Mycroft Holmes and the Edinburgh Affair Read online

  “A message has been left for you that’s connected to the crime...”

  “At the graveyard?” Watson asked.

  “No, on the river!”

  It was then that Sherlock rose from his seat, walked over to the inspector with a few long steps and grabbed the man by his shoulders. He manoeuvred him to a chair, motioned for him to sit still, then placed a glass of scotch in his reach. Jones took a large gulp and visibly calmed down.

  “Now, please. From the beginning. Chronologically. Without interjections.”

  Sherlock shot both Watson and me a silencing glare, at which Watson nodded and took a seat in the now vacant armchair, whereas I simply shrugged and leaned back.

  “You all know of the strange digging in Drury Lane last night, surely,” Jones started his explanation. “An hour ago we had another report from a pie vendor on the Thames. There has been heavy snowfall through the night, and to save himself from digging out all his benches and tables upon the morning, he put up a tent above them, so the snow wouldn’t bury them. Imagine his surprise when morning came and his furniture was stacked outside the tents! First he thought it a prank by his neighbours or some unruly children, but when he entered the tent, he got the shock of his life.”

  “A body?” Watson suggested as Jones made a pause in his speech.

  “No. Many bodies,” I said.

  “Without interjections,” Sherlock reminded us.

  Watson had the decency to look reprimanded. I didn’t do reprimanded. Had never done it and wouldn’t start now.

  “Mr. Holmes is right. The missing bodies are inside the tent... but not only lying about, oh no. It looks like they’re frozen inside the water, arms stretching up as if in a cry for help! And that amidst all the revellers on the fair!”

  I reminded myself that the winter of 1897 had been exceptionally early and cold from the end of October on. Definitely much colder than any winter I remembered, and the weather had been in parts even more violent than the unnatural storms I had endured during our mission to rescue Sherlock from Egypt. Because of this extraordinary cold, Londoners were treated to a celebration so rare, it hadn’t happened in over eighty years. The Thames had frozen over so thoroughly, that for over five days now, a frost fair was being held on the river between Southwark and London Bridge, while the ice cover spread far beyond these boundaries. Myself, I didn’t have time to visit the fair yet, but it seemed like the occasion would come sooner than expected.

  Still...

  “Why would my person be required, then?” I asked.

  “As we took down the tent to examine the area more closely, we were alerted to a certain pattern, which wasn’t obvious from the ground. The tent was very close to the west side of London Bridge, so some curious onlookers saw it from above and-”

  “The body parts spelled out my brother’s name,” Sherlock completed the sentence.

  “Precisely,” Jones nodded and emptied his glass. “It says Mycroft.”

  And then all eyes were on me. It took me only about two seconds to gather myself, because I had expected this end to the story. Still, hearing it said out loud was another matter entirely.

  “I’ve only been back in London for two days, and very few people even know about my return, much less my prior absence. This means the whole thing has been done within a day or less,” I voiced my thoughts.

  “Which means that the actual plan would’ve already been in place, and they needed a day to gather people and material. There’s no way this large of an undertaking could be spontaneously carried out to such a precise execution within just a day,” Sherlock added.

  “If no one knew about your absence, then maybe it’s just a coincidence? Or addressed to someone else named Mycroft?” Watson asked.

  Of course I knew there were other people carrying my name, but in my ingrained vanity I almost hadn’t considered it could’ve been meant for another.

  “No, that’s unlikely. The timing fits too closely. If it were meant for someone else, wouldn’t you just wait until the ground wasn’t frozen and impossibly hard to dig up?” I countered. “Also... can you think of any other Mycroft in London, who would’ve made enemies that go to such elaborate lengths to address them?”

  “Your occupation makes you enemies, Mr. Holmes? What is it that-”

  “Stop thinking about any of this immediately. The matter is above your rank, Inspector Jones,” I cut him off with a sharp glare. He shrunk under it immediately. Such was the quality of our police force.

  I let the facts pass through my head again. Who had the audacity to contact me publicly in such an underhanded manner? It couldn’t be anything but a threat...

  Be careful!

  When I had said that only few knew about my absence, that much had been true. But there were still enough people in the know within the Secret Service, that I couldn’t immediately name them all, much less pinpoint a single one. And that irritated me.

  “I need to see the place. London Bridge, you said?”

  Without ceremony I downed the rest of my drink and rose from the armchair.

  “Yes, Mr. Holmes, sir,” Jones replied and rose with me. “I can take you there. I’ve been sent to fetch both you and your brother. You’ve saved me some trouble by being here.”

  “Sherlock?” I asked as I retrieved my coat.

  “We will return Toby first and then meet you there.”

  “Fine. Thank you for your offer, Inspector Jones, but I will be faster on my own. Who’s the responsible person on location?”

  “That should be Inspector Lestrade, sir.”

