In The Sign of Four, the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, famously says: â⊠when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth âŠâ.
Eliminate the Impossible collects six canonical tales in which Holmes and Watson encounter mummies, angels, phantoms, invisible assassins, and arcane machines ⊠or so it might appear to those without a carefully stocked brain attic.
From Medieval London, to the snow-capped mountains Turkey, from dusty Admiralty vaults, to the glitz and glamour of the Orient Express, from the days of fledgling friendship, to the backdrop of World War I, this new collection invites you to celebrate deduction, forensic science, and logic ⊠and Eliminate the Impossible.
Six stories from various volumes of The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories.
In The Sign of Four, the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, famously says: â⊠when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth âŠâ.
Eliminate the Impossible collects six canonical tales in which Holmes and Watson encounter mummies, angels, phantoms, invisible assassins, and arcane machines ⊠or so it might appear to those without a carefully stocked brain attic.
From Medieval London, to the snow-capped mountains Turkey, from dusty Admiralty vaults, to the glitz and glamour of the Orient Express, from the days of fledgling friendship, to the backdrop of World War I, this new collection invites you to celebrate deduction, forensic science, and logic ⊠and Eliminate the Impossible.
Six stories from various volumes of The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories.
Holmes was lounging on the sofa, his tall, spare form swaddled in a purple dressing gown, his long, thin hands moving with grace and precision. Iâm no musician, but I didnât need my companionâs unique skills to guess that he was replaying, in his mindâs-eye, Sarasateâs Zigeunerweisen, which we had heard performed at St. Johnsâ Square the previous evening.
In such reveries, Holmes was no longer the man I had so often caricatured in my case notes. Instead, his keen features were transformed. With eyes closed and a gently smiling face he was, at that moment, at the zenith of the metronomeâs swing. I knew that, in an instant, the pendulum could swing back and my dear friend would once again be the determined sleuth-hound of fond acquaintance.
âMy dear Watsonâ he said, lazily, âdo be seated. Mrs. Hudson has been in a whirl all morning, and should you continue to lurk in the doorway I fear she will be compelled to sweep you up.â
Iâd often heard Holmesâs clients tell their extraordinary stories, but now that I was possessed of a tale of my own, I found it wasnât such an easy task. So there I remained, paused on the threshold, contemplating how best to broach the subject.
Something about my inaction caught Holmesâs interest and he bolted upright, every inch the detective once again. âI take it from your attitude that this morningâs excursion to Leather Lane was more fruitful than youâd hoped?â
Iâd risen early and left our rooms while Holmes was still asleep. I certainly hadnât mentioned any appointments. It was true that, by now, I was used to such remarkable pronouncements from my friend, but my amazement remained.
âI honestly have no idea how you deduced that,â I exclaimed to Holmesâs evident delight.
âAh, Watson! The notes on todayâs expedition are written very clearly. You are, as Iâm sure youâd agree, a creature of habit. You generally do your rounds on foot, leaving and returning at much the same time every day. In the evening, you polish your shoes and lay out your bag, ready for the next day. Today you rose early, and leaving your bag behind, took a hansom to Leather Lane.â
âBut â â I began.
âYour shoesâ Holmes chuckled. âThey still have their shine. And, as to the location â well that handkerchief you keep in your sleeve, in fine military style, shows traces of mustard. Put that together with the sesame seed on your collar, and Iâd hazard youâve partaken of a breakfast of that famed Yiddish delicacy, a salt beef beigel. A speciality of Leather Lane eateries.â
âI admit to everything you say. But you couldnât possibly know my frame of mind.â
âOh, come, you do me a disservice.â Holmes exclaimed, clearly enjoying every moment. âI would be a poor companion if I hadnât noticed your prolonged silences. Your sighs. The well-thumbed text books. Youâve been vexed by a problem, and itâs not too much of a leap to believe that this morningâs unusual expedition has something to do with it. Now, my dear fellow, pull up a chair and donât keep me in suspense any longer.â
I did as instructed and, in our customary positions, with Holmes on one side of the fireplace and I on the other, I began.
âYouâve heard, no doubt, of the great American inventor, Dodson Hughes?â
âThe whole world surely knows that gentlemanâs name.â Holmes said. âDonât tell me heâs a patient?â
âNot exactly. This isnât widely known, for fear of spooking his shareholders, but for the past year Hughes been suffering from increasingly severe bouts of bronchitis. I have a young patient similarly afflicted and I had, in truth, begun to despair of ever finding a treatment which would ease her distress. A few days ago, an old friend from my Barts days mentioned that Hughes was rumored to be working on a new inhalation device. Now, it sounds like pure quackery. Even if he has been haunting the lecture halls, the man has no medical training. But itâs a terrible thing to watch a child fade before your eyes and feel helpless to stop it, so I determined to see Hughes and this miracle device of his.â
âHe lives in the country, does he not?â Holmes asked, his interest piqued.
