  The woman turns to him and catches his eye as he looks back. Mistake.

  The time has come to do something rash, very rash. They are wary of him and may be about to leave. If they do, he will have nothing. He cannot even go back to the house and examine it. This woman has looked directly into his face, and despite it being smeared with a dustman’s dirt, he doubts she would have trouble recognizing him again. She would be suspicious if he came near her house dressed as he is, and even more so if he dressed differently. This may also be the last day he can come here. What are the chances that he can elude Malefactor again?

  I must take a chance. Now.

  A bee buzzes past. Sherlock Holmes loves bees. He isn’t sure why – perhaps because they are misunderstood. Everyone fears them. He loves that too. But they do so much for us, for nature. He admires their systematic way of living, their delineation of male and female duties, their perfect design, and their brilliant yellow and black clothing, everything so attractively in order.

  The bee nears the wheelchair, heading toward the flowerbed.

  One can always find a way to solve a problem. Use what you have at your command. Take stock of what you possess: any items at hand, no matter what they are. What does my dustman’s equipment allow me to do?

  He looks down at the broom, hears the bee buzzing near, and something comes to him.

  Sigerson Bell likes to teach his lad many differen
t ways to defend himself. Though he has shown him the mysterious ways of Bellitsu, pugilism, and deft wrestling maneuvers, he sometimes surprises his charge with demonstrations of even stranger fighting resources.

  “One must have a myriad of weapons at one’s fingertips,” the old man likes to say. “One must also not be afraid to inflict pain upon others who deserve it! Should you pursue this reckless crime-fighting ambition you have – and a fine one it is – you must enter into it armed like an Oriental ninja!”

  The boy smiles as he remembers the war whoop Bell let out the day he told him that. The apothecary was standing in the laboratory, dressed in his leotards and the other startling pieces of his fighting costume, stripped to the waist of course, bent over, flesh hanging down like doughy stalactites, but a glint in his eye.

  “Swordsmanship is a worthy addition to the Bellitsu and pugilistic skills I have instilled in you! And romantics like myself excel at it!”

  With that, he had produced a sword from the fighting colors around his waist (given to him by the great pugilist Tom Sayers, “The Napoleon of the Prize Ring”) and brandished it in the boy’s face, inches from his nose.

  “Sir!” Sherlock had cried, “for goodness sake, be careful.”

  “A little too close-quartered for you, my young steed?” Bell had replied. “One must operate with precision at all times!” He then turned and sliced off the skull of one of the human skeletons that Sherlock had nailed to the wall the previous day. (The apothecary was notorious for destroying his bony corpses in displays of fighting prowess.) “But!” exclaimed the old man, dropping the sword to the floor. “But! But! But!” He whirled around and suddenly two long sticks, thick and round and as hard as steel, were in his hands. They were each about five feet long.

  The broom in Sherlock’s hands this day in the suburban park is exactly that length.

  “These, my young mercenary of justice,” Bell had continued, “are what we in the dark arts know as Swiss Fighting Sticks!”