Round Robin Pastiche

a collective effort by the members of RUSS-L

Chapter 3: On the Way to Charing Cross

by "perpetually tumbling from the back of a hansom"

Sherlock Holmes exited his brother's flat much later than he'd expected to, experiencing more apprehension and less excitement than he was wont to feel upon receiving a task from his brother. This Hitler, this house painter, this mortal who, under any other circumstances could have been shipped off to an asylum equipped for those with mental troubles, was provoking a movement of such extreme nationalism in his fellow men that German hands were already trailing their fingers in the surface waters of Palestine, and the proportionally small ripples stirred by this man, not even an experienced political figure, were already contributing a small number of German Jews to the amount spilling into Palestine from other nations like rabbits to their warren at the scent of a fox.

According to Mycroft, the man had spent some time in prison because of a too-violent expression of his political views that had resulted in broken windows, among other things. There, secluded in his cell, he'd created a manuscript that was the principal cause for Holmes' anxiety. The reason was not that the former German Corporal possessed any talent for diction or syntax, but rather that, if one read the book perceptively, the reader was left with a palpable impression of the author's arrogance and desire for power. Holmes had no idea how Mycroft had come to possess the thing. To Holmes' knowledge, it had not yet been published, and somehow he couldn't see Hitler voluntarily presenting a copy to the English government. He'd finally determined that it might be safer to remain ignorant for the time being.

The select few phrases of the book that Holmes had glanced at raced through his mind as he stepped out into the fog-shrouded street, "...the participants felt obliged to break a lance for the Jews and began to defend them in lengthy arguments. This aroused me to an answer. The overwhelming majority of the students present took my standpoint..." Holmes' fingers moved over the buttons of his coat absently, his eyes gazing unfocused at a lamppost which would soon be lit in the growing darkness.

Hitler, like so many of his countrymen, viewed the former leaders of his nation as the "November Criminals." Cowards who had lost the Great War and signed the November 11^th armistice that would disgrace Germany and plunge her into poverty and shame for many years to come. Germany was a beaten nation; its economy was so slight as to be almost non-existent, its people crushed and despondent, and its leaders too busy squabbling amongst themselves on the subject of how to solve the current crisis that it seemed that a solution would never be decided, let alone implemented. The rest of the world had left them to it and succumbed to relief, securely rejoicing in their victory; Germany had been subdued and would not find the strength to rise up again.

Hitler, however, was fast on his way to providing Germany with that strength. Holmes' jaw clenched; fast on his way? The anti-Semite was already in a position which ascertained the fact that the present comfortable feeling of national security was terrifyingly deceptive. Holmes' mind railed at the fact that a very nearly unstable house painter could have transformed such a ruined nation. But the naturally gifted orator had shouted the dangers of Communism, pacifism, democracy, and disobedience; roared harangues against Jews to a nation desperate for someone to blame for all their misfortunes; and cried promises of solutions, results, and an end to perpetually bickering politicians.

And so Germany had been reborn and the rest of Europe (including England, for the moment, Mycroft had said), had stumbled in its haste to turn a blind eye, because no one, no one could face the thought of another war.

Holmes, powerless when it came to impeding international battles, swore under his breath at the inevitability of the events to come. Germany's neighbours could hope and pray and delude themselves eternally, but Adolph Hitler would not be a passive ruler.

The sound of hooves echoed down the street and a cab shimmered into view through the blankets of fog, driver settled atop the seating compartment, swathed in a heavy coat against the dark's cold. Holmes hailed the cloaked figure tensely, with a clenched fist, and pulled himself through the sole door into a box-like taxi. He settled back against the seat, his frown of contemplation not reduced by the mild warmth of the compartment.

Why did Mycroft believe that the collection of occurrences related by Elias Spinosa and the suspiciously analogous Abu Achmed were related? Considering the occasions independently, Holmes could easily identify logical anti-Semitic motivations behind each; Rothschild and Salomon's monetary gifts had been diverted because the funds would have been used towards Jewish hospitals and businesses, and the same could be said for the contents of the strongbox from the motorcars, which would have been dispensed to further the efforts of the Jerusalem Hospital. The murder of the two Jewish drivers, the destruction of the Torah scrolls, the theft of the collection of sacred objects from the Great Synagogue of Berlin, and the bloody hate message scrawled on the car -- and the attack and burning of Safed and the fact that its great rabbinical library had been rifled through -- were much more tangible proof of the anti-Semitic link between all of these crimes.

And then there was the matter of the Elisheba and her husband. Had Elisheba vanished to search for her captured husband? Or had she herself been taken? And what sort of people were they that the news of their disappearance had sent two men to England to ask for Mycroft's aid? The atmosphere and attitudes that he had witnessed in Mycroft's study made it obvious to Holmes that all of the other crimes, sins, and felonies mentioned in Mycroft's rooms paled in comparison to the disappearance of these two Arabs. He had the distinct impression that Mycroft would have simply sent him after the pair without telling him of the slew of recent anti-Semitic crimes, had his brother not felt that the other events were somehow linked to Elisheba and Samuel's disappearances.