âWest Norwood, I believe, but his workshops are in Hatton Garden, and he commutes to the City regularly to supervise the work. As you know, most of Hatton Gardensâ businesses are diamond cutters and jewelry-makers. Visitors are strictly forbidden and, given the nature of Hughesâ work, he adheres to the same rules as his neighbors, so that all business meetings are conducted in local cafĂ©s.â
âHence the beigel?â
âIndeed.â
âAnd his inhalation device?â
âStill in development, he said. But youâll be amused to know that he calls it his âPeace Pipeâ! It is only right that after creating so many murderous machines, he should do something to try and save lives. It will, I think, be some time before it enters production and he was violently protective of its secrets. However . . . .â
âThat isnât what brought you to rushing back to Baker Street with mustard on your whiskers?â
âNo,â I laughed. âThat was something infinitely stranger.â
Â
Sandwiched between Kings Cross and Farringdon, Hatton Garden is one of Londonâs few remaining villages. No doubt its cobbled byways, timber-framed buildings, and tightly-packed lanes will soon be brushed away, as the city continues to replace wood with stone, quaint beauty with brash commerce. But, for now, this Medieval remnant clings determinedly on. Indeed, just as Scotland Yard once belonged to the kings of Scotland, this part of London once belonged to the Bishops of Ely, and is still technically, if not actually, in Cambridgeshire.
It was the great Tudor queen, Elizabeth, who grabbed part of the Bishopâs estate for one of her favorites, Sir Christopher Hatton. Down a narrow alley, hidden behind rows of marble-fronted homes, still stands the tiny tavern where the young princess is said to have danced around a cherry tree in the courtyard one May morning. Walk down Ely Place, past the church where Henry and Catherine of Aragon famously feasted, and you enter Bleeding Heart Yard â a warren of dark backstreets that will, with many twists, turns, and dead ends, eventually lead you to Leather Lane. It was there, in a cozy corner of a kosher cafĂ©, that my tale began.
As I spoke, Holmes leant forward, regarding me with eyes kindled. It was unusual to find myself on the receiving end of such fevered scrutiny and I must admit, it wasnât an all-together comfortable experience.
Fifty-years of age, with a shock of snow-white hair and an overgrown Van Dyke beard to match, Dodson Hughes was a man in whom passions ran deep. Several times during our interview he accused me of trying to steal his secrets. It was only when Iâd shared my own researches into the bronchial disease that afflicted him that he visibly relaxed â realizing, perhaps, that I could provide the expertise he lacked. However, our interview had barely begun when the day took a distinct turn for the bizarre.
The café door flew open and a small, red-haired man, blanched with terror, gave a strangled yell and fairly fell across the threshold.
He was gathered up and deposited at a spare table with all the efficacy youâd expect from an establishment that serves all-day breakfasts to the hurried and the hungry. I rose to offer my services, for he was much excited, with the sort of wide-eyed near-hysteria Iâd often seen in those whoâve endured a sudden shock.
âSheâs back!â he whispered âBack . . . with death at her heels!â The cafĂ© fell silent. A small clique had gathered around the table, but now, even those whoâd remained seated turned to regard the agitated speaker.
âThere! There in the Yard! Drenched in blood!â he sobbed, his voice cracking. âThere will be death. Mark my words! Death!â And with that final cry, he fell into a dead faint.
A waft of smelling salts brought him round and a small brandy did the rest, but the fellow was a mess â sweaty-faced, pale, trembling, and clearly embarrassed to have made such a spectacle of himself. Indeed, no amount of cajoling could compel him to elaborate on his curious pronouncement.
Hughes dismissed the whole thing as occasioned by âtoo much drink and too little learningâ. The cafĂ© owner spoke witheringly of âsoft-brained men repeating tales told to keep children a-bedâ. The patrons returned to their business dealings and the whole thing was quickly brushed under the table.
âI naturally insisted on escorting my new patient to a cab and Hughes â irritable at the interruption â hastened off to his place of business in something of a funk. But thereâs a mystery here, Holmes! I can taste it.â
Holmes raised his eyebrows. âThe case does have some interesting elements. Yes. Very interesting . . . If you would permit me?â
He took hold of my left sleeve and proceeded to examine the cuff.