  I hummed in acknowledgement. It didn’t matter to me who worked the case, but some Yarders were easier to reason with than others. Lestrade had frequently cooperated with Sherlock and been informed of my actual occupation a few years ago. That would make things easier. Maybe he had been assigned for this very reason. Still, even though we should have every reason to get along, we had never quite warmed up to each other. But we were both professionals and would surely be able to work around our personal issues.

  Sherlock’s face on the other hand lit up as he heard the inspector’s name. Yes, those two had taken a shine to each other. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Flawed as my brother was, he always managed to make people like him - even if he didn’t do it on purpose.

  “I will see you later,” I said, grabbed my cane and left the sitting room.

  Chapter Three

  I walked through the mass of people, who flowed around me like treacle, sticking together at the most inopportune moments. The closeness was oppressive, the smells were worse, and every step made my boots squelch through a layer of half-frozen mud and excrement. Thick snowflakes had started to fall and the air was bitterly cold. People bumped into each other without regard for their welfare and the carriages on the road stood absolutely still - which didn’t stop the drivers from hurling insults at each other and everyone else. Animals were being driven through the aggregation, adding their confused cries to the noise, which was already deafening. For anyone from the countryside, this must’ve looked like a madhouse. For the city residents, it was just another Tuesday in London.

  Instead of forcing my way through the commotion, I took advantage of the movement around me, slipped through gaps and stepped ahead where I sensed that others would hesitate. It was like an improvised choreography without music. The movement came natural to me, and I couldn’t deny a certain satisfaction about how I made my way through the chaos unscathed.

  I had to give up my cab a few streets back, as it was stuck behind a crash in the road. There had been a collision between two transport vehicles, with copious amounts of broken glass and so much strawberry jam on the pavement, it looked like a violent murder scene. Add to that an injured horse and there was no way any vehicle would be getting through the crossing any time soon. Some mem
bers of the police force had already arrived as I made my departure, but the accident was of no consequence to me. No, I was on my way to the rather peculiar incident near London Bridge, which I was now nearing from the north side.

  Normally I would’ve long smelled the foul odour of the Thames, but it was frozen over, and it seemed like all its miasma was locked in by the cold. I passed the Monument on my left, the top shrouded by the dense snowfall, rest covered in a thick layer of snow. Despite the foggy atmosphere, the pillar cast a long shadow. Up ahead lay the bridge. I walked across, keeping mostly to the right side. Right at the end, there was a big mass of people all but blocking the traffic. As if it hadn’t been obstructed enough...

  On closer inspection, I could see several policemen who tried to keep the onlookers from approaching the railing. There was no doubt about where I should be headed.

  “Sorry sir, we can’t let anyone through here,” a young constable stated as he planted himself in my path, effectively blocking both the stairs and the view.

  “I’m Mycroft.”

  The man looked confused. “I don’t see-”

  “The Mycroft from the message you’re so valiantly guarding.”

  “Oh...” He looked even more confused, now not only trying to process my words, but also contemplating if I had indeed the right to pass by him or was just taking advantage of the situation. I took a broader stance and rested both hands on my cane in front of me. From underneath my top hat, I narrowed my eyes at him.

  “Constable...?”

  “Collins, sir.”

  “Constable Collins, then. Clear the way or I’ll have to call on the inspector.”

  “I don’t think...”

  The young man looked properly intimidated by now, but much to his credit, he didn’t budge. So Constable Collins had more integrity than Inspector Jones... I was about to open my mouth again when a hand came to rest on the young man’s shoulder.

  “It’s alright, Collins. I’ll take it from here.” Lestrade had come up the stairs and positioned himself next to the constable, who looked absolutely relieved to see him. “Good work.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Collins mumbled and disappeared from sight.

  “Why yes, thank you, Inspector,” I added with a forced smile. Lestrade returned the expression, but the smile reached his eyes as much as it reached mine: Not at all. He sized me up with dark eyes and drew himself up to his full height, which almost rivalled mine.

  “I’d appreciate if you could stop harassing my men, Mr. Holmes,” the inspector said tersely. “If you would follow me.”

  He turned around without waiting for my reply and led me to a spot at the stone railing, which the police force kept free of onlookers. We were almost to the other side of the Thames, and the large buildings of the rebuilt Hibernia Wharf were immediately to my left. The river beneath me was dotted with an assortment of colourful tents, benches and other fair implements. Flags hung slack in the heavy snowfall and horses with their carriages stood stoically, snowflakes accumulating in their fur.

  Despite the weather, there were many people about. Some of them were occupied by pushing the snow around so that the pathways between the tents were accessible, but most walked leisurely to examine the wares that the various costermongers and other street merchants had brought onto the ice. There was entertainment to be found all around, like at any good carnival. In the distance I could even see a theatrical performance on the ice.

  “That’s the location,” Lestrade pointed at an area surrounded by policemen, directly next to the bridge. They were standing around what looked like an ordinary patch of snow. There was nothing to see. I cleared my throat.

