SYNOPSIS: 211 BAKER STREET
211B Bakers Street is one of the most immortal addresses of today, as immortal its resident who lives there. In real life, it’s a museum, but in our imaginations, it houses one of the most memorable characters, fact or fiction, up to this day, where hansom cabs in the past have once passed by and clients of all types come with or without appointment, all holding their different and private problems that are sometimes answered with unusual and shocking results.
The story below is not only a modernization of “A Case of Identity,” but also a combination of other cases in the cannon that puts more complications in solving the entire case. These complications tests the wit and knowledge of a solitary Bakers Street detective named Sheridan Holmes. The remaining member of the Holmes family, he inherits the masterful attitudes and knowledge from his great grand uncle, the infamous Sherlock Holmes, and risks losing his life in almost every case. His “Watson” in this story is his own client, Rachel Hughes, who realizes her capabilities of standing strong for herself and becoming a loyal associate despite the life changing factors that happen to her so suddenly. Like Holmes, she also has also inherited a brilliant, yet deadly trait from her ancestry, an adversary of Holmes’ past family line. Rachel looses her fiancée the day before her marriage at the start, which develops to revenge plot against Sheridan from a cunning avenger hidden under the identity of “Colonel Moran”. Along the way, there are encounters, both shocking and comical, familiar quotes and the most notable characters of the Sherlock Holmes appearing once more: Stamford, The Scottland Yard Detectives Lestrade and Gregson, young Wiggins, and Pompey. Also, the titles of all fifty six short stories appear on this tale which are underlined for you.
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ADVENTURE OF THE BAKER STREET REGULARS
By J. Elamparo
“There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.”
—Sherlock Holmes
INTRODUCTION: MS. RACHEL HUGHES
(From the diary of Rachel Irene Hughes, January 6th, 1995)
A note to the reader: What you read is the start of an incredible year. A year of many cases, of many adventures. Cases that crossed both Sheridan Holmes and I, cases that came by appointment, or rushed right into our doorstep. Cases of comic incredulity, of tragedy, of dangers, of revenge, of the most dreadful and shocking. Of criminals vile and ugly, or simply honest, desperate, driven out of their wits. Of clients of all types: poor, rich, boisterous, strong and humble, all of these contributed to a cannon so fresh and new and only recorded by memory.
Yes, cases of all types. From the Problem of Thor Bridge, to the recent case of the Baskerville hound and dear, good Adrian John Wilson whom assisted Sheridan Holmes when I could not be around to aid him.
As I said before, this is the start of an incredible year.
It is also the start of an adventure.
PROLOGUE: MR. SHERIDAN HOLMES
Mr. Sheridan Holmes dashed across the alleys of London, past the bins of several trashcans, and splattered through shallow puddles of yesterday’s rain.
In the midnight, the masked criminal was ten steps ahead of him. In back of him, the hounds of Scotland Yard was twenty steps behind, chasing the wrong suspect who offered his ungrateful, involuntary support. How foolish, he thought. How foolish that Scotland Yard was unable to close upon the masked robber thirty steps behind without him in between the pursuit. But, how foolish he was, to know that the chase would reach to a disappointing end, with his capture, rather than their man.
Holmes was getting closer…five steps now.
He scaled a fence and landed on his feet, and just when he veered across a corner, a body lunged and pinned him to the ground. Then, the police behind him were on top of him, piling like a harsh, American football game.
“Ah! Get off of me!” one of them cried.
Quickly, every one of them jumped off, except the first one who was sitting on Holmes’ back as he struggled. By the time a flashlight glared at his face—
“Holmes!”
“Bloody hell! What do you think you’re doing here?”
Stamford jumped off apologetically Holmes. “Holmes! Are you al—”
“Blasted Amateur! If you’re going to pay your debts, try looking for a client rather than a reward poster. I could’ve catch that berk if it wasn’t for you. Now why did I waste ten minutes in driving all the way from here?”
Stanford kindly helped Holmes up as the voice of a Scotland Yard official continued to rave.
Holmes didn’t say anything. He was already patient with guilt.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” Gregson folded her arms.
“Your suspect,” he replied calmly, “has stolen an expensive ring, nothing more. Be thankful of my help. He could’ve left with an entire load, lock stock and barrel.”