âThis stain â was it here yesterday?â
âI hadnât noted it. Oil from the hansomâs step, no doubt.â I commented.
Holmes said nothing, but I could tell from the flush of his cheek that his keen mind had found something of interest in my curious tale.
âYou think thereâs something in it?â
âYesâ Holmes said quietly. âI do.â
âOff to Hatton Garden, then?â I hazarded.
âNaturally! Holmes chuckled. âWho am I to argue with a client? Especially when he also happens to be my dearest friend.â
Â
Thereâs been a Bleeding Heart Tavern in Hatton Garden for at least four-hundred years. The current building is a mere one-hundred-and-fifty years old, but its small, round, sunken bar tells of an older history, and of one pub built on the ashes of another. The bricks and mortar may be Georgian, but the design testifies to a time when bears were baited in the pit while the patrons sat atop, drinking and laying bets. Today, it still has a bad reputation: âDrunk for a penny. Dead drunk for two-pennyâ was the disquieting boast emblazoned over the door.
We stepped down into the main bar and Holmes made a bee-line for a rickety table inhabited by a baby-faced man in worn tweed who had the look of one permanently delighted by the world.
Joseph March was what Holmes terms a âcultural historianâ, specializing in Londonâs myths and legends. How he knew Holmes I never did discern, but then, given how reluctant my flat-mate could be to leave Baker Street at all, the fact that he knew anyone beyond myself and Mrs. Hudson was a source of constant surprise.
âPleased to see my telegram reached you, Joeâ, Holmes began. âWhat do you have for me?â
âWell, Mr. âOlmes, with your love of the grotesque, Iâm surprised you donât already know the tale. Itâs about a murder too. Right up your street.â
Holmes laughed heartily. âAh, Joe, but youâre the expert. Please. Watson and I are all ears.â
âWell, you asked if there might be any tales about the area that could account for the good doctorâs curious experience. Truth be told, it didnât take much digging. Itâs a fairly well-known tale, thoâ the legend mixes things up a bit. In reality, the supposed victim â Lady Hatton â lived a long life, but of the fact that a murder took place here thereâs no doubt. Places donât get named Bleeding Heart Yard on a whim!â
March closed his eyes, lent back, and began to weave his tale, his tone, just as a story-tellerâs should be: Low, warm, and enticing.
âNow, this was in the time of good Queen Bess. Holborn Hill, on which we sit, was still an actual hill, with trees and pathways winding down towards the valley floor. Today thatâs where the viaduct stands, but back then you would have found the River Fleet. Today, that great waterway is nothing more than a boarded-over sewer, but then it was fast and deep enough for the Queen to sail her barge all the way up to the Clerkenwell. But some things havenât changed. This tavern was still a tavern, not long since built. And the courtyard outside was still a popular place for festivities. And this is where our story starts. In these streets, under these stars, but many, many lifetimes ago . . . .â
Â
One evening, or so the story goes, Lady Hatton was hosting a feast. She was an ambitious lady, keen to impress the Queen and the Court. Desperate, in fact. So desperate that sheâd made a pact with the devil. In exchange for one glorious evening â a ball, the greatest names in the land in attendance â she would sell him her soul.
This was to be the evening. Everything would be perfect. Every dish, every drink, every moment. And at the centre of it all, there she would be. Stylish. Beautiful. The belle of the ball. At the end of the evening, it was promised, everyone would know her name. She would be the talk of London. Her future seemed assured, and all it would cost was something that sheâd never seen and didnât believe in.
Â
Fiddlers! Fiddlers! Fiddle away!
Resin your catgut! Fiddle and play!
A roundelay! A roundelay! A roundelay, I say!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle, away!
Â
The musicians strike up a tune. The Lady opens her doors. And the ball begins.
And what a ball! Itâs like a waking dream. Live birds cut from the belly of a roasted boar whirl aloft, dropping gold leaves into the laps of the guests. Gem-encrusted tapestries glitter under the flickering candlelight. Jugglers and acrobats perform impossible feats. Dancers appear to walk on air. And everyone who is everyone is here.
As midnight approaches, the doors are thrown open once more and the musicians lead the guests out into the courtyard â the courtyard thatâs just outside this tavern. And as they dance and sing, a strange sound is heard. A deep clattering, like hooves running across the rooftops. But no matter. The partyâs in full flow and no one even notices the stranger who suddenly appears in their midst. At least, not at first.
