The Case of the Dead Detective

by Martin Rosenstock

My story begins late one winter morning. I had gone to see a girl with whooping cough, but as I now walked towards Baker Street, my patient was no longer topmost on my mind. I was living through one of those periods in which Mary’s dear face and the gaze of her blue eyes seemed constantly present in my mind. My heart was leaden as I considered and reconsidered what might have been. When I entered our lodgings, Holmes was finishing breakfast. We exchanged a few words, and then he disappeared into his room, a piece of toast between his teeth. I had a cup of tea and a boiled egg before pushing back my chair and reaching for The Chronicle. Mrs. Hudson gave me a disapproving glance when she cleared the table, but the good woman had come to know my moods after all these years.

I had worked my way through The Chronicle and was on to The Times when I heard light steps on the staircase. I lowered the paper. There was one perfunctory knock, and before I could so much as utter a word, the freckled face of Little Charlie, one of Holmes’s Irregulars, looked into the room.

“Dr. Watson,” he piped, stepping up to me with all the self-importance of an agent with momentous tidings. “I ’ave a message for ya.” He uncurled his little fist and held out a crumpled piece of paper.

I smoothed it out and read a few words in a clear, functional hand:

If you are free, come to 89 Morton Rd - a strange sight.

Lestrade

I was struck by the lack of urgency in the message. The tone of confusion that generally attends the Inspector’s communications was notably absent. I rose and dug tuppence from my pocket.

With a “Thanks, guv’ner!” the boy scampered off.

I went to see Holmes in his room.

* * *

We were on our way a quarter-of-an-hour later. During the night, the temperature may have dropped below freezing, and the wind blowing up from the Channel had a Siberian touch. People’s cheeks were ruddy, and the city’s din, the clatter of hooves and wheels, the shouts and jingling of shop bells, reached one’s ear with pristine clarity. Holmes remained silent as we headed towards Fitzrovia.

We arrived at Morton Road in twenty minutes. The houses to both sides were well-kept. They stood wall-to-wall, a terrace of flat-roofed, four-storey buildings with porticos and souterrains. The gate to No. 89 was open. As we stepped onto the property, a voice called to us from behind. “Gentlemen.”

We turned and saw a man coming towards us. I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. He had a well-groomed appearance. His light hair was parted fashionably at the side, and sideburns reached down to his jaw. He was wearing a single-breasted blue frock coat and matching trousers. A woolen scarf was slung around his neck. He now switched a shopping bag from his right hand to his left.

“Jacob Henslow.” A flicker of amazement crossed his face. This reaction is not uncommon with people encountering Holmes for the first time outside the pages of The Strand Magazine, though unlike most, Jacob Henslow made no remark. “You must be Inspector Lestrade’s associates,” he continued blandly.

“Indeed we are,” replied Holmes.

We shook hands. Mr. Henslow had the firm grip of someone who is no stranger to manual labour. He pointed to No. 89.

“My mother owns the building. Such a pity what has happened to Mr. Aherne. I will show you upstairs.”

Henslow led the way, and we entered a bright stairwell and began to ascend. As we approached the third floor, a constable blocking a closed door to the right came into view. We heard another door opening, and a few more steps revealed an elderly couple in a door across the landing. She was wearing a tea gown, he a morning coat. They must have been waiting behind the door. Both were pale with grey, tousled hair; I noticed a florin-sized firemark on the man’s right cheek.

Henslow tilted his head in exasperation. “Please, Mrs. O’Malley, Mr. O’Malley. The police need to do their work. You mustn’t disturb them.”

The couple stared at Holmes and me, but then the husband laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and they retreated into their rooms. The door closed behind them.

“I will leave you here, gentlemen.” Henslow nodded to us, as if to suggest we ready ourselves for a surprise, and then proceeded to descend the stairs.

The constable had turned and knocked, and now Lestrade’s strident voice responded, “Come in!”

The door gave onto a short corridor, at the end of which stood the inspector, dressed as usual in a natty three-piece suit. “Ah, Mr. Holmes. Doctor.” He made an inviting gesture. “Glad you could come. I believe you will find this interesting.”

We passed along the corridor and into the sitting room. On first impression, the room appeared unremarkable. A well-stocked bookshelf lined the far wall, three armchairs and a sofa were grouped around a tea table. In the corner stood a walnut Davenport desk. A door next to the bookshelf led to a bedroom.

A further step or two revealed the body of a man. It was lying behind one of the armchairs. The body lay on its back, torso twisted, left hand half open, right clenched to the chest. The left sleeve of the man’s shirt was rolled up. A loosened brace circled his upper arm. A syringe hung by its tip from the crook of his elbow and lay against his shirt. The man’s face was a hideous grimace. His lips were peeled back, exposing clenched teeth, the skin on the ridge of his nose stood folded in steep creases. His clouded eyes stared at the ceiling. I put his age at no higher than twenty-five. His expression was one of horror, as if in his final moment he had understood a cruel truth.

Half-a-dozen puncture wounds dotted the inside of his lower left arm. The plunger of the syringe had been pressed down to the tip. I turned to the table on the right. A dark flask stood there. The label read CO 7%. My eyes traversed the room. An Inverness cape hung on a hook beside the door. On a mantelpiece lay a pipe and cleaner, beside them a Persian slipper. A black violin case stood beside a music stand with an open score on the rest. Through a doorway into another room, I could now see a workbench, on it a Bunsen burner and a rack with test tubes.

Holmes was looking at the dead man’s fingertips. They were covered with acid burns and other discolourations, like Holmes’s own. My eyes swung to the dead man’s face. Death does strange things to a human being’s features. Paradoxically, it both sharpens them and reduces their individuality, as if the type to which the person had belonged were laid bare. The dead man’s head was round with a broad forehead and a curved chin. The nose too was broad and a little bent, as if it had been broken at some point. The eyes were set wide apart, the mouth was large. The impression of rotundity and ampleness though was counterbalanced by a lack of fleshy substance. The cheeks caved inward and the contours of the skull stood out clearly.

Naturally, the thought crossed my mind that the drug had been wasting away his bodily substance, but this was not the case. The exposed arm was muscular, the chest and shoulders were broad; in fact, he appeared to have been in excellent condition. There was something incongruous about the whole figure, as if this man had with intense effort been shaping his body into a form at odds with its nature. I noticed another feature: His hair was cut in the same fashion as Holmes’s, though the colour was somewhat lighter than my friend’s.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you say?” came Lestrade’s voice.

“I take it his own Mrs. Hudson discovered him.”

“She did. She has rooms on the ground floor. She brings... used to bring him his breakfast.” Lestrade pointed to a tray on the table. A basket of scones stood there, next to a glass dish of marmalade, a teapot, and the usual breakfast utensils. “She found the body when she came in this morning.”

I reached down and touched the back of the dead man’s hand. It was cold. I closed his eyes. Feeling strangely agitated, I walked over to the bookshelves to scan the backs of the volumes. There was Faraday’s Experimental Researches in Chemistry and Physics, as well as Frankland’s How to Teach Chemistry, Gray’s Anatomy, a few of Alexander Bain’s writings, Lombroso’s study on the female criminal, Mayhew’s London Labour and the London Poor, and a whole array of writings that aimed to explain the natural world and the surroundings mankind has created for itself. This was the library of someone trying to understand both the times in which he lived and the unchanging laws of science and of the human soul. All of Holmes’s publications, from his studies on cigar ashes and footprints onward, were also there, separated from the other volumes by a marble bookstand.

My own publications, so much fluff beside these scientific works, filled about a quarter-of-a-shelf at eye level. A glance sufficed to tell that every word I had ever presented to the public was assembled. Every issue of The Strand Magazine that had run one of my tales stood there in order of appearance. The issues of Harper’s, where the same stories had appeared, were also there, as were my longer works.

I pulled out Beeton’s Christmas Annual of 1887 with its yellow-and-red cover, which I have always found a trifle garish. The paper had acquired the softness that comes with many readings, though the volume had clearly been handled with great care. The spine was intact, the edges without cuffs, not a single dog-ear marred the pages. Yet they had been subject to some alterations. Occasionally two or three lines, sometimes whole paragraphs had been underlined with a pencil and a ruler. I scanned a few of the passages thus marked. Invariably, they addressed the methods by which Holmes solved his cases, what he himself has called the “Science of Deduction and Analysis”.

I reinserted the volume and turned to see Holmes with the flask of cocaine solution in his hand. He lifted the flask to the window to gauge how much of the liquid was left.

“I believe I have not exaggerated, gentlemen.” Lestrade’s voice had a self-satisfied ring. “This is a strange sight.”

I nodded.

“Perhaps an accident, but probably a suicide. The man was obviously a tortured soul.”

At this moment, we all heard steps on the staircase and looked towards the door. The steps were fast; others, heavier and slower, were following. Whoever the first person was, his or her approach possessed the vigour to match a sense of vital urgency. We heard the constable at the entrance call, “Miss! Miss, you can’t-”

There followed a crash and a cry of dismay, a few more steps on the boards of the corridor, and a young woman burst into the sitting room. Her mouth was open, her cheeks red. She took in the scene with one swift motion of the head, then her eyes fastened on the body. Her facial muscles seized up and her skin turned the colour of gypsum.

