From Michael JG Meathook: Stolen Presents
By December 1884, I found work at a physician's office in Paddington, near the local university. There I spent most mornings, either tending to patients or reading the latest medical research.
One regular patient of mine was Capt. Arthur Simpson of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, a decorated veteran of the Anglo-Persian War. He was a hunched man, fifty-five years of age, with streaks of gray in his otherwise dark beard. Simpson's left hand had been irreparably mangled by a Persian gunner in the Battle of Khushab, and a bomb blast in Bushehr left him blind and deaf in his right eye and ear, but the man continued to face life with the stalwart spirit of a soldier. We commiserated with one another over our military careers, and subsequent recoveries from battlefield injuries.
One drizzly gray morning in early December, hours after a routine check of Simpson's health, I realized that the old soldier left his faded leather wallet behind. It was a well-worn envelope wallet, at least thrice repaired over its lifespan, with scuffs and smudges on one side from the tobacco-stained fingers of Simpson's good right hand. Inside he carried four gold sovereign coins, and many smaller denomination shillings and pennies. I looked up his address in my office records, and planned to deliver the forgotten wallet after finishing a bit of administrative work.
About an hour later, as I was preparing to depart, I was surprised to see my companion Sherlock Holmes barging into the physician's office. He appeared ripe with fluctuating manic energy, surely the product of some experiment or investigation.
"Carbolic acid, Watson. Do you have it in stock?" Holmes followed my brief, instinctual glance to the cabinet containing acid. He moved swiftly without a word of input. "I've run dry, and in dire need of the stuff for a crucial experiment. Time sensitive, you understand." He opened the cabinet, and began rummaging through bottles.
"Yes, help yourself, I suppose," I said. "I'm packing up to leave soon. Does your experiment allow time to travel to Mayfair with me on our way home?"
"Why the detour?" said Holmes.
"Returning a lost wallet," I said, gesturing to Simpson's wallet on my desk.
Holmes picked up the wallet, turned it over in his hand for a moment, peeked inside, then passed it to me. "The old captain is getting forgetful."
"Come again?" I said.
"That's Capt. Simpson's wallet, is it not?" said Holmes.
"Yes," I said. "But how did you know that? Have you met Capt. Simpson?" I could not recall an instance when I'd spoken of Simpson with Holmes. The wallet had no identification card.
"No, I merely noticed the notes on your desk, freshly inked, pertaining to a few of your patients," said Holmes. "One such name is Simpson."
I glanced down at my handwritten scrawl of appointment notes. Apparently, Holmes had read the scattered scratch upside down, amidst a desk of cluttered papers and books. He had a passive talent for absorbing and synthesizing all manner of information within reach, subconsciously and indiscriminately. I tucked the paper away in my desk drawer, a page of notes regarding four separate patients. "But how did you zero in on Simpson in particular? And you knew he was a captain." My informal notes were not specific to Simpson, and did not include Simpson's military rank. They referenced a typical prescription order.
"You said the wallet was to be returned to Mayfair," said Holmes. "In your note regarding a patient named Simpson, you included the name of a mild sedative prescription, and the jotted abbreviation, Ed. Apo. I notice that your stores here are lacking the sedative in question, and I assume the abbreviation, Ed. Apo., is shorthand for Nathaniel Edwell's Apothecary, located on the corner of Bourdon and Shaudley. It's a relatively small apothecary located in Mayfair. You would have only directed a patient to Edwell's if the patient resided nearby, hence, Simpson lives in Mayfair, and it is his wallet that you seek to return."
"Fair enough," I said. "Though, I don't see how you made any inference about Simpson's military history, specifically his rank of captain."
"The wallet almost certainly belongs to a military veteran with no use of his left hand," said Holmes. "I was between captain and major, but leaning more heavily toward captain."