Tall, dressed in black, he joins the dance, leaping, bounding into the courtyard. He throws himself into the air, pirouettes, lands with the surety of a cat, then leaps again. He leaps, he pirouettes, lands. Again. And again. The musicians take their cue from him. Faster and faster they play, their fingers getting bloody â seemingly unable to stop even if theyâd wanted to.
Hereâs Lady Hatton, resplendent in white silk and ermine. He grasps her by the waist and springs into the air. Again, and again, and again. Lady Hatton is delighted. Swirling high over her guestsâ heads, sheâs laughing, gasping. She glances down and sees the party-goers begin to scatter. She turns, dizzy with exaltation, looks at her dance partner and finally sees what her guests have seen. The devil in all his satanic glory. His hands â claws. His feet â hooves. His face twisted into a wide, wide, smile and, on his head, a pair of vast horns, burning with the fires of damnation.
And the next morning, when the guests returned to see if what they had seen was a dream or not, what did they find? No signs of the sumptuous feast. No signs of the nightâs revels.
Â
Of poor Lady Hatton, needless to say,
No traces of her have been found to this day,
Nor of the terrible dancer who whiskâd her away;
But out in the courtyard â and just in that part â
lay, throbbing and still bleeding: A Huge Human Heart!
Â
It was just as March had concluded his tale â thumping the table and laughing heartily â that an eerie cry rocked the tavern. Holmes vaulted across the room and was at the door almost before the call had died out. I followed, fast on his heels, dreading, in the thrall of Marchâs singular narrative, what we might find. We werenât disappointed. There, standing in the courtyard by the old water pump, was Lady Hatton herself. Her robes had once been white but now they were drenched in blood. A dark, gaping hole lay in her chest and in her hand she was holding her own heart. She looked at us, smiled with a sort of rapacious desperation, then threw the heart into the air. I scanned the dark sky, but could see nothing, and when Iâd glanced back the Lady, too, had vanished.
Â
We stood for some time in the chill air, considering this unexpected turn of events. Holmes said nothing, but in the half-light from the tavernâs windows, I distinctly saw him smile.
Needless to say, news of the apparition spread quickly and, within the quarter-hour, the tavern was packed with locals jostling for position at the pewter-topped bar. With ale to loosen their tongues and lessen their fears, there was none of the reticence to speak that the patrons in the cafĂ© had displayed. The talk was wild, and several times I overheard a newcomer loudly proclaiming that heâd âseen it allâ while credulous onlookers Ooh-ed and Ahh-ed at his tale.
March was as giddy as a schoolboy, jogging from table to table, noting down every half-recalled tit-bit of âthe Bloody Ladyâ in a voluminous notebook. Holmes, no less intrigued, sat quietly, soaking it all up in his own inimitable way.
Eventually the crowds began to disburse and Holmes and I headed for Lincolnâs Inn, where the small, green cabmanâs shelter would be sure to provide a driver looking for late-night trade.
The hansom dropped us at Baker Street just after midnight and, although the day had been long and wearying, I was too eager for Holmesâs take on events to feel sleepy.
My companion ensconced himself in the fireside armchair, pulled a cigar from the coal scuttle, and began to puff complacently.
âWell?â I asked.
âWell, Watson?â he replied, grinning at my obvious impatience.
âWell?â I repeated.
Holmes glanced at me mischievously, and I feared we would spend the whole evening in a round-robin of âWellsâ, when he suddenly he slapped his thigh and burst into a paroxysm of amusement.
âWatson, this has, I think, been one of the most entertaining evenings Iâve had for many years!â
âEntertaining? Horrifying I would have said!â picturing the lady and her bloodied dress with a shudder.
âOh, my dear doctor â â
âNo, noâ I interrupted, hotly, feeling more than a little chagrin at being the subject of so much levity. âI know the great Sherlock Holmes doesnât believe in ghosts â â
âOh, no, Watson. Please forgive me!â Holmes composed himself. âMy humor wasnât aimed at you. And as for whether or not I believe in ghosts, you know my techniques. I deal in facts, not faith. Should someone present me with unequivocal proof of the existence of ghosts, goblins, or even the Easter hare, then I would accept it wholeheartedly. No, as entertaining as this eveningâs events have been, thatâs all theyâve been. Entertainment. A distraction. And very well done it was too.â
âBut I saw â ?â
âYou saw, but you didnât observe.â
Holmes walked over to the scuttle, took out a fist-sized piece of coal, and began tossing it in the air. Higher and higher.
