Two Hundred and Twenty-One Baker Streets

An Anthology of
Holmesian Tales
Across Time and Space

Introduction
by David Thomas Moore

A Scandal in Hobohemia
by Jamie Wyman

Black Alice
by Kelly Hale

The Adventure of the Speckled Bandana
by J. E. Cohen

The Rich Man’s Hand
by Joan De La Haye

The Lantern Men
by Kaaron Warren

A Woman’s Place
by Emma Newman

A Study in Scarborough
by Guy Adams

The Small World of 221B
by Ian Edginton

The Final Conjuration
by Adrian Tchaikovsky

The Innocent Icarus
by James Lovegrove

Half There/All There
by Glen Mehn

All the Single Ladies
by Gini Koch

The Patchwork Killer
by Kasey Lansdale

Parallels
by Jenni Hill

About the Authors

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES OWES
a lot to the revisionists.

Or, I suppose,
I
owe Sherlock Holmes—the Sherlock Holmes in my head; the fey, frantic, brilliant man that drove me to put together this anthology—to the revisionists.

I have a confession to make: I wasn’t particularly into Holmes as a younger man. I encountered him first on film and TV, as you do. Basil Rathbone in the old black and white, Jeremy Brett in the ’80s TV show, striding across the screen, sneering and smug; pompous, superior, and so terribly, terribly
dry
. Dr. Watson as a gobsmacked, foundering sycophant: “Egad, Holmes, how
do
you do it?” etc. Tedious, tedious, tedious.

Watching them again now, I can see that I was being extremely unfair on some genuinely wonderful performances, but at the time I found them all so off-putting. It felt—and I still feel this, at least to an extent—like the actors got as far as the word ‘Victorian’ in the character description and allowed all that implied, all the hauteur and formality of Empire, to dominate their interpretations.

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a Victorian ; or if he was, he was more Wilde than Queensbury. Reading Doyle’s work, you encounter a man
rebelling
against the standards and constraints of the Victorians. Frequently wild, often despondent, the world’s first (and only) consulting detective had no interest in the politics, manners and niceties of his time. He lived for the hunt, for the exercise of his brilliance, and couldn’t give a damn for appearances. He took cocaine when bored, kept his tobacco in a Persian slipper, and pinned (stabbed?) his unopened letters to the mantelpiece with a jack-knife. He disdained class and privilege, and would devote weeks to his poorest clients, if the case interested him. This was not a man who strode about London with a top hat and cane, exchanging banter with aristocrats.

That’s
Holmes. I
love
that Holmes.

But sadly, that’s not the Holmes I saw, or not back then. And then the Robert Downey, Jr. film came out, five years ago. Okay, it was steampunky, silly, an action flick. But here was a totally different Holmes; frenetic, twitchy, bleak, storming about the place with little regard for social mores, prize-fighting for the distraction. Jude Law’s Watson is tough, capable, brilliant in his own rights, and frequently clashes with his friend and companion. I thought, “What an amazing Holmes! What a great Watson! How original!”

And then I dipped into the canon, and do you know what? That stupid, noisy, big-budget, steampunky Hollywoodisation comes closer to Doyle’s Holmes—closer, at least, to my reading of Doyle’s Holmes—than all those dry, traditional, Victorian takes put together.

And then there’s Benedict Cumberbatch’s brilliant borderline - autistic (not actually sociopathic, whatever he says) modern-day Holmes, and Johnny Lee Miller’s New York-based recovering addict. Holmes is huge now, and all in the reimaginings, unfolding the beating heart of a complex character many of us completely missed in its original context.

And it occurred to me: I owe my Sherlock to the revisionists. By seeing Holmes and Watson away from their Victorian roots, I see the men (or women!) themselves, as Doyle imagined them: troubled, broken, quite possibly dangerous.

I
N
T
WO
H
UNDRED
and Twenty-One Baker Streets
(although there aren’t really more than two hundred stories, I’m ashamed to say), you’ll find fourteen Holmeses and Watsons you’ve never thought to see.

You’ll find a female Sherlock with a male Watson, and a male Sherlock with a female sidekick. You’ll find Holmes running a travelling carnival in the US in the ’30s, and refurbishing derelict buildings in rural Australia. He’s clearing a seventeenth- century housemaid of murder by witchcraft, and capturing a real witch in modern day South Africa. He’s Turning On, Tuning In and Dropping Out in Andy Warhol’s Factory, and being summoned into a wizard’s circle in a fantasy world. In one story, detective and doctor even turn up as schoolgirls...

There are new Lestrades —both capable and inept—newly elusive Adlers, and newly sinister Moriarties. Mrs. Hudson gets particular love (my personal favourite being the carnival dwarf).

What I’m saying is, the fourteen men and women I recruited to write these stories for me delivered, but
good
. They’ve all found incredible ways to shed new light on old characters, to show you sides of the great detective and his indefatigable companion that their fusty reputations made obscure. Fun, clever, haunting, sad, scary, strange and
weird
, here are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson as they never were... and
really
are.

David Thomas Moore

June 2014 Oxford

Wyman came to me courtesy of the tirelessly charming and utterly brilliant agent Jennie Goloboy. Author of the gambling themed godpunk urban fantasy
Wild Card
, Jamie provided me with a story in her self-confessedly favourite story-telling milieu, the creepy carnival. One of the delights (and frustrations) of editing an anthology is the inevitable “I want more!” moments; I guarantee you’ll want more of Sanford ‘Crash’ Haus and his companion Jim Walker.

