Hello, dearest readers! This is now my longest work. Gracious, but I'm liking this anthology stuff! Maybe when it's all finished, I'll separate a few of the related ones into stories of their own.
On a totally unrelated note, I took the Myers-Briggs personality test recently. They gave me a list of fictional characters with the same personality type as me and I was somewhat startled. I am apparently in the same category as Dr. Watson, Miss Marple, and wait for it...Optimus Prime. Optimus. Stinkin'. Prime. I have the same personality type?! Waaaaaaaat?! What is this—I don't even—I can't even handle the geekness right now you guys.
You know, I suppose this technically counts as a crossover. Bit of an undertaking, this: I'll be attempting the style of Arthur Conan Doyle. (Hence "chapter" names. Although, if I have time, and if you all like it, I might make it a full blown story.)
The Adventure of the Spider's Web
Chapter 1: The Dubious Delegation
It was in the Autumn of 18- that I found myself once more in the lodgings of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at Baker Street. As we sat before a cheerful fire, I commented on the morning paper with its rather ambitious headline, "Death Stalks Whitechapel". "It hardly staggers the imagination," I remarked, "The only surprise lies in that they bothered to report these when so many others are never discovered."
"Indeed?" said Holmes, "You would appear to have an astonishing lack of imagination then, my friend." I protested, of course, citing the deplorable conditions of the East End as a breeding ground for such characters as the perpetrator of the killings.
He leaned back into his chair and mused quietly on the Whitechapel murders. Two victims, both young men of similar height and weight and unconnected by anything but the misfortune of living in the slums of the East End. Both had been found in a barely recognizable state, two miles apart. I asked Sherlock Holmes whether he intended to investigate, as the cases seemed of such unusual interest to the Yard. "I will not," said he, "Let Lestrade do his own work for once." There was a glint in his eye of some other problem teasing at his mind. "You have other cases, I suppose " I guessed idly, tapping my pipe on the grate.
Holmes took a piece of folded paper from the pocket of his dressing gown and laid it on the table between us. "There, Watson, what do you make of that?" I smoothed out the creases and perused the elegant scrawl. It was a letter from the solicitors' firm of Magnus, Moon, and Furman, requesting advising on a delicate matter. A client of theirs—unnamed, of course, but implied to be very powerful—had sent word that he wished to change his will. He had not come in person, but rather sent a missive in the hand of a grubby messenger boy who refused to hand it over without monetary compensation.
The alterations suggested in their client's will were unpalatable to the solicitors, and evidently bordered upon the absurd. Messrs. Magnus, Moon, and Furman suspected some foul play involved and wondered whether Mr. Holmes would be good enough to look over the affair. I glanced up at my friend. His long fingers were steepled together and he observed me keenly. "You are wondering why I choose to divert my energies to something as mundane as a will when murder is abroad in the East End." As usual, he was absolutely correct in his deductions. "My dear fellow," said he, "Life is full of the fantastic. It is the commonplace that I find the most absurd!"
"But Holmes!" I cried, "Why don't the solicitors speak to their client themselves?" Catlike, Holmes sprang forward and seized the paper from my grasp. "Ah-ha! You have struck upon it, Watson. Rather than go to this evidently important man, they would rather ask a consulting detective for his not inconsiderable opinion. And therein lies my interest in this matter." He seemed to perch at the edge of his seat like a hawk, eyes alight. "I don't suppose you've any obligations this afternoon, old boy?"
As it turned out, I'd nothing planned for the day and readily agreed to the suggestion of paying a visit to Messrs. Magnus, Moon, and Furman. The first of these glared at us over a sheaf of papers. "I have no time for idle bodies," the militaristic fellow postulated. I introduced us, whereupon his manner instantly transformed. "My dear sir, I'd no idea! Do forgive me, I've been in the midst of a rather messy affair regarding the Rochester estate." He was a solid man in his fifties, our Mr. Magnus, and not one for nonsense. "Which is precisely why we've asked for your help," said the man. "I've known Lord Prime for many years, and never had he made a change to his will without personally contacting me! To send a mere note in the smudgy hands of a street urchin—why, I cannot countenance it!"
Holmes asked to see the will, but Mr. Magnus was adamant that we speak to the other partners first. "Lord Prime is a known philanthropist," the detective remarked, "It is common knowledge that he is leaving a sizable amount to the poor, therefore it cannot be a charitable endeavor of this sort that troubles you. Your firm participates in the care of the destitute yourselves, so I hardly imagine that you would object to more money being given to the poor." He fixed his gaze on Mr. Magnus. "However, perhaps you worry that the money is going to some unworthy character. Having served in such a high position in the military, I'm sure rank is very important to you."