I watched intently as the small piece of carbon flew from Holmesâs hand, into the air, then back again. âNow,â Holmes said, âwatch carefully.â The coal vanished. I saw it leave his hand â thrown into the air â I would have sworn to it.
âBut how?â I ejaculated.
âSimpleâ Holmes replied, pointing to the carpet where I could see that the coal now lay. âYour mind sees what it expects to see. It expected me to throw the coal, and the smallest movement of my hand was enough to persuade you thatâs what had happened. But, just like in the courtyard, itâs classic misdirection.â
âEveryone watches the heart, while the Lady makes her exit.â
âJust so. But itâs all been misdirection, donât you see? Everything. The piece of theatre in the cafĂ© and tonightâs materialization, everything. You recall that greasy-stain on your coat cuff? Almond oil and starch, Iâd vouch â face cream and powder. The tools of the actorâs trade. You did note how sweaty and pale the man appeared . . . .â
âBut why?â
âNow that is the question. Who knew of your meeting with Hughes?â
âIâd written to his place of business several times before he granted me an interview.â
âDid you specify why you wanted to meet?â
âI didnât feel it prudent to mention that his new project was being openly discussed. I merely noted that it might be mutually beneficial if we met.
âSo itâs possible that someone on his staff knew he would be meeting the renowned Dr. Watson of 221b Baker Street, for reasons of âmutual benefitâ.â
I began to see where Holmesâs train of thought was leading. âBut this is all-too wonderful!â I exclaimed. âAnd the episode in the cafĂ© . . . .â
âPresumably to stop whatever discussion it was imagined that Hughes and yourself might have.â
âAnd tonight?â
âA piece of last-minute theatricals.â
âYou think that all this fuss has been to draw my â our â attention elsewhere?â
âI think, Watson, thatâs a question that will best be answered after a good nightâs sleep.â
And with that Holmes retired to his bedroom, leaving me to stare into the fire and wonder.
Â
Bleeding Hart Yard was as gloomy during the day as it had been the previous evening. The brick was dark â slick with grease and soot. The hustle and bustle of Leather Lane was just few streets away, but the close-packed buildings muffled all sound and overhung the narrow passage in a way that made the place eerily claustrophobic.
âMarch mentioned that the Fleet runs nearby,â Holmes said, all the time talking to himself rather than to me. âThis pump is rusted solid but doubtless drew water from the Fleet back in the day. Hmm, but now that venerable river has been repurposed, Iâd wager that thereâs a manhole cover nearby. Ah, yes, yes. Here it is. Making a very handy getaway route for our Bloody Lady. And ha, ha! What have we here?â
He threw me an object, plucked from the ground, which proved to be a lump of shiny, red wax. The Ladyâs eviscerated heart!
âThe joke of it is,â he said âthat it was the elaborate nature of the thing that aroused my interest. If it hadnât been for the command performance in the cafĂ©, your meeting with Hughes would have been a footnote over morning coffee and toast.â
As he spoke, his brows drew into two hard black lines, his eyes shining from beneath them with a steely glint. I saw him glance down at the manhole cover, then back up, seeming to scan the path that led from the courtyard to Leather Lane.
âLook here! It was dry yesterday evening, with a sudden downpour overnight. Iâd not expected to find our Ladyâs footprints, but see this! Hobnails. And look how theyâve been smudged. The movement of manhole cover being dragged back into place. Someone has been here this very morning. Hmm. I wonder?â
Not for the first time in our long acquaintance, I was confused, and admitted as much.
For an answer Holmes gave a distracted nod. âYou know, Watson, I think I may take a short constitutional. Care to join me? Oh, and if you would slip your revolver out of your pocket, Iâd be very obliged.â
With that, he hoisted off the manhole cover and threw himself into the dark void beneath.
Â
The ladder complained bitterly as I climbed down. Its creaks and groans were such that they created the impression of an army of specters eagerly waiting in the oubliette below. I had to remind myself several times that everything weâd seen so far had been mere mummery.
I was a foot or two from the bottom when the fastenings finally gave way and I was forced to jump the remaining distance, landing hard on my game leg.
The ladder landed on top of me, adding insult to injury, and it took some time for Holmes to help me disentangle myself from the wreckage of rusted iron.
âAre you hurt?
âIâll live,â I replied, gingerly testing my weight on my old war injury. It hurt like the blazes, but I was determined not to be the laggard.
Although the narrow tunnel curved above our heads, with many feet of London clay on top, we had no need for Holmesâs flashlight. Besides, the dry cell batteries wouldnât last long and, for now, we were better off relying on the fat lamps someone had helpfully hung at intervals along the tunnel wall.
