December 2020 Challenge Prompt

From Book girl fan: An old friend in trouble

December 1889. Dark, frigid gales of snow and sleet battered the windows of 221B Baker Street. I was settled by the hearth for the evening, sleepily watching the crackling flames. Holmes was examining glass slides of soil and brick dust under his microscope, meticulously sifting through the contents with a thin metal instrument. Apparently, the analysis of their mineral composition was of the utmost importance pertaining to an old cold case. Holmes looked up from his work. "I believe we have a visitor," he said.

I had not heard the quiet knocking on our door over the howling winds of the snow storm. Holmes ushered in a young girl, red-nosed and covered in snow, no older than six years of age. The girl was silent, eyes wide and watery. I jumped up from my seat and hastily guided her to the fireplace. Her skin was like ice—how long had she endured the freezing temperature and flurries of the night? I feared she was beginning to suffer from frostbite and hypothermia.

"How can we assist you?" said Holmes. "What is your name?"

The girl did not reply. I began heating the kettle, and preparing a plate of sliced bread and cheese. Perhaps warmth and nourishment would help revive her.

"Did you travel here alone?" said Holmes. He seated himself across from her by the hearth.

The girl still refrained from speech, but she managed to nod in affirmation.

"On foot from South Hampstead?" said Holmes.

I nearly sliced my thumb with the bread knife as the girl nodded. Not only was I bewildered by Holmes's ability to deduce the girl's origin so quickly, but I was also shocked at the distance that she must have ventured in these conditions.

"And are you the daughter of Professor Andrew Crane?" said Holmes.

Another nod from the girl.

"Holmes, have the two of you met before?" I said as I carried the tea and grub across the flat.

"No, but I've met her father," said Holmes. "Professor Andrew Crane is a brilliant chemist. He assisted me on a case eight months prior, helping to determine the chemical composition and design of an organic nitrate explosive. He was instrumental in locating and apprehending the engineer responsible. Crane had mentioned to me that he resided in South Hampstead, and had a daughter, who would be around the age of our young guest. I note that they share several hereditary characteristics: hair color and texture, downturned grey eyes, long lashes, freckled nose, and dimpled cheeks."

"How do you know that she traveled from South Hampstead?" I said.

"She walked against the wind, that is clear by the distribution of snow on her clothes, and by the windblown shape of her hair, so we can infer that her origin was northwest of Baker Street," said Holmes. "Judging by her body temperature, and the amount of snow on her boots, clothing and hair, relative to the current rate of snowfall, we can estimate that she was outdoors for at least thirty minutes, and yet less than one hour. Note that some of the melting snow on her shoulders is tainted with coal dust, and was likely acquired early in her journey—I believe she started close to the metal refinery on Luremore Street. In combination, these observations are indicative of a march from South Hampstead."

The girl sipped the hot tea and shoveled sliced bread and cheese into her mouth. She declined to speak, but I was confident that, at the very least, she would not fall dead in our flat.

Holmes peered sharply at the girl, as if to stare beyond the material plane and into her mind and soul. "You're highly intelligent for your age," he said. "You would have to be in order to find our residence at this time of night, in this storm. Not to mention, I see by your gaze that you've been reading the book covers on our shelf since you sat down. Your quest is urgent, otherwise an intelligent individual like yourself would not have risked the perilous, lonely journey. Were you instructed to come here? In a way, I'm sure, owing to the fact that I've worked with your father, and you are familiar with my residence and occupation. I would wager to guess that your father informed you that I can be trusted should anything happen to him. You're still in shock. Did you witness something bad happening to your father tonight?"

She nodded.

"Was he killed?" said Holmes.

She shook her head no. I let out a sigh of relief, for my mind had begun wandering to the worst.

"Was he taken?" said Holmes.

She nodded yes.

"Do you know by whom?" said Holmes. "And to where?"

No to both of Holmes's inquiries.

"How many people were involved in his abduction?" said Holmes.

The girl held up four fingers.

"Was anyone else injured or taken?" said Holmes.

No.

"Taken from his home in the night?" I said to Holmes. "For what purpose?"

"I assume his seizure is in relation to his work in the field of chemical engineering," said Holmes. "When we last spoke, Crane had commissions from the British military to study and develop experimental explosive compounds. His laboratory is located in East Finchley, on the outskirts of the city. That's where he would keep his notes and stores of explosive prototypes."

I imagined Crane being pried away into the blizzard, his daughter watching helplessly while hiding from the home invaders. I feared that anarchists or foreign agents were stealing modern explosive technology as we spoke, with Crane's forced cooperation. I feared for his fate after his captors had achieved their goal. "Holmes, if your theory is correct, then we have no time to waste."

"Agreed," said Holmes. "We will investigate at once. Young Ms. Crane, if you are able, I would like for you to join us. We may require you to identify the men that took your father. I believe we have a spare, dry jacket that you can wear, left behind by one of my Irregular agents."

The three of us departed from Baker Street and had the good fortune of finding a cabbie willing to brave the weather. Holmes tossed an extra pound sterling his way, and the driver cracked the reigns with double haste, splashing slush and mud up onto the walkways, and sliding precariously at every turn. Holmes instructed the driver to slow as we approached Crane's laboratory; thankfully he had not relocated since last working with Holmes. I saw the flicker of lamplight from inside, and made out pacing silhouettes in the windows. Behind the laboratory there was a two-horse covered carriage. It hadn't been parked there long, judging by the relatively small amount of snow that had accumulated.