No outcry came, as I and, I daresay, the others expected. She made a few steps towards us. Her features regained animation and an expression of transcendent pain shaped itself upon them, of a pain that seemed to anticipate knowledge of an endless sadness that was to come. Lestrade made a motion to step in her way, but she brushed past him and then me as if we deserved no more attention than two potted plants and knelt down beside the body.

Her hands for a few seconds lay open in her lap as she looked at the dead man’s face, and then finally a sob came, and she stretched out her right arm and traced her fingertips over the inanimate features. I am always at a loss in these situations. Even if one has experienced death in one’s own small circle, one cannot in the moment feel the agony of the bereaved. Thus arises a sense of deficiency, almost of guilt, as if one were sorely lacking in common humanity.

She was twenty years of age perhaps, and was wearing a shop girl’s black-and-white uniform. I noticed a pair of spectacles protruding from her chest pocket, and also a booklet of pins. Clearly, her place of employ was a haberdashery. She was pressing her lips together as tears quivered on her lower lids. Her dark blonde hair was tied into a chignon, but a few strands had escaped and lay against the nape of her neck.

I looked away. The constable had entered and was pressing a hand to his side. He regarded the kneeling girl with an expression of pique. Behind him, Jacob Henslow stood overlooking the scene. He caught my eye and lifted his brows in apology; the second set of steps on the stairs had been his.

Lestrade now looked at me and then towards the girl. People generally believe that I am particularly suited to consoling people in their darkest hours. I helplessly turned my palms outwards, but then stepped over to the girl and touched her shoulder.

“Miss,” I said. She did not respond. “Miss,” I tried again. “Please, we must speak with you.”

Still there came no reaction. The tears were streaming down her cheeks to her trembling lips. Yet I had the distinct impression that my words had registered. There was the sound of someone clearing his throat, and I saw that Holmes was holding out the handkerchief from his breast pocket. I proffered it to the girl. After a second or two, she took it and mechanically wiped her face.

Then she looked at me and also saw Holmes. She gasped as if she had seen a ghost.

“Please, Miss, let us sit down,” I said.

I was relieved when she did in fact rise, though she remained next to the body and continued to stare at Holmes. Henslow at this moment appeared from the bedroom, holding a folded sheet. She nodded at him, whereupon he spread it over the body.

Turning, she walked over to the sofa with rigid steps, as if every movement required conscious effort, then placed herself in one corner. I considered sitting down next to her, but the girl now seemed enclosed in an invisible sphere, and so I, like Holmes, took one of the armchairs. Most people would not have described her face as beautiful. Her nose was freckled and a little too large. There was a certain fullness to her cheeks, her forehead was rather high, and her chin had perhaps more point than was becoming. Yet for some reason her features added up to an impression of endearing grace. She wiped her eyes again and blinked as she looked at Holmes.

“We would read your stories together,” she said in a thick voice. “That’s how we met. In The Little Kettle, near Piccadilly.”

Both Holmes and I remained silent. “He was studying ‘Silver Blaze’,” she continued. “He didn’t even notice me when I came in. He was bent over his copy, letting his tea go cold...” Her voice petered out, and we were left to imagine how the scene unfolded. She had a London accent, but whether by design or not preserved her h’s and t’s. “I’m Fran Atkins,” she finally offered.

“Miss Atkins,” Holmes said, “how long had he been in England when you two met?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Mrs. Henslow told you he was American?”

“On his left hand, there is the kind of ring fraternity brothers at American universities like to wear.”

“Chester would not have liked that you recognised him as American. He was from Boston. The family left during the Famine. His father was still a child.” She cleared her throat. “He had only been in London a bit over a month when we met.”

Holmes advanced a few more questions, all designed to have Fran Atkins delve into her memories. I thought this might in fact benefit her shattered spirits and did not interrupt. The story that emerged in halting words was that of a somewhat bookish English girl and of a young American unsure as to what path to pursue in life, and of how they had fallen in love over a shared passion for my stories. Chester Aherne was the son of well-to-do parents. America is unlike our own society and allows for a rapid rise through the ranks. Thus, the grandson of a poor lad from County Clare had been able to go up to university. Aherne, however, was of a retiring disposition, and though the family fortune was ample, it did not possess the patina of self-evidence that comes with many generations of existence. He had felt out of place with his classmates, whose ancestors had sometimes arrived two centuries before and who would have felt at home at Ascot.

The Ahernes had a business partner in London, and so at the end of his junior term, Chester decided to take a break from higher learning and to gain abroad some insights into the world of commerce. Or rather, this was what he had told his parents that he intended to do. In fact, he only put in token appearances at the office and spent much of his days walking the streets of the metropolis.

His interest in my writerly efforts appears to have predated his departure for the Old World. On his home shores, though, his consumption of Holmes’s adventures had remained within the scope of the ordinary. I am proud to say that my narratives have been quite favorably received by the American public and that many readers there await with some eagerness the publication of a new tale.

On English soil, however, a transformation set in. When Fran Atkins encountered Aherne, this was already well underway. He had begun an in-depth study of Holmes’s adventures. Some passages that addressed detective work he excerpted into a moleskin notebook and memorised as if they were scripture. He researched Holmes’s methods, studied the sciences required, and conducted experiments. I can see Fran and him before me now, each holding a cup of tea, discussing excitedly the methods by which my friend nabbed the evildoers upon whose trail Lestrade or a client had set him. I suppose it is any author’s fondest wish that his writings may help his readers find a kindred spirit, and such it would be with me and Chester’s and Fran’s acquaintance, were this scene not marred by the future that issued therefrom.

A puzzled expression lay in Fran’s eyes. “There was something about Chester. He wanted to be more than it was his lot to be. Maybe that is why he loved me,” she added when neither of us spoke. “Because I believed this was possible. Perhaps that was a mistake.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes. “The faith of others keeps us going. Tell me, Miss Atkins, apart from rowing, did he engage in any other sporting activity?”

“You could tell by the calluses on his hands.” She smiled as if at an old trick. “Yes, he also went to a club to box and to practice that Japanese way of fighting - what do you call it?”

“Baritsu.”

“Yes, that’s it. He could break a board with one blow.”

Holmes nodded towards the bottle on the table. “How often did he take that substance?”

“Maybe once a week. I was against it, so often he wouldn’t tell me. You have taken it too, Mr. Holmes.”

Perhaps I should never have mentioned Holmes’s cocaine consumption, I thought, but how was I to imagine that anyone would regard him as an example when it came to this - anyone in his right mind, I could not help but adding.

“I used to, yes, I’m afraid. You mentioned a notebook, Miss Atkins,” said Holmes, changing the subject. “Where did Mr. Aherne keep it?”

“I’m not sure. I did not come here often. We preferred to meet in my room.” She looked towards the Davenport. “I saw it there once.”

Holmes rose and stepped over to the desk. He lifted its top, then went through the drawers. Finally, he turned and shook his head. Fran raised her shoulders, as if to ask what it mattered now. Tears were again filling her eyes. Lestrade began scanning the bookshelves, Holmes wandered into the laboratory.

I also rose. The room’s oblique familiarity produced an effect as if I were standing on a stage. Where would an avid reader of Holmes’s adventures keep such a presumably treasured object? A cascade of images came rushing through my mind, before a notion struck me with a sense of complete certainty. Recalling an early case, one in which Holmes found his match - in a woman, I might add - I walked over to the bell-pull. The wallpaper above the bell-pull appeared unmarred, but when I passed my hand over the wallpaper and exerted a light pressure, a rectangle of about five inches by ten moved inward with a click. Then this rectangle slid noiselessly aside, exposing a small aperture.

“Well done, Doctor!” exclaimed Lestrade, walking over and patting me on the shoulder.

Henslow appeared next to the Inspector. The young man’s eyes were wide. Evidently, the notion that a tenant could have effected such an alteration to the property came as a surprise. Fran raised herself from the sofa.

Lestrade meanwhile had reached into the aperture and extracted a moleskin notebook on which lay a thick packet of American money. Holmes now appeared from the laboratory, and I caught a glimpse of him letting something slip into his trouser pocket.

“Your friend has learned a thing or two from you, Mr. Holmes,” said the inspector.

“He certainly has.”

The inspector laid the money aside, then flicked through the notebook.

“What a hand!”

“May I have a look?” said Holmes.

“Of course. I can’t let you have it, though. This is still a homicide investigation.”

“I understand, Inspector.”

Holmes scanned a page, then another. Fran stood next to him. She now pulled the spectacles from her chest pocket. Henslow and I had also sidled up to Holmes and were peering over his shoulder.

“Yes, this is it.” Fran touched the page, when a sharp bang came from the laboratory and we all spun around.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Holmes. “I’ll have a look.” He handed Lestrade the notebook. “This will certainly merit scrutiny if the autopsy reveals anything untoward.”

