For the Sake of the Game Page 13

  “How so?”

  “Were Miss Sebastian’s intentions pure? Did she seek out my help simply as a last resort or was the entire point to involve me?”

  “Holmes, I am never quite sure which of your foibles is the stronger: your paranoia or your narcissism. Can you really imagine this man’s murder as nothing more than a means to pull you more deeply into the case?”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Of course. I think an unplanned visit to Miss Sebastian is in order, but first, some research.”

  Partridge House was located on the Strand, very near a slight bend in the Thames. We were greeted by a junior clerk, a lad whose red neck was chafed by his too-tight collar.

  “Who is it you wish to see, gentlemen?”

  “Miss Rosetta Sebastian.”

  The lad’s face went utterly blank. “Excuse me, gentlemen, can you please repeat the name?”

  I did so, putting the clerk’s ignorance down to his apparent newness in the position.

  “Whom shall I say is calling?” he asked, stalling for time, thumbing furiously through the registry.

  “Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Pardon me, sir. Did you say you were Dr. John Wat—”

  “—son, yes, and Mr. Sher—”

  “—lock Holmes?” The clerk’s face turned as red as his chafed neck. “I am terribly sorry, gentlemen, but there is no person by that name listed in our firm’s registry.”

  Holmes removed Miss Sebastian’s calling card from his pocket and handed it to the lad. The young man had a queer reaction. He could not contain a laugh.

  “Very good, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’ve read about tricks like this in the penny dreadfuls. Inks that are invisible to the naked eyes that must be treated with chemicals to be seen. I like it, sir. I like it very much.”

  I’d had quite enough. “What are you going on about, boy?”

  He handed to me the card Holmes had handed to him. It was blank.

  “Holmes, what is going—”

  Anticipating Holmes’s next move, the clerk handed him the registry. “You can see for yourselves, sir, there is no one by the name of Sebastian employed here.”

  “Would it be possible for us to see the publisher, do you think?” Holmes asked.

  “I have no doubt that he will want to meet you gentlemen.”

  While we waited for the clerk to have a note brought upstairs to the publisher, Holmes deflected any of my attempts to question him as to what he believed was going on. He was deep in thought and considered my questions to be like the whining of mosquito wings in the dark.

  Ten minutes later, we were seated across an ornate, warship-sized walnut desk from Helton Partridge. Partridge was a corpulent man in his late sixties, his face hidden behind enormous grey muttonchops and overgrown mustache. A ring of untamed steel-colored hair formed an untidy U around his bald pate. His distracted eyes were a faded blue and not even a meeting with the great detective seemed to focus him.

  “Yes, gentlemen, what’s this nonsense all about? Some woman claiming to work here as an editor? Ridiculous. Ridiculous.”

  I explained the situation while Holmes observed. Partridge shook his head the entire time as if physically denying every word that sprang from my lips.

  “As I say, ridiculous.”

  “Yes,” Holmes commented, “as you say.”

  “A manuscript . . . The Absent Man . . . Never heard of it. Isaac Masters Knott, never heard the name. Rosetta Sebastian. An American murdered in Deptford . . . Ridiculous. Ridiculous, all of it. Well, if this manuscript does exist, send it my way. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.

  When we exited onto the street, Holmes was quite breathless and hailed a cab.

  “What is it, Holmes?”

  There was both a twinge of dread and a sparkle of delight in his eyes as he answered, “The manuscript.”

  “What of it?”

  “Is there an it, if it never was?”

  “Not that bent again.”

  The cab pulled to a stop in front of us before I could ask Holmes to explain.

  “221 Baker Street, double quick,” Holmes told the driver. “There’s an extra shilling in it for you if you can get your horse to cooperate.”

  “Don’t you fret none about that, sir,” said the sooty-faced cabman, touching the bill of his tall hat. “Old Padraig will have us there in jig time.”

  When we pulled up in front of 221, Inspector Lestrade was pacing a rut into the street in front of the flat.

