George Mann: Associates of Sherlock Holmes

Hastily, I bent to record this fact.

Lestrade rubbed at one temple fretfully. The arm looked much more poignant adrift on the sea of the large table than it had cradled in the ornate box. “You came to us from H Division, I hear.”

“I did.”

“Well, we don’t want any repeats of that business.”

“No, sir.” If it sounded like a vow and not a mere reply, there was nothing to be done about it.

“What are your plans?”

Straightening, I rubbed my palms together. “Obviously, first we must ensure it’s not some wretchedly coarse jest, and I’ve already sent wires to all the major hospitals asking after autopsies performed during the last twenty-four hours. In a moment, I’ll circulate word for dockside police to look out for any similar objects, God forbid. Next I’ll canvass businesses that import Chinese goods, particularly small furnishings such as this box, down Stepney way. If that fails, I’ll scour both Yard files and the newspapers for missing persons, and enquire at local cemeteries to see whether she might have been the victim of a grave robbery. That ought to hold me for a day or two.”

Lestrade’s bright eyes narrowed in comprehension.

“How old were you when you joined the Force, Hopkins?”

“Twenty-five. I’m only thirty now, sir.”

“Eighteen ninety-nine, then. You read The Strand Magazine , don’t you?” He crossed his arms, tapping a finger against his sleeve.

“I, that is… yes,” I stammered.

“Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“No, sir.”

“Inspired you, I shouldn’t wonder, or some such rubbish.”

“I confess so. This matter at hand… you mentioned H Division yourself, inspector, and not wanting another catastrophe. Bearing in mind the severed limb, I… I wonder whether Mr Holmes would be interested?”

A bona fide snort quashed my fondest hope. “Mr Holmes goes in for the grotesque, not the gruesome.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, considering the stories. They’re marvellous. I’ve read every one.” The words were spilling like water from an upturned jug, and I’d no notion how to staunch them. “Is he just as Dr Watson says he is? Impossibly tall, impossibly brilliant, all of it?”

“Impossibly irritating? Yes. Everything about Sherlock Holmes is impossible,” Lestrade huffed.

“You arrested Colonel Moran, you must have seen him again – so the roundsmen are gossiping. Is he much changed? I mean – not that you didn’t solve Adair’s murder yourself, inspector, I only –”

Lestrade made a motion as if shooing a fly. “It’s all true. He’s alive, he collared the colonel, he’s even more impossible than previously. And he’ll be back to his mad antics, I shouldn’t wonder, with me left to tidy up the shrapnel.”

“You must be so pleased he’s miraculously safe home.”

I blurted this knowing it was true, not only from the fact they’d worked extensively together, but also from the half-rueful, half-wistful smile hovering over Lestrade’s features. They twisted in surprise, but then he shrugged narrow shoulders.

“Of course I am. He’s good for the city, and it’s the city I serve. Well, I must be –”

“Dashed if I can think of anything on Earth I want more than the chance to work with him.”

“Take that back,” Lestrade advised with a sour grimace, returning his hat to his head.

“Why?”

“Because working with Mr Holmes means you failed.” A shadow from the open door fell across his face.

And then he was gone, and I alone again, wondering how a mere mortal could trace a box with a poor and (presumably) dead girl’s limb in it. I’ve every confidence of filling my hours meaningfully upon the morrow, and yet… it is difficult to be optimistic.

Everything is difficult, under the circumstances. Lilla’s letters are still in the drawer of my night-table. Every day I try to move them to my battered trunk of keepsakes, and every day I fail. I check the post with fingers crossed and heart equally as twisted, the same weird curling feeling inside as I sort through mail never finding her name as I’d used to, and always hoping against sense a new missive may appear.

Dearest Mum,

I can’t do as you ask and no amount of cajoling will budge me – it’s impossible for me to pen you details of an open investigation. For open it still is, and I’m nigh ready to start banging my pate against my desk. The trail grows colder every instant, and all I can do is tilt at windmill after windmill. When I solve the case, for I will solve it yet, you can scold me for bragging. Meanwhile, my nose must be to the grindstone and not hovering over correspondence, and I hope you’ll forgive me.

I’d not thought of the question before you asked, but under these glad circumstances, I’ll be dashed if there aren’t more Strand stories to come, now you mention it! How could Dr Watson resist? The mince pie you mailed arrived only the slightest bit crushed, and I’m leaving it in my desk to have with my tea.

Still in haste,

And now I know what Inspector Lestrade meant by warning me against working with Mr Sherlock Holmes. Today was simultaneously the best day of my life since 1889, and the worst to boot. If someone asked after the whereabouts of the sky, I’d hardly know which way to point.

No warning was given for his appearance. I don’t suppose there ever is – do God’s angels send cards announcing their arrival, or do they simply appear, frightening shepherds (to say nothing of sheep) out of their wits? One moment I was writing up futile reports at my desk – no indication of desecrated graves, no missing persons providing leads, no similar Chinese boxes sold in Stepney discovered , etc. – and the next moment I heard Lestrade say, “Oh, what luck he’s right where he’s wanted. Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson, meet our newest detective, Inspector Stanley Hopkins.”

Whirling in my chair, I fished for words and caught none.

Sherlock Holmes is both identical to and nothing like the man in the magazine. Every physical characteristic is correct (frightfully tall, sinewy, pale, and so forth), but his bearing and movements defy description. The vast intellect in his grey eyes is hooded behind affected languor, like a sheathed sword, and dying must take its toll on a fellow, for plentiful cats’-whisker lines fanned from their edges I did not expect to find. And there I was, first week as a proper detective and my first case at that, already a failure, goggling at him as if he were the risen Christ. (Wouldn’t Mum and dear departed Dad pitch a fit if they ever read that comparison.)

Dr Watson (a sturdy, handsome gentleman with a soldierly bearing and moustache) thrust his hand out after I’d sufficiently embarrassed myself. The act galvanised me and I sprang to my feet.

“An honour, Dr Watson, an absolute honour.”

“Likewise,” he affirmed warmly.

“I’ve followed your biographies very closely indeed. You might even say I’ve made a study of them. And the internationally celebrated Mr Sherlock Holmes – I hardly know what to say. What does a chap say when Orpheus is standing in his office? I, that is – hang it – the world is thankful for your return. Welcome back to London, sir.”

Lestrade half-turned to cover a sneeze I suspected was not a sneeze at all. Dr Watson merely smiled and rocked onto his heels and back again, tilting his head to see what reply his friend would make. Mr Holmes examined my hand for an instant too long before gripping it.