Associates of Sherlock Holmes - George Mann Page 0,3
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.
“France is hardly Hades,” he demurred – but I know the look of a man who has seen prolonged hardship and danger, and it was the look he wore. Come to that, the doctor likewise appeared a touch left of centre, eyes continually darting at his friend as if to ensure he was really there. “Inspector Hopkins, I believe you’ve something unpleasant to show me.”
“Growing more unpleasant every hour. But Lestrade, I thought –”
“If we wait any longer, there will be nothing to find,” he interjected tersely. “Mr Holmes did more than his part during the dark times, and agreed to come down. Follow me, gentlemen.”
I knew this already, knew everything about his involvement with Saucy Jack that could be gleaned from the gutter press, though I also knew better than to trust so much as a word written by a yellow journalist. But the H Division lads had confirmed Mr Holmes was in the thick of it when I joined their ranks, would mutter ’twas its own special hell and not another word I’ll speak on the subject. Snatching up my paperwork, I hurried after the trio.
Mr Holmes visited the arm, which had been preserved as best we could in glycerin, but pronounced there was little to see, glancing at Dr Watson to determine whether his medical companion agreed. Then we strode in his long-legged wake towards the evidence lockers and I located the box, watching as the great detective circled the table like a panther. Suddenly he froze. Somehow his stillness appeared more electric than his motion.
“I’d hardly any hope of being able to assist when you wired me so unforgivably late, Inspector,” he admitted, glancing up at Lestrade. “Happily, I was guilty of rash pessimism. Your box, Hopkins, will be of immense help to us.”
This surprised Lestrade, and Dr Watson likewise blinked. Staggered as I was, my pleasure took precedence. “I’m glad you think so, sir. Here is my initial report.”
Mr Holmes took the paper with a bored air, but his eyes flicked back to the page almost instantly. A faint dusting of colour had appeared on his wan face. When through, he passed the page to Dr Watson and quirked a brow at Lestrade.
“Hopkins here reads The Strand,” Lestrade pronounced with an air of martyrdom.
“Good heavens! He certainly does,” Dr Watson exclaimed.
“And provided me with three clues I should have lost otherwise due to the arm’s inevitable decay.” Mr Holmes’s tenor remained clipped, but an icicle twinkle appeared in his eyes.
“Did I really?” I cried, overjoyed.
“It’s going to be utterly intolerable around here from now on,” Lestrade sighed. “I’m requesting a transfer to Wales.”
“Best pack a muffler,” Dr Watson suggested, biting his lower lip valiantly.
This elicited a soundless laugh from Sherlock Holmes. “Come, Lestrade, you needn’t despair. He’s missed absolutely everything to do with the box. So have you, but we can hardly be shocked over that occurrence.”
Lestrade ignored this jab. “By Jove, splendid! You’ve really found something?”