“I doubt it will. But we will take all proper measures.” This latter Lestrade had directed at the girl. He turned to me. “I hear, Doctor, there is a lot going on these days in the field of psychology. Not your bailiwick, I know, but what do you think of the matter?”

“You’re right, I’m just an old sawbones...” I paused to arrange my thoughts. “Most of us have heroes,” I finally said. “Especially when we’re young.”

“Are you going to quote Carlyle to me now?”

“I’m wary of quoting Scotsmen. All I’m saying is that aspiration needs a goal. In this case...”

“Things went a little far!”

“In this case,” I repeated, “one might say there was a genuine desire to do good.”

Lestrade harrumphed and turned to Henslow.

“What do you think, young man?”

“Mr. Aherne was a pleasant tenant,” Henslow replied, choosing his words carefully. “A little peculiar, but I have nothing bad to say about the man. I suppose he was a scientist at heart. They have their idiosyncrasies. I understand next to nothing of these matters.”

Holmes had reemerged from the laboratory and was standing next to the tea table. Now he rejoined our group. “Yes, they do. Mine is fiddling with other people’s chemicals. My apologies for the ruckus. This has been a remarkable morning, Inspector.”

Evidently Holmes wished to be underway, and I had no objections. Fran now appeared somewhat composed. She was still pale and her eyes were red, but she had regained control of her features. She had, it seemed, absorbed the first shock and steadied herself. Where was her home? What losses had she sustained and recovered from before this present one? The flood of sorrow, I knew, crests well after the first breaking seas have come ashore. But maybe she knew that also, I thought.

* * *

As Holmes and I descended the stairs, we saw through the window on each landing two women and a man in conversation by the gate that separated the property from the street.

“That’s the old lady and her husband who were standing in the door when we arrived,” I remarked.

“Yes, I saw them from Aherne’s rooms. They were just coming down the street.”

“What was their name?”

“O’Malley. The Irish seem to have taken over the place...”

We stepped outside and all three turned to face us. The O’Malleys appeared less disheveled than upon our first encounter. She was wearing a dark bonnet and a dark kersey cape, he a scuffed pea coat. They both still looked rather sallow, and an expression of what I could not but think of as worry lay upon their features. The woman with whom they had been in conversation appeared roughly their equal in age, though in stature the three could not have differed more dramatically. While the O’Malleys were rather short and on the full-figured side, their interlocutor stood around five feet ten inches, and appeared as thin as a dysentery patient a week after leaving the ward. She too wore a cape, but no bonnet. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. Unlike the O’Malleys, she had not gone entirely grey, and some blonde strands glimmered in the sunlight.

If the woman’s appearance could have raised questions as to her constitution, these were dispelled when she spoke.

“Good day, gentlemen,” she said in a voice that rang with robust health. “I am sorry we meet under these circumstances.”

We expressed the identical sentiment and introduced ourselves.

“Henslow,” she said, bowing her head. “I understand my son showed you upstairs. Terrible what happened with young Mr. Aherne. I shouldn’t have thought it possible.”

“The realm of the possible is large,” Holmes remarked.

“We will now go to church to commend his soul to our Lord.” She looked at the O’Malleys, who nodded obediently.

Holmes passed over the remark. “How long had Mr. Aherne been living with you, Mrs. Henslow?”

“This was his fourth month, if I’m not mistaken.” She turned to the O’Malleys. “You came in September, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mrs. O’Malley said.

“He came the month before you,” declared the landlady. “So yes, four months.”

“And you noticed nothing unusual about his behaviour?” Holmes asked.

“Not exactly. He did keep odd hours. Sometimes he returned home rather late. On account of this, he would not take his breakfast until ten. He is not the first young gentleman I’ve had as a tenant, Mr. Holmes,” she continued in a tone of self-justification. “I do not condone such behaviour. I offered to introduce him to our church. But I can only offer. I am not their parent.”

“He wus a gran’ lad,” Mr. O’Malley now interjected. “A gran’ lad, out on de town every once in a while, that’s al’...” A stern look from Mrs. Henslow silenced him.

Holmes turned to the landlady again. “Did you know of his drug use?”

“Most decidedly not! I was shocked to find him the way I did. But was I surprised, Mr. Holmes? No! He had this friend, a girl. She came by two, three times.” Mrs. Henslow nodded upwards to Aherne’s rooms where Fran still was. “She is trouble, I can tell. I made myself quite clear. She was welcome to stop by for afternoon tea, but I wanted her out of my house by sunset.”

Holmes lowered his eyelids in deep understanding. “Well, I’m afraid we must be off,” he said. “Inspector Lestrade will see to it that all proper steps are taken.”

With that we took leave of Mrs. Henslow and the O’Malleys and retraced our steps down Morton Road. I looked back once and saw them walking in the opposite direction.

“Did you notice anything about Mr. O’Malley?” asked Holmes when we were out of earshot.

“He seemed upset.”

“Anything else?”

I shrugged, and Holmes shook his head in desperation.

“Watson, Watson. How often must I tell you, don’t see. Observe! Didn’t you notice the edge of a telegram receipt sticking out of his coat pocket?”

“So he and his wife were coming from the telegraph office. And crossed paths with their landlady, who buttonholed them, so as to persuade them to accompany her on commending a soul.”

“Precisely.”

“Accompany her to the wrong kind of church, according to the O’Malleys, I would assume.”

“Hence the need for persuasion, perhaps.”

“But to whom did they send a telegram?”

“Later, Watson. Think. Anything else about O’Malley?”

Holmes tapped his cheek with his fingertip.

“His firemark!” I exclaimed. “It wasn’t visible. He must have covered it.”

Sherlock Holmes nodded, but said no more. Rather, he stomped along, staring into the distance. My friend’s energetic mind was sifting through possibilities, discarding some, setting others aside for further contemplation, considering various avenues for proceeding. The question of the firemark lingered in my mind, but was then pushed aside by another line of thought that had been preoccupying me.

I have always striven to render lifelike the scenes or characters I was describing. Though I believe that by and large I have succeeded, it cannot be gainsaid that my efforts have been helped immensely by the work of a young gentleman by the name of Mr. Sidney Paget. He is a very pleasant individual, with a keen perception and an enviable artistic talent. When The Strand began running my tales, the editor sent Paget by my practice in Paddington. We all thought Holmes dead at the time, his body irrecoverable at the bottom of the gorge of the Reichenbach Fall. I showed Paget photographs of Holmes, which Paget used as the basis for his sketches. Over the years, Paget then on his own initiative visited some of the locales where Holmes and I had been and created drawings of crucial scenes based on my descriptions. His drawings, I have come to believe, have established the image of Holmes more firmly in the public’s mind than my words could have done, had they been unaided by the visual arts. The efforts Aherne had gone to so as to approximate his own appearance to Holmes’s would have been impossible without these drawings as models. But yet, my responsibility...

At this point, Holmes thrust a moleskin notebook out in front of me.

“Could you please go through this, Watson? I need to conduct a little experiment when we get back.”

I took the notebook, looking rather dumbfounded, I am afraid.

“I saw you giving it to Lestrade.”

“Not this one. Your mnemonic mind almost got us into trouble this time, Watson. In passing, I would like to mention that the case that inspired Aherne’s construction of a hiding place is one I should not altogether mind forgetting. Be that as it may, you will recall that I was in Aherne’s laboratory when Lestrade congratulated you so warmly on finding the object in question. Luckily, beside Aherne’s Bunsen burner there lay a moleskin notebook, which he had been using to keep track of his experiments. There was also a dish with a little mercury fulminate. I quickly set up a contraption with the fulminate and some hydrochloric acid. When I joined you all in the sitting room I saw to my relief that the notebook you had discovered was of the identical manufacture as the one from the laboratory. I ensured that I had the sitting room notebook in my hands when the explosion occurred. Of course, everyone’s attention was momentarily diverted, and it was easy to give Lestrade the laboratory notebook.” He pointed to the one in my hand. “That one may turn out quite interesting.”

“I wonder if my readers would believe such a lapse by Sherlock Holmes. Beaten to the treasure by me.”

Holmes raised a wry eyebrow, but did not comment. Instead, he waived for a passing cab.

Once we were rattling towards Baker Street, Holmes reached into his coat and extracted the flask of cocaine solution.

“I also had a chance to lay a hold of this.”

“Lestrade will surely notice that it has disappeared.”

“Let him. He can have it again very soon.”

Back in our quarters, Holmes set to work at his chemistry bench. For a moment, I wondered whether he would be tempted by the substance now in his possession. Our addictions stay with us for life, even if we no longer heed them. Then, however, my mind was set at rest by the notion that Holmes was now in thrall to his other addiction, a mystery that demanded a solution.

