A Biased Judgement Read online

  Title Page

  A BIASED JUDGEMENT

  The Sherlock Holmes Diaries: 1897

  By

  Geri Schear

  Publisher Information

  Published in the UK by MX Publishing

  335 Princess Park Manor, Royal Drive,

  London, N11 3GX

  www.mxpublishing.co.uk

  This second digital edition

  converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © Copyright 2014 Geri Schear

  The right of Geri Schear to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious or used fictitiously. Except for certain historical personages, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.

  Cover design by www.staunch.com

  Quote

  Love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgment.

  (Sherlock Holmes: The Sign of Four)

  Prologue

  For his one hundred and tenth birthday, Lucy gave John a cardigan and his family legacy. The cardigan took six months of knitting, swearing and dropped stitches. The legacy took eighty-four minutes.

  “Arthur wants us to come to Sussex,” John said one day over breakfast.

  “For your birthday?” Lucy said. “What a good idea. I’d love to see the cottage.”

  John made a face. “It’s ancient. Dull. Miles from anywhere.”

  “You mean it isn’t London.”

  “Well, it isn’t.”

  As she handed him his pills and checked his pulse, Lucy said, “Not to put too fine a point on it, but how many more annual visits do you think you’ll be able to make down there? Ten? Twenty?”

  He laughed and patted her hand. “Oh you are good for me, Luce. Best idea I ever had was hiring you.”

  So they went to Sussex.

  By the time they pulled up outside the cottage it was already dark and she could see nothing of the Downs. The air tasted of sea and promised snow.

  They were all there. John’s brother, Arthur, one hundred and eight year’s old and still walking two miles a day. Harry, John’s son, who did something hush-hush for the government but who seemed too jolly to be a spy or a bureaucrat. And John’s grandson, Jack. Dear Jack. Newly home from Afghanistan and the camera still attached to him like a papoose.

  “Lucy,” Harry said, kissing her cheek. “Thank you for persuading my dad to come.”

  “And thank you for driving,” Jack said. “I would have been happy to pick you up, but we thought Gramps would prefer it this way.”

  “I did,” John said. He shook his head at Lucy in a long-suffering manner, and she laughed. He refused the wheelchair and the cane, but readily took her proffered arm. They slowly climbed the haphazard steps and went into the cottage. The sitting room was small but cosy. A generous fire burned in the hearth and the armchairs were soft and well-cushioned. Lucy stared at the pock-marked wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. “Are those bullet holes?” she said.

  “Of course,” Arthur said as if she’d asked if they’d have kippers for breakfast. “My father liked to use them for target practice. Alas, one day the report shattered a gift from Queen Victoria. Mother made him stop after that.”

  “Dinner will be at eight o’clock,” Harry said, pouring tea. “You don’t mind waiting?”

  “Not at all,” John said. “Well, Lucy. Does it measure up to all your expectations?”

  “It’s bigger than I expected,” she said. “You hear ‘cottage’ and you think tiny.”

  “A family joke,” Arthur said. “Elizabeth the First slept here, so did Walter Raleigh. Not at the same time.”

  “And Churchill,” John added. “He was a friend of father’s, you know. And he adored mother.”

  “Speaking of mother,” Harry said. “We put you in ‘Parliament’, Lucy.”

  “I’m sorry, Parliament?”

  “My mother’s bedroom,” John said.

  Arthur said, “When John and I were boys, whenever there was a family disagreement or a major decision to be made, we’d discuss it in mother’s bedchamber. Hence, ‘Parliament’.”

  “Best room in the house, Lucy.”

  “I’ll say,” Jack said with a comically tragic sigh. “I’ve never been allowed to sleep there.”

  “I consider myself privileged,” Lucy said.

  “I have such fond memories of that room. Of mother and father...” John said, and fell suddenly silent.

  Lucy squeezed his hand. “You okay?”

  His smile was unconvincing. “There are so many things I want to know. We have the stories, of course, but it’s not the same.”

  “Was your father really like that, the way he is in the books?”

  “Oh no,” Arthur said. “He was much worse.”

  “And better.” John added, laughing.

  “Tell us about him,” Jack said. “Like, how did he end up married? Come on, Gramps. I want a story.”

  “I honestly don’t know,” John said. “Every time I asked, Mother said I was too young for such a lurid tale - her idea of a joke, I have no doubt - and that she’d tell me one day. That story, all their stories, were to be our legacy, you see. Mine and Arthur’s. Only as with so much else about my father, it was all shrouded in mystery.”

  “It was all going to be told us one day but it never happened,” Arthur said. “All we got was a cryptic hint from father that the owls were guarding the tales.”

  “Owls?” Lucy said. “What owls?”

  “Well, if we knew that we wouldn’t be sat here seventy years later still wondering. Silly beggar took the truth to the grave.”