The man started. "How the devil did you know I was in the military?" My friend looked bored. "Mr. Magnus, pray don't insult me. Your jacket, though of a fine quality, carries two small punctures at the lapel from where a medal has been pinned. That the holes are pronounced enough to be seen from a distance means that you are accustomed to wearing the award, as does your bearing. Even if I hadn't been able to tell by the very noticeable way in which you carry yourself, your own skin would still have betrayed you." The solicitor looked astonished. "My skin, sir?" Holmes motioned to the man's large hand. "You sport a faded tan, sir, and the texture of your skin suggests repeated exposure to sunlight. Your left hand shakes slightly, a remnant, perhaps, of some tropical disease. Malaria comes to mind. You never got that on this continent!"
"Wonderful!" Mr. Magnus laughed, "You truly are a marvel, Mr. Holmes. Already my mind is more at ease." At this juncture we were joined by Mr. Furman—a sallow, nervous man with quick, birdlike movements—and Mr. Moon: a rubicund fellow with an air of jollity and an inflated notion of his own importance if the way he kept inserting names into the conversation was any indication. "What is it, exactly, that you fear is happening?" I asked politely, once we were all seated. "Well I shouldn't like to say," Mr. Furman mopped his brow, "Offhand, I shouldn't like to say."
"Well I should!" the boisterous Mr. Moon interrupted, "I think it's blackmail!" The man's partners scoffed into their teacups. "Blackmail?" I asked, "Why not forgery?" Mr. Furman shifted in his chair and set his saucer down. "Oh, it couldn't have been! It was sealed with the crest of the House of Prime, my dear doctor. That ring never leaves Lord Prime's hand!" Once again, Mr. Moon broke in on the other man's words. "Ah, not quite, not quite Mr. Furman! You recall, of course, that he never wore it during the scandal with the late, disgraced Count Polidori?"
"Mr. Moon, what could a vampire story possibly have to do with the case?" Mr. Magnus asked peevishly. A heated argument ensued, during which Mr. Furman laconically handed the notice in question to Holmes and I. "Mr. Magnus," Sherlock uttered, "it may have everything to do with your case!" With whispered instructions to pay attention to the solicitors' facial expressions, he handed the creased parchment to me. "Be it noted that previous conditions still stand," I read aloud.
"Legacies left for the Foiche, Shackleton, and O'Garvie families and Doctor Rach. Charge and keeping of the library falls to Miss Arcee d'Iacon." I raised my eyebrows at the sum. Let it never be said that the head of the house of Prime did not look after the members of his household. I continued, "I intend, however, to make the following changes: as I have found myself unwitting guardian to a young woman who shall remain unnamed for reasons of privacy. I wish to settle an amount for her dowry, as my ward intends to marry. Concerning my estate, upon my passing, all properties and titles shall be held in trust until the twentieth birthday of the heir of House Prime. Once more, for personal reasons, my heir shall go anonymous. You will know him by my signet ring."
I looked up at the solicitors. "You're quite right, gentlemen," I said, "This is highly unusual!" I handed the paper back to Mr. Furman. "Is Lord Prime much in the habit of writing this way?" Mr. Magnus frowned. "It was certainly written by him, if that's what you mean. The trouble is, I'm not certain why he should be so secretive!" Sherlock Holmes leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "Yes, it certainly is vague. Perhaps he felt the need to secrete his intentions from unfriendly eyes? Directly following the Polidori case—which, you will no doubt recall, I practically solved for the Yard—Lord Optimus was neither seen nor heard from for seven weeks. All business was conducted via letters delivered by a gentleman of—how did your report word it?—unknown origin."
He glanced condescendingly at the assembled gentlemen. "And while the fellow, who is quite clearly an ally of the House Prime, ran the risk of being murdered in the streets—don't look so shocked sir, there is a very real rivalry between the houses of Prime and Kaon—you would seem to have a poor opinion of the young chap. I wonder if you might describe him for me?" Moon turned his round body in the seat, buttons catching on the armrests. "My dear fellow! Whatever for?" he asked. Holmes smiled. "I'd like to know what kind of man is entrusted with a missing lord's business. Please, just to satisfy my curiosity." Being unfamiliar with Holmes's manner, they supposed this was all he meant.
For myself, I began to understand that my friend was beginning to have his doubts as to whether this case was even worth the hearing. It sounded preposterous to me that a missing ring and the infamous Polidori case would have anything to do with Lord Prime's puzzlingly secretive will. Still, Sherlock saw—or thought he saw—some sort of connection, and likely wouldn't be satisfied until he had proven it. There followed an account of the most astonishing person imaginable. If Messrs. Magnus, Moon, and Furman were to be relied upon, this mysterious fellow was both tall and short; an Irishman, an Englishman and an Italian; no younger than seventeen and no older than twelve.