  “Pay the fare, old man, while I attend to Lestrade. And, John, do remember to give him that promised shilling.”

  Holmes was out of the cab before I could respond. Sometimes it was difficult for me not to suspect Holmes of wanting to bankrupt me one cab fare at a time. Even as I handed the coins up to the driver, I could hear the anger in Lestrade’s voice.

  “I’ve had just about enough of your games, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I really have. I realize there is usually a point to your methods, but what do you mean by wasting Scotland Yard’s time and me own on false reports? A murdered American, indeed.”

  But if I expected Holmes to act surprised or shocked by Lestrade’s assertion, I was to be severely disappointed. He seemed almost reassured.

  “Would I be correct in my assumption that when you and your men arrived at the address in Deptford that you found no body, and that when you went to interview the tailor at his shop the shop was closed, and no Mr. Rosenbaum was to be found?”

  “You would, Holmes. Now would you care to explain all this to me?”

  “I assure you, Lestrade, I would be glad to at some time in the future when I come to understand it myself. What I can say without question is that someone has gone to great lengths to impart a lesson.”

  “A lesson?”

  “A lesson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lestrade, it has been a long and taxing day.”

  “I know better than to expect an apology from the likes of you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, so I’ll be on my way. And you can keep your explanations to yourself, thank you very much. All the explaining in the world won’t give me or my men our time back.”

  Inspector Lestrade strode over to me as our cab drove away. “I’ll confide in you that at times, Dr. Watson, I envy you, but on days like this one I want no part of your friend Mr. Holmes. Good day.”

  I watched Lestrade head off in the opposite direction from our cab.

  “Watson, come up here.”

  “What is it, for heaven’s sake?” I said even as I walked into the house behind him.

  Just before he reached the kitchen, Holmes came to a sudden stop and turned. The aroma of herb-roasted chicken was powerful. One didn’t require the deductive skills of Sherlock Holmes to know that Mrs. Hudson was gathering china and silverware to set the table. All one needed was ears.

  “Listen to me carefully, Watson,” Holmes whispered. “If I’m right, some of Mrs. Hudson’s responses to my questions will . . . surprise you. I urge you not to challenge her, for it will serve only to upset and confuse her. Do I have your word?”

  “Holmes, what is this—”

  “Your word?”

  “Of course, Holmes. You have my word.”

  I followed Holmes into the kitchen and Mrs. Hudson’s face brightened at the sight of us and then she feigned anger. “And what are the two of you doing in my kitchen?”

  “Please forgive us,” I said.

  “Yes, I beg your indulgence, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes seconded, mustering all the charm he could. “But I was wondering if you could help settle a small dispute between Dr. Watson and myself?”

  “If I can.”

  “Very well. John claims that a woman came calling on us this morning at ten and that you showed her up to our flat and I say he’s mistaken.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Holmes is right, Dr. Watson. There was no one who came calling today.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, then remembered my word to Holmes
and the bizarre nature of the entire day, beginning with Holmes’s mirror gazing.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said and raced up the stairs.

  She called after me, saying something about cleaning up for dinner, but all I could think of was the neatly bundled manuscript we had left on the table in the parlor. It was gone. Of course it was. Holmes came up behind me, a smug smile on his face.

  “Did you actually think it would be there, John?”

  “I hoped more than expected.”

  “What is this all about, Holmes? A desperate woman who doesn’t exist, a dead man gone, a calling card with disappearing print, a manuscript vanished. I overheard you saying something about a lesson to Lestrade.”

  “A lesson is most assuredly being taught.”

  “What lesson is that?”

  “I believe we are each meant to draw our own conclusions from the evidence with which we have been presented today.”

  “And who, pray tell, was the teacher in this scenario?” I wondered.

  “A most devilishly shrewd and clever instructor.”

  “Moriarty?”

  Holmes gave me that dismissive laugh. “No, no, John. Someone even more sly and cunning than the Professor.”

  “Mycroft?”

  “Really, John, you do credit my brother beyond his talents.”

  “Then who is it, man?”

