Mycroft Holmes and the Adventure of the Desert Wind Read online

  Just when I felt like I’d be on a train for the rest of my life, we reached the south side of the Alps. It turned out that the snowfall didn’t only plague northern Europe, but also put a blanket of white ice on Italian soil. As the monotonous landscape passed by the window, I willed the train to go faster, as Sherlock’s chances sank with every passing hour. Still, some part of me expected to find my brother in said quaint cafe, where he would sip a local spirit and greet us with a sheepish grin as soon as we’d arrived - and for once I wouldn’t even hold it against him.

  For a while, at least.

  We arrived in Milan in the early morning hours, tired and beaten, after an uneasy sleep in a rattling carriage. While I was ready to soldier on, Watson looked like he had reached the limit of his stamina, and our search hadn’t even begun yet. The relaxed years in London, away from military training, had taken its toll on the good doctor. Still, one would think he’d be in better shape from running after my brother all the time.

  A hotel to stay at was quickly found, as January was anything but a prime time to take a holiday in northern Italy. The atmosphere in Milan was muted, in that peculiar way only a harsh winter can achieve. We opted to take a room in a respectable establishment run by a bumbling, elderly Italian man, who despite his age reminded me of a nervous sparrow. The hotel was situated right next to the Milan Duomo - an impressive cathedral built of white stone and decorated lavishly with countless ornaments - in the middle of the town. Watson briefly protested the money waste, but I would hear none of it. After several nights on the train, my body felt stiff and hurt in places it had no right to. I have never seen any use in denying yourself the luxury you clearly deserve.

  But there was no talk of sleep after we deposited our luggage in the cozy room. We had finally reached our destination and I longed to devote all of my time and energy to the search for my brother in this unfamiliar city. To my surprise Watson chose to forgo a rest and joined me in the investigation of the most obvious clue: The stamp of the post office, where the letter had been sent off two weeks ago.

  Several inches of powdery white snow covered all surfaces in the city. While it was indeed eerily quiet and almost deserted, I just couldn’t put my finger on why it felt so off. The early rays of the winter sun barely filtered through the clouds and most of the city was still shrouded in a dim twilight. A harsh wind pushed small snowflakes onto my skin and I felt every impact like the prick of a needle.

  Watson had covered most of his face with a thick scarf, his shoulders drawn up and a permanent frown affixed to his forehead. He struggled to keep up with my walking pace, falling behind a number of times. I was eager to reach our destination, because of the wind, which assaulted my face mercilessly and transformed my skin into a layer of ice.

  “We are here,” I announced and stopped Watson by holding my cane into his path like a barrier. “After you, doctor.”

  The post office was on the ground floor of a tall building. It was recognisable as such only by a small sign next to the door. We entered quickly, as it was a relief to get out of the unwelcoming weather, but then the sudden warmth of the room enveloped me and almost took my breath away. The snow started to melt and water dripped down my face in a rather uncomfortable fashion. I took off my hat and with a practiced gesture I smoothed down my hair to get rid of any drops that remained.

  There was only one man in the room, on a chair behind a worn, wooden counter opposite to the door. He wore an oversized cardigan made of brown wool and a flat, grey cap on his head of short, dark hair. His features were plain, but he had an attentive look about him, which gave me hope to receive at least some helpful answers. The space looked bland and unimaginatively furnished with worn out appliances in front of a dated, yellowish wallpaper - there really wasn’t anything of note to it. The air smelled predominantly of dust and old paper.

  “Good morning,” the man straightened as I addressed him in Italian. “I wonder if I may ask you a question.”

  “Depends on the question,” he answered with a smile.

  I mimicked his expression and pulled the envelope, which contained the fateful letter from my coat pocket, then placed it on the worn counter next to a small bell. “Do you remember this letter? It was sent to a good friend of ours who has recently passed away due to illness. We need to find the person who sent it, so we can take care of our friend’s affairs in Milan.”

  The post officer pointed to the address on the envelope.

  “I wrote this. ‘John Watson, London’. So it actually arrived? That’s a small miracle. This John was a friend of yours?”

  I nodded with a sad expression on my face and pointedly ignored the confused look of Watson upon hearing his own name uttered by the stranger.

  “Who then brought this envelope here, if he couldn’t write the name himself?” I asked the man, who now eyed the pair of us with unabashed curiosity.

  “It was a child. I think it might have been one of the homeless children, who normally loiter on the cathedral square... because he couldn’t even write. He had money to pay for the postage, though, which was even more curious,” the post officer recounted.

  “I take it you asked him where he got the letter from?”

  “Naturally. But he refused to answer any questions, just said the name to write on the envelope, paid for it to be delivered and ran off. There wasn’t much I could do but post the letter so it might reach its intended destination.”

  “Did the child have any distinguishing features?”

  The man shrugged. “A small boy, not taller than the counter. He wore baggy clothes and a thick, long scarf. His speaking skills were very poor, but then again, do any of those kids talk properly?”

  “I see...”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance,” the post officer said, and much to his credit sounded sincere in his apology.

  I smiled at the man and shook my head. “On the contrary. Thank you very much.”