I sat down with Aherne’s notebook. There were many quotes from my narratives addressing detective work. There were also quite a few passages unrelated to my writings. These passages, I soon realised, formed a tale, in parts both strange and frightening. Before returning the notebook to Lestrade, who passed it on to the evidence room of Scotland Yard, I transcribed them and some paragraphs that added flavour into my scrapbook. These excerpts I now present here:

Aug 22

Think I found a place finally. Like the arrangement of the rooms. 18 guineas a week! Not cheap this city. Landlady a little humorless, but nice enough. Runs the place together with her son. Decent fellow. Offered to help me lug up my stuff. Might buy some furniture. Pretty much made up my mind. Sometimes you just get the feeling, this is it. Taken up boxing again. Very British in a way - hit the other guy, but be a gentleman.

Aug 29

Set up lab. Pushing myself with the weights. Have lost almost a stone over the past month, would like to lose another. London, what a city! The world is here. Could walk around forever. Wish I knew more people. The work at the office would bore anyone to tears. How do people do this for decades? They stand around debating weather reports from Egypt and worry about the price of cotton. I don’t give a fig about the price of Egyptian cotton, nor about that of Russian grain or Swedish iron ore. Nor for that matter about the cleverest way to avoid paying import duties. Reading quite a bit, lots to learn.

Sept 1

Set the alarm today. Not used to this anymore, but wanted to be first in line at the W.H. Smith to get the new Strand Mag. Wasn’t the first, two guys ahead of me. But got my copy. Fantastic chapter of “The Hound of the Baskervilles” - can’t wait for Holmes to show up!

Worked on “Irene’s safe” very quietly. Should be ready tomorrow.

Sept 3

What an evening! Just in the door. Meant to go to the theater, but ended up in a show of dancing girls. Well, I suppose it’s something I had meant to do. Then walked around the West End. Was passing a side street and saw three louts heckling an old homeless woman. One of them poured a bottle of beer over her head. Suddenly found myself walking toward them. One of them pushes me with both hands, tells me to “piss off”. Don’t know how it happened, just put a straight right on his chin. Next one rushes at me. Blocked his punch, followed with an upper cut, and he’s on his pants. The last one backed off. The other two were scrambling to their feet. They start cussing me, but then disappear round a corner. The old woman thanked me. Felt very awkward. Gave her a few shillings. Can’t sleep now, my heart is still racing.

Sep 9

Reading people on the Tube again today. Two gentlemen, bowler hats, suits, clean shoes, about fifty. They got off at Marble Arch. Had them down for bankers. Decided to follow. They ended up going into a law office. Close!

Sep 12

Making progress with chemical studies. Will never achieve H.’s level of ingenuity, of course, but really think I’ve got some talent. Irish couple moving in across from me. Just talked to them. He’s more chatty. Henslow was helping, his mother also there. That woman would have been right at home on Plymouth Rock in 1649. Grumbled about how I’ve been coming home late. None of her business, and she got her rent. That’s all she cares about anyway. Pretty sure she’s overcharging me. Anyway, surprised the Irish would want to live on the third floor. Must be pushing seventy, seem in good shape though. Left the old country decades ago, he said. Hope they won’t mind when I torture the violin. No hope for me there. But I can see why H. does it. Easy to let the mind drift.

Sept 16

Saw them both today! Was walking along Baker Street, tried shortly before noon this time. Was wearing a hat, different coat from last times. In any case, might just be someone who often runs errands in the area. Was maybe eighty yards from 221, on the opposite side, when the door opens. H. steps out, W. follows. They get into a cab. Maybe one day I’ll pay my respects, doubt it though. Last thing I want is to be a nuisance.

Sept 21

Can’t read the cases often enough. You learn something every time. Just had another look at ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band.’ Amazing how H. did it, but absolutely logical.

So glad I’m away from Boston. Another prim tea party at my parents’, think I might have burped and picked my nose. Also the college crowd. The nonsense that goes on there! If I want to drink, I’ll drink, happily. I’m Irish. But those stupid games, not sure I could have taken it much longer. Wonder what they’d all be thinking if they knew I’m two generations away from a papist spud farmer. But of course they know! We must be the only Unitarian Ahernes on the planet. The power of the Silver Dollar makes a lot go away. No matter how it was made...

Sept 25

Asked Henslow for a good pharmacy. Gave me the address. Only fifteen minutes away. Run by a father and son team. Very British John Bull types, complexions like broiled lobsters. Sold me the stuff, no questions asked. Didn’t want to get it through the wholesaler, though it’s all above board. It’s sitting here now. Holmes no longer takes it, of course, but I’m curious. Not sure what I’ll do.

Sept 30

Second time I’m seeing something like this. On the way back from Piccadilly, I passed a stretch where the sewer is still open, stinks to high heaven. Looked down and saw a dead cat in the garbage. But it hadn’t died there. Could tell because there was only a stump where the front left paw had been. Clambered down some steps, used a stick to push the body. Stiff as a board. A tomcat. Poor critter. He looked strong, in his prime. Someone had also driven a nail through his other front paw. Was suddenly sweating. Probably whoever had done this had hoped the sewage would wash the body away. Or maybe it had washed up here. This has to be connected with what I saw two weeks ago. Also the body of a tomcat, under some bushes in the park nearby. Someone had hit him over the head with a blunt instrument. Bloody, one ear almost shorn off. Looked like he’d dragged himself there to die. Maybe some stupid boys, kids can be cruel. Dad would have given me the thrashing of a lifetime if he’d caught me doing something like this.

Oct 2

My hands feel electric, watching my right moving the pen. It took two, three minutes or so after I injected myself. Only 600ml. Could feel there was something in my blood. Then the charge in my brain. For a moment like the sound of chalk over a blackboard. Jumped up. Not sure how long I’ve been pacing around. Can’t write now, need to go outside.

Oct 6

Met O’Malley in town by accident. Invited me over for tea. They’re from Limerick originally. Worked as a shipping agent, seems to have made good money. Said they owned a small house in the East End, but sold it when the children moved out.

Should write to mom. Had a letter from her yesterday: Hope you’re keeping well, dress for the weather, etc. She thinks I’m still twelve. Just couldn’t face the office today. Dread the day when I have to go into Aherne & Sons.

Oct 8

I met a girl! Was in The Little Kettle, studying “Silver Blaze” - very important case. When I looked up, there she was, sitting at the table across from mine. She was holding her cup of tea in both hands and looking out the window, a smile on her face. Before her on the table the last Strand Mag! Felt a ball of warmth in my stomach. Tried to go back to “Silver Blaze” but couldn’t. Had to do something, it was a sign from the fates. Maybe there was still some of the drug from yesterday in me. She turns her face and I catch her eye. “What did you think of the Holmes?” She grins. “I think the man on the tor is Holmes.” “How so?” “Female intuition.” And then: “I hope you’re also enjoying the sights of London Town. Holmes might give you the wrong impression. It’s really quite peaceful.” It gets on my nerves that I can’t open my mouth here without people knowing where I’m from. “I have all the time I need, I’m not a tourist.” “Do you work here?” “Yes, I do.” “What do you do?” and I thought I now detected some curiosity in her voice.

Still can’t believe what I did then. Got up, stepped over to her table, and sat down opposite her. “Miss, I’ll be happy to tell you all I know about myself, but I won’t shout it across the room.” Her eyes open wide. “Why, yes, sir. Please, do sit down by all means.” She wasn’t flustered at all. Her name is Fran, short for Francis. She works in a haberdashery. She’d been making deliveries and had popped into The Little Kettle for a cup of tea and to read “The Hound of the Baskervilles”. I’ve never met a girl I found so easy to talk to. The waiter brought over my tea set, and we chat away. About Boston and where she’s from, Norwich. Will have to look it up. Her father is a sheep farmer. I felt bad telling her about where I’m from and all, but oddly I knew she wouldn’t think the less of me for it. She’s been in London for almost two years. Her life can’t be easy. But she’s full of spirit. And she sure knows her Holmes! She never believed he was dead after “The Final Problem” - like me! When the clock on the mantelpiece chimed, she gasped. “I must go.” “Oh, yes, why?” I stutter, stupidly. She puts some coins on the table, takes her magazine. “How... when can we meet again?” She bites her lower lip. “Well, Mr. Yankee, I take it this is your favorite London saloon. I’ll meet you here.” With that she’s walking to the door. Once outside, she looks back through the window and gives me a wave.

Oct 9

Was in The Little Kettle till they closed. She didn’t come. Think they’d love to fire me in the office. Of course, they won’t. Not that I’d mind though. Can’t sleep. She didn’t tell me which haberdashery she works in, but I suppose I could find out.

Just heard something, like a child wailing. Looked out the window, but the sound came from farther away, hard to say which direction. It’s never completely quiet here, but this sound was odd. Debating whether I should make use of the pharmacist’s dispensation. Then I’ll be lucky if I sleep tomorrow night, but it would take my mind off things. Not in the mood, really. Wonder what that cry was. Maybe she was busy the whole day.

Oct 10

Rowed ten miles this morning. Fingers almost fell off. By one, I was in The Little Kettle. Tried to read, but caught myself looking at the same sentence over and over again. Once, I thought I saw her in the crowd outside. Looked down because I didn’t want her to see I was waiting for her. But must have been mistaken, for when I looked again she wasn’t there. Think she’s not going to come...

