“I see,” was all that I could think to say, feeling somewhat unnerved by the disclosure, and realising clearly that Holmes operated in a frighteningly different world to that I enjoyed at Harrow. I shook his hand a final time and walked him out to the waiting carriage.
It was at that moment that I realised I had forgotten to ask him about his fees on the case. Rather indelicately, I put the question to him as the door to the carriage was swung open by a beaming Kenneth Buttenshaw. To my astonishment, the industrialist took it upon himself to answer for Holmes. “There is no need to worry about that, young man. Mr. Holmes and I have reached a very satisfactory settlement, and I have indicated that if he is ever in any financial need, he has only to approach me. You have a lot to learn about business that this fine school can never teach you.” He winked at Sophia. “Luckily, you are marrying a woman who can find her way around a balance sheet and knows all about profit and loss.”
The four of us laughed and Holmes turned to me a final time before climbing into the carriage. “Farewell, Mr. Hughes. I wish all of my cases had such satisfying conclusions. At this stage, I have to be honest in saying that I am not sure whether my chosen career will continue to be such a success.”
I was cheered by his frank admission and responded without hesitation. “You need have no doubts on that score. You have a rare combination of talents and abilities that clearly set you apart from other men. The world awaits your arrival.”
I waved them off and lingered awhile as the carriage disappeared from view. I knew then that it would not be the last time that I would hear of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The Strange Case of the Necropolis Railway
by Geri Schear
There was nothing he could do at that time of night, so Dr. M.J. Stamford, FRCS, ordered the body be brought to St. Bartholomew’s Mortuary. They were just on the point of lifting the corpse onto the stretcher when some instinct caused him to reconsider. He stalled the attendants and said, “One moment, if you please. I think I should like a second opinion.”
“A second opinion?” the policeman scoffed. “What, to tell you he’s dead?”
The doctor did not immediately answer, but wrote a hasty note on the back of a prescription and dispatched it to 24 Montague Street. That done, he said, “You do not have to stay, Inspector.”
“I’ve not yet finished my investigation,” the other replied.
The policeman made theatre of his examination. This seemed to involve much tutting and desultory wandering around. After twenty minutes, he seemed to have exhausted his repertoire and was on the point of leaving when a young man stepped out of a hansom.
“Good morning, Dr. Stamford,” the newcomer said, blowing into his gloved hands. The winter sleet had ceased for the moment, but frost glittered in the air. “If three o’clock can be considered morning. Something odd, you said?”
“Thank you for coming. Yes, I think you’ll find this worth the loss of some sleep. It’s exactly your sort of thing. This way, if you please.”
He led the newcomer deep under the railway bridge and stopped before the corpse. This was a man, had been a man, who lay face down on the pavement. Even in the weak lantern light, the blood spray on his face, neck, and chest was obvious. He wore neither shirt nor jacket, and he was barefoot.
“What’s this then?” the policeman demanded. “What did you want to call him for?”
“For his expertise,” Stamford said, mildly. “Doctors do consult specialists.”
The tall, thin newcomer chuckled. “That’s certainly one way to describe me, Stamford. A specialist. I like it.” His eyes were already penetrating the darkness with clinical detachment, gleaning details from the squalid scene. He was no less thorough for being speedy. After some moments, he looked at the policeman and chuckled.
“This is my investigation,” the policeman fumed.
“Are you sure?”
“Who are you talking about? I’m the officer in charge.”
“I meant are you sure it’s a crime, Inspector.”
The policeman seemed incapable of speech. He made an odd strangled noise. “Well, of course it’s a crime,” he finally managed to splutter. “There’s a dead man covered with blood.”
“Indeed, but he did not die here. Nor, I think, is this blood his.”
“What! What sort of nonsense is that? Who else’s could it be?”
“Whose, indeed.”
The young man pulled on the corpse’s rigid jaw. “You see,” he said, “Rigor has already begun. You will correct me if I’m wrong, Stamford, but rigor usually sets in some two to four hours after death.”
“Generally, yes,” Stamford said. “I put the time of death around one o’clock this morning, give or take an hour.”
“So what?” the policeman demanded.
“You miss the significance, Inspector. Stamford?”
“I’m afraid I’m not following either, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes released a long sigh. “This is a busy area. Even at this time of night, people are passing by. If this man had been lying here for more than a few minutes someone would have found him. I observe your own police patrol tonight is double the norm, I assume because of the convict Pennyfeather’s escape. Your constables have passed this spot every twenty to thirty minutes. Besides, there’s the lividity.”
As neither of the professionals replied, Holmes continued. “You observe this dark discolouration that runs down the dead man’s back, from his skull to his buttocks? That is livor mortis. The settling of the blood after death follows the gravitational pull. Yes?”
“I know all that,” the policeman said.
“Then, pray, explain how a man lying face down should have no blood on the front of his body, but a considerable
