Frank Thomas - Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

"Nor do I. Though I have spotted a glimmer of light. If Billy is sufficiently persuasive, my brother should arrive in advance of our friend from Scotland Yard, which may be of aid in resolving the mechanics of this matter."

This went completely over my head, but there was one point I could comment on, and a long overdue thought at that.

"Really, Holmes, your use of that child Billy borders on the shameful. His apparent innocence could wheedle a haunch of venison from a hungry lion, whereas in truth he is more knowledgeable of the world and its foibles than one twice his age."

"And a good thing. There is an adage among circus people relative to that: 'Catch them young and break them in early.' It is the Billys of this world that are our salvation, Watson. We cannot last forever."

My response was a snort of disapproval, but I could find no rebuttal. Holmes was, above all, a pragmatist, and pragmatism is a philosophy that tends to defy argument. Our devoted page boy was a working cog in the machine that Holmes had constructed. To argue with success is a high-hurdle effort at best.

A glance of reproach at my friend found his back as a target, for he was now at the desk scrawling rapidly on foolscap.

"As soon as Billy rejoins us, these cables must go out," he commented. "The latest activities of our old adversary are now of the utmost interest."

"Our old who—?" Never had I sounded more like a Greek chorus.

Holmes's eyes were torn from his writing by astonishment.

"Sure you heard the dead man's last words?"

"About someone finding something?"

"After that. He distinctly said that it was Chu. That can mean but one thing, Watson."

"Good Lord!" I berated myself for being so obtuse. "Chu San Fu, of course. Why, the blighter actually had me kidnapped. I've good cause to remember him."

Holmes's pen was moving again when another reasonable thought insinuated itself into my mind.

"But see here, Holmes. You smashed the Oriental crime czar following that Golden Bird matter."

"Severed his tentacles is more to the point," he said, not looking up. "His opium dens, fan-tan games, houses of ill repute, and smuggling operations were closed down, one by one, through the offices of MacDonald's Limehouse Squad. But the wily Oriental is still at large, and who knows what schemes are brewing in his inscrutable mind?"

This did give me pause, and I sat by the fire to muse on the matter. If the Chinese criminal had resumed his old tricks, I would be well advised to keep a sharp eye out. Chu San Fu had lost much face through the activities of Baker Street's most illustrious resident, and the fires of revenge had to be burning fiercely within his concave chest. I sensed that the recent peaceful atmosphere of our abode was with us no more.

My friend concluded his writings with a flourish and stacked the cable messages in preparation for the page boy. With so many things as yet unexplained, my mind stubbornly settled on a matter of little consequence.

"I say, that silk sash around the deceased's body. What was it you called it?"

"A nuck. Part of Burlington Bertie's equipment. He's a smash-and-grabber, you see. Wears the sash around his middle but can remove it to cushion his fist prior to smashing a shop window to extricate what is within."

"Such a strange name."

"And I don't know the origin," admitted Holmes. "The jargon of the underworld springs from obscure genes indeed."

He was standing by the window again, his eyes intent on the street below.

"Ah, another hansom and I deduce that it is Mycroft. Billy made fast tracks. In his absence, do be a good fellow and unlock the outer door."

I was already headed for the landing when I paused.

"How do you know it is your brother?"

"For one thing, the hansom is so inconspicuous, so completely ordinary that it shrieks of Mycroft, who shuns attention. Then the driver is a prototype of everyman, devoid of expression. And, finally, the hansom is at our door and my brother's portly form is alighting with some difficulty."

Descending to the street door I felt it small wonder that my deductive powers were limited since half the time Holmes was twitting me.

Mycroft Holmes's hand was at the knocker when I opened the door. As he entered, I noted by the flickering gas jet of the neighboring street lamp that his hansom was as Holmes had described it. The driver was indeed one of those faceless types, commonplace and stolid, but Mycroft's agents all shared a considerable breadth of shoulder and a fit look. The older Holmes was shaking moisture from his hat and regarding me with his impassive gray eyes.

"Surely, my good Watson, you are the most patient of men."

"How so?" I asked, following him towards the stairs to our first-floor chambers.

"You have put up with my brother's eccentricities for all these many years with apparently no ill effects, though I would guess that the strain must be considerable at times."

"You jest," I replied automatically.

Mycroft Holmes's seemingly reluctant acceptance of my friend's activities and style of life were an old tune that did not grate through repetition.

"I do trust Sherlock has good reason for summoning me," he continued. His progress up the stairs was slow of necessity because of his corpulence and underscored by a series of puffing sounds interspersed with grunts of protest. "I almost refused his invitation, a difficult task when facing a sober and sincere lad with the light of the Grail shining from his innocent eyes."

"Don't be deceived by that innocence," I cautioned with a chuckle.

"I'm not," replied the government man.

Gaining the landing, he smoothed his coat around his sizable paunch and, with a sigh and shake of his head, entered our chambers.

I noted that Holmes had retrieved the clasp knife from the floor and that along with the unanswered correspondence, it was now back on the mantelpiece. He was never overly neat but seemed to take pains to tidy up on those rare occasions when Mycroft Holmes visited our quarters.

Removing his topcoat, which I took along with his hat, Mycroft surveyed the room with his light, watery gray eyes that habitually mirrored an introspective look and missed nothing. Nodding towards his brother with that precise and somewhat formal manner they adopted with each other, the second most powerful man in England made promptly for our largest chair.

"I am greeted with a touch of melodrama, Sherlock. A Negroid body on the couch? What will Mrs. Hudson think?"

My mouth must have dropped, and even Sherlock Holmes looked slightly startled, a fact that did not escape his brother.

"Come, now, if you wish to cover the corpse, don't let part of a hand dangle from under the sheet. I assume the cadaver is why you sent for me. Now, really, I cannot explain away dead bodies in your establishment. There is a limit to my influence."

This gentle badinage seemed unusual for the intelligence expert, habitually so noncommittal. It was not until later that I realized his lightning-sharp faculties, on a par with my friend's, had seized on the situation, had projected it, and was furiously thinking as to what position he would take. In truth it was Mycroft who was caught off guard, but not one quiver in his massive face revealed it.

"We had a visitor," stated Sherlock Holmes. "A man attacked on the waterfront and fatally wounded who was intent on reaching 'Holmes.' But he was taken to the wrong one."

The sleuth crossed to the couch, gently removing the sheet part way to reveal the face of the dead man. Mycroft regarded the dark visage impassively though I noted that his lips pursed several times.

"How much do you know?" he queried.

"Very little."

"No message? No final word?"

"Yes. But before we go into that, what is the background of this matter? I have, by chance I will admit, become involved, and curiosity is the hallmark of our family."