My mind isn’t working right. Case in point: When I came back from rowing my door was open! Thought Mrs. Henslow was in, but it was O’Malley. Said my door had been open. Must have forgotten to close it. Good thing I always hide the CO among the chemicals. O’Malley ribbed me a bit. Asked what it’s like to have such a loudmouth as president. As if it’s my fault! A small dosage. Going to work in the lab now. Definitely getting better at proving blood residue on fabrics. Things can’t go on like this.

Oct 11

She came! She tapped me on the shoulder while I was staring out into the street. When I spun around, there she was, a grin on her lips. “Mr. Yankee,” and looking down at my cup: “Are we turning you into a tea drinker?” “You leave me no choice, your coffee is so awful.” I have my moments. She laughs, sits down. “I didn’t notice you coming in.” “How would you, engrossed in your reading as you were?” She can raise her left eyebrow independently, which she now did. “Yes... I guess... I just thought...” “Actually, I came in through there.” She nods to a half-open door at the back of the room. “I know one of the women in the kitchen. Speaking of work, yours hardly seems to leave you a free minute.” “I am thinking of changing my career.” “I see. Some people here make a living tasting tea. So keep developing your palate.” “That might be too nerve-wracking for me. Are you coming back from making deliveries?” She rolled her lips inward, which I’ve noticed is something she does when there’s a thought going through her mind. “I work for a nice elderly lady. She lets me take a break if there’s nothing much to do and there’s an American who needs some help with the local customs.” She ordered a cup of tea and some chocolate cake. We chatted for almost an hour, then she had to leave. She told me a few things about herself. She’s the oldest of five siblings, her mother died in childbirth three years ago. I wanted to reach across the table and touch her hand. We said we’d meet again on Monday. She’s taking the train to Norwich tomorrow and will stay the weekend. I can see her face in front of me now.

Oct 13

Didn’t really want to, but ended up taking 700ml in the afternoon. Worked like a fiend till almost eleven. Completed two series of tests for alkaloids. Then just had to get out of these digs. London at night is very different from Boston. In Boston after a certain hour, you feel you’re the only person awake in the entire city. Not here. After the pubs close you hardly see anyone, but there’s always light behind some curtains. Life, at least in some quarters, is continuing. Walked through Hyde Park, then Westminster. My temples were still beating after all these hours, but the cold and damp were slowly bringing me around. The substance is amazing! You feel not quite human, like the ancient berserkers must have felt going into battle. Near Trafalgar Square I ran into a bobby. Asked if I was lost. “Just can’t sleep.” “Have a nightcap when you get home, lad.” The law encouraging you to drink! The Abigail Bunyans of Beacon Hill would be chattering in their corsets, if they only knew! Then something happened that will be with me till my dying day. Was about half-a-mile from home when I heard what sounded like someone being sick. The sound came from an alley I’d just passed. Hesitate, walk back. The alley narrow, can’t see a thing. Then the sound again, more purposeful if that makes any sense, followed by a scraping sound. Take a few steps into the alley and can now make out some low shapes at the rear of a house. Garbage cans. The sounds seem to have come from behind them, and I see a shadow moving in spasms. The scraping noise was of shoes against pavement, I suddenly understand, and the sound of someone being sick, that of a person gasping for breath. I run forward, idiot that I am. The guy was crouching, and just as I reach the garbage cans he lunges forward and rams his fist into my stomach. Been training my stomach muscles, but wasn’t prepared. Now I know what it means to have your breath knocked out of you. The air bursts from my mouth and I’m on the pavement. Couldn’t breathe. The figure coming for me. I’m pushing backward. He gets ready to kick me in the face, I lunge to the side, his boot rushes past my ear. Then he takes off. I turn, and he’s disappearing round the corner. In no condition to follow. Get to my feet and manage to breathe, though I tasted blood. Walk toward the garbage cans. Behind them a figure. Dead, I think, but when I bend down I hear breathing, and then: “Who in blazes are ya? Are ya going to stick me. I’ll give ya a good fight awright.” “You’ve got the wrong guy. Whoever put you on your pants took off.” “Now has he, the yellow bastard! I showed him, by the living jingo! Help me up, if ya please.” He sways back and forth. “Let’s go back to the street,” I say. He holds on to my shoulder. A lamp on the corner, and when we reach it I can see he’s some toff as they call them here, silk cravat and all. Has a shiner. I think there were strangulation marks around his neck, and he was bleeding from a cut at the side of his throat. Lipstick on his cheek and I could smell lady’s perfume. “Did you see the guy’s face?” I ask. “We should call the police and you might need a doctor.” “No, no, my good man. Too many questions I shouldn’t like to answer.” He presses his cravat against the cut, then looks at the blood like it’s something he’s never seen before. Grabs the lamppost and points down the street. “Let’s go back to Madame Rose’s, my dear fellow. It’s all on me.” And he’s laughing so loud I think windows will start opening. Luckily, a hansom is coming along. Cabbie says he’ll take one last fare. Bundled in Madame Rose’s patron. He drawls out a Mayfair address and off they go.

My stomach hurts. Threw up twice during the night. The more I think about it, the stranger the whole affair seems. Think he had a beard, though not even sure about that, average height. That was no ordinary robbery, maybe I saved a life.

Oct 14

Told Fran about everything. We were in her garret room. I like the place, it’s tiny but cozy, and you look out over the roofs. She made me open my shirt, and when she saw the black and blue below my sternum she gasped. “Wait,” she says and runs downstairs. Five minutes later she’s back with a lump of ice wrapped in cloth. Makes me lie back on her bed, places the icepack on the bruise. “How do you feel, Mr. Yankee?” “Like a million pounds.” She laughs and leans forward and kisses me!! I can feel it now! Unfortunately, then she saw where I’ve been injecting myself. Told her I was experimenting with glucose, but I think she didn’t believe me. She may have had some suspicions anyway...

Went back to the alley after lunch. It’s cobble stone, but found a foot print beside a puddle. A sturdy boot would be my guess, could have been his. Took measurements. Then checked by the garbage cans. Found a button, inch in diameter, black, clean - can’t have been there long. Certainly not from the toff’s outfit. A thread through two holes, ragged edges. Where do I go from here?

Oct 15

A wire from the parents. The usual, hope you’re learning a lot, also having a good time, etc. Can tell though something’s on their mind. Probably they’ve heard that I haven’t been showing up to work...

Oct 22

Something going on in this neighborhood. Was walking to the bookstore this morning when I saw some kids standing in a in a yard. “What have you got there?” I call.

“Someone’s killed Rupert,” one shouts. Walked over. There before his kennel lies a German Shepherd with his tongue hanging out in a pool of half-dried blood. Someone had slit his throat. Shook my head and walked on. Didn’t want the kids to see how upset I was. There is a connection between everything that’s happened. H. would see it immediately.

Fran said I need to quit smoking. Maybe she’ll be okay if I lay off the shag tobacco, only cigarettes. Ran into O’Malley on the way back home from her room. Like the old geezer. Told him my girl thought smoking a “beastly habit”. He just throws up his hands. “Give up, son. No man has ever won that fight.” She didn’t mention my injections. Will wire the parents. No intention of going through life without Fran. Don’t think I could anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t even write. Not sure I can handle any back-and-forth. Just let them know afterward, fait accompli.

At this point in my reading the sound of voices made me look up, and I saw Holmes at the door with Phillips, current captain of the Irregulars. Phillips took off his cap and entered, then followed Holmes to a cupboard that houses part of Holmes’s archive, which over the years has grown to occupy every available space in our rooms.

Holmes pulled out three boxes and placed them on the floor. He opened them and nodded.

“Yes, these are the right ones.”

He handed the boy a slip of paper. “This is the name. I’m afraid you’ll have to go through every one of them. We’ll be over at Dombey’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

Holmes turned to me. “Well, Watson, what insights bring your reading?”

“More questions than insights, but you should give this notebook some attention.”

“No doubt. Let me have a synopsis on the way. We need to pay a visit to a local tradesman.”

As I rose to fetch my coat and shoes, I saw Phillips settling himself cross-legged on the floor and begin pulling old newspapers and magazines from the first of the boxes. I knew that one reason why he had risen to his present rank was his ability to read. What name had Holmes given him, I wondered, but I did not ask.

* * *

A few minutes later, we were again walking towards Fitzrovia. It was past four o’clock by now, and the shadows were lengthening. As best I could, I provided Holmes with the salient points of Aherne’s narrative. Holmes interrupted me a number of times to ask questions and then listened silently while puffing at his pipe. We stayed on the main thoroughfare and did not turn off in the direction of Morton Road. Soon we reached a pharmacy with a sign Dombey & Son in green letters above the door.

“Let’s see what the purveyors of rapture have to say, shall we?” said Holmes and pulled open the door.

