A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
The hansom cab clattered to a halt in front of 221B Baker Street
just as the sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Jenny Deavers
paid the driver and hurried inside to escape the chilly, damp
February night. Things had not gone as well as they might have
done this day, and she felt the need to be with Sherla to support
her just then.
As she removed her muffler and bonnet in the downstairs foyer,
Jenny heard a soft, sad, but almost-sweet sound issuing from the
upper rooms. She stopped to listen for a moment, trying to put a
name to source of that sound. She was halfway up the stairs when
a particularly sour note intruded on the otherwise haunting
tones. A stern "Damn!" followed that note, whereupon the music,
for that is what Jenny realized it was, resumed.
Violin music, but not any composition Jenny recognized, and she
considered herself something of an afficionado of such things.
It was a taste she'd developed as a gentleman's mistress. Going
to the symphony had been one of her great pleasures in those days
gone by, and music continued to be something she greatly enjoyed
now that she was a modiste.
Jenny let herself into the Holmes establishment and immediately
saw the source of the music. There, seated in the large
comfortable chair, feet pulled up in front of her, was Sherla
playing on an obviously fine and expensive violin. Her eyes were
closed and there was as soft, utterly sensual smile playing on
her full, angel-bowed lips. Jenny could almost forgive the girl
her grossly unfeminine posture for the lovely sounds she was
making with that beautiful instrument.
Another sour note broke the spell and was followed by another
"Damn!" Sherla opened her eyes and stared at her left hand
poised over the throat of the instrument. The look would have
frozen water and Jenny wondered how those fingers would DARE
misbehave in such a manner ever again.
"Ahem!" Jenny called out.
Sherla's head came up in surprise. "Jen. . I mean, Mother!" she
said with a smile of welcome, "I did not hear you enter."
"Obviously, or you would be seated like a lady in that chair
instead of looking like one of the apes on display down at the
Tower of London."
Sherla managed a creditable blush, but hurriedly put her feet
down on the floor, stood up to shake out her skirts, and then
reseated herself with the grace and care Jenny had taught her
that morning. "I've been practicing," Sherla said with a gamine
grin that surprised Jenny almost as much as the music.
"Not enough if that is how I find you when I get home," she said
trying to be stern, but in the end, her curiosity got the better
of her. "How long have you played? What was that beautiful,
haunting melody? Where did you get the violin - it is
beautiful."
"It is a Stradivarius," Sherla replied as she rubbed her tender
fingertips together. *Hmmm, I seem to have lost my playing
callouses as well.* "It belongs to me. . .I mean, it belonged to
Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have played since childhood. The melody,
that I was not playing very well thanks to fingers that are
smaller than I am used to playing music with, is not really from
any known work. I was simply playing to try and help me think."
"I see," Jenny said quietly, "About what?"
"Options," Sherla replied, "and how few of them I have. I looked
up the paper-aging process in my chemical monographs today,
Mother. It takes a minimum of twenty four hours. I cannot leave
until all the documents are completed and where they belong.
That delays my start for the Continent another day. Time is
running out for me and Moriarty will win, damn his black soul."
"There is no hope for more of the drug, or better yet, an
antidote?" Jenny asked
Miss Sherla Holmes shook her head. "None. I have no idea what
the ingredients are, and therefore, no way of attempting to
concoct an antidote. By the time we can leave here, day after
tomorrow, I will be down to approximately four doses, perhaps
five if I can stretch the drug a bit, but no more."
"So what were you thinking of so musically, dear?" Jenny asked
gently.
"I've been racking my brains, ever since I returned to Baker
Street from my oh-so-fruitless trip to old Moriarty sites, to
come up with the name of a man, *any* man to whom I could give
the onerous task of stopping that Napoleon of Crime.
"And you can think of none?"
