Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(23)

“Happy I could be of assistance. Now move.”

This was bad. Dermody never showed up in person, had never had to. I had always paid my debts. Eventually. This time was taking a little longer, but still, I was confident we’d maintain our cordial association. His gambling den was by far the most honest of its sort around.

I got to the door and paused. And patted my pocket. The cosh was gone, lost in the alley, and I’d given my pistol to Holmes. My curses of frustration were not an act; I desperately did not want to do what I now knew I must. “Lost my keys.”

“Very careless of you. I’m sure you still have a maid?”

“My landlady does.”

“So what are we doing out here still?”

I hesitated, then rang the bell, two short, one long.

The new girl, Aggie, opened it, and gasped to see the four of us crowded on the step. “My goodness, Doctor Watson—”

Panic flooded me; it should not have been Aggie at the door.

“Well, well, you’re a fine bit of stuff, aren’t you?” Dermody pushed forward, prelude to grabbing Aggie and forcing her inside. I felt my blood boil and my vision went to pinpoint, smelling his onion breath as he shoved me aside. The panic that threatened me subsided, replaced by a killing rage. If he should hurt this poor girl . . .

Then I saw the dear, dear face of Mags Hudson—and the even dearer sight of her shotgun. She had not become the astute London businesswoman she was without understanding that not all visitors were the polite sort.

“Aggie, don’t you dare move!” came the brisk order.

Aggie quailed; she turned her head and uttered a little shriek when she saw a shotgun resting on her shoulder.

“Shut up, and don’t move, girl,” Mrs. Hudson growled. Slender, an upright posture, with dark brown hair, she was now the very picture of a Valkyrie. “I don’t want you to eat the hot load of birdshot I mean to serve to these gentlemen.”

“Whoa, now, Missus,” Dermody said, still confident he could get past her. “No call for none of that! We’re all friends here.”

The steely look in her eye and the equally metallic noise of both triggers being cocked convinced him.

Dermody and his boys froze.

“No, we’re not friends,” Margaret said. “And I don’t like the looks of you, so get yourselves gone.”

“We’ll be back later,” Dermody said. His eyes were filled with rage. “Lads.”

They backed off warily, almost falling off the step and onto the pavement, then hastened away.

Only when Mrs. H was satisfied, did she remove the shotgun from the maid’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aggie, but you got here faster than you should. That’s the good doctor’s m’aidez signal, two shorts and a long. You’re new, else you would have known. My fault. I’m sorry, girl.”

But Aggie heard nothing, still sobbing hysterically.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “All right, all right, no harm done. There’s a bottle in my desk drawer. Pour yourself a big glass of whisky, and get one for me too. Go on, now.”

The girl stumbled away, hiccuping.

Mrs. H’s look suggested she wouldn’t mind shooting me: Aggie wasn’t going to last any longer than the last maid. “John, one day, you’ll be the death of us all!”

I stepped toward her, closing the door behind me. “Mags, you’re wonderful.” I ran a hand along her slender waist. The romantic urge often follows hot on the heels of excitement or danger, I’ve found.

She slapped me away, but not too hard. “Tch. None of that now. I thought you were behaving yourself. Are you short, again?”

“Oh, no.”

She shot me a look, and my grin faded. “Well, yes. A bit, but I have more than enough to keep Dermody happy until we get paid again.”

Margaret sighed. She knew me far too well. “Let’s go get it, then. And you’ll go straight to pay him off, right? No trying to land a long shot on the horses?”

“Of course.” I led her to the strongbox Holmes and I share, and found it opened. And empty, save for an IOU note in a familiar scrawl.

“Bloody Sherlock Holmes,” she said, finally. “It’s a damned good thing I got last month’s rent.”



I spent several elucidating hours with Holmes’s files; Scotland Yard ought to have as comprehensive a library of criminals and cases. Marcus Hannibal Chercover was as black a villain as they came. His criminal gang was the terror of Europe, aiding revolutionaries with guns and men for hire at a very steep price. His cunning was matched only by his unparalleled cruelty, and he grew wealthy on the warfare he helped create.

One interesting addition to these notes was a new cable from Boston that arrived as I read. Among other items of interest, Holmes’s Boston investigator had confirmed that Habakkuk Sewall had recently been in Prague, the site of Chercover’s headquarters.

When Holmes arrived home, he didn’t get two steps into the sitting room before I laid into him. “Where is it? The money you took—?”

His face was vacant; he couldn’t understand the reason for my emotion. “I left a note saying I’d replace it.”

“That’s not the same as replacing it. What did you spend it on?”

“Well, there was paying the Irregulars, and holding some aside for rewarding their success.”