The tinkling of a bell announced us, and a heavyset man with a mass of tangled white hair looked up from a ledger that lay before him on a mahogany counter. I have always liked the atmosphere of a pharmacy, the warm brown of the paneling, the rows of porcelain jars on the shelves, the scents of cloves, sage, salts, and alcohol. I think of the pharmacy as a place where people go who have left the worst stages of suffering behind, the opposite of the ward with its ceaseless misery.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Holmes, stepping up to the counter.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Holmes extracted the flask of cocaine solution from his coat pocket. “I believe you sold this.”

Mr. Dombey took the flask and peered at the label. “Indeed, that’s from us.” He had the gravelly voice of a regular smoker. “Would you like another?”

“No, thank you. This one has come into my possession in the course of an investigation.” Holmes indicated the label. “Seven percent, it states.”

“Investigation? Are you with the police? There is nothing wrong with the bottle. It is properly labeled.”

“No, we’re not members of the force. Please be assured, you stand accused of nothing. However, something is wrong with the label. It does not match the content.”

Mr. Dombey eyed the flask with approval, then us with skepticism.

“It is not a seven-percent solution, but a twenty-percent solution,” Holmes said.

The pharmacist’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure?”

“You needn’t take my word for it. Please, conduct your own tests. Meanwhile, you will appreciate that a mistaken label bears certain risks...”

Mr. Dombey had turned. “Joseph! Joseph!” he called through an open doorway. “Come here for a moment!”

There was some commotion, and a man stepped through the door who appeared Mr. Dombey reincarnated as a thirty-year old. Dombey Junior had his father’s build, the same features, round face, and florid complexion. The only striking difference was the colour of his hair, a chestnut red, in contrast to his father’s white.

“Joseph,” said Dombey Senior with curt authority. “The gentleman claims this bottle is mislabeled and contains a twenty-percent solution.”

Dombey Junior’s face blanched and he took the flask from his father. “That... that... that can’t be. That would be very dangerous.”

“Quite,” said Holmes.

“But look, how could it be mislabeled? The bottle is half empty, so it has been in use...”

“’Tis a mystery. What is the highest cocaine solution you sell?”

“Ten percent.”

“Are there higher percent solutions that are unavailable to the public, for the use of the professional?”

“There are fifteen- and twenty-percent solutions available from the manufacturer.”

“I understand. May I see your workshop?”

Dombey Junior looked to his father, who shrugged while in the process of lighting a cheroot. The younger man lifted a falling board that formed part of the counter and bade us step forward. Then he led the way through the door by which he had entered. It opened immediately upon a badly lit room. The window blinds were drawn almost to the bottom, a gaslight burned in a corner. There were shelves with rows and rows of labeled glass bottles on the back wall. A pill-making machine lay on a sideboard. A massive oak table occupied the centre of the room. On this table stood a good dozen white ceramic bowls, each with a pestle leaning against the side. I glanced into the bowls. All contained powders or crystals of various colours. Evidently, the business of Dombey & Son was thriving.

Holmes’s eyes traversed the room. They fastened on a door with six dull glass panes forming its upper third. He crossed the room and I followed. Through the glass rectangles an overgrown garden became visible in the dusk. The garden stretched back for perhaps thirty yards and ended in a mass of bramble bushes. A path of flagstones wound its way towards them.

Dombey Junior had reached up to a shelf for what looked like a quarter-gallon bottle. He placed it on the table.

“This is our seven-percent solution.”

Holmes stepped back to the table and eyed the bottle with hands crammed into his pockets. “Is this how it comes from the manufacturer or do you produce it yourself?”

“We dilute the twenty-percent solution from the manufacturer.” The chemist had already bustled back to the shelf. He reached down another bottle and now placed it beside the seven-percent solution.

“This is the twenty-percent solution.”

Both bottles were two-thirds full. I have been tempted, but have never tried the drug. I had seen its effects on Holmes in the early days of our friendship and had developed a sense of dread with regard to the substance. There was enough of the poison here, I realised, to kill dozens of men outright.

“I take it the solution, as it comes from the manufacturer, is exactly twenty percent?”

“I believe so.”

“But your own seven-percent solution could be a little higher or lower?”

There came an intake of breath on the part of the junior pharmacist and he looked over my shoulder to his father. “Not at all, sir! Our product is exactly seven percent. I will vouch for that.”

I could tell that Holmes was evaluating the young man’s response, and my friend now nodded, thoughtfully.

“Do you ever sell the twenty-percent solution?”

“We do not.”

“Has anyone ever asked for it?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Again Dombey Junior looked towards his father, who shook his head.

“No one’s ever asked,” he affirmed gruffly.

Abruptly, as if he had made up his mind, Holmes turned and pointed towards the backdoor. “I should like to have a look around your garden, if you don’t mind.”

“Dear me,” said Dombey Senior. “No one’s been through that door since my wife died. The key must be somewhere upstairs.”

Holmes returned to the door and pressed down the handle. It squeaked, he pulled, and the door opened with a scraping sound. A rush of fresh air entered the room.

I looked at the two pharmacists. Both seemed aghast, the younger one more so than the older. Dombey Junior walked over to the door.

“I can’t believe this.”

Dombey Senior exhaled smoke like an ill-tempered dragon. “You must have opened it at some point, Joseph. And then forgotten to lock it again.” His voice had dropped half-an-octave with disappointment.

“No, no, I didn’t. It’s impossible.”

The father waved away his son’s protestations.

Despite what he had just said, Holmes initially seemed little interested in the garden. Rather, he bent forward to peer at the lock. After a second or two, there came a “Hmm...” It was not hard to see what had prompted this sound. Both the doorknob and the lock were covered with a thick layer of rust, but around the keyhole scratches were visible that exposed the underlying steel.

“Someone picked the lock!” exclaimed Dombey Junior.

“It would appear so.”

Holmes righted himself and stepped outside. We all followed. Holmes kept to the flagstones. Twice he stopped to look at a patch of grass to the side, but then moved on without closer inspection. After perhaps ten yards, a black iron gate in a redbrick wall to the side came into view. We walked up to the gate. It was around five feet high and composed of bars and crossbars. Holmes pressed down the handle. The gate was locked. He passed his forefinger along a section of a crossbar and some crumbs of dry earth fell off. Absentmindedly he repeated the movement on the top of the gate, with the same result.

At this moment, we all heard a voice calling from the direction of the house. “’Ello! ’Ello! Anybody ’ere?”

Dombey Senior returned to the garden path. “Boy, this is private property! Get back into the shop and wait your turn!”

“I believe he might be looking for me,” said Holmes, joining the pharmacist. “Phillips, what have you got?”

“I think I found ’im!”

I joined Holmes and Dombey Senior and saw the boy running towards us. He was holding a tabloid paper. As he handed it to Holmes, I recognised it as an issue of that most regrettably melodramatic of press organs, The Illustrated Police News.

“That was quicker than I thought.”

“Maybe I was jus’ lucky, Mr. ’Olmes,” said Philipps, beaming with pride. “Look on page five, Mr. ’Olmes!”

Holmes did as directed and nodded, quietly. Then he passed the paper to me. There was an image of Mr. O’Malley. The face was much younger, but the firemark on his cheek was unmistakable.

* * *

I was still looking at The Illustrated Police News after we had left Dombey & Son. The two pharmacists had come to the door with us. Dombey Senior had returned the bottle of cocaine solution to Holmes, who had given Philipps sixpence, and the boy had run off, presumably to rejoin the other Irregulars and spend this unexpected boon on sweets and lemonade.

“Have you ever had a professional encounter with O’Malley?” I asked as we marched along the pavement.

“Never met him before this morning. That’s why he wasn’t in my files. But I remembered the face. And that nom de guerre.”

“Merely from this?” I lifted the tabloid. The picture in question was in fact only one of a good dozen, admittedly well-executed, drawings. They were grouped under a shrieking headline, Cracksmen and Fences of London. O’Malley’s portrait had a caption: Red Paddy, Menace of the East End.

“Memorable, no? I was rather taken aback when I could not recall the exact publication. Middle-age is upon us, Watson.”

I did not comment. The paper was from 1882, which made it almost twenty years old.

My eyes dropped to the box of prose that accompanied O’Malley’s picture:

A crafty Irish rascal, well-known to sell any kind of loot, also a smuggler and cracksman. Spent two years in The Steel before breaking out. Probably he skedaddled to Ireland. Scotland Yard made our city too hot for him.

The street lamps were on by the time we once again turned into Morton Road. As we walked up to the door of No. 89, it opened and the gaunt figure of Mrs. Henslow stood on the threshold.

“Ah gentlemen, good evening. I just happened to be looking out the window, and there you were coming along the street. It is nice to see you again. Inspector Lestrade has gone, I’m afraid.”

“We’re not looking for the inspector,” said Holmes.

Mrs. Henslow laughed nervously. “Well, you can’t be looking for me.”

“Perhaps we are.”

She pulled her black shawl tighter around her shoulders and reluctantly stepped back into the hallway. A door at its end stood open, presumably leading to the rooms she herself occupied. I thought she would ask us in, but she now drew herself up with an almost military bearing.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Her voice had regained the stentorian quality I had noticed earlier.