Holmes lit one and the flickering light revealed what he seemed to have already guessed. The route of the old River Fleet, culverted by brick, ran straight for a while, following the path of Grayâs Inn Road, before curving down towards the Holborn Viaduct. But there was another passage, which had been roughly cut into the tunnel walls. The work looked to be old and I was reminded that every part of London has tales of such secret passageways. There had been a convent here once. Maybe these had been used by Catholics to escape the wrath of mad Queen Mary? Maybe they were built during the Civil War, or by rum smugglers? Or maybe to allow some rich Lord to visit his mistress unobserved. Who knew? But now . . . .?
Holmes had pulled one of the fat lamps from its sconce and we let its fitful light guide us. I could discern very little in the gloom, though I thought I heard noises ahead. We slowed, Holmes extinguished the light, and for a while we stood, crouched together, in that tomb of wet earth â listening. Yes! Without doubt: Voices.
We edged closer but, in my eagerness, I stepped without thought and my leg, still aching from my earlier tumble, gave way beneath me. I fell with a thud and this time it did not go unnoticed.
A shout. Feet cannon-balling on hard earth. Then, a sound that I shall take with me to my grave. The noise of a lever, much rusted, being thrown and, quick on its heels, a roar like thunder, as a large body of water â the run-off from the eveningâs storm, now channeled by some unseen force â began to race down the tunnel behind us. Good Lord! Someone had opened the sluice gates!
Holmes pulled me to my feet, but my leg buckled beneath me and I went down again. A rat brushed past my outstretched shoe. Another, then another followed, and as I struggled back onto my feet, I could hear their terrified squeals as they raced to escape the approaching torrent.
With Holmes near carrying me, we backtracked â by unspoken agreement, making for the little passageway weâd seen cut into the tunnel wall.
Even through the water was only still only ankle-deep, the force of its flow testified to the power of the oncoming deluge. Yet, it wasnât the water itself I feared â rather what it would bring with it. A fetid smell had begun to fill the tunnel, and I had in my mind the horrible deaths of the six-hundred-and-fifty people onboard the Princess Alice when it sank in the Thames. Not drowned, but burnt and suffocated by the raw sewage which had been flushed into the river, ready to be taken out by the tide.
Already I was gagging, my eyes beginning to sting, and I knew that should I smell the tell-tale rotten-egg scent of hydrogen sulfide we were dead men.
Finally, with cold fingers doing the work that our eyes couldnât, we found the entrance to the little passageway. Holmes hoisted himself up and I clambered after. I could still hear sounds in the tunnel ahead. For a second, the voices became louder, the footsteps panicked. Then, a cry, long and agonizing, was suddenly extinguished. It was that silence, I think, that spurred me on. The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I ran like the very devil himself was at my heels.
Holmes veered left, and left again, following some instinct or mental map â I knew not which. Dizzy with pain, I followed where he led. At some point he had clicked on his flashlight, but in my fever, I hadnât noticed until I saw his face in the strangely yellow and distorted glow of the bulls-eye lens, set in an attitude of grim determination.
âThere!â He shone the electric torch and, ahead, I saw a little ladder leading up into a brick alcove. He helped me scramble up, following fast on my heels. In front of us was a small wooden door and there we crouched, hammering and hollering as though our very lives depended on it â which at that moment I truly believed they did.
Â
It seemed to me that we spent hours hunkered there, in the dark, with the threat of certain death in every breath. Holmes turned his knuckles bloody with the force of his knocking and, in truth, I thought we were done for. Hoarse, frozen, and cramped, we had just decided to risk returning to the passageway when the hatch opened and a grizzled-faced man, spat, cursed, and hauled us out into the warmth of Dodson Hughesâ machine room.
Hughes himself quickly appeared, red-faced and blustering at what he took to be thieves caught in the act of stealing secrets. Upon recognizing myself and, by association, Holmes, however, his attitude became one of studious attention.
âWhy, Iâd heard of the great Baker Street detective,â he said, âbut I hadnât known he was psychic! Just this very morning Iâd missed some vital documents and, having made the acquaintance of the good doctor, was on my way to consult with you.â
The grizzle-faced man busied around. Blankets and hot chocolate were procured and a place cleared for us by the little stove. There, Holmes â though much abused and still wan from our subterranean adventures â began to put together the missing parts of the puzzle.
