THE SUMMONINGS
In the first-class carriage, Judge Mycroft Wargrave tapped his umbrella on the seat opposite of him idly, looking out the window with an unimpressed air. He raises a cigar to his lips, inhaling the smoke before dropping his hand back down.
A quick glance at his watch told him two more hours until his destination. They were running through Somerset now.
He coughed delicately into his handkerchief, before tucking it back into his waistcoat.
With the sigh of a martyr, he picks up the newspaper lying in the cushioned seat beside him, casting a disinterested eye over the political column, dismissing each one by one. It was the typical nonsense, spineless fools who bend to every complaint the world throws at them. What the world needs, he thinks to himself, is someone who can lay down the law without mercy or hesitation. Weak imbeciles are the rot in our foundation.
He thinks of the letter in his jacket. Lady Smallwood had written to him, her handwriting atrocious but with some clarity. Dearest Mycroft...years since we last corresponded...must come to Soldier Island...the most enchanting place...somewhere to clear your head...take the 12:40 from Paddington and meet at Oakbridge, all arranged, ended with a signature signed with a flourish typical of his old acquaintance.
Soldier Island, a frequent in the papers. Originally owned by an American millionaire who had a passion for yachting, he had supposedly built a luxurious and modern house on the island off the Devon coast. The unfortunate fact that the new third wife of the American millionaire was a bad sailor had led to the subsequent putting up of the house and island for sale. For a time, it floated around in the advertisement section, untouchable and infamous. Then came the first direct statement in a while, that it had been bought by a Mr. Owen. Soon the gossip writers had started the rumors - Soldier Island had actually been bought by Miss Sally Donovan, the Hollywood film star! It's a vacation home for the royals! Purchased by the government for war experiments! Utter nonsense, of course.
Still, Mycroft was quite looking forward to arriving. He was due for a vacation.
…
In a third-class carriage, Miss Margaret Hooper - dressed smartly in her sensible suit - furrowed her eyebrows as she looked out of the window.
It was unbearably hot in the carriage - as trains always are - but with the thought of the oceans so close, it seemed more the torture.
It was the thought of the seaside that prompted her thoughts to wander back to her letter.
Miss Hooper,
I have received your name from the Skilled Women's Agency together with their recommendation. I understand they know you personally. I shall be glad to pay you the salary you ask and shall expect you to take up your duties on August 8th. The train is the 12:40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station. I enclose five pound notes for expenses.
Yours truly,
Una Nancy Owen
The stamped address read Soldier Island, Devon.
Soldier Island was a name she had heard often, in the papers, but never had she dreamed it in relation to herself.
A sudden bump, and she nearly hits the elderly woman beside her. Fixing her skirt and murmuring apologies, she looks up to see the man - with a cruel, arrogant mouth - in the opposite seat looking calmly at her. Quickly, her eyes fall back down, but her neck flushes as she feels his gaze still resting on her.
…
Sherlock Holmes observes the girl opposite her with his quick-moving eyes, before summing her up in a quick, dismissive thought.
Quite attractive - rather schoolmistressy, perhaps…but one that could hold her own. I'd rather like to take her on...
He frowned. Business was business, and that was what he came to do.
"Take it or leave it, Captain Holmes."
"A hundred guineas, eh?" He spoke casually, as though a hundred guineas were nothing to him. As though he wasn't down to his last solid meal. Sherlock saw though that he did not deceive the man - he seemed to know his situation. In the same tone, "And you can't give me any further information?"
Mr. Stamford shook his head quite positively. "No, Captain Holmes, the matter rests there. It is understood by my client that your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place. I am able to hand you one hundred guineas in return for which you will travel to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest station is Oakbridge, you will be met there and motored to Sticklehaven where a motor launch will convey you to Indian Island. There you will hold yourself at the disposal of my client."
"How long?"
"No longer than a week."
Sherlock traces a finger along his jaw, weighing his options. He starts cautiously, "You understand I can't undertake anything - illegal?" He had, in the past - legality not exactly sine qua non - and getting arrested had been a damned nuisance.
The man smiles, as though he understands. "If anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be at perfect liberty to withdraw."
Sherlock's own lips part in a grin, more feral and brighter than the man across him. He fancied he would enjoy himself at Soldier Island…
…
Miss Irene Adler lounged in her velvet carriage, a cigarette hanging delicately from her ivory fingers. Luxury was her closest travel companion, and she took it quite seriously. The train was delightful, but she anticipated more delicious amusements in her coming holiday. Soldier Island…
Dear Miss Adler, I do hope you remember me? We were together at Belgravia Guest House in August some years ago, and you'll recall I was quite charmed, as I imagine so many are. I am hosting a sort of party of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. Delicious fun, nudity and gramophones half the night and absurdities like that. I shall be very glad if you could see your way to spending your summer holiday on Soldier Island - quite free - as my guest. Would early in August suit you? Perhaps the 8th. Yours sincerely -
And some unintelligible scribble written as if they hadn't an extra second of time in the world. Most of her amusements were like that, it really wasn't a concern. Irene assumed it's another one of her conquests - men are so easily charmed, there's quite the list to choose from.
