Bonnie Macbird - The Devil’s Due

I sighed. ‘Hmm. I am sure there are a few home-grown ones as well.’

‘There is more. He’s planning to do this by “arming the police, putting more boots on the street, and banishing all amateurs from criminal investigations”.’ She handed me her pages in disgust. ‘Looks an awful fellow. You don’t suppose he means Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

I stared at the image of Titus Billings on the page. He was an imperious, military type with a thick black moustache and fierce eyes. It was a case of instant dislike. ‘He’d be a fool if so,’ said I. It would not surprise me if Holmes had already tangled with the man.

‘Perhaps a visit to Mr Holmes is in order?’

‘I am sure he is quite busy, Mary. He is no doubt behind the scenes on that strange Anson case.’

‘The man found drowned in his bed? An impossible death!’ She shuddered.

‘Yes, an odd one,’ said I musing at the image of a wealthy man found dry, clean, and in his nightclothes, upright in his bed, yet drowned, a ‘Devil’ Tarot card in his hand. The reports had been intriguing. Mary was staring at me. ‘Well, yes, it has been quite the season for unusual murders,’ I added.

‘And Danforth, that paper magnate, stabbed to death with a letter opener,’ she urged, regarding me closely. ‘That is an odd one!’

I laughed at the irony of the crime. ‘Oh, indeed,’ I said. Holmes was no doubt enjoying that case.

‘You share Mr Holmes’s morbid humour, John!’ she chided, but I knew she was as fond of Holmes as I. ‘You know, he may have run into trouble there,’ she added. ‘Take a look.’ She laid The Illustrated Police Gazette in front of me. There, on that lurid rag was the headline ‘ False Conjurer Sherlock Holmes Fails Spectacularly! ’

‘False conjurer? What on earth?’

I quickly read the article, and as I did so, felt a rising anger against the writer, one Gabriel Zanders. He hinted that Sherlock Holmes had ‘an unhealthy affinity for blood and death’, had ‘attempted to misdirect the police in the manner of a carnival magician’, and ‘caused the arrest of the wrong fellow in the spectacular Danforth murder’. It ended with: ‘What dark motives are hidden behind that sallow, sinister face? Who can understand the mind of this inhuman automaton who haunts London?’ An unflattering illustration of Holmes appeared next to the article.

Mary began clearing the dishes. She lingered near my chair, looking at the article.

‘John, what about a short holiday? Take some time off. Perhaps go see Mr Holmes. You are the wind under his wings, I think.’

‘The ballast in his hold, more accurately,’ said I, smiling at the image of my friend as a fast moving though slightly unsteady ship. ‘But if I am to take a holiday,’ said I, ‘it must be with you, Mary. I am worried about that cough.’

‘The Trowbridges have suggested a fortnight’s visit to their Cotswold manor, John,’ said Mary.

‘Fresh air. Good idea,’ I said, my heart sinking.

She laughed. ‘Oh, John, you despise the Trowbridges! I will go there, and you go to Mr Holmes. Do not argue.’ She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We shall both return refreshed.’

What man has ever had a more understanding wife!

With the notice of a holiday posted on my surgery door, and a word to a colleague who would take up any urgent cases, I was off within the hour.

It was thus with considerable pleasure and a free conscience that I found myself later that morning in the sitting-room of 221B Baker Street, awaiting the appearance of my dear friend. Whether he would welcome an extended visit, I had no idea.

The room, as usual, was awash in newspapers, dirty ashtrays, and odd items. The chemistry table held a series of jars containing what appeared to be human fingers, and on one table was an elephant’s tusk, stained brown at the pointed end.

How I missed our close association!

I noticed that several newspapers including two weeks’ worth of The Illustrated Police Gazette had been laid out on the dining table, their pages folded back to specific articles. I was reading the third, tirades much like the one Mary had shown me, with mounting alarm when I was startled by a voice inches behind my left ear.

‘Dear Watson, are you finding the Gazette edifying?’

I started and turned to see my friend, who must have entered the room on a cushion of air, for I had heard nothing.

‘Holmes! You gave me such a fright!’

‘Apparently I am having quite an effect on any number of people,’ said he with a laugh. He was still in nightclothes, his hair uncombed, and a cigarette already in hand. ‘Coffee, please, Mrs Hudson,’ he called out over his shoulder. Then to me, ‘You will join me, Watson?’

‘Thank you, no. I have been up for hours. My God, these articles! This Gabriel Zanders, fellow—’

‘Disregard him. He is a muckraking master of schadenfreude . He’s first to the scene of any crime and loves nothing more than to publish lurid details even before the family is notified. I took him to task for this in front of the man who happened to be his editor. He has been going after me ever since.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. He seems bent on doing you harm.’

Holmes shrugged dismissively, then turned his focus to me. He smiled. ‘You have been busy of late, but you have decided on a holiday. What brings you here, instead of to some pastoral paradise with Mary?’

‘Do not make me ask how you deduced this!’

‘Perfectly simple. You have discarded your professional costume. You lack the expensive polished boots with which you attempt to dazzle your new patients, but which cause you pain in your left big toe, and the rather ostentatious gold watch which announces that you are more well established than you actually are. Instead, you are in your old suit and your comfortable brogues, which have served you well on our many wanderings, and with that old timepiece of your late brother’s, also gold but rather worn, which provides sentimental value but conveys less prestige.’