No Sherlock - (1) Serpents' Tails by Jo Cameron-Symes
He knew that he must keep very still while he waited. He was crouched into an uncomfortable position to say the least of the matter and tried to maintain a good viewpoint of the illicit activities that were sure to unfold. He was ice cold from head to toe. In moments like this he tried to recall the scorching heat of India to warm his bones. Now he was back, returned to London and his curious profession of Private Detective which he found to be both intriguing and frustrating. He loathed and secretly admired Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the character of Sherlock Holmes. He was teased mercilessly by the delinquent youths outside his rooms who shouted, “Oi Sherlock!” at him on a daily basis, but admired Sherlock’s powers of deduction and his scientific techniques which he sometimes adopted to help with his cases. Of course, he also did not have the benefit of having a Dr Watson to assist him.
He was a man who was sorely alone both in his professional and private life. His wife had recently run off with a London Agent from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. God, how he hated those interfering Pinkertons! He had only come across them infrequently but with every encounter he had always felt that they were unbearably smug and no, he was not just bitter about what had happened with his wife. He felt that the Pinkertons barged in unnecessarily when what was needed was in some cases a more delicate approach to the matter in hand and patience, yes, lots of patience was always required, especially on cases like this one. He had been hired by Mr Brooksbanks of Chelsea, a successful importer of rare porcelain from the East. He was concerned that his imports were being used to smuggle nefarious items such as opium into the capital and wanted him to investigate.
He listened and heard, then saw the waves of an approaching ship churning up the Thames. A new ship was preparing to dock. The fog was thickening now, it no longer swirled in serpents’ tails across the river but formed dense clouds, thickets from which it was hard to clearly identify individual people and objects. Instead the figures looked like shadows, shapes that were various shades of grey and black. This did not help matters but he held the small pocket telescope to his eye to vainly try to get a closer look at the ship which he knew should be the one in question. The Salvador was a Spanish vessel that had been bought by Brooksbanks in a complicated sale, he used an English crew but the origins of the boat were Spanish, originating in Cadiz. Brooksbanks was a superstitious man and after losing three English ships on consecutive voyages he decided that Spanish vessels were superior. Being unfamiliar with shipping himself he could neither agree nor disagree with the man and found himself nodding along to his assertions.
The truth was he desperately needed this case for though the popularity of Sherlock Holmes had created more work for him; he had declined many cases due to ill health after his wife had left. He was ashamed to admit that he had become too fond of drink and could not last a day without consuming half a bottle of gin. He knew that he had to stop and that it was rotting him from the inside out so he vowed to take on more work. His mother was so worried for him that she said he should become a Methodist, though not being especially religious himself he had declined her suggestion.
The ship was now in the port and ready to dock. A stevedore shouted out and the rope was thrown as the ship prepared to disembark its crew and cargo. He realised that his stakeout was entirely useless, for all of the cargo was in sealed wooden boxes. He would need to get closer to the ship to investigate further. He threw off his thin beggar’s blankets and brushed down his smart gentleman’s attire. Why not approach the crew overtly he thought? He put on his top hat and took his cane. Whistling jauntily, he walked along the docks to the vessel approaching a crewman unloading the cargo. “Hello fellow, I must speak with your Captain” he said in a light, breezy tone. “Captain is currently indisposed.” He replied with a suspicious frown. “Blast” he said, “I promised Mr Brooksbanks that I would personally attend to a matter for him and it’s imperative that I speak to your Captain at once.” The mention of Brooksbanks’ name did the trick and the crewman stood up straight and nodded saying “I shall fetch the Captain at once Sir. Who shall I say is asking for him?” “Mr Anderton, a business associate of Mr Brooksbanks.” He used a false name for what he had to do would require him to act fast then disappear into the night. When the crewman went into the bowels of the ship he looked around and noticed that everyone was busy with their own tasks and far away enough for him to do what he needed to. He used the top of his cane to prise open one of the cargo boxes and saw packing straw, large vases of fine porcelain and blocks of what looked like opium packed inside oilskins hidden within. He only needed to take one vase as evidence, so hid it under his long cloak and quickly hurried away into the night, disappearing into the now beneficial fog that covered him like a shroud.
He was a man who was sorely alone both in his professional and private life. His wife had recently run off with a London Agent from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. God, how he hated those interfering Pinkertons! He had only come across them infrequently but with every encounter he had always felt that they were unbearably smug and no, he was not just bitter about what had happened with his wife. He felt that the Pinkertons barged in unnecessarily when what was needed was in some cases a more delicate approach to the matter in hand and patience, yes, lots of patience was always required, especially on cases like this one. He had been hired by Mr Brooksbanks of Chelsea, a successful importer of rare porcelain from the East. He was concerned that his imports were being used to smuggle nefarious items such as opium into the capital and wanted him to investigate.
He listened and heard, then saw the waves of an approaching ship churning up the Thames. A new ship was preparing to dock. The fog was thickening now, it no longer swirled in serpents’ tails across the river but formed dense clouds, thickets from which it was hard to clearly identify individual people and objects. Instead the figures looked like shadows, shapes that were various shades of grey and black. This did not help matters but he held the small pocket telescope to his eye to vainly try to get a closer look at the ship which he knew should be the one in question. The Salvador was a Spanish vessel that had been bought by Brooksbanks in a complicated sale, he used an English crew but the origins of the boat were Spanish, originating in Cadiz. Brooksbanks was a superstitious man and after losing three English ships on consecutive voyages he decided that Spanish vessels were superior. Being unfamiliar with shipping himself he could neither agree nor disagree with the man and found himself nodding along to his assertions.
The truth was he desperately needed this case for though the popularity of Sherlock Holmes had created more work for him; he had declined many cases due to ill health after his wife had left. He was ashamed to admit that he had become too fond of drink and could not last a day without consuming half a bottle of gin. He knew that he had to stop and that it was rotting him from the inside out so he vowed to take on more work. His mother was so worried for him that she said he should become a Methodist, though not being especially religious himself he had declined her suggestion.
The ship was now in the port and ready to dock. A stevedore shouted out and the rope was thrown as the ship prepared to disembark its crew and cargo. He realised that his stakeout was entirely useless, for all of the cargo was in sealed wooden boxes. He would need to get closer to the ship to investigate further. He threw off his thin beggar’s blankets and brushed down his smart gentleman’s attire. Why not approach the crew overtly he thought? He put on his top hat and took his cane. Whistling jauntily, he walked along the docks to the vessel approaching a crewman unloading the cargo. “Hello fellow, I must speak with your Captain” he said in a light, breezy tone. “Captain is currently indisposed.” He replied with a suspicious frown. “Blast” he said, “I promised Mr Brooksbanks that I would personally attend to a matter for him and it’s imperative that I speak to your Captain at once.” The mention of Brooksbanks’ name did the trick and the crewman stood up straight and nodded saying “I shall fetch the Captain at once Sir. Who shall I say is asking for him?” “Mr Anderton, a business associate of Mr Brooksbanks.” He used a false name for what he had to do would require him to act fast then disappear into the night. When the crewman went into the bowels of the ship he looked around and noticed that everyone was busy with their own tasks and far away enough for him to do what he needed to. He used the top of his cane to prise open one of the cargo boxes and saw packing straw, large vases of fine porcelain and blocks of what looked like opium packed inside oilskins hidden within. He only needed to take one vase as evidence, so hid it under his long cloak and quickly hurried away into the night, disappearing into the now beneficial fog that covered him like a shroud.
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