Apparently he had a shifty look and a heart of gold; an East End manner and a West End accent and—if Mr. Moon was to be believed—Lord Prime's signet ring. I began to feel the approach of a splitting headache, so contradictory were the statements. And this from solicitors! Despairingly, I turned to Sherlock. If anyone could parse the tangled mess to find data, it was surely he. His eyes were closed once more, fingers steepled under his sharp nose. "I fear I may have been a trifle unclear in my intent when I asked for a description, gentlemen," he admitted. "I'm not, strictly speaking, interested in the identity of the messenger boy, but rather in your perception of him. You each describe someone completely different, and yet you expect me to share your concerns about a dubiously worded letter. Why not ask the man yourselves? Is that not your duty as his solicitors?"
The men hemmed and hawed for a moment, and my friend looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "This shall be the heart of it," he whispered, and I nodded. So far, the solicitors had talked around the problem when directly questioned. Their repeated attempts to out the ring-bearing messenger boy as a thief or blackmailer were hardly conducive to deciphering the clouded meaning of the letter. I very nearly pitied them, for in their attempts to conceal their true worries, they'd only piqued Sherlock's interest, even as I despaired of the whole matter. At last, Mr. Magnus adjusted his tie and spoke quickly, almost nervously. "We did try, Mr. Holmes," he began. "At first, I paid a personal call on Prime Manor, but he was from home at the time, and an unfamiliar woman answered the door. A nurse." He made his opinion of a woman in that profession very clear with a disdainful twitch of his lip. "I can only suppose that someone was ill in the house. One of the servants, perhaps," he continued, "In any case, I asked that a message be left for Lord Optimus. I was directed to a study where I found the selfsame messenger boy perusing a set of very old and valuable books as if he owned them!"
He looked dreadfully discomfited at the idea of someone so unfamiliar to him apparently having free reign over what was, by all accounts, one of the largest libraries in Britain. "I left a notice that I wished to speak to Lord Prime, but he insisted I speak to him while the master of the house was out. Can you imagine? He wasn't even of age!" The former military man faded into undignified grumbling as Mr. Furman took up the tale. "Mr. Magnus returned to the firm quite discombobulated, as I'm sure you can imagine. We waited for a few days, but no answer was forthcoming from Lord Optimus. We sent a messenger to the Manor not two days ago, but we've begun to fear that our notice never reached its destination." I confess that I was hard pressed to keep a patronizing tone from my voice as I asked them whether it was more likely that Lord Prime simply hadn't answered. "Oh no, sir!" Mr. Moon mopped his shining brow in a sweeping, grandiose gesture. "You see, our messenger is one of the poor chaps who ended up on the front page of this morning's paper! I'm to understand that the constable found him in—well, in a few different places to put it delicately—with a curious pictogram of a spider drawn on the brick."
"A spider, you say?" Holmes's eyes fairly glowed. He sprang from the chair and leaned over the table. "Tell me, were there marks about the wrist as of some strange adhesive surface?" The men blinked, owl eyed. "Why, yes. I believe so, yes." Holmes rubbed his hands together. "And the severing marks occurred in the order of the carotid artery, pulmonary artery, hepatic vein and jugular?" Mr. Moon turned a pale shade of green and held a handkerchief to his mouth. "I hardly know, sir! I wasn't on hand to examine the wretched thing!" Sherlock paced excitedly. "Tell me one last thing, gentlemen. What color was your errand boy's hair?" First he looked to Mr. Furman, who protested that he rarely saw the man and couldn't be expected to remember. Mr. Moon thought it was dark brown, but said that as he rarely washed it, it might have been blond. "It was black. Coal black and filthy." Mr. Magnus declared at last. "But on Sundays, sometimes you'd see him in the streets having washed up a bit."
Holmes grinned triumphantly at me. "Well well. So she's back, is she?" I paled. "Holmes! LSurely you don't mean..." He seized my arm and pulled me upright. "Absolutely, Watson! La femme araignée!" I shuddered, for well I remembered coming across this devilish creature's "handiwork" before, on a previous adventure. "They never put those details in the papers, Holmes," I said as we left the offices with promises to look into the case. "I imagine the Yard wished to avoid a panic." The gleam had not left my friend's eyes. "Come along, Watson. We've work to do!" We hailed a cab and sat quietly for a moment, watching the wet streets glide by. "Holmes," I said, "I don't understand. What does the murder of the messenger have to do with this will?" Sherlock steepled his fingers once more. "That is precisely what I mean to find out, my dear chap. I suspect, however, that the messenger was targeted more for his resemblance to another young fellow than the paper he carried." I did not understand, and told him so. "What young fellow, Holmes?"
"Why, the heir to the signet ring of the House of Prime!"
To be continued?