Associates of Sherlock Holmes - George Mann Page 0,1

in a sense I am, and a warm glow lodges at the base of my spine whenever I’m reminded of my new responsibilities. But Lord, it would be something fine to have one of my trusty H Division boys to natter with. Here the inspectors call out obscure jokes to one another I can’t begin to savvy, and their eyes slide off the newly promoted when we pass in the crowded corridors. I don’t blame them. They’re overworked, and soon so shall I be. Headquarters smells of wearied sighs tinged with whiskey, shirt collars too long worn over interrogations and the filling out of forms.

And I’ve no one to consult with over this confounded box.

But I mustn’t pity myself, for that isn’t quite true – Inspector Lestrade visited me in one of the evidence lockers as I went through the contents, and though I know him to have been ensuring that a raw detective wouldn’t botch the matter, I was thoroughly grateful.

“All right, Inspector… Hopkins, I think it is. What have you got yourself into on your first day that has everyone buzzing like an upturned hive?”

Sweeping off his bowler, Inspector Lestrade frowned at me. I think he frowns to impart his words with weight rather than signal displeasure, though, and he needs all the gravitas he can muster, since the little fellow can hardly weigh more than eleven stone. He has brown hair and eyes, both several shades darker than mine, and I tried not to seem to be looking down at him even though I couldn’t help it – hardly anyone can.

Clearing my throat nervously, I began to answer.

“But you’re already through writing it up, I see,” he said, interrupting me. “Just pass that over and I’ll check your form is correct.”

I obeyed. Lestrade stood in full view of the peculiar – not to say ghastly – contents of the box, both objects resting upon the table, but he’d every right to supervise my paperwork on my first go of it. The other sight seemed not to disturb him, as indeed it couldn’t by this time shake me either.

A grunt emerged as the senior inspector scanned my notes:

Item: one large carved box

– teak wood (foreign origin)

– decorated with stylised lotus flowers (suggests Chinese import)

Contents: one severed forearm with hand: human, female

– white flesh, decomposition not yet set in (recently amputated, not an outdoor worker)

– mild swelling and discolouration (indicating submersion in river water for not more than five hours)

– clean nail beds (respectable)

– actual nails thin and cracked (poor health or nutrition)

– no sign of ever having worn a ring (unmarried)

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, seemed about to speak, and frowned instead.

“Something wrong, sir?”

“On the contrary.”

“Have I done well, then?”

“Not bad for a greenhand,” He returned my report. “Don’t forget to sign and date everything. And I can tell you that although the brass latch is equipped with a lock, it wasn’t used – merely fastened. I opened it myself without a key.”

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