"There's another pound sterling in it for you if you drive straight to the police station on Sumner Street," said Holmes. He held another coin up the driver, who eyed it greedily. "Tell them that Sherlock Holmes sent you, and that there's a kidnapping and robbery in progress at this location. Assistance is needed immediately. I'll have a third coin waiting here upon your return."

The driver agreed and disappeared into the night. Holmes, Young Ms. Crane and I crept closer to the laboratory, careful to stay out of the moonlight. Holmes signaled for us to stay put, and he stealthily made his way between trees and bushes to the covered carriage. He returned after several minutes, tucking his tool kit back into his jacket.

"They haven't loaded anything onto the carriage," said Holmes. "I assume Crane isn't making it easy to access his work, he may be refusing to provide the vault combination, or to reveal where his work is stored, or how it functions. Regardless, their carriage won't be going anywhere soon," said Holmes. He had dismantled some essential component of the carriage, rending it immobile. "Where's the girl?"

I turned around and saw that she was no longer by my side. A trail of small footprints in the snow led up to the laboratory. "Ah! She must have snuck off when I wasn't looking!"

Holmes and I wasted no words, trudging promptly through the snow in pursuit of the girl. She had circled around the building, stopping to climb in through a window with a broken latch. We clambered inside after her, sneaking through a dark room crammed with books, files and blueprints, and then a laboratory room full of vials and jars of powders and liquids, and delicate glass instruments. A door at the end of the room that was cracked open, with a soft lamplight glow shining through. The girl was pressed up against the door, peering into the illuminated room. I heard voices from the other side.

"You'll have to kill me," someone said, breathing heavily. "I'll never hand over the prototypes!"

WHACK

The wrenching sound of a rifle butt striking a jawbone echoed through the room. Holmes and I joined the girl, and he put a finger to his lips. The three of us spied through the opening and saw two men standing around Crane. He was tied to a chair at one end of the room. Two other men were examining a heavy, steel hatch that required a combination code. The men were armed with pistols and rifles.

"Enough of this!" said one of the men. "I tried to be lenient, but you've given me no choice. You're going to tell me how to get into the vault, or I'm going to start cutting off your fingers." I heard the swish and click of a spring-loaded knife.

I heard something fizzing, and looked over to see that Holmes had collected an assortment of chemical vials from various shelves, and two respirator masks. He was pouring the solutions together and shaking the concoction, orange fumes wafting upward. Holmes lobbed the makeshift chemical hand grenade through the door and it exploded with a deafening bang in the middle of the room. Thick orange fumes filled the space, and the men immediately broke into fits of coughing.

"What the hell is this?!" said one of the men. "Ahrg! My eyes!"

One man sprinted out the back, then another. There was a blast of gunfire and a bullet tore through the wall above my head. We all got low to the ground until we heard the last two men fleeing the hazy room, at which point Holmes threw on a respirator and sprinted into the orange fog. He reappeared moments later, dragging Crane out of the room. Crane was donned with the second respirator, and I could see that he had been beaten and bloodied. He had a black eye and a split lip, and a deep bruise across his nose. Holmes brought him into the laboratory room, chair and all, and propped him against a table. He pulled off the respirator and began cutting the ropes binding Crane.

"You really know to make an entrance, Holmes," said Crane through wheezes and coughs. Tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes. My eyes were burning as well from the partial whiff of fumes that I had been exposed to.

"Watson, we must barricade the two doors leading to this room," said Holmes. He turned back to Crane. "Apologies for the slapdash lachrymatory cloud," said Holmes. "I needed them to clear the room, and I figured you'd rather suffer that irritating chemical attack instead of being subject to torture. The effects should subside soon enough."

"Did you have to throw it so close to me though?!" said Crane. Holmes finished cutting the ropes, and Crane stumbled over to a basin of water to wash out his eyes.

His daughter latched onto his leg, hugging him tightly. "Papa!" she cried. It was the first word I had heard her utter.

Crane hugged her back. "Alina! My God, I'm so glad to see you!"

I secured the doors at opposite ends of the laboratory, pushing furniture up against them. As Holmes and I positioned a heavy table against the first door, we heard a crash, and shouting from men on the other side. There were more bangs on the door, and a gunshot that ripped through and shattered a jar of grey powder on the shelf. There was a sharp whistle from outside, and the banging subsided. We heard hurried footsteps fleeing the building and running out back.

"Sounds like the police have finally arrived," said Holmes.

"They parked a carriage behind the building," said Crane. "They'll try to escape out the back!"

"No worries," said Holmes. "I've dealt with that possibility."

The men failed to escape, realizing too late that their carriage had been sabotaged by Holmes. Constables swarmed the carriage, and the men surrendered, tossing their weapons into the snow. Each was cuffed and shoved into the back of the police wagon. Holmes tipped our returning cabbie another pound sterling, and the police took down statements from each of us.

"Thank you, Holmes and Watson," said Crane as he climbed into the police carriage that would return him and Alina to South Hampstead. "I don't know how you did it, but thank you. I feared I wasn't going to see the light of dawn."

"Your daughter is deserving of more thanks than I," said Holmes. "She's exceptionally bright and uncommonly brave."

Alina was fast asleep, wrapped around Crane's shoulders as he carried her. He nodded and smiled. Then, growing more serious, he said, "Those men called themselves the Sons of Deliverance. An anarchist organization with goals of overthrowing the establishment. I'm not sure how many others are out there, or who they planned to target."

"They're well armed and informed," said Holmes. "I'll have a word with each of them at the police station before the night is up. With some luck, we may uproot this militant faction before they cause any serious damage. Safe travels, Crane."