Mycroft Holmes and the Adventure of the Desert Wind Read online

  Mycroft Holmes and the Adventure of the Desert Wind

  By

  Janina Woods

  First edition published in 2017 by

  MX Publishing

  335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,

  London, N11 3GX

  www.mxpublishing.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © Copyright 2017 Janina Woods

  The right of Janina Woods to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.

  Cover design by Brian Belanger

  Cover painting by Lou B / diogenes art

  This book is dedicated to everyone, who supported this crazy idea over the years, and especially to Jeni and Lou.

  It Seems I Am Being Summoned

  London, January 1896

  With a most ungraceful sidestep I avoided the fist, which had been thrown in the general direction of my unprotected head. I could feel the air rushing past my face, which told me that I had saved myself from bodily harm, just barely. To get away from the imminent danger, I had to twist my upper body harshly, which made me lose my balance - and with both arms tied behind my back, it was a chore regaining it in a timely manner.

  “Will you please, for the love of all that is holy, just let me hit you?” one of the shadows around me shouted with clear annoyance in his voice.

  I didn‘t grace it with a response. Ducking low, I evaded another blow from the person behind me, found a stable hold on my right foot and used the left one to kick my assailant’s leg. He stumbled and fell into the person behind him. I cursed. How many people had entered the room? In the twilight, I could not make out more than five. The figures around me reminded me of the spectres which had haunted my dreams for days. I shrugged off the uneasy feeling and braced myself for the next impact.

  “Get him!” the downed man shouted and suddenly all of the ghost-like appearances jumped me at once.

  They didn’t use any weapons, so I had nothing to turn against them. A few kicks and twists later, one of the men had my torso in his grip on the floor and another secured my legs. I struggled for a while, but it was no use. My stamina had run out, clothes clung to my body permeated with sweat, and I breathed heavily against the cold, dusty stone paving. Still, I had never been a man to admit defeat. In a feat of strength I twisted and rolled over, and in turn made my attackers lose their grip.

  Now I had them. If I could just...

  “Mr. Holmes? Sir? A letter for you.” The familiar voice of the footman sounded out of place in the darkness. “It is most urgent, I might add.”

  “Alright, game’s over,” the man on my back said and released his hold.

  I rolled over and sat up, drawing great gulps of air into my lungs as I regained my equilibrium. With a few practiced motions I got rid of the rope around my wrists and rubbed the skin to restore a proper blood flow.

  “Time?” I asked without looking up.

  “Thirty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds until Crawley interrupted us,” someone answered from the other side of the room. A light flickered into existence and illuminated the small cellar room in a sickly yellow. Ah, so they had brought seven agents this time. I had half a mind to remind them of the rules to this game. But the announced time already showed that I had yet again set another record, despite the unfair odds, so I kept my mouth shut. No need to be petty. Their silence told me that they knew.

  The footman, Crawley, stepped between us and handed me a folded piece of paper without further comment. I opened it to peruse its contents. What could be so urgent on a dreadful winter night such as this?

  “It seems I am being summoned,” I said after I had folded the message and jumped to my feet. The motion made me feel the places I had bruised as the result of a particularly badly executed fall, but I didn’t let it influence the grace of my movement. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

  My fellow agents nodded, some eyeing the paper with curiosity, but no one inquired. It was not unusual for any of us to be summoned at any odd moment in time, so they could detect nothing out of the ordinary in my behaviour. I dropped the rope on an old, wooden table nearby and grabbed my suit jacket from a chair.

  Just as I left the room, I could already hear whispers exchanged among them. I consciously didn’t pay them any mind. Most of the agents in the service were younger than I and couldn’t accept me retaining my high status within their ranks. I had barely entered the 42nd year of my life, which made me the oldest agent to turn down a more relaxing desk job or relocation to a warmer post in a colony further south after more than a lifetime of work.

  The fact that I continued not only to outsmart my colleagues, but actually displayed a better physical record than most, was a source of constant talk and jealousy. Adding to that my experience in the field, I made sure that I was still chosen for most of the high-profile work, leaving them to clean up the mess common people made. In short: I was everything they wanted to be, but could never seem to reach - and god, I enjoyed it.

  London was sleeping under a thick blanket of snow. Not even the thieves and scoundrels made an attempt of braving the bitter cold. Even evil needs a winter holiday, it seems. Not that I, Mycroft Holmes, would ever step so low as to pursue a pickpocket in the streets. No, I was used to an entirely different class of criminal. But even if the city took a break, the Secret Service would never be still. Its agents worked throughout the British Empire and beyond, ensuring the safety of its citizens.

  As I traded the comfortable warmth of the Diogenes Club for a hard seat in a hansom cab, which might as well have been a block of ice, I briefly considered abandoning the effort. Being summoned to handle Sherlock’s problems wasn’t my favourite way to pass what little free time I had. While I loved my little brother, I did so in the same way one would love a pet cat: Dearly, but with a healthy dose of wariness.

