The Ashes of the City
Dedicated to Vasily Kalinnikov
London, Baker Street
December 13th, 1896
Midnight
The lamppost at the intersection of Baker Street and Allsop Place flickered eerily through the fog. The city was in comatose as a slight rain began to fall, lightly kissing them with death as the temperature dropped.
In a small flat, near the foundation of the famed Holmes residence, lived another resident who took after the famous one almost religiously. The resident who is not Mr. Sherlock, was Mr. Basil. A mouse respectively, dealt with the less fulfilling and exciting affairs of his species and comrades in the world of street sidewalks, alleyways and sewers.
Presently, Mr. Basil was sitting in his velvet chair, wearing his robe and slippers, smoking a tobacco pipe and resting by the fire. Dawson, his roommate and physician, was reading the local paper.
"It appears that Mr. Freemont has lost some money and claims it to have been stolen." Dawson said, noticing a headline in the 'Local' column.
Basil removed his pipe and smiled, "Mr. Freemont, dear Dawson is a mangy old fool with nothing better to do than to lie to the press. His money hasn't been stolen, it is perfectly safe in the Bank of England."
"How do you know that Basil?" Dawson asked, a bit curious as to why his colleague would know something so specific, but then again, he did take after the greatest detective in the world.
"Why that is elementary my dear Dawson! I broke into the bank to see if it could be done and it most certainly can."
Dawson put his newspaper down, "And just why exactly did you break into the bank?"
Basil smoked his pipe again, "I already told you Dawson, you know how much I hate repeating myself."
"Yes, yes, but why Basil? You had no legitimate reason to cause trouble."
"Ah that my fellow is where you are wrong." Basil stood up and walked across the floor. "Has it ever occurred to you that the bank needed to be broken into?"
"To test for security reasons possibly." Dawson said, "But you targeted someone specifically Basil and that is on what's got me worried."
"Why should you be worried? If anything it's my head on the executioner's block not yours." Basil said with a laugh as he picked up his violin and tuned it.
"However," Basil continued, "to answer your question, I targeted Mr. Freemont's money because it wasn't necessarily his to begin with."
"Was it stolen?" Dawson asked.
"No nothing like that, Mr. Freemont was keeping George's money in the bank for him. George of course is his son. Anyway, George had asked me to perform the task, fearing that his father had taken some money for his own personal use."
"Well what's wrong with that?"
"On normal circumstances it is perfectly normal," Basil said, "especially when-"
"Finances are dwindling." Dawson said finishing his sentence and interrupting him.
"Yes," Basil said with a slightly annoyed glance. "but it is morally unsound if the money is being put away for future endeavors, like the university for example. He told me, and I quote, 'I fear that my father is going to kill me if my inheritance ends up going elsewhere besides investing in his business. If you see to it that it is safe, I shall be happy to compensate you.' I agreed to the terms, performed what was asked and he gave me a new smoking pipe."
"Well," Dawson said, "that was very generous of him. It also seems to me that his father is a greedy miser, so it must've been very risky for him to compensate you in the first place."
A knock at the door.
"A visitor? At this hour?" Dawson said.
"Show the poor soul in Dawson," Basil said, "I'll grab something warm for him, he's probably freezing to death."
Dawson nodded and opened the door while Basil went into his room and grabbed a warm undershirt, pants, and robe from his wardrobe.
Standing at the door was a postman, Caesar Roman. He wore a small blue cap, a blue uniform and carried a messenger's bag, he was a ferret respectively.
"Why it's Mr. Roman!" Dawson cried with excitement, "Do come inside, warm yourself up."
"As much as I would love to," Caesar said, "I'm afraid I can't, duty calls and all."
"I understand completely," Dawson said remembering his time in Afghanistan. "So," Dawson continued, "have anything for us?"
"Yes sir," Caesar replied, "a letter for the both of you, it doesn't have a name or address just a phrase on the front, was told to bring it you straight away."
"Did you read it?" Dawson asked.
"No sir, don't dabble into other people's business." Caesar said.
"Well, are you sure that you don't want to come inside, you are most welcome to." Dawson said kindly as he took the letter.
"Mighty generous of you," Caesar said, "but I've already wasted enough time as it is. Well, good night sir, and drop by whenever you're in the neighborhood!" Caesar walked down the street, whistling a merry little tune. It was still raining.
"Who was it?" Basil asked.
"It was Mr. Roman," Dawson said, looking over the envelope the letter was incased in. "This is rather strange."
"What sort of business do you have there?" Basil asked as he continued to smoke his pipe.
"Roman gave me this letter, said it was to the both of us. I just can't make out these words, it's all Balderdash to me."
"Mind if I-" Basil started to say, Dawson didn't even have to let him finish, he simply handed Basil the letter.
It took all of two seconds for Basil to decipher it. Without speaking he walked back over to his chair, sat down, and threw the unopened letter in the fire.
"Why did you that Basil?" Dawson asked a bit concerned.
His companion did not respond, he just had a look of deep thought on his face, as if he were trying to solve a complicated puzzle. Gears started to turn in his head. Slowly he began to think of possibilities to why the letter showed up at his door. He continued to smoke his pipe and periodically would tap it to free the clogged tobacco. After what seemed like several hours Basil closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His face morbid, his eyes downcast.
"Who writes a letter in the middle of the night in Spanish?" He asked.
"I'm sorry what did you say Basil?"
"I said," Basil turned towards his roommate, "who writes a latter in the middle of the night in Spanish?"
"I don't know, a Spaniard perhaps?"
"A Spaniard who addresses his envelope with the words Máscara de la Muerte?" Basil inquired. Dawson shrugged his shoulders and got back to his newspaper.
"What does that mean Basil?" Dawson asked.
"It translates, loosely mind you, to Mask of Death." Basil answered. "Something told me that it was bad news, I choose not to get us involved."
Another knock at the door.
"Oh who is it this time?" Basil said rolling his eyes at the annoyance. He opened the door and once again Caesar was in the doorway. This time however, his face was in trauma as he fell face first to the ground. A knife covered in blood was stuck in his back. Basil quickly dragged Caesar inside.
"Oh poor Caesar," Dawson said. "who could've done this?"
Basil began to pace the floor as he smoked the last of his pipe. The phone rang. Basil reached for the phone.
"Basil of Baker Street this is Basil," he said rather calm and sincere. As the caller was speaking to him, Basil nodded his head and listened to every detail, not missing a beat. Dawson noticed that as the conversation went on, Basil's face slowly settled to grief, as if he himself were dying.
Basil sighed after the caller was finished talking. "When do you want me to start?" He asked. "Great," he said after he got his answer, "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Good night." He hung up the phone.
Basil sighed again, this time shaking his head. "What has the world come to Dawson?" He said, "One minute it's fine, nothing uncivil, everyone is relatively happy, and then two seconds later it's all gone." Basil walked to his chair again and refilled his pipe.
"What was the call about?" Dawson said.
Basil smoked his freshly stocked pipe, he exhaled the tobacco smoke through his nose, reminding him of Draco, the Greek dragon of the sky. Dawson, concerned that Basil hadn't answered it yet, walked over back to his own chair and looked at his friend.
"What was the call about Basil?" Dawson repeated.
Basil sighed again, took the pipe out of his mouth and stood up. "I'm going to bed Dawson," he said, "good night."
"Good night Basil." Dawson said.
"Oh and by the way," Basil said turning back to Dawson, "George Freemont is dead."