Neil Gaiman - Shadows over Baker Street

“I am counted least among my sisters in intellect, Mr. Holmes. My talents lie primarily in more brutal skills.”

“So I have seen,” he said, “though I suspect you are too modest.” She smiled slightly at the compliment. Holmes arose. “Well, let me get the keris for you.” He went to the wooden box where the relic was kept and opened it. He lifted out the weapon, wrapped in a piece of black silk, crossed the room, and presented it to her.

She took it reverently, bowed to him.

“Aren’t you going to examine it?”

“There is no need. You are a man of honor, are you not?”

He nodded, pleased by her use of the term. “And what will you do after you dispatch this Black Naga, Miss Yogalimari? When your lifetime of deadly training is no longer necessary? Assuming, of course, that you survive?”

“I will return to my sisters and instruct younger ones in my art. There will ever be a need for women to have such skills. And I shall see what life brings me.”

He weighed his next words very carefully. “And are you allowed to have visitors there?”

She gave him that smile again, and it quite warmed him to see it. “Not usually. But exceptions can be made. I needn’t tell you of all people where to find me, should you ever travel that way, should I, Mr. Holmes?”

He smiled. Another test.

“It has been my pleasure to have made your acquaintance, madam. I expect we shall see each other again someday.” He bowed. There was no need to wish this woman safety in her journey—she carried her own well enough.

She nodded. “Until we meet again, Mr. Holmes, farewell.”

She slipped out of the room like a shadow, like a wraith, and was gone.

Holmes sat back in his chair and attempted to return to his reading of crop statistics in South Africa, but his concentration was less than it should be. After a moment, he heard Watson’s snoring stop abruptly. A few seconds later, his friend padded into the doorway, dressed in his nightcap and gown, ratty slippers shuffling over the wooden floor. He stuck his head into the room, glanced about, and frowned.

“I say, Holmes, did I hear you talking to someone in here?”

He tugged the shawl about his shoulders again; despite the fire, the room had grown much chillier. There were a few adventures—a very few—over the years that had not found their ways into Watson’s catalogs. Usually for reasons of national security, for the safety of the realm. And, even more rarely, for the safety of mankind.

He answered his old friend’s question. “Only the woman of my dreams, Watson.”

“Humph.” Watson eyed him a moment, then yawned, turned, and shuffled back to his bed. “Well, good night, then, Holmes.”

Holmes smiled. Yes. A very good night, indeed.

It all began with a curious cable that found me one damp February evening as I lounged at my favored haunt, the Turkish baths at 33 Northumberland—one of the city’s more discreet and solicitous establishments. Instructing the valet to fetch my clothes, summon my coach, and remove a shilling from my coat for his service, I towelled off and reread the cable, striving to believe its content and origin. It read:

Dear Mr. Wells,

Your attendance is requested in an investigation of grave importance to the Royal Family of the Nederlands. Please consult S. Holmes posthaste regarding your willingness to participate.

Sec. to H.M. Emma of Waldeck-Pyrmont

As we rumbled across the poorly tended stones toward Regent’s Park, in the flickering glow of the gaslight, I read the note yet again, wondering what could possibly require my attentions in relation to the notorious Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man famed throughout Europe for his keen investigative prowess. I, a mere teacher and author of fiction, barely knew the man, save for the few occasions on which we’d suppered together with our mutual friend, John Watson, and the knowledge I shared with all Londoners regarding his casework as detailed in the Daily Press . Watson’s recent marriage and homeownership had demanded he take up his civil practice once more, and I wondered if Holmes was simply desirous of company—the cable a mere fabrication.

The coach ground to a halt before the illustrious lodging at 221B Baker Street and I leaped out with a wave to my man to await my return. I rang the bell and was admitted by Holmes’s housekeeper, who’d been informed of my probable arrival. She led me to the study, where I warmed my hands by the fire and took note of the man’s desk, cluttered to the point of overflow. The room held the stale scent of pipe smoke and the heavy drapes gave one the impression of a funeral parlor. On the table by an armchair, beneath a precariously balanced candle, was a bound edition of my latest novel, satisfyingly dog-eared and well thumbed—placed to flatter and conciliate, I suspected, but not distastefully so.

A light footstep announced the arrival of my host: gaunt of frame, hair tousled, adorned in a purple dressing gown and Persian bedroom slippers. The keen eyes and sharp features of his face were exactly as I’d recalled, though there was now a weariness about him I attributed to a lack of sleep. “Wells,” he exclaimed, in a tone at once familiar and matter-of-fact, “it’s quite good of you to come ’round so quickly at such a late hour.” He shook my hand firmly, then drew forth a case of Burns & Hill and offered one to me.

“What the devil is going on, Holmes?” I demanded, accepting the offer.

“Come, come, Wells,” he responded, striking a match and lighting both our cigars. “I know you well enough; you must be brimming with curiosity. And it may be the devil indeed. Please sit.”

He pulled his armchair to face mine and, with the firelight flickering across his brow, grinned a sardonic smile. “I see you’ve been hard at work on your next novel, and well paid on the last. You’ve also been to the baths on Northumberland within the hour.”

“Talking to my publisher, I assume? And employing your usual network of irregulars?”

“No,” he replied. “I simply took note of the fresh ink on your shirt cuff and the Glenfiddich on your breath. Not a poor man’s drink. I’ve only smelled that brand of talcum used in two places here in London: one a brothel in Camden—the sort you’d steer clear of—and the baths at 33 Northumberland. Your fingernails are impeccably clean.”

He retrieved two short glasses and a silver flask from the mantel and placed them on the table between us. I motioned my disinterest, as I’d already imbibed my fair share for that hour and expected soon to be in the company of my wife.

“I’m adequately impressed, Holmes. Now do please explain the contents of the cable before I burst into flame with anticipation.”

Holmes sat back and steepled his fingers. “As I’m sure you’re aware from Watson’s rather elaborate dramatizations of my casework, I do not accept cases which do not fit my own personal criteria. They must be of an unusual or fantastic circumstance not readily solvable by even the most experienced investigator, and the nature of the crime must fall within the higher order of darkness. Petty crimes are always tediously boring to solve, and invariably commence from poverty, greed, or unrequited love. I am only interested in purer evils, the ones that at first appear to defy logic or morality, crimes that trickle down from an arcane, yet quite mortal source, that I’ve yet to unmask.”

“I applaud your purpose, Holmes. And I presume that this business in Holland presents such a case?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied.

“And what is the crime?” I asked.

“Attempted murder on a member of the royal family, reportedly facilitated by a poltergeist.”