"Nary a one, Mother. I have heard rumors about one or two
fellows, but I have never met them to determine their mettle for
myself. And while I have met very good, honest policemen in my
years of consultation, I have never met even one with the
brilliance to stand a chance even against an age diminished
Moriarty, and I cannot really assume that he has been all that
diminished.
Jenny sat quietly for a long time, saying nothing, her eyes
focused on something far away. Finally, she spoke. "And I don't
suppose, that in all of your years, you ever met a woman who
might have such capabilities?" Jenny shook her head angrily.
"Of course you haven't. Not only does our Society frown upon
intelligent, powerful women, other than Victoria, of course, but
you as Holmes would not have recognized such attributes in a mere
woman."
Taken aback by Jenny's outburst, Sherla sat back in the deep
cushioned chair. "I recognized them in you, Jenny," she
eventually said, then her own eyes became unfocused. "Come to
think of it, there is Irene Adler."
"Who?" Jenny's head perked up.
"An opera singer with a talent for investigations. At least
twice that I know of, she bested me in a battle of wits."
"She was a criminal?" Jenny was clearly appalled that a woman,
an EVIL woman, might have defeated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
A chuckle relieved her fears. "Nothing like that. In both
cases, it was only honorable that she overcome, and well done of
her to have done so. Still, she did best me. . . I wonder. . "
The violin came back to her chin and soon, the eerie, sweet music
again filled the rooms. Jenny was content to listen, and watch
her friend submerge herself in the joy of playing the violin.
This went on for nearly a half hour when, quite suddenly, the
music changed to something that sounded very much like an Irish
jig.
"By Jove, Mother, you are in the right of it. I must go to
Paris, find Irene, and task her to the stopping of Moriarty. By
Heavens, it is perfect. If he uses the same potion on her, he
will only be creating his own worst enemy. Irene is magnificent
as a woman, but were she to be changed into a man - a YOUNG man -
she would be practically be equal to me at my best!"
Still not certain she trusted a woman who had found it necessary
to "best" Mr. Sherlock Holmes (and not really entirely convinced
this opera singer actually could have done so), Jenny's response
was obviously lukewarm.
Sherla heard the uncertainty, and quickly gave Jenny the
particulars on the Bohemian King case during which, Holmes had
met Irene Adler.
"And she dresses in men's clothing?" she asked incredulously.
When Sherla nodded in the affirmative. "Lord, that is something
I always wanted to do, but never quite had the courage to try in
my youth."
"Odd you should mention that, Jenny. Day after tomorrow, I have
a task for you as part of my plan to escape.
"Oh really? Aren't you going to tell me what that task is?"
Jenny asked, only to smile when she got the expected negative
response from her foster daughter. "Oh very well, then, be that
way. Then you might as well deal with these," she added, tossing
a small bundle to Sherla. "Those are the papers you asked me to
procure for you from my friends and contacts."
Sherla quickly scanned through the various documents, a smile
forming that quickly grew radiant. "Well done, Mother. Thank
you. I will start aging these while you prepare dinner.
~-----------------~
The morning after next, Sherla exited the Baker Street lodgings
dressed in her "Nurse Hanks" uniform and was met by a pale, thin
young man in an ill fitting uniform of London cab driver. Miss
Holmes smiled at the nervous man and inspected the landau
carriage he had driven to her home. After a few moments, she
nodded. *It will do adequately enough,* she thought. Actually,
she had wanted a four horse team, but the need for secrecy had
forced her to use the young medical student as her driver.
Controlling a "four-in-hand" was simply beyond his skill as a
driver.
For all his inadequacy as a driver, using him in that role did
provide additional protection for the mission's secrecy. The
would-be doctor had a great deal riding on the successful outcome
of this mission. Jenny now had written authority to withdraw the
Holmes Estate's financial support that would put the young man
through medical school in some degree of comfort. If he talked
imprudently about this little adventure, his dreams of a medical
career might as well go up the nearest chimney as smoke.
"Everything is in readiness? All three special cargos are here?"
Sherla finally asked.
