Becoming Holmes (14 page)

Sherlock gets to Her Majesty’s Treasury just as Mycroft arrives. The older brother looks at him with that same expression of concern that he’s worn each time they’ve met here.

“Sherlock. Another pleasure. I have nothing to report about your old friend Mr. Grimsby. Surely you did not expect me to just swing into action concerning this. I must be very discreet, you know. And, as you also know, the last two days were not even working days. And yet, here you are. Have you made progress?”

“Oh, yes.”

Mycroft notices a strange gleam in his younger brother’s eyes.

“You say that with great confidence. Anything you might share?”

“No.”

“How kind of you.” He pauses. “Well, I must be on my way.” He turns to go, but Sherlock takes him by the arm.

“I shall wait here to speak to Mr. Grimsby.”

Mycroft wonders why his brother is telling him something that is painfully obvious.

“Yes, well, that is not a great shock, you know. But might I ask you to be gentle with him? Do not make a scene, I beg you.”

“As you wish. I just wanted you to know that I intend to speak with him today.”

“So you said.”

Mycroft goes up the stairs into Her Majesty’s Treasury, wondering about his brother’s strange conduct.

Sherlock waits until almost every last employee of the Chancellor’s office has arrived that morning. There is no sign of Grimsby. Reminding himself to return at closing time, he hurries off to Snowfields School, a long trip east all the way to the Old City and over London Bridge to Southwark.

When he returns, he again waits for the appearance of almost every Treasury employee and does not see the little henchman. Mycroft, one of the last to leave, spots him standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on a lamppost. The older brother reluctantly approaches, looking around.

“Your friend was not at his desk today.”

“Really?”

“Curious, that. He has not missed a day yet.”

“Curious, indeed. His superior was there, though, wasn’t he? In good health?”

“Yes, he was,” says Mycroft, giving his brother a quizzical look. “Shall you return tomorrow?”

“First thing.”

“There is really no need, Sherlock. I can send a note around to you. Denmark Street, is it not? The old apothecary shop?”

“I shall be here.”

“Well, if you must.”

“I must.”

And indeed he is. But this time, the instant Mycroft sees him, he approaches without hesitation.

“I’ve had distressing news. Someone told me coming up the street.”

“What news?”

“This Grimsby, the chap you are seeking, he is dead.”

Sherlock looks shocked. But there is a touch of acting in his reaction, almost as if he knew what Mycroft was going to say. Their mother was a singer and versed in the ways of the theater, and acting is a skill that Sherlock seems to have inherited from her.

“Really?”

“Yes, really, I’m sorry to say. He was missing and they found him in the Thames sometime early yesterday. It appears to have been foul play.”

Sherlock can’t resist a slight smile.

“Well, that doesn’t become you. The young man is dead.”

“And good riddance to him.” Sherlock bows slightly to his brother. “It was lovely to see you again. Let us not be so long parted next time.”

The boy almost skips off to school. He knows he shouldn’t. It isn’t right to celebrate a human being’s death,
any human being, even those hanged outside the Newgate Prison for detestable crimes, even little Grimsby. But that evening, when he tells Sigerson Bell, he again allows a slight smile to creep across his lips.

Bell, of course, notices it (because he notices everything) and is more than a little taken aback. He finds it difficult to make conversation on the subject after that and goes to bed wondering about his assistant.

Sherlock sleeps soundly that night, and when a knock comes at the door, before their breakfast and before the shop is even open, it is the old apothecary who answers. When he does, he lets out a yelp, a little like a war cry. But the person at the door shushes him, and the two of them make their way into the lab without a word. Holmes is just rising. When his bleary eyes see who is in the laboratory, his mouth opens wide and he can’t close it.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Irene Doyle is standing beside Sigerson Bell. Or at least it looks like her. She is dressed, to the boy’s mind, like an American. First of all, much to his consternation, the dress is cut low at the front, showing her lovely collarbones. A bustle sticks out prominently at her behind. There is frill and lace everywhere, the whole outfit made of silk, deep blue and red, bordered in white. She wears a matching bonnet and carries a parasol in one of her gloved hands. Her blonde hair is done up underneath her hat, and her face glows from little touches
of color. She must be wearing some sort of high heel, since she seems taller than when he last saw her. Though his heart is now pounding, she looks relaxed. She is nearly seventeen years old, a young woman in her prime. She smiles at him.