I checked the wallet again for sewn-in initials, or some other identifying element, but found no remarkable signs. He had been carrying only coins. Simpson's fingernail scratches and thumbprints meant nothing to me, though I assumed Holmes gleaned some insight from them. "Elaborate, if you would. I don't follow."
"Ah, Watson, you make me feel like an algebra tutor, asked again and again to simplify and reexplain his proofs for an uncomprehending student," said Holmes.
"If I seem slow, remember I just finished a long morning of appointments," I said. "What is clear to you remains foggy to me."
"Then I will allow you time to consider," said Holmes with a cunning gleam in his eyes. "And yes, I'll join you on your detour through Mayfair."
I gathered the rest of my belongings, and we departed. Cool gray clouds hovered overheard, threatening to burst, whether with freezing rain or snow I could not tell. I was thankful to stretch my legs and breathe fresh air. Foot traffic was light. Holmes did not elaborate further on why he suspected the wallet belonged to a one-armed retired military captain. Instead, he summarized a recent series of chemical trials (now requiring carbolic acid), which Holmes assured me was leading to a breakthrough in the field of hematology. He was developing a method of differentiating samples of human and animal blood, with promising results thus far.
A boy brushed by my side as we walked.
Holmes continued his lecture on biochemistry for a minute longer, then abruptly turned his head to me, as if just now waking from a reverie and snapping back into focus. "The wallet, Watson," he said. "Might I see it again?"
I brought my hand to my pocket, but felt no impression of Simpson's wallet. Confused, I rummaged inside each of my pockets, but still I could not locate the wallet. "I'm sure I brought it with me," I said. I dreaded the thought that I may have dropped it on our short journey.
"Oh dear, so that boy did lift the wallet," said Holmes. "I barely registered it—and it took me long enough, bah!—he kept his composure quite well." Holmes brought his hand to his face in self-annoyance. "I saw him, yet I did not observe."
"A pickpocket?" I said, looking up and down the street. "Do you mean that boy who passed by a moment before? I didn't feel his touch at all! Blast!"
"Yes, he's apparently skilled," said Holmes. "There he is, look! Turning left on Hayes St. Hurry, Watson, and we may still reach him."
I broke into a sprint, pursuing the young thief. He was donned in loose ragged clothing, with freckled skin and sandy brown hair. He was thin to the point of malnourishment, and dirty with city grime and soot. I estimated he was no older than fifteen years of age. His ears perked up as we approached, and the boy bolted.
"Stop! Thief!" I cried. I cursed myself for failing to guard Simpson's wallet.
Holmes extended his long legs, pulling ahead of me. We zig-zagged through the streets, Holmes focusing his keen senses on the boy, gradually closing the gap. A cabbie shouted obscenities at Holmes as he rushed past, spooking the cabbie's horse and eliciting a startled whinny. A stray dog, excited by the chase, snapped me as we rounded a corner. We cut through an alleyway and followed the boy down the wide stone steps of Hutchinson Blvd. The boy slipped on the cobblestones as he skirted around an old woman, stumbling down the final few steps before bouncing back onto his feet. He dashed down a narrow street to the right, notably slowed by his tumble, now moving with a slight limp. A trio of workmen up ahead heard my cries and positioned themselves to slow the boy. He changed his path again, spinning on his heel and ducking under a workman's heavy hand.
"Ah, Watson! We can corner him now!" said Holmes. "Follow him down the alley, and I'll circle around. Don't let him return this way!"
I expressed my agreement, and rushed down the alley as Holmes split off. Ten yards ahead, the boy was clambering over construction debris left in the alley. He shot a glance back at me, eyes wide and mouth agape. I squeezed between the narrow brick walls as he burst out onto a street that overlooked a deep, frigid canal. Emerging seconds later, I saw that the bridge ahead was impassable due to construction, and the path to the left was blocked by the sheer side of a stone church. The boy ran to the right, his only option, to find Holmes rounding the corner of Grain St. He was trapped on all sides.