"Yes, Ma'am," the young would-be doctor replied. "Two in the
back and the other thing in the main compartment. Good thing
it's chilly, though, Ma'am."
"True," Sherla might have said more, but just then the Baker
Street door opened again to allow a very old, bent man to make
his painful way up to the landau. Sherla, as nurse, hurried to
assist her patient into the carriage. "Let us be on our way,"
she ordered as she herself ascended into the cab, "I wish to be
at the way-station by noon."
~------------~
They arrived at the way station about a half hour past noon, but
fortunately still before the normal mid-day meal hour. The
driver drove the landau over to a space behind the outdoor
facilities, and hopped down to help his passengers disembark.
Sherla had chosen this place because she remembered how well
sheltered the outdoor privies were from prying eyes by their own
construction and by the nearby woods on the side opposite the
main inn.
The suddenly spritely old man hurried into the mens' room while
Sherla went into the ladies' convenience. They met outside but a
few moments later. "All clear," they both said simultaneously.
Quickly, the three opened the after baggage compartment. Working
together, they strained to remove two long, narrow and relatively
heavy bags from within the baggage compartment whereupon the two
"men" carried one bag into each of the two restrooms while Sherla
kept watch.
Each bag was then perched upon one of the seats provided inside
the outdoor facilities. Then Sherla opened her portmanteau and
removed a large paper-wrapped package with a clock device affixed
to the top of it. The box was set immediately in front of the
larger of the two bags in the men's side of the privies. In the
meantime, the driver and the "old man" carried in the "third
package", a costume-dummy dressed in women's clothing. Quickly,
the "old man" stripped off the clothing and the makeup to reveal
Jenny.
Sherla helped Jenny don the dummy's more normal feminine attire.
"You are sure everything will burn," Jenny asked one last time.
"Yes, the explosive includes substantial portions of white
phosphorous and magnesium. The explosion will become incendiary
almost immediately, and there is no way, short of allowing it to
burn itself out, to extinguish that type of fire. The dummy was
specifically constructed of particularly flammable materials and
this old buildings are redolent with highly combustible
hydrocarbon compounds. This place, and everything in it will be
reduced to ashes within minutes. Now, you and the driver must go
to the inn and demand meals for four. I will give you two
minutes to get inside the inn, and then I will set the timer for
two minutes and go hide in the woods as we planned."
"As YOU planned, Miss," Jenny said caustically. "I still believe
I should accompany you - young ladies, such as you are *now*, are
expected to travel with companions to protect their virtue."
"And female though I am *now*," Sherla retorted with a gentle
smile, *I am not traveling as a Lady, Jenny, but as an underpaid
companion on my way to France to meet with an English lady living
abroad who wishes to hire me. Such women as I will purport to be
*do* travel alone. In fact, it might raise suspicion if I were
*not* traveling alone." Sherla saw her arguments were having as
little effect on Jenny as the last time they had this . . .
"discussion". "Mother," she finally said in a very quiet voice.
"This could be dangerous. I cannot do what I MUST do if I am
worried about you. Please," she finally added.
Jenny stared at her for a long moment, and then swept the girl
into a fierce hug. "You damn well come home safely, girl!" she
ordered intensely. "I don't want to lose the daughter I have
always yearned for just days after I finally meet her."
"God speed, Mother," Sherla said.
"God speed to you as well, daughter," Jenny said before she
stepped out of the room.
Sherla heard the springs of the landau creak, and the horses'
shod feet clank against the stone drive. She mentally counted
off one hundred twenty seconds while she made one last check to
ensure no one was approaching the privies, and then set the timer
on her explosive device. She snatched up her portmanteau, and
hurried into the woods, away from the Inn. *Thankfully, there
isn't any snow and this stone will not give the local police any
footprint clues.*
One hundred twenty seconds later, the outdoor privy building
exploded in a blaze of white light, red flames and black smoke.