  Holmes smiled and said, “I believe dinner is served. Best clean up or face the wrath of Mrs. Hudson.”

  I thought it only good form to let it go until dinner was over with, afters had been finished, and the dishes had been cleaned away.

  “Holmes,” I said at last, “can you please answer me this one question. Am I going mad or was there a lovely woman here today bearing a manuscript and a story?”

  “I cannot say with any certainty, Watson. I surely cannot prove it beyond what would be your corroboration. Can you prove it beyond mine? Goodnight, Watson.”

  Hours after Holmes had retired and I had turned the day’s events over in my mind so many times that I had even begun to doubt my own part in it all, I caught a faint trace in the air of sandalwood and patchouli. Suddenly it came to me. I understood the lesson and realized my tutor had long ago gone to bed. As I shut my eyes, I carried the scent of perfume with me into sleep, a question ringing in my ears: “Am I here, Watson?”

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX SHERLOCKS

  by Toni L. P. Kelner

  Tilda Harper had just picked up her Baker Street Con name badge and swag bag when the argument broke out.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking Noah Anderson’s side,” said Sherlock Holmes. Well, said a Sherlock Holmes. From where she stood, Tilda could see nearly a dozen incarnations of the famous fictional sleuth scattered around the hotel lobby: most were wearing the classic deerstalker cap and Inverness cape, some had dressed as modern TV and movie versions, and a sprinkling had chosen interpretations like Space Sherlock and 1960s Sherlock. There were also quite a few Dr. Watsons and a couple of Irene Adlers, the Woman whom Holmes admired from afar.

  The disbelieving Sherlock, who wore traditional Holmes garb, went on. “Anderson screwed up. He shouldn’t have been cooking with peanuts. The whole point of his portion of the show was—”

  A Sherlock dressed like the Jonny Lee Miller Holmes in Elementary said, “What do you mean ‘his portion of the show’? Sherlock’s Home was his show! He wrote it, he produced it, he was the host. Lee just acted out snippets from the stories—Anderson was the expert.”

  “Then why was Anderson serving peanuts? Peanuts aren’t Canonical.”

  “Technically, no, but they were eaten in Victorian England,” Elementary Sherlock said. “And it wasn’t peanuts—it was peanut oil. Nobody would have known the difference if Lee hadn’t been allergic.”

  “Michael Lee almost died, which is why you never cook with peanut products without asking about allergies.”

  “Most kinds of peanut oil are perfectly safe, even for people with allergies. And if Lee was that allergic, why didn’t he ask before eating? Why wasn’t he wearing a medic alert bracelet?”

  Traditional Sherlock threw up his hands in disgust. “He was in costume! Of course he wouldn’t have worn something so far out of period.”

  A gender-swapped Watson wearing a tweed skirt, matching jacket, high heels, and a trilby hat joined in. “If either of you knew anything about television, you’d know Anderson didn’t do the cooking. That’s what production assistants are for.”

  “So what?” Traditional Sherlock said. “Anderson must have provided the recipe.”

  “As if nobody ever substituted an ingredient in a recipe,” Gender-swap Watson retorted.

  “I still say it’s the responsibility of the person with dietary limitations to check on the ingredients,” Elementary Sherlock insisted.

  “You’re all assuming that Lee is actually allergic,” said a woman in a tailored Inverness cape and a classier-than-usual deerstalker. “I heard he was just faking the allergy to get out of his contract.”

  “If you believe that, you ought to be working with Lestrade,” said a Sherlock in a coat and scarf à la Benedict Cumberbatch. “It wasn’t a fake allergy and it definitely wasn’t an accident. Anderson was insanely jealous of Lee’s popularity when it was supposed to be his show! He used peanuts on purpose, and he didn’t care if Lee died or just quit.”

  Gender-swap Watson scoffed. “Seriously? The show barely lasted a month with Lee’s replacement—those episodes were so bad they didn’t even put them on the DVD. You really think Anderson torpedoed his own show on purpose?”