  When Sherlock decides to leave the country on one of his errands, he has the gracious mind to inform me of his destination. He doesn’t do so out of a generous heart or consideration for his elder brother’s feelings, but out of the desire to avoid any complications for himself. After a rather unpleasant stay on an island in a remote fjord in Norway during the winter, from which he only escaped by sending smoke signals to passing fishermen, he had found that informing me was the lesser of two evils.

  My thoughts drifted to the note my brother had left behind a week ago, delivered to me by one of his street urchin helpers - who had almost not been able to gain access to the club after getting in a row with the footman at the door. It had mentioned only the city of Milan and the number nine, indicating both Sherlock’s destination and projected days of absence. He was rarely wrong on thi
s account, so I hadn’t paid his escapade any mind so far. But now I frantically clawed at any information my brain would provide about the current political and social affairs in northern Italy, as well as any gossip that had made the way over, to give me an idea of the problems he might have encountered.

  A knock on the roof of the hansom told me we had arrived. Agitated flurries of snowflakes rushed into the cab as the driver opened the door and I thanked him with a nod as I jumped out into the barely disturbed snow on the pavement. I made my way through the piled-up, crumbly white ice and walked up to the door of 221b Baker Street.

  It took no time at all for Mrs. Hudson to answer the ring of the bell, which wasn’t surprising, as Watson would have alerted her to my visit. She ushered me into the building and placed a hand on my arm in a familiar gesture, as she welcomed me into the enveloping warmth of the hallway. I returned her greeting with a smile I hoped to be equally kind and declined her offer of tea brought to the sitting room. There were other things on my mind, and I didn’t want to spoil the enjoyment of a hot cup of tea on a cold winter night by association with a distressing incident.

  “Mycroft! I thank you for responding so quickly,” Watson appeared on top of the stairs. He was wearing a simple, for once not ill-fitting, brown suit, looking as worldly and small as ever with his dirty blonde hair and matching mustache. I don’t know why he always reminded me of an old dog. Oblivious to my thoughts, the doctor motioned for me to follow him into the sanctum of the building. “While I am aware that it’s a nightmare to travel in this weather, the issue at hand simply cannot wait.”

  “I fully understand,” I responded, and my reply was genuine. Problems concerning Sherlock always took the highest priority for us, after all.

  “What issue, Dr. Watson?” Mrs. Hudson asked with curiosity, remaining dutifully at the bottom of the stairs while I joined Sherlock’s associate at the top and avoided every creaking board as was my custom. “Mr. Holmes hasn’t gotten himself into any trouble again, has he?”

  “That remains to be seen, Mrs. Hudson,” I answered for the doctor.

  “Mark my words. That man will put all of us into an early grave,” the housekeeper sighed and threw her hands up in a gesture of defeat.

  I followed Watson into the sitting room and closed the door behind me. After I rid myself of coat and hat, I took in the familiar scene of 221b with fondness. While I didn’t get along brilliantly with my younger brother, I have always admired the way he lead his life. And this room, with all its artifacts and souvenirs, spoke loudly of the way he enjoyed it.

  The space was illuminated only by the flickering flames of the fireplace, so when Watson turned on the gas lamp on my brother’s desk, I briefly had to squint my eyes due to its much brighter, white light. The doctor then pointed out the reason I had been summoned: A piece of paper, already extracted from the envelope it had arrived in. It was positioned on Watson’s old writing desk, on top of what could have only been some of the case notes the doctor always faithfully recorded.

  Only a few people would ever know the liberties he took when penning his stories to be published in the Strand Magazine. Take myself for example: No one would recognise me in the streets just following the details of Watson’s description. They were indeed the most effective way to camouflage myself while my brother grew as a public figure. In reality I am proud to say that I was everything but corpulent and always took pride in my stately figure, fitting just so in an elegantly tailored, bespoke suit. Frankly, my occupation wouldn’t have allowed me to be anything but a paragon of gentlemanly elegance, and I enjoyed every minute of it. But while my physical features and mental faculties were very similar to Sherlock’s, the rest of our lives couldn’t have been more different.

  “Thank you for calling me so quickly,” I said as I approached the writing desk.

  “Of course,” Watson answered. “I didn’t catch you at a bad moment?”

  “In fact you did.”

  I pointedly ignored his raised eyebrow at my last comment and proceeded to pick up the rather small, dirty envelope, noting that Watson had opened carefully despite his agitated state of mind. His years in the company of my brother had not been in vain, after all. I let my gaze wander over the slightly brownish, coarse paper surface, illuminated by the light of the gas lamp. A number of faces looked up at me from colourful postage stamps, which took up a quarter of the envelope’s front.

  Italy. Milan. There wasn’t any doubt now.

  “The content?”