  “I know, I know,” the inspector replied and pushed a bit of accumulated snow off the bridge. “This stuff’s really coming down. We’ll clear the area once Mr. Holmes is here, so you can both have a look. Then the tent will go up again, and you can all poke around to your heart’s content afterwards.”

  “Your tone rather sounds like you’d prefer for me to join the frozen remains down there.”

  Inspector Lestrade harrumphed and turned around to lean his back against the railing, then reached for a small clay pipe, which he had stored in his breast pocket. After a few attempts to light it, the smoke he exhaled swirled around the falling snowflakes.

  “Mr. Holmes, we only ever meet when there’s something horrible about. The criminals of London haven’t been on their best behaviour while you’ve been away, but we had a rather calm few months... only jealousy murders and petty theft. You’re in town for what, a day, and already some people unearth what’s basically a whole cemetery and desecrate the bodies even further with their little display here. Excuse me if I’m not all that exuberant to see you in the city again.”

  I turned to stand beside him, gaze directed on where the recently opened Tower Bridge would’ve been visible in the distance, if not for the snowfall and rising cold fog. There was already a good amount of snowflakes accumulating on both the inspector and me, and should we have kept still we would’ve soon disappeared into the scenery.

  “I can assure you that it’s also in my own best interest to see the culprits apprehended. They dug their own grave by making it personal, not only for me, but for the Service.”

  The inspector smiled.

  “I would hope so,” he said. “I don’t know why I’ve been giving your organisation such leeway if it were otherwise. Where’s Mr. Holmes?”

  I’m right here, I wanted to say, but I refrained.

  “My brother and his dog will be along shortly.”

  “Toby?” Lestrade asked.

  “Dr. Watson,” I answered.

  To his credit the inspector smirked briefly and turned back to the west side of London Bridge. He waved at the constables below to get their attention, and soon all seven of them looked up to their superior.

  “Alright, lads, get this mess cleaned up! And be careful not to break off any legs or arms. They are frozen solid and fragile like glass. We need them as intact as possible for a proper reburial,” Lestrade shouted down at his men, who looked absolutely delighted at the prospect of shovelling snow to reveal the frozen message. “And get to it! The snowfall isn’t letting up anytime soon!”

  He puffed a few more clouds of smoke into the cold winter air as he watched the constables scramble to heed his request.

  “Seniority can be a wonderful thing,” I remarked. “Don’t you agree, inspector?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I was sure he did. He probably enjoyed a more settled position so he could leave the legwork to the younger men. His rank allowed him to order many people around, but at the same time he also carried the responsibility for their actions. My favourite thing about seniority, on the other hand, was the fact that no one dared interfere with my methods.

  We stood in silence and watched the men work, who cleaned up the snow in record time. Maybe they hoped that the faster they worked, the earlier they could return to the Yard and warm up. One man, with a rather enormous broom, cleared the ice around a thing sticking out of the snow. It took me a few seconds to realise it was a bony hand, very dark against the white background, reaching skywards as if the body wanted to climb out of the ground. Around it, more dark spots came into view, until finally the area was as free of snow as the policemen could manage.

  “That’s definitely your name, brother,” Sherlock said as he approached me, emerging through the snowfall. He had no problem passing Constable Collins, who just nodded him through.

  “Indeed...” I mumbled.

  Mostly frozen underneath the icy surface, but with hands and feet sticking out, my name was spelled in bold letters on the surface of the river Thames. They were neatly aligned, and clearly readable, almost like a work of art, if you discarded the fact they were actually
made out of severed, partly decomposed limbs.

  Who in the world would contact me like that? Was it a threat? It had to be. A prank was unlikely, but at that point everything was still unclear. I bit my lip.

  Be careful...

  “Would you mind terribly if I examined the message now?” Sherlock asked. “I know it’s meant for you, so you might want to look first... alright, no answer is also an answer. Watson!”

  I watched my brother bound down the stairs with the doctor in pursuit. Lestrade took a look at me, then followed them down to the river. Someone had built a wide wooden ramp to reach the frozen expanse more easily, and the group all but slid their way to the bottom. Sherlock immediately crouched down at the letter M, and all the way over at the T, some policemen were already starting to put the tent supports up.

  So there it was, my name written in dead bodies across the Thames. The whole display was easily fifteen foot wide, if not more, and contained a total of at least 40 severed limbs in all shapes and sizes. The thing was morbidly fascinating and I would’ve been the first to take a closer look at it, if not for the fact that I felt like it was a promised death - my very own death - staring up at me in stoic silence.

  But there was only so long I could pretend to scrutinize the details from the top of the bridge, so I made my way to join the others below.

  “Top layer of ice was cut out. About a foot deep. Then the limbs were positioned and the rest filled in again with water - probably the melted ice, as there are no blocks to be found. No one would’ve found it strange for people to light a fire and work in the tents during the night, so they weren’t interrupted. The edges show saw marks and the ice inside the display is frozen uniformly and clear.”