"That's enough," said Holmes, out of breath. He guarded the boy's escape route as I blocked the possibility of retreating back down the alleyway. "Hand over the wallet."
The boy skidded to a halt. He was panting, and his knees were skinned from the fall down the steps of the boulevard. "Why shoul' I?" His voice was strained and raspy. "Not like it's your wallet neither!"
"Oh?" I said. "How, then, do you explain the fact that it was in my pocket!?"
"Same reason it's in mine," said the boy. "But 'least I don' nick from crippled vets."
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You propose that we do? Nick from crippled vets?"
"S'obvious," said the boy.
"Humor me," said Holmes. He regained his breath and stood straight, his hawkish eyes seeming to stare through the boy. "What brought you to that conclusion? Depending on your answer, we may show leniency for your larceny."
"It belonged to someone wit' no left arm," said the boy.
I glanced at Holmes, then back to the boy. I could not fathom how the boy knew about Simpson's wartime injury. Had he seen Simpson earlier in the day? Or perhaps tailed us from the medical office, and overheard some snippet of conversation? Holmes's expression remained stoic.
"No left arm?" said Holmes. "Your reasoning?"
"Right-fingered prints on the right side by the flap." The boy produced the wallet and held it up for us to see. "He only ever flipped it up with 'is right thumb—it's got scratches from his nails 'cos he can't trim 'em easy—and the coins are all tucked in the right corner, so he can reach 'em wit' one hand." The boy flipped open the wallet with his right thumb as a demonstration of how he must have imagined Capt. Simpson. "Hard for a one-handey to find a good wallet. That's why this one's so old and stitched up, even though he had some coin to buy a new one."
"Interesting," said Holmes. "You mentioned that the supposed wallet owner is a veteran. Care to elaborate?"
"Vets be missing hands and feet when they come back all the time," said the boy. I knew this truth too well, and it sent a shiver down my spine to hear the boy make such a statement with nonchalance. He wasn't wrong.
"No argument there, but surely you're aware that war is not the only cause of lost limbs," said Holmes. "You've worked in a cotton factory, after all—I've no doubt you've witnessed the gore of a hand catching in a machine."
The boy looked taken aback. "You know 'bout the factory?"
"I observe the traces of cotton fibers in your hair and on your clothing," said Holmes. "And there's the blisters and bruises on your fingers, inflicted by a spinning mule if I'm not mistaken."
The boy instinctively looked down at his hands, turning them over and studying the blisters. His eyes shot back up at Holmes, and he shook his head. "The wallet's filled with soldier coins. Four sovs, fresh minted, shiny and new from the bank. I know a vet who gets a monthly allowance from the bank—gets paid on the first, every month." The boy brought the wallet to his nose, sniffing. "Smells like old Lou's pipe tobacco, too. Soldier tobacco smells different—Lou's the only one I know who smokes that kind."
"What an astute nose for tobacco you have," said Holmes with a grin. "You've identified the scent of dokha, a particularly strong blend of Arabian tobacco and herbs. To your point, it's rare here in London, and the taste for it is most often acquired by those who spend extended time in Afghanistan or Persia."
I was astonished by the uncanny similarities between the two deductive minds. In the brief moment of calm after this boy had picked the wallet, moments before our pursuit, he thoroughly analyzed the markings on the wallet, Simpson's monthly pension of gold sovereigns, and the scent of Simpon's rare tobacco blend. It occurred to me that the presence of the four recently minted sovereign coins was the clue that indicated Simpson's position as a retired captain—Holmes surely knew that most retired British captains receive a pension of four to five sovereigns per month. Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Even the boy's eyes reminded me of Holmes's. They shared a sense of calculating keenness.
"You have sharp senses, and a capacity for logical reasoning," said Holmes to Lowell. "But you missed the mark on your initial conjecture. We did not steal the wallet from a crippled war veteran. In fact, we were in the process of returning it to him." Holmes extended his palm and gestured for the wallet. "He's a patient of the good doctor."