âMay I askâ, Holmes said âexactly what it is youâve been working on?â
âA gun, Mr. Holmes. A gun like no other. Single-barrel, belt-fed, capable of six-hundred-and-sixty-six rounds a minute.â
Having seen what just one bullet could do to a man, there was something horrifying about the evident pride that Hughes took in his latest invention, but I held my peace.
âAnd these documents were plans for that gun? But if Iâm not mistaken, youâve missed them before, have you not?â
âWhy yes!â Hughes replied, much amazed. âPlayed holy hell with the staff. Threatened to get the police involved. I was quite the tyrant for days afterwards!â
âThen they turned up mis-filed?â
âExactly so!â
âAnd what about your visitors? The ones youâve been lodging at the Bleeding Heart Tavern?â Holmes asked.
âWhy, my brother-in-law and his business associate. But how in blazes did you know?â
âIt stands to reason a stranger wouldnât be allowed into your sanctum, and any employee who left his post without signing in or out would soon be missed. As to where theyâve been lodging, well, one of them â a small man, red-haired, with a fondness for hobnail boots and theatrics â left his trail clear for all to see.â
Hughesâ face turned to a stony glare. âThat would be Taverstock. Never met the man myself, thoâ Henry â thatâs my brother-in-law â has spoken of him. Local man. Fingers in lots of pies, and, yes, he does have a fondness for what they call amateur dramatics. Crazy for it, apparently. But I wonât believe my own family has been trying to steal from me. George,â he said turning to the grizzle-faced man âgo fetch Mr. Henry for me. Quickly now.â
George, as the elderly engineer proved himself to be, shrugged non-commitally. âHe ainât here, thatâs for sure. Was looking for âim when I heard all âell breaking loose and found these here strays.â
We could see that the hatch from which weâd been plucked had been hidden away behind a set of heavy shelves and scuffs on the floor showed that theyâd moved many times before this morning.
âThese tunnels, George . . . .â Holmes asked.
âAh! Iâd heard tales about the vaults and passages that them diamond cutters were said to have dug, so-as to move stock without being robbed. Regular den of thieves round âere. Hatton Gardens being in Cambridge, the City police donât have no jurisdiction, see? Canât be too careful. Never would have believed it, though!â
âAre you saying,â Hughes said, slowly, clearly confused, âthat Henry and this Taverstock fellow have made off with my plans?â
âAlmost certainly. Iâd say Henry, having spent some time examining your work and determining which plans were the most valuable, initially tried to have them copied. The doctorâs sudden desire to speak to you probably spooked him, so he returned them and decided to bide his time and try again. Iâm afraid that our appearance at the Bleeding Heart Tavern yesterday evening may have forced his hand. So he simply stole plans, leaving the way we arrived, meeting Taverstock in the tunnels to make their getaway together. Iâd hazard thereâs a boat moored on the Thames by the sewer outlet at Blackfriarsâ Bridge.â
âWell, good Lord, man! What are we doing standing here? Letâs have after them! Iâll â â
Holmes held up a hand, cutting Hughes off mid-sentence. âThatâ, he said in a voice, quiet and low, âwonât be necessary. See to your sister. Sheâll need you now.â
The weight of Holmesâs words seemed to hit Hughes like a brick wall. He reeled, recovered himself somewhat, then nodded soberly. âMy God! Itâs like that, is it? Oh, my poor Edith . . . and the children. Lord, what will I tell them?â He looked at Holmes with a sort of desperation.
âAs little as you can. As much as you dare. The police will want to speak to her, but theyâll be discrete. I can vouch for that.â
âThank you, Mr. Holmes! Iâll go to her right away.â
Holmes brushed off any attempts by Hughes to pay for his services and we left the factory in silence, walking once again down Leather Lane towards the small, green, cabmanâs shelter. There, Holmes turned to me with a look heavy with melancholy.
âOh, Watson, how I envy you,â he said.
âWhatever do you mean?â
âMy mind is such that it obsesses over the smallest details. Like a kinesigraph, I see the events of this morning, replay themselves frame-by-frame. I analyze each frame as it flickers past, noting this and that. And do you know which frame sticks most strongly in my mind? The one I see replayed, even now, as we sit in this cab?â
âWhy no. What is it?â I asked, alarmed. âIs it something weâve missed?â
âNo, no. Not at all. Itâs just a number. A silly, inconsequential number. Six-hundred-and-sixty-six.â
âYesâ, I whispered, with a rush of that same horror Iâd felt earlier. âThe number of the beast.â
Holmes nodded heavily and tapped the top of the hansom. â221b Baker Street, driver, if you would please. And donât spare the horses.â
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NOTES
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There is indeed a Bleeding Heart Yard and Bleeding Heart Tavern in Hatton Garden.