Holmes sighed heavily; similar motive was not grounds enough to assume that all the events shared a common executor. What did Mycroft know that made him believe that the same person had orchestrated all of the crimes? Whom did he imagine benefited if Jewish immigration to Palestine was halted? The only potential perpetrator Mycroft had mentioned was Germany's newest demagogue.

So Mycroft must believe that if Holmes found Elisheba, he would also find that the person who held her was one of the proverbial fingers trailing over Palestine's waters. And through the finger would come the discovery of the hand, and then the arm until finally the mind was exposed. Had it not been Mycroft who proposed the assignment, it would have seemed to Holmes a shot in the dark; why had this one incident stood out amongst the vast array of upheaval in and around Palestine at present?

Holmes exhaled slowly and, too tired to direct his thoughts away from the place from which he'd been warding them all evening, slowly let his mind focus on Russell. His eyes fell shut; she would never let him recover Elisheba alone. Russell would know the dangers involved and, if he tried to leave without her, he would still find her stowed cheerfully in his suitcase the next morning. He imagined trying to talk her out of coming. His lips moved in a smile more bitter than sweet as he pictured the discussion with hopeless amusement, and his voice floated across his mind from a memory, "...will try and suppress my chivalrous impulses." He chuckled quietly; it was exactly the argument she would use. Exactly one of the arguments. She would be right, of course, but the danger of her, a Jew, being involved in a case that would almost certainly take them into the heart of a nation that was on the verge of looking at people of her religion in the same light as Salem viewed witches some years ago, in his opinion, voided her arguments.

He clenched his teeth together as he prepared himself for the impending skirmish and hated the treacherous part of his mind that had already given up and was thinking that her blond hair would be an advantage, as would her familiarity with the German language and, for the earlier part of the investigation, her familiarity with the religions of the Middle East. He scowled in irritation; it was impossible for him to discern whether the logical decision was to leave Russ behind or to take her with him. Why had he ever allowed his emotions to influence his decisions? He murmured softly to himself, "Thou hast ravished my heart indeed..."

And, Lord, what of Judith? Perhaps Russell would stay behind to take care of... Holmes suddenly realised what he'd just considered and buried his head in hands; the look on her face (or perhaps what she'd say) if Holmes suggested she sit out a case to play the role of a typical wife, taking care of the children while father was at work. He'd have to employ the entire British army to keep her from storming into Germany after him. Perhaps the navy in addition.

Suddenly, the answer came to him, and he sat slowly upright, lips twitching in what definitely could have been viewed as the beginning of the smallest of smirks. Russ was, of course, an excellent judge of both her own abilities and of perilous situations in general; why not let her make the decision? And, he continued, justifying his solution, she had made it a condition of their marriage that she be the one to decide on her role in all cases. She wanted to make the decision and he most certainly did not; therefore, he decided reasonably, it should be her decision and not his, if one looked at the issue logically. Sensibly, he determined that there was absolutely no possibility that she would have as much difficulty with the problem as he had had himself and that, therefore, there was no chance that she would develop any feelings of fury or resentment towards him. He also came to the conclusion that, should the need arise, Russell would be much better suited to telling their daughter that both her parents were going away on a trip -- without her.

Holmes smiled; he would take a train to Germany -- which was where Achmed had determined that the perpetrators of the Palestine crimes had their origins -- upon his arrival at the station, rather than returning to the cottage to consult Russell. It would, of course, waste less time and pose less risk to inform her of the decision she would be making through the use a coded telegram rather than notifying her in person. Having come to this obviously accurate conclusion, he settled back in his seat with a satisfied sigh -- and glanced at his watch.

He'd been an hour in the cab. A moment later he become conscious of two additional facts: how long the drive should have taken, and that the difference between that increment of time and the hour he'd spent in the cab was growing disturbingly large. Holmes jerked upright; Charing Cross was miles away -- he could have been on the downs themselves at this point. He shifted slowly in his seat, rapped once on the roof of the cab and spoke, keeping his voice clear.

"Has the train station been re-established twenty miles away from its customary location, or has the course which is generally employed to transport oneself there simply slipped your mind?"

The driver's voice drifted down from atop the taxi and his accent, as Holmes had anticipated, was not the vernacular customarily spoken by the cesspool's cab drivers.

"You are not being taken to the station, Mr. Holmes, and before you try the door, be assured, it is most securely bolted."

Holmes immediately tested the door, the speaking vent and searched for any potential cracks in the walls. There were no exits and no sound from above. He settled slowly back into the seat and, gazing unseeingly at the impenetrable wall in front of him, he exhaled very slowly, his mind working too sluggishly for his liking. How could he have missed such obvious signs? The driver so utterly wrapped in coats that his identity was indiscernible, the soft click as the door to the all too well-made cab shut and -- he shut his eyes in consternation -- the full hour it had taken him to realise that he should have reached the station earlier. He furiously turned his thoughts from their ineffectual pondering to concentrate on the pending quandary, but before he could so much as review the situation, the cab began to slow and was suddenly at a complete standstill. Instinct caused Holmes to shoot to his feet and, in utter silence, position himself by the door in a crouch.