“Your tenant, Mr. O’Malley,” said Holmes. “How long have you known that he was a crook?”

The woman startled at the brusqueness of Holmes’s question, but at the same time I thought I saw an expression of relief cross her face.

“What nonsense! Mr. O’Malley is elderly, as you well know.”

“I must ask you to listen carefully, Mrs. Henslow. I did not say Mr. O’Malley is a crook, I said he was a crook. And I will tell you how you found out.”

“I’m listening, Mr. Holmes.”

“You bring your tenants their breakfast, and at one time, or maybe more often, Mr. O’Malley had forgotten to cover his firemark. But he always covered it before going outside. He is not unduly given to the sin of vanity, and thus you started reflecting on the reason for this behaviour. The conclusion was obvious. He did not want to be recognised. Why? Again, the conclusion was obvious. Perhaps you did some research, and you soon confirmed your suspicion.”

“And what if it were so?” Mrs. Henslow tilted her head back. “Should I have played the informer? Ours is a merciful God, Mr. Holmes. They are papists, it is true, but I hold out hope that I will see them onto the path of our Lord. It is not too late for them both.”

“What if I told you that Mr. O’Malley recently fell into his old ways?”

An expression of consternation formed on her face.

“How about we talk with him?” asked Holmes.

Mrs. Henslow stepped aside and made an inviting gesture towards her rooms. Then, however, she took the lead and marched ahead of us.

“These gentlemen here would like a word with Daniel,” she said, crossing the threshold.

We entered directly into a large kitchen that also served as a dining room. Mrs. and Mr. O’Malley were sitting on straight-backed chairs at a table, cups of tea and a plate of bread in front of them. The gas light cast an orange penumbra over everything. To the right, the room gave onto what appeared to be a garden, to the left lay the living room in darkness. A cross hung by a fireplace. I discerned chintz-covered chairs and a cabinet with some knick-knacks on the shelves. A stretch of Morton Road was visible through the window.

Mr. O’Malley nodded to us. “Pleased ter see yer again, gentlemen.”

His firemark sat like a bloodstain on his cheek.

Both Holmes and I remained silent. O’Malley wound his hands around his cup and looked at Mrs. Henslow, who had taken up station by a sideboard. The landlady’s features were a study in impassivity.

O’Malley’s by contrast were working as if a host of worms were squirming under his skin. Finally, he looked Holmes in the eye. “It’s naw use, Oi guess. Oi heard yer out dare. Yer right, Mr. Holmes. Oi’m an auld jailbird, one that flew de coop. Filed me way through the bars, den down de drainpipes an’ into the sewer. A gran’ mess Oi wus. It was spillin’ rain dat night it wus, and they mighta thought I drowned like a rat an’ spilled out into de river. Spilled out Oi did alright, but auld Daniel O’Malley swims like a cod. And so Oi got away. Lived an ’onest life since den, more or less.”

He looked to his wife and she nodded. “We should’ve gone away, Bridget an’ me, but we didn’t. Stupid, but London is wha yer can make a livin’. I did me best ter disguise meself, and it’s worked for years. Thought age had solved de problem, but Oi couldn’t get rid of dis.” He jabbed a forefinger at his firemark. “And Oi’m not as careful as Oi used ter be. Oi don’t put dis on first thing when Oi swing me legs outa bed.” Reaching into the pocket of his cardigan, he extracted a flat metal box. He opened it and pulled out what looked like a thin flap of impregnated fabric. He flicked open a compartment within the box and revealed some grease. With a practiced motion he smeared some onto one side of the flap and pressed it to his face. A few careful touches with his fingertips followed, and when he removed his hand the firemark had disappeared and his skin looked like that of any old man. He cackled. “Before Oi met Bridget, Oi knew a lassie on de stage. Taught me a few things she did, not only dis. But ter get on with me story. One mornin’ Mrs. Henslow saw me without me patch. Oi could tell dare and den dat somethin’ had started in ’er mind. I tol’ Bridget we oughta leave, but we cudn’t, now cud we...?”

“You had given your word to the Ahernes that you would watch over their son.”

“Yer a clever fella, Mr. Holmes. His father and me, we wus lads together back in Limerick. Dat telegram Oi sent him this mornin’ was de ’ardest one Oi ever sent. Yer man was like me older brother, till the whole family up and lef’ for America. He did come over here ter London three, four times in later years. Me and himself did some business together. And when Chester came over, he asked me ter keep an eye on’im. We were just sellin’ our place in Spitalfields, so it worked out dandy. Oi liked Chester. A gran’ lad he was. Though he didn’t have ’is father’s...” Here he clenched his fist and made a grunting sound.

“What did you tell his father over the past months?”

“Told ’im de truth, Oi did, dat Chester wus wastin’ ’is time mixin’ chemicals instead of goin’ ter work, and dat he wus gallivantin’ out late at night. Never mentioned dat lassie of his though. Dat wus no one’s business. But I did say he seemed ter ’ave a problem o’ sorts.”

“Of what sorts?”

“Of wantin’ ter be like you!”

Holmes contemplated his shoes. “Did you tell him that Chester was injecting cocaine?”

“Oi didn’t know till dis mornin’, Oi didn’t! Oi swear! Mrs. Henslow tol’ me how she found’ im. Oi...”

Holmes silenced O’Malley with an impatient cutting motion. “Do you know what you were stealing in the pharmacy, Mr. O’Malley?”

All blood left the old cracksman’s face. His eyes flickered, looked to Mrs. Henslow, to his wife, and then back to Holmes.

“Please, Oi didn’t even...”

“Do you know what you were stealing?!”

There came no response.

“You were stealing a murder weapon.”

I saw puzzlement and comprehension struggle in O’Malley’s eyes as his mind raced back over his memories, and they took on a new complexion.

“A few days ago,” Holmes continued, “Jacob Henslow informed you that he knew of your past. His mother must have mentioned it.” The lady in question silently raised her chin. “He’s a charming individual, but I’m sure he can put some fear into his interlocutor. Not exactly the fear of God, but something similar. But he didn’t ask much in exchange for keeping quiet, merely that you put your old skills to use and break into a pharmacy...”

“Me an’ himself went together dat night! Oi didn’t even go in! Just fixed de door, Oi did, an’ kept a lookout. Yer man took me lantern an’ wus in dare and out again in foive minutes. Oi didn’t even know what he stole...”

Holmes motioned to the four tea cups on the table. “It would appear we just missed him. Or rather, Mrs. Henslow delayed us long enough for him to escape.”

The landlady’s eyes were pinned to Holmes with an expression that most reserve for loathsome insects.

“What gives you the right to cast aspersions on my son?” she now hissed. “In my own house.” Her arm shot out to indicate the door by which we had entered. “Leave! I demand that you leave.”

“What gives me the right, Mrs. Henslow? Reason gives me the right...”

At this moment, we all noticed that Mr. O’Malley was looking towards the backdoor that gave onto the garden.

“Dare,” he said quietly. “He left through dare...”

A shriek of rage issued from the landlady as she attempted to throw herself on O’Malley, but his wife, with surprising agility, jumped up and pushed Mrs. Henslow back against the wall.

“Leave him alone, you hag!”

Holmes had gripped O’Malley by his cardigan and was pulling him in the direction of the backdoor.

“Come, Watson. Enough time wasted. I’ll never forgive myself if we’re too late.”

Holmes yanked open the door and pushed the old cracksman outside.

“Oi don’t know wha’ he went,” protested O’Malley.

“I do,” said Holmes. “What I don’t know is the address. You followed Aherne around, though.”

We hurried through the garden and into an alley that ran parallel to Morton Road, then rushed towards the main thoroughfare.

“You don’t happen to have your old service revolver on you, Watson, do you?” Holmes called.

“Afraid not.”

We were in luck. As we reached the thoroughfare, some gentlemen were alighting from a growler. Holmes pushed O’Malley to the fore.

“The girl’s address!”

“Oi, Oi, let me tink...” He pressed his fingertips to his forehead and took a deep breath. Then he blurted out an address in Lambeth.

“Hurry,” said Holmes to the driver as we all climbed aboard. I remember casting a look at the nag in harness and my heart sinking. A crack of the whip rang out, and we were on our way.

* * *

The nag, however, proved only partly to blame for the slow progress that followed. Another reason was the traffic. Every year this seems to worsen; by now it all but comes to a standstill in the evenings. With every expansion of the Tube, London is promised that this marvel will alleviate the situation. I cannot say that I have ever noticed any improvement.

Fran’s face was before my mental eye as we moved towards the river in fits and starts, occasional yells by our driver testifying to his frustration with the other occupants of the road. She would surely have gone home after the morning’s ordeal. Most of us require solitude when we are bereaved, to gather ourselves before we again face an indifferent world.