Soldier Island though, quite the infamous place. She found she was rather looking forward to it. Something to take away from the boredom, perhaps. Irene sighs, glancing out the window. She could do with a new plaything.
…
General Lestrade grimaced, ran a hand through his silvering hair. Soldier Island was really no distance at all, as the crow flies - but damn these slow branch line trains!
He wasn't quite sure who this Owen fellow was, but he'd said he was a friend of a friend, and eager to talk about old times. Lestrade'd enjoy a chat about old times - he'd had the feeling lately that fellows were shy of talking to him - that damned rumor. Nearly fifteen years ago, it had been, and still it followed him…
He was sure it was just a silly feeling. People fancied silly things all the times, fancied a fellow was looking at you funnily -
But Soldier Island - the welcome distraction of distractions. He'd like to see if there was any truth to this talk of Sally Donovan, though if he had been invited, he supposed not.
An hour left. His knee bounced up and down impatiently. He'd like to be off this damn train…
…
Dr. Watson steered his Morris steadily across Salisbury Plain. He felt wide awake, unusual for him. Nowadays, it was dreary consulting rooms, listening to the crying and complaints of perfectly healthy people.
Of course, he had a lot to thank them for. Those perfectly healthy people are the ones responsible for making him a very respected doctor. Pleasant and soothing words to a few women with power and position - attracted to his good looks and pleased with his diagnosis, and word got around. You ought to try Dr. John Watson - quite a young man and handsome, too - but so clever - Janine had all sorts of people for years and he put his finger on it at once! So he ought to thank them, for securing him a comfortable, relatively wealthy life. Even if he was so damn tired all the time.
He supposed he was getting a vacation now, though it was rather just another cushy job. The letter had been rather vague in its terms - but then again, rich people usually are. Of course, there had been nothing very vague in the accompanying cheque - these Owens must be absolutely rolling in money. And just to check on some fussy lady's nerves - John'd seen it often enough, just a case of boredom.
"A slightly uncommon case of - some long word - nothing at all serious - but it just needs putting right. A simple treatment."
Lucky he'd managed to pull it together, after that business ten years ago. He grimaced, and his hands shook a little on the wheel. But it had been a near thing, he'd nearly - nearly fell apart there.
A ear-splitting honk nearly had him running off the side of the road, and then an enormous Dalmain car is rushing past him at nearly eighty miles an hour. Young fools, tearing up the country roads. Damn him!
…
Sebastian Wilkes, roaring down into Mere, thought, The amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful. Always something blocking your way. Pretty hopeless driving in England anyway...not like France where you can really let it out…
Should he stop for a drink, or push on? Nevermind, heaps of time! Only another hundred miles and a bit to go. Fizzing hot day.
This Soldier Island ought to be rather good fun - if the weather lasted. But who were these Owens? he wondered. Rich and stinking, probably. And he supposed there'd be some girls at this house party.
Coming out of the hotel, he stretched leisurely, yawned, and looked up at the blue sky as only a careless young man can. Out of the corner of his eye, several women looked at him admiring. They ought to - six feet of lean body, dark hair, tanned face, crystal blue eyes.
He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street. Old men and errand boys jumped for safety, and he laughed at them joyously.
Sebastian Wilkes proceeded on his triumphal progress.
…
Mr. Anderson sat in the slow train from Plymouth. He glanced at the old man across from him uncomfortably, who had just dropped off to sleep. He directs his attention back to his small notebook, pencilling in words carefully.
That's the lot, he thought to himself. Irene Adler, Margaret Hooper, Dr. Watson, Sebastian Wilkes, Judge Mycroft Wargrave, Sherlock Holmes, General Lestrade, and the manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Hudson. He frowned. Odd lot, aren't they.
He stood up and scrutinized himself in the glass. A rather scraggly brown beard, with two twins streaks of grey. Two closely set grey eyes. Anderson doesn't look in mirrors, much. Not a lot to look at.
"Maybe a major," he murmurs to himself. "No, there's that old military gent. He'd spot me at once." He scratches at his beard, thinking with a comical expression. "South Africa! That's my line. None of these people having anything to do with Africa, as far as I know…"
The train stopped with a sudden lurch, and the old man in the corner wakes up with a wheeze. "This is where I get out," he grumbles. His gnarled hands fumbled with the window, so Anderson helps him.
The old man stands in the doorway. He blinks blearily, but stares steadily at Anderson. He shifts, uncomfortable.
"Watch and pray," he intones, feebly. "Watch and pray. The day of judgement is at hand."
He collapses through the doorway and onto the platform. From his level below he looks up at Anderson with immense dignity and says, "I'm talking to you, young man! The day of judgement is close at hand."
Settling back into his seat, Anderson shakes his head amusedly. He's nearer the day of judgement than I am.
But there, as it happens, was where he was wrong.
In fact, they all were.