Three sounds reached his ears. First, a muffled thud as the driver jumped from his seat to the road. Next, the faintest sound of footsteps walking around the cab and away, and then, Holmes almost collapsed at the shocking incongruity of the noise, the offensively loud roar of a motorcar, which grew softer and softer as it drove into the distance.

Holmes' stomach tied itself into a painful knot and he raised himself quickly out of the crouch. His hands urgently tried to force both speaking vent and door -- to no avail. His feet and shoulders had no better luck. He gritted his teeth, quickly delved into a pocket to retrieve his pocket-knife, bent to the base of the door, and set to work, attempting to prise the door from its frame. They, whoever they had been, did not want (at present) to question, imprison, or even so much as injure him; they wanted him out of the way. But from where were they keeping him? What event was to take place at which his presence was so essentially unsolicited?

The sound of a soft rumble, growing steadily louder, slowly intruded on his thoughts. His surprise immediately giving way to overwhelming hope, Holmes leapt to his feet, nearly falling victim to a self-imposed concussion as the cab's ceiling came into brief contact with the top of his head, and raised his fists to the door, pounding. The motorcar grew louder and ten seconds later developed into an angry screech of tires, the slam of a contiguous car door and a vehement Anglo-Saxon oath.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at?!" The voice was young, male, absolutely furious and badly frightened. Holmes' hands fell away from the door in relief.

"My most fervent apologies for, what I deduce is, an inconvenient position, but I was not consulted on where the taxi was to be stationed. I've been locked inside, you see. Would it be at all possible for you to find some means of freeing me?"

There was a very long silence. Another voice finally spoke in tones of rising incredulity.

"Why would anyone pull such a damned stupid prank?! We could all have been killed!"

Holmes struggled to keep his voice polite.

"Indeed. If you could perhaps remove the cab from the motorway before someone travelling faster than yourself comes our way, fatality might still be avoided..."

Holmes trailed off and the young men, four of them, from the sound of the resulting footsteps, rapidly came to grips with the situation. The cab had soon been coaxed, pushed, pulled and prodded off the road, by which time the quartet of rescuers had overcome their previous frightened shock, and had come to regard the entire affair as a rather exciting sort of escapade. It was quickly determined that the only possible way to free Holmes from his wooden prison was to break the door down. The solution was implemented without delay, and Holmes received roughly two seconds warning -- during which he glued himself to the back wall of the seating compartment -- before the door was violently penetrated by a four extremely excited men holding one rather robust tree branch.

They peered through the splintered remains of the entrance with wide-eyed interest at Holmes, who was in the process of extricating himself from a large piece of the door that had flown his way. His liberators eagerly pulled him from wreckage and offered him a ride in exchange for the story of how he'd come to find himself in such a predicament. Holmes -- not having many other options -- agreed.

The four men proved an appreciative audience as Holmes spun them a tale involving himself, an incredibly large inheritance from a recently deceased father, a seemingly impossibly beautiful woman to whom he was married, and a younger brother with homicidal inclinations and a lust for the aforementioned inheritance and woman. The tale lasted, conveniently, until Holmes found himself at Charing Cross Station, at which point he convinced his saviours to let him out, thanked them profusely and accepted their wishes of triumph over his dastardly brother.

He quickly made his way over to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Russell which was so utterly cryptic and encoded that he doubted Mycroft could have deduced what it contained in under an hour. It would probably take Russ half of one. He thanked the telegraph operator and was half turned to purchase his ticket when the operator spoke uncertainly.

"Your name is Holmes, sir?"

Holmes blinked once and turned back slowly, "I am..."

"You'll be wanting your luggage then; your footman dropped it off around twenty minutes ago."

Holmes didn't miss a beat: "Ah, yes, splendid. Tell me, how did he appear? He's been feeling a bit under the weather lately."

The telegraph operator raised a brow at this concern for a mere servant and chuckled as he dragged an enormous trunk from the back room, "I couldn't tell you, sir, with the size of coat he had on and all them scarves around his head -- he won't be catching any more chills."

Holmes sighed, "Of course -- careful with that! The contents are extremely fragile -- take care you don't knock it."

The telegraph operator looked slightly taken aback and gnawed on his lower lip, "Are they? I wouldn't have thought so with the way your man was handling it. Nearly dropped it out of the boot of his motorcar! If it's all broken, it's his doing, not mine." He hastened to escape the frown he evidently thought Holmes was directing at him and proceeded to bluster about the counter, "There was a letter with it -- where did I put it -- ah! Here you are, sir."

Holmes took the proffered letter, opened it and read mutely with mounting incredulity.

It would be in your best interest to abandon any investigations you may be conducting into the disappearance of Elisheba and Samuel Spinosa. We present you with a portion of the objects that composed half of your task. Take them to your brother and abandon the individuals that were the other element of your assignment. Hopefully the contents of this trunk will convince you of our sense of honour; the rest will be given upon your acquiescence of our request.