  As we said our goodbyes, I left some coins on the counter and then we were out on the street again. The wind hit me with considerable force. During the brief time inside the building I had almost forgotten about the awful weather, but it was an instant reminder of the uneasiness I had carried since Dover. Dragging my coat closer around my shoulders, I also rearranged the thick scarf and donned my hat again. When Watson looked at me expectantly, I remembered that he wasn’t familiar with the Italian language.

  “A homeless child,” he mused after I recounted the conversation. “That does sound familiar.”

  “Sherlock associates with the type frequently. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has employed the same approach here. The man mentioned the cathedral square, so I suggest we start our search there.”

  “I suppose...”

  Watson wasn’t able to finish the sentence as an exceedingly forceful gale made him tumble and fight to regain his balance. I grabbed his arm to steady him, but the wind died down just as quickly.

  “What was that?” he shouted and let his eyes dart around the narrow street nervously. There was no one to be seen - and why should there have been?

  “I don’t like this,” the doctor mumbled.

  I could only agree, thinking back to the freak blizzard in Dover. Suddenly, being outside seemed that much more dangerous. Quickly, I walked ahead and left the doctor no choice but to follow me. It was the most effective way to handle him, as he seemed terrified of being left on his own. He scrambled to keep up my brisk pace and stuck to my side as though our coats had been sewn together. Deep down, I felt just as uneasy, but there was no sense in letting it show. Nothing could be accomplished if not even one of us kept a cool head.

  Unconsciously I flexed my right hand inside the coat’s pocket, making the leather of my gloves squeak, but I detected nothing out of the ordinary. I hated how I had come to rely on this very... unscientific method of detection.<
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  We walked in silence towards the cathedral. The space around us was covered in white, powdery snow, disturbed only by a few long lines of footprints, which were slowly being filled up by fresh snowflakes. The low buildings around us looked ordinary, simple, boring, with their closed windows and plain colours. The occasional leafless tree made the city seem even more bleak.

  “Maybe Sherlock is already back on his way to London and we missed him entirely. Would that not be amusing?”

  “That does sound like something he would do,” the good doctor sighed. “But, still, I’d like to confirm that fact with him in person.”

  I hummed in agreement. We had almost reached the cathedral square, and I already had an idea of where to look for the homeless children. But I wasn’t all that confident in taking Watson along for the more gritty parts of the investigation.

  “It is curious that he would leave the country for what seems to be a rather simple mystery,” the doctor mused then. “There must have been something else to that letter, something which had sparked his interest so. He was still contemplating and recording the affairs of the Bruce-Partington plans, after all. It is peculiar that he should abandon an effort like that.”

  “It is most curious,” I agreed. The case had been of particular interest to both of us, and for once we had worked closely to resolve it.

  We turned around a corner, and I could already see the cathedral square at the end of the street, as a now familiar feeling took hold of my right hand. I stopped immediately and scanned the street for any odd appearances. Watson only took one look at how tensely I held my arm close to my body, hand clutched tightly into a fist, before he turned around and pressed his back to mine to cover the part of the street I couldn’t see. I recognised with satisfaction that there were some fighting instincts left in him after all. Some of that military training remained deeply ingrained.

  “There’s no one here except us,” he said, voice already coloured with anxiety.

  “There has to be,” I pushed out between clenched teeth. “My...”

  What I had wanted to say was interrupted by the surprisingly high-pitched bursting noise of a ceramic roof tile, which hit the floor just a few feet in front of me. There was another, even closer, then one more on Watson’s side. I didn’t waste a moment to look up, just grabbed the doctor’s arm and ran. Then the sky itself seemed to come down upon us. I could feel the wind, tearing at my clothes and making all the windows in the street rattle so noisily, some part of my mind wondered how they didn’t break. The doctor stumbled along behind me, barely keeping upright, both hands above his head for protection.

  The roof tiles rained on us from all sides in the narrow street, the cacophony of their shattering noises not lessened by the ice on the ground. Not just one building was affected, because no matter how far we ran, always more heavy tiles came crashing down.

  It was only a question of time until one of them hit us. We could have taken shelter in one of the doorways, but I dreaded staying within the cursed street. I needed to get away from all of this, to get far enough for my limb to stop hurting, which only made me feel like being under a curse myself.

  I remember the colour of one roof tile in particular. It was of a red-brownish hue, which had been exposed to the sun for at least ten years. There was moss growing on its surface, coarse and almost as brown as the tile, and a slight bit of mold, staining the underside of the tile an ugly black colour. It fell almost gracefully, turned about in the air, and crashed right in front of my left foot. I stumbled, the speed of my run too much for my body to handle, and flew towards the ground.

  But I wouldn’t let that be it. With both arms outstretched, I used the momentum that had built up and touched the pavement with my hands first, cushioning the blow. My right hand still hurt and almost slipped on the icy ground, but performed its job. I executed a roll, pushed myself off the earth, immediately jumped up to a standing position and resumed my run as if nothing had happened. I heard Watson gasp behind me, but that only served as confirmation that he was indeed still with me. It was a wonder that we exited the street without major injuries, but I didn’t stop my run just then. The wind was still strong and we were exposed on the plaza.