“Last night Oi ’ad ter git up,” said O’Malley, who was sitting next to me and across from Holmes. “Needed ter git meself a glass o’ water. Oi went into de kitchen, and while Oi’m dare drinkin’ me water, Oi hear someone goin’ down de stairs, quiet like. Thought it wus Chester, but Oi also thought it wus a wee bit strange, ’cause Oi’d met ’im earlier in de evenin’ whaen he came home, and he says ter me he wants ter work in his laboratory, he says.”

“You heard Henslow,” replied Holmes. “He was checking on his handiwork.”

O’Malley pushed his hand through his hair. “Oi still don’t understand...”

“It is quite simple. After you had picked the lock, Henslow stole a quantity of twenty-percent solution of cocaine. He has keys to all the rooms, so when Aherne was out, Henslow poured away Aherne’s seven-percent solution and replaced it with the twenty-percent solution. When Aherne administered this to himself, his heart failed, as the drug was almost three times the strength to which his system was accustomed.”

The old cracksman was shaking his head. “Oi thought he wus stealin’ something for ’imself...”

The remainder of the ride passed in agonised silence. I do not know how often I looked out of the window, which always seemed to reveal a melee of vehicles and pedestrians. We crawled across Westminster Bridge amidst a hullaballoo of cries and whip cracks, and suddenly, as we reached the south side, began to gather speed.

“We’re nearly dare,” announced O’Malley after a short while.

Sure enough, a minute later our cab came to a halt in a lane off St. George’s Road and we all jumped out.

“Dare.” O’Malley pointed at a run-down tenement building. “That’s wha’ Chester went in. But Oi don’t know whaich floor.”

“The garret,” I said.

Holmes was already bounding towards the front door. I pressed a half-sovereign into the driver’s hand. By the time I entered the house, Holmes had disappeared around a bend in the staircase. I could not hear his steps and made sure to be as quiet as possible myself. This was not easy as the stairs were worn, steep, and prone to squeaking.

By the time I had made my way up four flights, my heart was pounding. All was silence. Gingerly, I moved up the next flight. I had reached the top floor and saw to my left an even narrower set of stairs continuing upward to the garret. Only the weak light that always seems to emanate from the city came through a small roof window. I tiptoed onward, rounded a bend in the staircase, and Holmes was staring me in the face.

“No time to lose,” he whispered.

There were three doors in the garret, all made of rough wood, all closed. I could barely stand upright without grazing the beams, but Holmes had to stoop. He motioned to the door on the left. A sliver of light issued from beneath it. I leaned forward and could now hear someone pacing and a murmur of voices, but could not make out any words.

I put my eye to the keyhole, but the key was in the lock. Holmes lifted his index finger. We had only one chance. Then he made a motion of putting his shoulder to the door. I looked at it again. It appeared old, but sturdy. What awaited us on the other side? Fran in the hands of that madman? What if we failed to break through? I thought of the girl’s sorrowful features, and of the determination with which she had pulled herself together.

We retreated a few steps to the other end of the landing. Holmes looked at me and then nodded. We rushed forward and crashed our shoulders against the door. The wood split and the upper half burst out of the frame, but the lock held.

“Again!” shouted Holmes, pulling me back.

We rushed forward again and slammed all our weight against the door. This time it fell inward, and we stumbled into Fran’s garret room, just as Jacob Henslow was helping her to escape through the window.

His face, as he turned, was strangely empty, pale and expressionless like a Venetian mask. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw - rarest of occurrences - an expression of surprise take shape on Holmes’s features. Yet it vanished in an instant and was replaced by one of resolve, as Henslow reached into his trouser pocket. His hand emerged holding a black cylinder. There came a snapping sound and a blade shot out. This was the blade, I understood, that had grazed the neck of Madame Rose’s patron and cut the throat of Rupert the German Shepherd. None of this, however, was now of any importance. Henslow came charging towards us. Holmes and I, both of us still off balance, stumbled backwards. The next moment it was Henslow who was stumbling backwards, a cry of dismay issuing from between his teeth. The knife clattered to the floor. Holmes had flung the bottle of cocaine solution and hit our attacker on the forehead.

I rushed forward, determined to capitalise on our advantage, and received a kick against the upper thigh for my recklessness. Fran had turned around in the window, lowered herself onto a dresser, and jumped from there to the floor. As I fell to the side, Henslow dealt me a blow against the ear that sent me head first into the metal frame of a bed in the centre of the room. For a second or two, I was dazed. When I turned, I saw Holmes and Henslow locked in a struggle over who would reach the knife that had slipped under a wash basin. Neither of them would. Fran was stepping over them and would momentarily have the object in her possession. Holmes reached out and grasped her ankle, whereupon she stumbled. In the instant, however, he released his double-handed grip on Henslow, the young man wrenched himself free and struggled to his feet. Meanwhile, Fran had reached the knife. She spun around, brandishing it, her eyes full of hatred.

“Leave us be!” she screeched.

Henslow grasped her by the wrist and they were rushing for the door.

Perhaps I should have let them escape; they would not have got far. But in the heat of the moment not every man’s mental faculties are a good judge as to the best course of action. Fran had stepped past the wreckage of the door and Henslow was right behind her when I reached him. This time I ducked his blow and rammed my head into his torso. A rickety balustrade separated the landing from the stairwell, and as his weight crashed against the wood, it splintered. There followed a thud that almost rendered inaudible a simultaneous cracking sound.

The knife in Fran’s hand glimmered in the dark, oddly foreshortened in the perspective as she raised her arm to bring the weapon down upon me. And then the knife froze in midair, swayed left and right, and fell to the landing.

“It’s naw use, lassie,” said O’Malley as he pinned her arm behind her back. “De peelers are on their way.”

She groaned, but did not say a word.

“Redemption becomes you, O’Malley,” said Holmes, emerging from the room.

Indeed, the police arrived only minutes later as we were walking the young woman down the stairs. For the second time that day she came into proximity with a dead man. This time I saw a shiver pass through her frame, and I believe her knees shook, but that was all. She straightened her back and stepped past the twisted body.

* * *

The wind cut into our faces as Holmes and I made our way back to Baker Street. My hands felt clammy in my coat pockets and there was a throbbing sensation behind my forehead. I longed to lie down and let the world sink away.

“Quite an impressive showing back there, Watson,” Holmes suddenly ventured.

I nodded. Indeed, I myself had been reflecting on the precipitate nature of my actions.

“Almost as if you were on a vendetta.”

“I don’t know what came over me,” said I. “One thing, Holmes. Were we not quite rash to break through the door? What if the situation had been what we both imagined, and Fran had been Henslow’s captive? He might have had enough time to...” I left the sentence unfinished.

“We were, but I conjectured that in a moment of surprise he would hesitate. Think of his victims, Watson. All male, human or animal, every single one. He killed within his own sex, not the opposite, unlike in other cases that have occurred.”

“I suppose. In fact, he might not have been ready to kill a human being with his own hands yet. That’s why Aherne could save the man in the alley.”

“Probably. Aherne and Henslow both stood at the beginning of their careers. One wonders what each of them would have done in the future, had they not encountered each other this early in their lives.”

We walked for a few minutes in silence.

“You know, Watson,” Holmes then said, “there is one aspect in which Henslow was quite truthful. That is, when he mentioned that he did not understand anything of scientific matters. The theft of the twenty-percent solution was entirely unnecessary. He could simply have bought a seven- or ten-percent solution and let it stand open. The solvent would have evaporated and the strength of the solution would have increased until it had reached a deadly level.”

“How did you come upon his track so quickly?”

“There were only two possibilities. Aherne could have administered too large a dosage to himself, either deliberately or accidentally, or the cocaine had been tampered with. A test confirmed the latter. The obvious first suspects were those with easy access to his quarters: Henslow and his mother. She was hoping to see Aherne onto the right path. She would not have presumed upon the Lord’s prerogative to punish a sinner.”

“Do you think that’s what Henslow was trying to do? Punish a sinner?”

“We’ll never know what he told himself he was doing. But he was following a compulsion. When the police look through his possessions, they will find a dark coat, maybe with a button missing, a fake beard. He was creating another person he could turn into as he so desired.”

“Fran Atkins,” I reminded Holmes. “She was also in Aherne’s rooms.”

“Indeed. And it must have been she who told Henslow that Aherne was injecting cocaine. It would appear the fair sex led astray my powers of explanation. Not for the first time, either.”

“It is all very strange. What drew them together, Henslow and Fran?”

“Oh, one might conjecture that they were hoping to lay hands on the money Aherne kept in his secret compartment. Lestrade will construe things that way. A clear motive, a tidy solution. She might hang, but probably she will spend her days in a Dartmoor prison.”

“But what is the truth?”

“Who knows? Maybe a liaison animated by shared murderous impulses. Or she was seduced by his warped desires. Or he by hers. Maybe he was becoming jealous. You could conduct some research and write a nice little story.”

Sherlock Holmes’s voice had been losing animation. He seemed to be slipping into a mood of dejection and not to feel any further need for exchange.

“Any other explanation?”

He shrugged and quoted Shakespeare. “Hell is empty. The devils are here.”