  Cumberbatch Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course he didn’t expect that. He thought that with a less charismatic actor playing Holmes, everybody would love him instead, so he recruited a production assistant or something. He was delusional.”

  “Somebody is delusional,” Gender-swap Watson muttered.

  Tilda thought all of them were delusional if they expected to change anybody else’s mind. What had come to be known as the Food Feud had been raging for two years, ever since the basic cable show Sherlock’s Home was canceled.

  As it turned out, the feud would be definitively settled later that weekend, but nobody knew it then.

  Tilda moved along, dodging people taking selfies in front of cardboard backdrops of Holmesian locations like 221b Baker Street, Scotland Yard, and a hansom cab. It was only Baker Street Con’s second year, but it had drawn a good crowd of Sherlock Holmes fans, enough so that they could afford to comp Tilda’s hotel room and meals in return for her moderating a few panels. The idea that she would write an article or three reflecting well on the con was unspoken, but hinted at, and in return, Tilda had hinted that she would appreciate private interviews with con guests of honor Noah Anderson and Michael Lee, the former stars of Sherlock’s Home.

  “Tilda! Tilda!”

  She looked toward the hotel bar and spotted a familiar face. Vincent Peters was hanging over the low railing that separated the bar from the lobby, waving wildly. “Come have a drink!”

  She checked her watch, saw that she had over an hour until her first panel, and headed over.

  “The only way to start a con is at the bar,” Vincent said, pulling out a chair for her. “Which is also the perfect place to end a con. And honestly, when it’s in a open area like this one, it’s the best place to spend the majority of the con.”

  “It is a good view,” Tilda admitted, “but how’s the service?” She was haunted by the memories of overwhelmed hotel bars.

  “Not a problem.” Vincent waved at the waiter on duty, and miraculously, he came directly over, ignoring two other tables on the way. “Ed, this is Tilda Harper. Tilda is one of our pro guests.”

  “You’re an actress?” he said.

  “No, a freelance reporter.”

  “Tilda writes for Entertain Me! magazine. She found Mercy Ashford, broke the Leviathan story, and interviewed all the Cartwright Brides.”

  Ed looked blank.


  “I specialize in classic and cult TV shows and movies,” Tilda explained. Classic and cult sounded better than totally obscure or formerly famous.

  “Sounds interesting,” he said, though Tilda could tell he didn’t mean it. “What can I get you?”

  “A Coke, please.”

  “And an order of nachos,” Vincent added. “With—”

  “With extra cheese. Got it,” Ed said and left.

  Tilda was impressed. “At the risk of sounding like a cliché, do you come here often?”

  “Listen and learn. There are three things to do to get great service at an understaffed, overcrowded convention bar.”

  “All convention bars are understaffed and overcrowded. It’s tradition.”

  “True. So Step 1: Come early, the night before, if you can swing it. Then you’ll have time to get a drink or a snack at the bar before things go crazy, so you can move on to the next step.”

  “Which is?”

  “Step 2: Make friends with the wait staff. Use their names, ask where they’re from, find out about their families. Ed, for instance, is the single father of a college student named Penny.”

  “You learned all of that since you got here?”

  “Well, no. I met Ed and Penny here last year, and I take notes, which is how I knew that Penny is studying theater at Emerson. That’s why he asked if you’re an actress.”

  “Because a pro actress might be able to help her in the business?”

  “Exactly. You can also ask if they’re interested in the convention, but if they think we’re weirdos, agree with them.”

  Tilda eyed a Steampunk Sherlock, complete with egregious gears and a pair of goggles, and a dude in a costume that mingled elements of Cumberbatch’s outfit in the Sherlock series with the one from Dr. Strange. “Con attendees can be pretty odd.”

  “Of course we are—that’s why we come to cons,” Vincent said. “Step 3: Tip well. Not outrageously—then they figure you’re trying to impress people or maybe you’re drunk and they’ll have to cut you off. Just a little higher than the norm. Follow those three steps and they’ll treat you better than they do their own family.”