“I – Irene.”

Sigerson Bell slinks away with a smile, though he doesn’t get very far. He stands just out of sight at the door to the main room. He is listening, of course.

“You are looking well,” intones Sherlock, rather shakily.

“You’ve grown,” she says, looking up at him.

“Thank you.”

“I can’t stay.”

“Neither can I.”

“Pardon me? You still live here, don’t you?”

“Uh, I have things to do.”

“Then we are in agreement.”

“I suppose we are.”

They are both silent for a moment.

“I thought I should stop by,” says Irene, “and let you know how things have been with me. May I sit down?”

Sherlock gets her a stool. “Your letters have not been as frequent of late.” In truth, he hasn’t heard from her in months.

“I have been awfully busy.” She begins tugging off her gloves, her long, elegant fingers sliding out one by one. “Did you … miss them?”

“Perhaps. A little.”

“Then I shall write more often in the future.”

“That means you are going back to America.”

“For the time being.”

“Time being?”

“I will live on the continent soon. There are opportunities in Europe.”

“I see.”

“But I will be in New Jersey for a few months first.”

Sherlock can actually detect a slight accent in her speech.

“And, as usual, I will spend most of my days in New York City.”

“I hear it is a fine town.”

“It is the coming city in the world.”

“Time will tell.”

Irene’s early letters had told of her settling in with a wealthy Newark family named Adler, the father a kind and serious-minded man. Mr. Doyle had met him on a business trip to London, learned of his connections in the singing world in New York City, and asked if he could help his ambitious daughter. Mr. Adler had responded with an offer to take her into his family home for a year and place her with some of the best singing teachers in America. It hadn’t mattered to Mr. Doyle, or most certainly to Irene, that he was Jewish.

“My tutors have been wonderful. They have moved me forward. I have sung in some gorgeous halls lately.”

“Well, that is what you want, it seems, so I am pleased for you.”

“I have been just an opening act, of course. But more will come later. To Father’s delight, I am far away overseas while I pursue my corrupt ways!” She laughs.

“So, you are set on your path?”

“Absolutely.”

“And that path won’t be in London?”

“Probably not, though I may be back from time to time. Why would you care anyway, Sherlock? Set on your own path, are you not?
All
alone?”

What if I told her that I need her?

He says nothing.

“I thought so.”

“I –”

“I have made some remarkable friends, both women … and men.”

The last word hits its mark and Sherlock says nothing again.

“I believe, more than ever, that it isn’t right for women to be second-class citizens and be told what to do. I am going to make my own choices and friends, control my own life. I know that sounds selfish, but it shouldn’t. Why can’t women have the choices men have?”

“Men and women are different.”

“Not inside.”

Sherlock has been standing over her all this time. He pulls out the other laboratory stool and sits beside her. They are silent for a moment again. Finally, she takes him by the hand and squeezes it.

“So, what is your news?”

“I have little to report, I’m afraid. I am living the same pedestrian life.”

“Staying out of trouble?”

“I am attempting to put off my career until I am truly ready. You know I tried to do that before. In fact, the last
time I was in ‘trouble,’ as you put it, was when you convinced me to help with the Hemsworth dragon case.”

“It didn’t take much convincing.”

“Oh, but you were good at it.”

“We women can be. You should give in to us from time to time.” She slaps him gently on the arm.

“I have my own way.”

“And it is as hard and rigid as an iron walking stick.”

“I believe there is nobility to my path. It is what must be done. It is what I must do. Justice is everything to me.”

“But, right now, you are simply doing apothecary work?”

He hesitates.

“Oh, I see.” She smiles. “Something is brewing! You were never able to lie to me. Have I come at a moment of excitement in your life? What is happening, Sherlock? Tell me.”

He hesitates again. He cannot bring himself to tell her what has transpired this past week, and will definitely not reveal his plan. But there is one thing he can say, and he is pleased to do it.

“Grimsby is dead. It was likely foul play. Someone such as him dies no other way.”

“Little Grimsby?” Her face flushes.

“Good riddance.”

“Sherlock, no one’s death should please you.”

“This one does.”

“But he was a helpless little one. All he knew was crime. He never had a chance, not the chances we had.”

“Correction:
you
had. I had nothing and I chose a different path from that little bully. He was going to do much
evil in his life. It is much better that he was snuffed out. His death has saved at least one life, maybe more.”