As Sherla had predicted, in less than five minutes, the walls of
the building collapsed under the hellish heat. By the time
anyone from the inn arrived on the scene, there was little left
but ashes.
However, a high pitched feminine squeal told Sherla, that perhaps
something recognizable might have survived from the two cadavers
the medical student had procured and helped them plant on the
scene. *Good bye, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and unknown nurse,* she
thought grimly. *Rest in peace.*
Without a backward glance, Miss Sherla Holmes turned away and
started walking parallel to the road towards Dover. She'd flag
down the next packet along the way. With any luck, she'd be in
Dover by nightfall.
~--------------~
London Times, Morning Edition,
February 16, 1911.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street,
well known consulting detective of
yesteryear, was evidently murdered yesterday
at a small traveler's way station south of
London on the Dover Road. According to Chief
Inspector Harley Quinn of Scotland Yard, an
explosive device of great power was placed in
the men's outbuilding necessary while Mr.
Holmes was inside. According to Inspector
Quinn, the device was purpose designed to act
quickly under such conditions. "The
explosion is the most likely cause of death,
but we won't ever likely know," the Chief
told this correspondent, "The fire was so
hot, there is precious little left of him for
the coroner to examine. Even his bones began
to burn."
There were no eye-witnesses, but the driver,
a Mr. David Thomas, and a fellow passenger, a
Miss Jenny Deavers, said that Mr. Holmes did
not appear to be well at the time of the
incident. In fact, Mr. Thomas had been
forced to help Mr. Holmes' nurse to carry him
into the men's facility. "He was like dead
weight," Mr. Thomas said, "Never said a word
to me after I helped him inside, either."
In addition to Mr. Holmes, an as-yet
unidentified young woman - small in stature
according to what little the coroner has been
able to deduce from the few bones left
undamaged, died in the same explosion and
fire. She was trapped in the women's
necessary with the explosive device went off.
Chief Inspector Quinn speculates that this
may have been the Nurse. No name is
available at this time.
Mr. Holmes is not known to be survived by any
living relatives. His home at Baker Street
has been sealed by officials pending a review
of his records and effects before the reading
of his will.
~----------------~
Moriarty smiled as he reread for perhaps the tenth time the
article from the Times, as well as obituaries from several other
prominent papers. So, Holmes had finally decided to take the
easy way out. Too bad in a way, Moriarty mused, for it would
have been quite delightful, once his drug was perfected, to have
a female Holmes at his youthful mercy. What a triumph it would
have been, to force her to accept him as a woman accepts a
superior man.
Well, he had anticipated this. Holmes, like Moriarty himself,
was a creature of pure intellect. Eventually, the creeping
consumption of femininity had eaten away at that magnificent
mind, slowly destroying its power and reason. Naturally, Holmes
must have reached the point where he could no longer tolerate
such a diminution of powers, and had elected to end it all. Much
as he had planned to do before Moriarty had inadvertently
interfered. A chuckle broke the silence. That merely delayed
the death, and it meant Holmes had been forced to deal with his
loss while trying to come up with a means to carry to fight to
Moriarty.
So, in the end, the great Sherlock Holmes had failed, and the
Professor had won. He looked down and read the article once
again. *I wonder how Holmes managed to get the male body to burn?
The driver's comment about dead weight is a dead give away.
Holmes must have set the explosive device himself, and then went
to the women's facility to make it look like an accident,* Then,
another thought struck Moriarty. It would appear that it is just
as well that I resisted the temptation to leave any clues or
false trails to tease Miss Holmes. Waste of time I did not and
still do not have. Most particularly if doing so would not have
added substantially to Miss Holmes' feelings of ill use and
torment."
Moriarty raised his glass in toast. "To Holmes, my old enemy.
Even in your madness and in the method of your death, you were
brilliant. You were almost a matchless foe, but I am Moriarty.
Ultimately, it had to end this way." He finished his drink and
threw the glass into the fireplace. "Good Riddance, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes."
