The other day he says – Wiggins says, I mean, not Dr Watson – the other day he says, “Maybe Holmes just don’t trust you with the important stuff. That’s why he keeps you at home instead of sending you off on actual important jobs.” Which is not the case, thank you – and people might know that if Dr Watson ever decides to write up certain other cases. That Valley of Fear business, maybe. (People’d love that one – just a suggestion.)
Besides, how’s he know? Maybe I am doing big, important jobs. Maybe, just maybe, Mr Holmes gives me the extra important work because he knows I won’t go bragging to every last person in Britain.
Right, so this is just between you and me. I wouldn’t go telling just anyone, because it ain’t proper, but I know you’re cast iron. You won’t go blabbing about this all over the place, will you? Course not. Like I said. Trustworthy. And it’s my job to know people, since I gotta let ’em in to see Mr Holmes every day.
Sometimes I get these letters to deliver that are so secret, so private, even I don’t know what’s in ’em. And I carry ’em! I never look, though. Never. Not even once. You ask Mr Holmes or Dr Watson. They’re sealed, and never have I ever delivered one with a broken seal. Not a one time. Not even when my life was on the line.
You take last Friday. Middle of the afternoon, Mr Holmes calls me in. He’s in the middle of opening the window for some fresh air, and he hands me a letter. “This message contains sensitive information of the utmost importance,” he says, all big and loud and important. “Take it to the usual recipient, and see that you’re not followed. Use whatever back alleyways and shortcuts you need to, but make sure you get it to him at his practice.”
“Back alleyways?” I say. “The usual recipient” is Dr Watson, see, and I’m thinking I could run down the main streets and get it to him twice as quick, maybe even take a cab if Mr Holmes’ll put the money forward.
But, Mr Holmes, he knows what he wants. “You must exercise all stealth,” he says. “I am unconcerned with alacrity. I can’t have you being seen dashing down the main roads, and I certainly cannot have you being followed. You can make your way back here any way you please, but lie low as you go. Make sure no one sees the letter, and definitely make sure no one knows to whom it is headed.”
Lie low as you go. “Yes, sir, Mr Holmes!” And I tuck the letter in my pocket and I’m on my way.
There’s a series of back alleys and a few cuts through back gardens I can take so you’ll never even see my face on the main street. That’s the way I go, just like Mr Holmes asks. Not a soul back there but myself, but even so I’m sticking close to walls and shadows. Because you never know, and I follow my directions to the letter.
I’m coming ’round a corner, quiet as you please, and there’s a man standing in my way. He’s some toff’s servant for sure. Probably a butler from how he’s dressed. But he looks like he’s been stuffed into that suit. There’s no way he’s an actual butler.
“Young Billy, I presume,” he says, and he’s giving me this look like he’s deciding whether or not he’s gonna skin me. “On our way on a mission from Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
I ask how he knows it’s me, and he points at my jacket. “We’ve seen you coming and going from his rooms more than once.”
Drat. That’s stupid of me. I’m not lying low if I’m wearing my uniform, am I? But it’s too late now. I try to sidestep him, but he follows me.
“You seem nervous,” he says, but he’s saying it in this really superior voice like, you know, almost like he’s enjoying being a bother.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’ve got somewhere to be and I’ve got a big lunk standing in my way, course I’m tense.”
I figure he’ll get angry at me for that, and his face does go a little red, but all he does is stick his hand out. “You’re carrying a piece of correspondence. I request that you give it to me immediately.”
“Nah,” I say, “I don’t think I will.”
Now he’s going really red. “Young boy, I fear you do not understand the something-or-other of what you’re carrying.” He said an actual word, but I can’t remember what it was. It was one of those big expensive words like people say when they want you to think they’re more important than you.
And I tell him, “I do and all, though. And I know it’s not for you, so clear off.”
Then he squares himself up all big, which isn’t easy considering he’s not really tall, and he gives me that look again but a lot worse. And he points at the letter in my hand and he says, “That piece of correspondence concerns my employer. You may have heard of her: a Mrs Henrietta Oxford.”
“Never heard of her in my life.”
“I find that hard to believe, as she is a match for your master both professionally and intellectually.”
I laugh because that’s not right. I’ve never even heard of her. There’s no one’s a match for Sherlock Holmes, and if there was we’d all have heard of her by now. But he ignores my laugh and just keeps talking.
“Mrs Oxford has been investigating the curious series of murders in Clapham. I’m sure you’ve heard about those, my boy.”
I have and all. Gruesome stuff. Caught wind of it when Mr Holmes and Dr Watson talked about it. Men and women of any age, any class, all left dead with weird sigils carved in ’em. Some people call it religious, some go right for “occult”. All I know is it gives me the shivers.
“What’s that got to do with me or my letter?”
“Does Mr Holmes hire dense servants on purpose? Really. It’s all anyone’s talking about – the police, my employer, your employer…” And his eyes go back to my hand holding the letter. “If Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes, he’ll know that Mrs Oxford is already on the case. And he doesn’t approve of her particular methods.”
“What’re you talking about?”
The butler laughs at me. Actually laughs. Like I’m some sort of idiot. “Stop playing the fool. Mr Holmes knows already that my employer intends to take matters into her own hands, and this is his method of alerting the authorities in secret before she can act. And I cannot allow that to happen.”
“Shows what you know. This –”
But I stop, because I remember Mr Holmes said don’t let anyone know where it’s going. This fella’s obviously well off track, but I do as I’m told. Besides which, I get the feeling he’ll just think I’m lying to him to put him off the scent anyway. So I shake my head and I say, “This is getting where it’s going whether you like it or not!”
Now his blood’s boiling, I can tell. And he makes a grab for me. Makes an actual grab for me! I jump out of the way and hop a fence nearby, but I don’t stop there. Who knows? Maybe he can hop fences. I’m not taking that risk. I keep running down the alley, even though I can hear him scrambling and swearing and not getting anywhere, and I don’t stop ’til I’m round the corner.
That’s when I drop down to the ground and catch my breath. My heart’s going like a bumblebee. What’s in this letter that’s so important? And what makes him think it’s about him? I mean, maybe it is. Like I said, I follow directions, so it’s not as though I’ve looked inside. I stare at the letter for a few seconds.
“You’re a lot more trouble than you’re probably worth,” I tell it, and I shake it a bit, as though that’ll help anything. Then I stuff the letter inside my jacket for safekeeping and try to get myself sorted out again. Running away from the butler’s taken me off course. I can’t go back the way I came, and I really have to keep my head down now in case he’s decided to try and come at me from another alleyway or something.