  Watson produced a small piece of paper, evidently ripped from a larger sheet. He held it up to the light for me to see. Only a few words and some stains adorned its surface. It read in a hurried handwriting:

  ‘Find help. I am truly sorry.’

  The writing on the torn-off page was unmistakably that of Sherlock. I would have recognised my younger brother’s hand anywhere.

  “The note was written in a hurry, compressed into a ball and given to someone with dirty hands. Someone then straightened it out again, placed it in the envelope and addressed it in his own, crude hand. The first part simply reads “John Watson, London,“ but has been amended two... no three times until it arrived here. Observe that “England” and “Baker Street” have been written by the same person with two different pens. Someone then added your title of “Dr” in front of your name.”

  “So that means...”

  “It means that my brother is most definitely in some sort of... danger. Tell me, where does Sherlock stash his letters, if he doesn’t get rid of them immediately? We should find a clue about the nature of his case in Milan there.”

  “He usually keeps his correspondence ordered by year on a shelf behind his bedroom door.”

  “You haven’t looked at it yet?”

  “No, I admit it slipped my mind...” Watson had the decency to sound embarrassed.

  “But he did receive a letter? There was no visitor to inform him of the case matter?” I was already on my way to my brother’s sleeping chamber, Watson at my heels like a trained dog.

  “Yes. Well, not that I can recall. I’m not always present when a client deems it suitable to visit,” the doctor mumbled while stepping up to help me find the letter in question. “Ah, here it is.”

  He grabbed a moderately sized ledger, bound in cheap, black leather from the shelf. It looked worn out from repeated use, even though the year had barely started and it shouldn’t have seen many hands yet. But where there should’ve been only the soft whisper of leather being dragged over used wood, as Watson pulled the ledger from the shelf, I heard a rasping noise, like two hard, uneven surfaces screeching against each other.

  In our confusion we shared a brief questioning gaze, but were quickly distracted by the sound of heavy sand grains that tumbled onto the floorboards, originating from the bundle of collected paper in the doctor’s grasp. I grabbed the curious thing from his hand and opened it immediately to witness the last remnants of dry sand still on the surface of the few letters it contained. I recognised them as the correspondence my brother and I had shared in the aftermath of the delicate issue of the Bruce-Partington Plans.

  “What in the name... ?” Watson uttered disbelievingly. “Why would Holmes place sand into his documents?”

  “Has anyone visited while he was away?”

  “I’ve received Stamford for tea once, three days ago, but otherwise it’s just been me and Mrs. Hudson in Baker Street.”

  I hummed noncommittally and carefully put the ledger down on the adjacent work desk, which was as cluttered as my brother’s mind. Even in the feeble light of a single lamp, there was no mistaking the substance, which was now scattered across the floor for anything but coarse grained, reddish sand. With my right index finger, I cautiously picked up some of the remnants in the ledger, to roll them between my fingertips, test the smell and taste. But as soon as they came in contact
with my skin, I recoiled and snapped my hand back in alarm.

  “Mycroft?” Watson moved in to see what had surprised me so. “What happened?”

  “Interesting...” I mumbled. “The sand... it felt electrifying. My skin grew hot the instant I touched it,” I explained, a bit of wonder colouring my tone, as I rubbed my fingers, still feeling the remaining heat. But that’s impossible? No, there must be a chemical...

  The reaction hadn’t injured my fingers, just caught me completely off guard, similar to the shock you feel when you expect the liquid in your glass to be water and after a big gulp it turns out to be vodka instead. I decided to test the substance again, this time mentally prepared. Slowly, under Watson’s curious scrutiny, I applied another of my digits to the paper and touched the grains to exposed skin.

  Nothing happened.

  I placed my whole hand on the paper. Still nothing. A closer inspection of the ledger revealed only two letters to be present, both of which I penned myself. And the sand on the floor was just that: a pile of slightly brownish coloured, thoroughly ground down rocks.

  What just... Was my tired mind playing tricks on me?

  “There’s nothing wrong with the sand, except for the fact that it’s fallen out the ledger, where it clearly has no right to be,” Watson concluded, and deposited a handful of the treacherous material on top of the desk. “Could you have been... mistaken?”

  His question was posed cautiously. A wise move when he thought it prudent to address me with an accusation like this. But I wasn’t in the mood to discuss the issue.

  “Yes, I must’ve been mistaken,” I answered, voice clear even though my thoughts were still muddled. “There is no time for this. If there’s no written record to be found, I will have to visit the root of the problem.”

  My irritation with this whole incident grew by the second, so I didn’t hesitate to leave the room and the accursed pile of particles behind me and return to the chair to which I had relinquished my coat and hat earlier. I had felt determined to chase after Sherlock since I received Watson’s message at the Diogenes and was annoyed at the strange occurrence, which single-handedly managed to completely derail my train of thoughts. My feet led me to the stairs automatically, while I wrapped a woollen scarf around my neck several times, so I was ready to depart once more into the frosty winter air.