  “Quick, into the cathedral,” I shouted to the doctor, who picked up speed as I mentioned the building and fell in step next to me.

  The wind was still at our back as we reached the doorstep, in pursuit like a vengeful ghost. Luckily the front door of the cathedral was unlocked, and even though it was heavy, I could open it easily and we slipped into the large building without trouble. Silence enveloped us as we closed the opening behind us, in a stark contrast to the chaos we had left behind outside. It was that special, reverent silence found only in churches, the one that never failed to make you feel thoughtful and just a bit awestruck. But for now, I was just glad to get out of the cursed weather. I stopped briefly in my steps, made the sign of the cross and took in the view.

  An opulently decorated interior welcomed us with rows upon rows of neatly arranged pews, made of dark wood. An intricately tiled floor was scrubbed to within an inch of its life and reflected the columns, which held up the high ceiling. The paintings, hung from chains between the columns depicted various pious scenes from the Bible and especially caught my eye. A sweet smell lingered in the space, a mixture of incense and flowers, barely noticeable. In the distance, behind the altar, I could see someone moving. I took off my hat and walked by the pews to the front of the church, Watson at my side. We pretended to be interested in one of the paintings and stopped to examine it more closely.

  “What was that?” Watson whispered under his breath, as every loud sound echoed in the space.

  “An attempt on our life. Again.”

  “How could they know we would be in that street to set a trap so effectively?”

  “It didn’t seem all that planned. More like taking advantage of an opportunity.”

  “Just like on our journey to Switzerland,” Watson shook his head. “The wind... it’s an unholy thing.”

  I didn’t answer. Everything could have a rational explanation. Everything except the pain in my hand. I was still ready to believe it all was just coincidences and actual bad weather, but the unwavering ache in my fingers every time something happened was always there, mocking me and my beliefs.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, gentlemen. I bid you welcome to our cathedral,” a soothing voice said next to me in Italian. “And to Milan.”

  I turned to see the person, who had been behind the altar, stand next to me. He had walked over so silently, I hadn’t even heard his footsteps, which was a feat in its own right. To my surprise, the man wasn’t clad in any religious vestments I would recognize as connected to the church, but simply in some cloth trousers, a waistcoat over a grey shirt and polished leather shoes, all covering a slender body. The lack of any warmer clothing led me to believe he had some business in the building and was clearly a local. The man showed us a brilliant smile and I just had to observe him closer. Black hair, shoulder length, bound in a ponytail at the back of his head, a small pair of glasses balancing on his nose. He stood closer than a stranger would under normal circumstances and eyed me with the same curiosity I exuded. I admit it was flattering to be the object of such open fascination, but I took a step back, cautious of Watson’s reaction.

  Internally, though, I raised an eyebrow at the man’s keen observation, as I couldn’t be sure of his allegiance just yet.

  “Thank you. It’s kind of you to welcome us. We’ve indeed only arrived today,” I answered amicably. Watson simply nodded his greeting.

  “I haven’t seen your face around here before, and there is no way I would ever forget one as handsome as yours. What brings you to our city, if I may ask?” The man made his advances without batting an eye.

  Oh, how I would have loved to respond with an equally charming expression...
but even though the doctor wouldn’t understand a word, I didn’t dare. Instead I closed my eyes for a few seconds, as if trying to compose myself. “A good friend of mine has recently passed away and left a will, naming a resident of your city as one of his heirs. Now we volunteered to search the man out, but learned that he was thrown out of his apartment and no one has any address on record...”

  As I mentioned my fictitious friend’s death, the man crossed himself in acknowledgement and offered his sincere condolences. He placed a hand on top of mine and lingered just a little while longer than entirely proper. I didn’t respond, but hadn’t drawn back either, which earned a little smile. You could almost think that I was the one being roped in for information gathering purposes - not the other way around.

  “If you are searching for a person without home, I can give you directions you to a shelter, which is supported by the churches in Milan. The man you are searching for might be there, or someone who knows him, maybe.”

  “I would be most grateful for your assistance in the matter.”

  “Excuse me, but I haven’t introduced myself yet. The name is Gregorio Taquini,” he extended his hand, which I took in mine without hesitation. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Ian Ashdown,” I answered without skipping a beat. “Likewise. And this is my friend Richard Brewer. He doesn’t speak Italian; unfortunately, so I’d ask you to excuse his silence.”

  “That’s perfectly alright,” the church worker replied. “Now, if you want to reach the shelter...”

  The heavy front doors flew open with a bang, then crashed against the stone walls. A bitterly cold wind rushed into the cathedral with a force that hit me like a wall. The stained-glass windows rattled as they were subjected to such violent air movements from both sides. The suspended paintings now moved about, making their chains creak and twist as wooden frames knocked against stone pillars. Small ornaments and decorative items were blown off various surfaces, crashing to the floor with loud metallic noises. Instinctively I grabbed a hold of both men next to me and threw us all towards the ground, so we could hide behind a solid wooden pew.