T
HE CANVAS TENT
held in heat like an Alabama kitchen, though it didn’t smell nearly so pleasant. The odors of dust and grease paint mingled with the smells of pungent herbs: patchouli, sandalwood perhaps. But there was no mistaking the funk of a blue drag somewhere beneath it all. That scent—the reefer— brought back all sorts of memories. Some good, others best left in the trenches.

She’d sent me in here alone, and though Agent Trenet didn’t say it, I knew she meant to test me. No genius needed to figure that out, this being my first case. I turned in a circle in the tent, focusing on all the tiny details: the way the stitches on the psychic’s garish red scarves were fraying; the coffee stains on the rickety table peeking through the moth-eaten silk cloth. Fingerprints smudged the glass orb in the center of the table. How anyone could read the future through all that oil and muck was beyond me.

But then, I wasn’t Madame Yvonde, Seer of All and Mistress of Fate.

According to the painted banners and smooth talkers at Soggiorno Brothers’ Traveling Wonder Show, the Seer was a direct descendant of Cassandra herself. “She can lead you to fame,” the barker had said, “guide you to money. Help you seek that which you most desire.”

I didn’t want fame, and I didn’t need money. What I needed, strictly speaking, was a man. Or at least his name. Trenet seemed to think Madame Yvonde would lead us there, and with her being my superior in a multitude of ways, I didn’t bother to make a fuss. I stood in that sweatbox of a tent and waited.

Madame Yvonde paid me little mind. Probably on account of all the spirits and such vying for her attention. She shuffled about, a rotund bundle of bright scarves, grimy homespun and arthritic old bones. With her came an eye-searing stench of rotgut. Padding from one corner of the tent to another, the hunched old hag murmured gibberish and lit a number of ivory candles. The bracelets on her wrists and the tiny coins at her wide hips jingled with every ponderous step.

“Now,” she said as she slithered behind the crystal ball. “You don’t believe, do you, sonny?”

I put on my best, most innocuous smile. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Don’t ma’am me, boy.” Yvonde’s voice was deep as a well and just as dark. She withdrew a cob pipe from the folds of her dress and brought it to her lips. She spoke through gritted teeth as she lit it. “You come in here wearing a suit like that, it says you’re educated. Educated man don’t listen to spirits or stars unless he’s desperate. And you are not desperate. Not yet.”

“I’m looking for someone,” I said neutrally.

She brightened and let out a puff of tobacco smoke. “Oh! Well, then I might be able to help you after all. Come.” She wrapped on the table twice. The chair across from her slid away from the table, and a brown work boot withdrew beneath the cloth. “Have a seat and we’ll see what we find.”

With the stiffness creeping into my left thigh, I didn’t so much walk as hobble over to join Yvonde. Trying to keep my discomfort to myself, I bit down on my lip as I slipped uneasily down into the chair. Scooting closer was a whole other bargain that I wasn’t prepared to make without a shot of whatever liquor the Seer had beneath those rags of hers.

In the flickering candlelight, Yvonde’s face wavered in and out of focus. Layers of pancake smeared over fishbelly-white skin. The makeup flaked at the edges of every deep wrinkle, particularly around her lips where she’d stolen the pink off a peony to color her flabby mouth and bony cheeks. Those pale eyes of hers—all done up with black paint like a kewpie doll— drooped and fluttered. One of her false lashes threatened to fall off at any moment. I could see the fibers of her wig coiling out from beneath the scarf on her head.

Yvonde held out a bony hand and snapped her fingers. “Cross my palm, sonny.”

“I paid out front,” I said.

“You paid for the circus. Now you pay for the pleasure of my company.”

I pretended to wrestle with the notion of parting ways with my hard-earned dollar before reaching into my coat and plucking a bill. I handed it to her, and she crumpled it in those skinny fingers. Yvonde grinned around her pipe as the money disappeared. That smile held a sinister edge, but her teeth were straight and white as a Connecticut Sunday social.

“Now, you were looking for someone, were you?”

An arc of cards appeared on the table. The drawings were intricate, and had probably once been lovely. Now they were just as faded as the rest of this damn circus. Yvonde tapped a card.

“The World,” she breathed hoarsely. “You are a traveler. No roots, just boots. Stomp, stomp, stomping on the ground.”

I bristled, my blood running cold. She came close to making me think of old times.

“I’m not here about me.”

“Aren’t you? You’re looking for a man, but you haven’t stopped to consider that you’re searching for yourself. Aimlessly going from South Carolina to Alabama. Over an ocean and back again. Boy, you’ve just been rooting along the Southern states like a dog hunting for a master that’s left him behind.”

“A master?” I snarled, balling my fist on my lap. “That supposed to mean something?”

She waved me off with a jingle of her bracelets. “I don’t give a flop about negroes, boy. Your money spends just as well as the next man’s. But you’ve chosen the hardest fields to plow, haven’t you, soldier?”

Her cold eyes fixed me with a challenge.
Tell me I’m wrong,
she seemed to say. We both knew that I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. We stared at one another, sharing only that meaningful look.

“What else?” I asked.

With a flourish of scarves and skeletal hands, the arc of cards vanished. Only three remained on the table. The World still stared up at me.