  “He was mourning our mother,” John said. “I wish you could have known him, Lucy. You’d have liked him. Women did, for some reason. Does that surprise you? Of all of us, Jack is the most like him. They look so much alike: that strong profile and especially the hands.”

  “He’d be very proud of you,” Harry said. “Of the work you’re doing in Afghanistan.”

  This was all very sweet, but Lucy was dying to know about the owls.

  “I’m afraid we know no more, Luce,” John said. “Arthur and I searched from rafters to cellar looking for the rotten things.”

  “The nearest we came,” Arthur said. “Was when we found a nest out by the stables. We came tearing in, all excited, and father laughed so hard he cried.”

  “Mother too,” John said. “The pair of them, chortling right here in this room. I was, how old, about fourteen, so it must have been nineteen eighteen. Yes, the war had just ended and father wasn’t long home from Europe.”

  “We begged them for years to tell us more, to give us another clue, but they wouldn’t budge,” Arthur said.

  “So what happened?” Jack asked. No
w and then he focused his camera and clicked the button.

  “We forgot about it, more or less,” Arthur said. “We grew up, went to university, went to war... I suppose it started to feel a bit like a fairy tale, a story to entertain us children when we got too noisy.”

  “I don’t think it was, though. One of the very last things father said to me was, ‘Don’t forget to look for the owls, John.’ That was at mother’s funeral. He died the next day. I should like to know the answer before I pass on. I’d hate to be embarrassed when I face the old beggar in whatever afterlife there may be.”

  The sat by the fire and Harry poured brandy to toast John’s big day. “A hundred and ten tomorrow,” the birthday boy said. “I shall soon have to start behaving like a grown-up.”

  Lucy sipped her brandy and felt hypnotised by the fire’s flickering and sparking. She was half-asleep when she heard herself say, “Isn’t ‘parliament’ the collective noun for owls?”

  One hour and twenty-four minutes later they found it.

  Jack took photographs of every inch of his great-grandmother’s bedroom and they all studied them closely on his laptop.

  Lucy spotted the carving, very faded, at the back of the big, dark closet. “There,” she cried. “That’s an owl. No wonder you couldn’t spot it. It’s so faded. We’d never have seen it without Jack’s pictures.”

  They went upstairs to Lucy’s bedroom and, yes! There was a false wall at the back of the closet. They slid it back with some effort and found a room, some eight feet by ten. There was a trunk filled with photographs, cameras, a woman’s shawl, letters in a man’s hand to ‘B’. But the real excitement was in the file cabinets. Hundreds of documents, accounts of the cases, the true stories. And at the bottom of the last drawer was the real gold: His journals.

  They all sat in silence John on the big bed. Lucy and Jack on the floor. Arthur and Harry on the armchairs. Jack opened the first diary at random and began to read out loud.

  1

  February 22nd, 1897

  I am home at last in Baker Street. For the first time in more than a week I find myself well enough to take pen in hand, though my thoughts, I fear, lack the coherence Watson has convinced a gullible public is my unalterable habit. I have persuaded the good man to take advantage of the mild weather and go out for the evening. I believe the break will be beneficial to us both. Worthy soul though he is, his solicitude becomes trying after a time, and I am fatigued with continually pretending myself better than I feel.

  Now I have a few hours alone I must try to put my thoughts in order. Alas, I can think of no better way of proceeding than to begin the tale at the beginning, or as near to it as I can get. It is at just such moments my respect for Watson is elevated. He has an extraordinary talent for making the recitation of events seem compelling and for knowing what details are extraneous to the narrative.

  As an aide-memoire I shall review the weeks before my assault. Why is it so hard to think? Damnation! This state of addled wits must be how other people feel all the time, poor beggars.

  Well, I recall that the beginning of the year was filled with a myriad of cases, great and small, primarily the latter. On February 15th I was consulted on the curious death of Sir Eustace Brackenstall at Abbey Grange which I resolved to my own satisfaction, at least. Then there was the mystery of the Appleby burglar, the bizarre matter of the screaming nun, and the recovery of Lady Stanthorpe’s diamonds: For the most part, these were cases that seemed interesting initially but whose explanations were ultimately revealed as banal. Too much of such trivia had made me restive and, I must own, quarrelsome.

  So, just a week ago, recognising my need for the quiet of the syringe, from which I had only recently, and most reluctantly, been weaned, Watson suggested a walk in the ‘good fresh air’ might be more conducive to my health and my mood. I attempted to remonstrate. The weather that evening was hardly congenial and, more to the point, I resented being managed.

  “Go to the Diogenes Club,” my friend suggested. “Go visit your brother. Do please, Holmes. It’s been some time since you saw him.”

  It was obvious remaining at home would not be tranquil and so I agreed.

