The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

4

We returned to London the next day, arriving back in the city to be confronted by several challenging problems that kept Holmes busy for the next few months. Our brief visit to Paris was almost forgotten until we received two final reminders of the case.

The first was a terse note from Girac. 'Huret killed while trying to escape.'

'As the assassin predicted, Watson,' said Holmes, his face set in grim lines, 'his case never went to trial. Though I doubt he realized he was forecasting his own murder. Huret knew too many secrets to be allowed to testify.'

The second came by messenger from the French Embassy. Enclosed in a box was an autograph letter of thanks from the French President and the Order of the Legion of Honour. It was one of many awards given to Holmes by foreign governments, most of which decorated our quarters in Baker Street. Holmes

stared at the letter and the medal for quite some time. Then, he looked me right in the eye, the container resting on his knees.

'I am not a fool, Watson, placated by trinkets and certificates. A secret cabal of Jewish anarchists did not hire Huret. He was engaged by the French military, who hoped that killing the President would create even greater problems for the liberals and Jews in their country. The President's own supporters and political allies wanted him _dead, a martyr to their cause. The President's life meant nothing to them. I suspect if he is wise, he will resign shortly.

'As for Captain Dreyfus, my readings about the affair as well as our pursuit and capture of Huret have convinced me that the Captain was completely innocent of all charges. He was made a scapegoat by his superiors because of his religious beliefs. Girac came to us not because he didn't trust his men, but because he didn't trust his government. As he stated, the corruption was everywhere. Many of the most important politicians and officials in France knew the truth but did nothing.'

With a sigh, Holmes dropped the container holding the autograph letter and the medal into a drawer of his desk. 'When Dreyfus is a free man, I will post these awards Watson. Until then, they will remain untouched.'

For twelve long years, the medal and the letter stayed sealed in that drawer, even after Holmes moved to Sussex. Sherlock Holmes was a man of his word. And, for all of his vanity, he was a man of honor.

The Adventure of the Inertial Adjustor – Stephen Baxter

Our visitor was perhaps twenty-eight: a short, broad-shouldered young man, a little prone to fat, the voice high and thin, and he moved with a bright, bird-like bounce. His face, under thinning hair, was pale – perhaps he was consumptive and his blue eyes were striking, wide and dreaming. He could hardly have presented a greater contrast, physically and in his manner, to my friend Holmes. And yet his conversation sparked with Holmes's, as if their two minds were poles of some huge electrical battery.

This visitor had presented Holmes with a set of rather grainy photographs, taken with one of the New York Kodaks which are so popular. Holmes was inspecting these with his lens. The visitor, with some malicious glee, was challenging Holmes to deduce, from the evidence of each photograph, the elements of some unusual situation, after the manner of a parlour game. Holmes had just finished with a blurred image of some withered white flowers. I studied this for myself, and could see little untoward about the flowers, although I could not immediately place their natural order – perhaps it was the genus Malva – for instance, the shape of the gynoecium, clearly visible, was rather unusual. Holmes appeared rather irritated by this harmless image, and had passed on to the next, while his young visitor was grinning. 'I'm not surprised he made nothing of it. The apparatus of a classic hoaxer!' he told me.

Holmes passed me the next print. 'See here, Watson. What can you make of that?'

This appeared more promising – and, I observed, the visitor was somewhat more serious about it. At first glance it seemed to me an undistinguished portrait of a commonplace luncheon party – although it was set in unusual surroundings, the table and guests being all but engulfed by bulky electrical equipment, wires and cylinders and coils and cones, and in the background I could make out the fittings of a workshop: a steam lathe, metal turners, acetylene welding equipment, a sheet-metal stamp and the like. I ventured, 'I observe that our visitor this evening was a guest at the lunch. I do not know these others -

'They are the Brimicombes, of Wiltshire,' said the visitor. 'My hosts that day: two brothers, Ralph and Tarquin. Ralph is an old college friend of mine. The brothers work together – or did so – on mechanical and electrical inventions.'

'It was a sunny day,' I said. 'I see a splash of light here on the tablecloth, just behind the dish containing this handsome sausage.'

'Yes,' said Holmes with tolerant patience, 'but what of the sausage itself?'

I looked again.The sausage sat on its own plate, the centrepiece of the meal. 'It is a succulent specimen. Is it German?'

Holmes sighed. 'Watson, that is no sausage, German or otherwise. It is evidently a prank, of dubious taste, served on their guests by these Brimicombes.'

The visitor laughed. 'You have it, Mr Holmes. You should have seen our faces when that giant concoction crawled off its plate and across the tablecloth!'

'A man of your profession should recognize the beast, Watson. It is an aquatic annelid, of the suctorial order Hirudinea, employed for the extraction of blood -

'Great Heaven,' I cried, 'it is a giant leech!'

'You cannot see the colour in the Kodak,' said the visitor, 'but you should know it was a bright red: as red as blood itself.'

'But how can this be, Holmes? Is it some freak of nature?'

'Of nature – or Man's science,' Holmes mused. 'Consider the influences acting on that wretched leech. It is drawn towards flatness by the force of the gravity of the Earth; that much we know. And its collapse to a pancake is resisted only by its internal strength. But it is hard to believe a creature as gross as this specimen would even be able to sustain its own form.

Why, then, has it evolved such a magnitude? What gives it the strength to hold itself up, to move?' He eyed his visitor sharply. 'Or perhaps we should ask, what is reducing the force which drags it down?'

The visitor clapped his hands in delight. 'You have it, sir!' Holmes handed back the photograph. 'Indeed. And perhaps

you might care to set out the particulars of the case.' Confused, I asked, 'Are you so sure you have a case at all,

Holmes?'

'Oh, yes,' he said gravely. 'For did our visitor not speak of the work of these Brimicombe brothers in the past tense? Evidently something has disturbed the equilibrium of their fraternal lives; and you would not be here, sir, if that were not something serious.'

'Indeed,' was the reply, and now the visitor was solemn. 'There could be nothing more serious, in fact: my visit here was motivated by the death of the elder brother, Ralph, in unusual circumstances – circumstances deriving from the more obscure corners of the physical sciences!'

I asked, 'Is it murder?'

'The local coroner does not think so. I, however, am unsure. There are puzzling features – inconsistencies – and so I have come to you, Mr Holmes – I am a journalist and author, not a detective.'

I smiled. 'In fact, sir, I already know your occupation.'

He seemed surprised. 'Forgive me. We have not been introduced.'