The cherry tree that the young Elizabeth I is said to have used as a May Pole was in the courtyard of the Mitre Tavern. The tavern is still there and the tree is preserved in the corner of the front bar. It still bloomed until the end of the last century.
The church where Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon feasted in 1531 is St. Etheldredaâs Church. Built in 1291, it is Englandâs oldest Catholic Church, and the only surviving part of Ely Palace, which provided the setting for John of Gauntâs âThis scepterâd isleâ speech in Shakespeareâs Richard II.
The pieces of poetry that March quotes are from âThe House-Warming!!: A Legend of Bleeding-Heart Yardâ which appeared in Richard Barhamâs The Ingoldsby Legends (printed in 1837).
In one version of the legend, it is Sir Christopher Hattonâs wife who makes a deal with the devil so that Sir Christopher might be a success at Elizabethâs court. In a different account, the victim is Lady Elizabeth Hatton (Sir Christopherâs daughter). This version places the murder at Hatton House in 1626, where Elizabeth is murdered by the mysterious Spanish Ambassador, with whom sheâd been dancing. When found, her body was torn limb from limb, with her heart still pumping blood onto the cobblestones. Neither of these murders happened but, as Joe says, places donât get called Bleeding Heart Yard for no reason.
Dodson Hughes is undoubtedly Hiram Maxim, inventor of the Maxim machine gun. Presumably Watson changed his name to protect the gentlemanâs privacy. Maxim had a small factory at 51 Hatton Garden where, in 1881, he started work on his prototype automatic machine gun. In 1891, the British army adopted his invention and it was used to devastating effect during World War I.
Maxim did suffer from bronchitis, and in 1900 began work on the precursor to the modern-day inhaler, which he called his âPipe of Peaceâ.
Hatton Garden has been the centre of the jewelry trade since medieval times and still boasts a tight-knit Jewish community. Sadly, the kosher cafĂ©s, where business was conducted, have all but vanished, as gentrification wipes out another piece of Londonâs distinctive character. The area is believed to have a maze of underground tunnels and vaults. How extensive they are, only the business-owners know.
At the boundary of Clerkenwell and Hatton Garden thereâs still a manhole cover through which you can hear the sound of the River Fleet, which flows beneath.
The torch that Holmes uses was an 1899 Ever-Ready electric flashlight. Samples were given out to law-enforcement agencies as promotion, which is presumably where Holmes acquired his. The name âflashlightâ refers to the fact that they were designed to be used in flashes rather than continuously, which quickly exhausted the battery.
The kinesigraph Holmes references was invented by the wonderfully-named Wordsworth Donisthorpe in 1876. A sequence of prints, mounted on a strip of paper, was rolled on cylinders and passed before the eyes at the same speed as the recording, with electric sparks lighting each print. The only surviving results of his moving picture experiments are ten seconds of a scene in Trafalgar Square, produced around 1889-1890.
Sherlock Holmes â Eliminate the Impossible is an exciting novel that compiles six short mysteries into a full collection of fun new Sherlock Holmes tales. In The Bleeding Heart Mystery, Holmes and Watson visit the Bleeding Heart Tavern and discover secrets about Medieval London. In The Case of the Impossible Assassin, they become entangled in a political scheme after two Turkish advisors are murdered. In The Adventure of the Cable Street Mummy, Holmes gains possession of the mummified remains of the Shadwell Slaughterer, a well-known murderer from many years ago. In The Backwater Affair, he investigates the theft of plans critical to the British Empire. In Two Goodly Gentlemen, Holmes must decipher how two men burned alive in an unscorched room. Lastly, The Singular Case of Dr. Butler follows Dr. Watson as he prepares medical students for war, happening upon a murder in the process.
Overall, the pacing of the short stories was well executed, as well as their length. Each story was not too long or too short but made for a quick and enjoyable read. Also notable is how each short story ends with a notes section explaining historical context behind significant details within the plot. For example, at the end of The Singular Case of Dr. Butler, the author includes facts about World War I warfare that are relevant to understanding short story. This is an appreciated inclusion because it can fuel readers to want to learn more about the topics discussed and about the historical period in general.
This novel is rated four out of five stars for its interesting stories, well written plot and pacing, and additional sections that add to readersâ understanding of the Sherlock canon. This was a good read and is recommended for Sherlock Holmes fans, mystery genre fans, and devout history lovers.Â