  I took a hansom from Baker Street and within a moment observed another vehicle follow. The cab maintained a discreet distance, however, and turned left towards Haymarket where we turned right towards the club. I paid the driver and stood on the steps of the Diogenes for a moment, but my shadow had vanished. It was bitterly cold and I did not linger. Did I feel uneasy? I cannot recall.

  As is so often the case, despite my initial misgivings, I found the evening to be most enjoyable. Mycroft was pleased to see me and entertained me with his conversation and his table. We enjoyed an excellent bottle of claret and a dish of oysters. It was a welcome respite and I was forced to admit Watson’s suggestion had been an excellent one.

  It was almost midnight when I left and despite the inclement weather I decided to walk back to Baker Street. I had eaten and drunk rather more than is my custom and I determined the walk would clear my head. The entire length of Pall Mall was deserted as far as I could see, and I decided that anyone foolhardy enough to wait for me to finish my most excellent meal would be frozen solid by now.

  As I have done so many times, I walked through St James’s Square. The paths were deserted in respect of the hour and the frigid temperature. I was within sight of Duke of York Street when a bald, tattooed creature sprang out from behind the trees and leapt upon me.

  I felt the knife before I saw it. It entered between my ribs and the sharp pain made me cry out. I hit hard with my cane and caught the villain just beneath the right jaw. He screamed and fell backwards. I gasped, trying to catch my breath. The man raised his blade to strike again. There was a sudden cry and a youth flung himself upon my assailant.

  I sank to my knees and fought the pain and nausea. If the villain decided to fight, the boy would stand no chance. Fortunately, however, he turned and ran. My rescuer came at once to my side.

  “Are you ’urt, Mr ’olmes?” he asked.

  I shook my head and struggled to speak. “Knife-” I gasped. “Chest.”

  “I’ll get you to ’ospital-”

  “No,” I said. “Too risky.”

  “Baker Street?”

  “No, I cannot risk bringing harm to my friends.” I gave him instead an address on Jermyn Street.

  “All right. Can you walk?”

  I nodded, though to tell the truth, I was not confident of my abilities. However, the boy took much of my weight on his shoulder and we staggered out onto the road. Fortune smiled and moments later he was able to flag down a hansom. I told the boy to pay with the loose change in my pocket. He hesitated, then with the punctilious honesty of his caste showed me exactly how much he had withdrawn.

  What next? What next? Think! If only I could think.

  I do not remember the rest of the journey. When I awoke I was being half carried up the stairs to a room I use for emergencies. The boy had the presence of mind to pay the cabby for his assistance. It was fortunate for I could not have managed on my own, not even with the boy’s help.

  Alas, the subsequent hours, indeed days, are a blur. I remember pain, blood, gasping for breath. Despite all that, somehow I felt safe. The little room in Jermyn Street is a place where I am utterly anonymous. I am known to the landlord as ‘Mr Sykes’, an itinerant merchant of bric-a-brac. The boy was by my side every time my eyes fluttered open. He tended me competently, even gently and I felt - feel - that maudlin gratitude one does when one has fallen upon the mercy of a stranger and has found kindness there.

  At one point I awoke to find a stranger leaning over me.

  “Calm yourself, sir,” he said in that unctuous tone one associates with professional care givers. “My name is Moore Agar. I am a physician and I can assure you that you are in no danger.”

>   “How...?” I began, but a fit of coughing prevented me finishing the question.

  “Calm yourself, my good fellow,” said the doctor. “It would not do to have you tearing apart all my stitches.”

  “How did you come here?” I managed to ask.

  “I received a letter requiring my immediate attention. I do not often make house calls,” he added, giving a look of exquisite misgiving at his environment. “But we need not discuss such details now. You must take your rest and I will give instructions to the boy.”

  He injected me with something and I fell back into a blessedly pain-free haze.

  When at last I regained any degree of awareness the room was dark, lit only by the oil lamp beside my cot. The boy was changing the dressing over my wound with a competence Watson would undoubtedly approve.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” he said. “Fink you might manage ter eat summat?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

  “Right-o,” he said, pinning the bandage. “You lie still. I won’t be long.”

  Left alone in the gloom I lay back and tried to focus my thoughts. It occurred to me I knew nothing at all about my rescuer, not even his name. Where had the doctor come from? How had he been engaged? There were mysteries here and I cursed my drugged and injured state that I could not piece the puzzle together.

  About half an hour later a light footstep on the stairs and the smell of chicken heralded the return of the boy.

  “Right,” he said. “Sorry it took a while; I had ter run t’Piccadilly. Didn’t fink yer’d care for winkles or oysters, not after what you’ve been through.”

  I shuddered at the thought. The idea of eating something cooked at the side of the street made my stomach heave. I can only surmise my features betrayed my opinion for the boy grinned at me. “There now, guessed right, I did. This’ll set you to rights.”

  He handed me a dish of soup, some bread and a block of good Cheddar. While I ate he busied himself making coffee. He handed me a steaming cup as soon as it was ready.