The boy eyed Holmes cautiously. At last he relinquished the wallet, passing it over, then pulling his arm back with a jolt. Holmes judged the weight of the wallet for a moment, and glanced inside, before tucking it away in his breast pocket.
"I appreciate that you didn't pocket any of the coins," said Holmes. "Wouldn't want to steal from a crippled vet, after all. You strike me as someone with little love for thievery."
The boy shrugged, glancing out at the canal, perhaps estimating how difficult it would be to swim across if he needed to flee. Perhaps imagining the cold, watery shock. "Whatchu going to do now? I gave it back, now let me go."
"First, proper introductions," said Holmes. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. John Watson."
The boy hesitated before speaking. "Lowell," said the boy named Lowell.
"Now, I'm going to give you a shilling, and you're going to speak with an associate of mine," said Holmes. "Tell her I've sent you, and she'll give you work."
"What kind of work?" said Lowell suspiciously.
"The gathering of information," said Holmes. "I'm in the profession of synthesizing information, and thus I'm in continuous need of new data. You would be an agent of my network. You seem bright enough for the role, and it beats working on the factory floor."
"Holmes, really?" I said. "How can you trust him so easily? For someone so observant, did you miss the part where he robbed me in broad daylight?"
"More so petty theft than robbery," said Holmes. "Robbery implies the use of force and intimidation, and usually a weapon of some sort."
"Ah, so at least he's not a cutthroat as well as a thief," I said. "Such a high bar you set for those in your employ."
"I trust him as much as anyone else in his position," said Holmes. "Lowell, why did you target us? Yes, of course, for the money in Dr. Watson's wallet… what I mean is, why did you target us instead of the elderly man with the gold pocket watch who was walking behind us? We, a pair of capable men, presented a much higher risk to you."
"Didn't wan' no geezer's watch," said Lowell.
"And why, when we were right on your heels, did you intentionally maneuver around that woman on the stone stairs of Hutchinson Blvd.?" said Holmes. The blood on Lowell's knees had dried, and his skin was pink and raw. "You might have escaped us if you had simply pushed through her instead of changing your pace."
Lowell shrugged. "I didn't wan' to knock an ol' lady over neither," said Lowell. "Them steps were slippery."
"I think your morals are more sound than Watson here gives you credit for," said Holmes. "I think you're in a difficult situation, and you have been for a long time." Holmes held out the shilling. "We can be of great use to each other: you as my field agent, and I as your benefactor."
Holmes swore by his irregular network of informants and specialists. They were sprawled across the city, constantly reporting on the comings and goings of people and artifacts of interest. Through his network, Holmes kept a pulse on the constant shifting of London's public and private organizations. His agents were primarily made up of urchins, prostitutes and beggars, eyes and ears that melted into the city backdrop.
Lowell took the shilling. Holmes provided directions, and Lowell was quick to vanish before Holmes had an opportunity to change his mind. I wondered if he would track down Holmes's associate, or if he would simply pocket the shilling and disappear. I was coming down from the adrenaline of the chase, thankful to have recovered Simpson's property, and feeling more empathetic toward Lowell as we continued our trek to Mayfair. Holmes believed the boy was operating with a code of honor, a commendable trait for someone apparently raised in such a hostile, impoverished environment. I can't say that I would have hired him as an office assistant, but perhaps Holmes was right to provide him a chance.
"Think you can handle this the rest of the way?" said Holmes, extending the wallet to me.
I took it from his hand. "Yes, I'll be doubly cautious until we get to Simpson, after all of that."
"You know, if he tries to steal from you again, or causes any harm, I'll cut him loose," said Holmes.
"I know, I know," I said.
"I realize it's a gamble putting my trust in him," said Holmes. "But he possesses a blend of brightness, humanity and unremarkability that I find essential in my agents."
"You've convinced me, Holmes," I said. "No need to explain any further." I wondered if Holmes saw himself in Lowell. I certainly did.