Holmes glanced at his pursuers with an mildly intent gaze. At the same time, his silence was hiding a hurt feeling of failure that even the Scotland Yarders could not forgive. He paced down the alley and out into the open, passing by Stanford’s car. From there, he would be the first in the night to disturb the blanket of snow that capped the sidewalks and streets.
“Holmes, wait!” Stamford chased after him.
Among the other officials and the dogs of Scotland Yard, Gregson sighed and shook her head. It would be a mystery to decide if it was an act of pity or forgetting.
I: MR. HOSMER ANGEL
Stamford’s response has been the same as the past days since last week’s. There was no sign of Mr. Hosmer Angel.
He was my Fiancé, and my first love, missing for two weeks. A few weeks after our engagement, the letters of my name were painted on the wall of his apartment with red lines, red blots red circles and curves: ‘Rache’. It was missing the ‘L’, and I wondered if that symbolized lost love for an unknowing tragedy.
My step-father (although I simply call him ‘father’) never wanted me to love. He didn’t even want me to leave the house or the business. Whenever we traveled outside, he referred me as his wife, rather than his daughter, and people never questioned to make sure since my father was near seventeen years older than me. So overprotective of me that I wonder if it was a sign of love, or jealousy. When he discovered about Hosmer Angel I was thankful that he became patient enough to have him earn my hand in marriage. Although he claimed to see Hosmer Angel, I never saw the two together. Perhaps there was a secret concealed between the two, some surprise for me they’ve planned…
Now, he urged me to forget, and to work, and make my own future. “After all,” he joked, “you’re too good to love any of them.”
Stupid man. He’s into his businesstoo muchthat he doesn’t even know me.
But I couldn’t forget about Hosmer. I became desperate, to know where he was and to see him again. Even if you looked at me, that hoping would never end, since I was still wearing that marvelous engagement ring on my finger.
The news of Hosmer’s incident first occurred early in the morning. I happened to be up on top of my humble, high, cozy flat, patching the roof for no apparent reason but to keep myself busy and tame my impatient energy. Under the cold, I was wearing only overalls, a shirt, and a kerchief over my head. Until I head my name called, I looked at the street below me to see Stamford gazing at me in fright. He backed away, into the middle of the street, so alarmed, that apparently, a lorry almost crashed into him. Luckily, the brakes came to a screech, a scold from the driver, and the roar of the lorry once more as it sped down the street.
I jumped off the roof, climbed down a rope until reached my bedroom window, knocking one of my flower pots as I entered the building in that manner. When I rushed downstairs Stamford ran towards me and hugged me. Apparently, he was holding the fallen flower pot, in unbroken condition, a sign that he caught it.
“Rachel! My word! You’re cold and up there and—What in the world are you doing!”
“Fixing the roof.”
“Well never mind about it. I came here in a rush. Something terrible has happened.”
I looked at him.
“It’s Hosmer.”
This is how it all started as I followed Stamford to New Scotland Yard.
Gregson, the most feisty and expressive of all Scotland Yard Officials I’ve ever known of, was my advocate and almost the closest customer to my father and I. This morning, however, her attitude became quite different. Usually, she was the typical woman two decades older than me with a sunny, cheery, high spirited accent, and peppery attitude but she was a different sight to see, wearing a moody face and disheveled clothes. As Stamford went into another area of the building to settle a bit of his business, I asked if there was anything wrong.
“Right there is!” she declared loudly in front of us. “Do you know anyone by the name of Holmes?”
“Fredrick Holmes?”
“Sheridan Holmes. Of Baker Street. Always messing with Scotland Yard business, that’s what.”
“Business has been going busy these days,” I said. But it wasn’t a proud voice due to the instant news of this morning. “Father is going from one house to the next, never coming back until seven in the evening. He’s already at Brixton”
Gregson leaned on her desk and sighed off her angry mood. “Perhaps that’s why,” she pondered. “Come to think of it, he’s worst than you fixing roofs off a ten story building like last time. You scared me there that I had to literally wait and watch you for five hours.”
“So what’s his profession?” I asked.
“Detective. Consulting detect—”
“Detective!” I jumped. “A genius you are! Why didn’t I think—”
“Why do you need one? I’m a detective.”
“But maybe he can find Hosmer. After all, you people at the yard are too busy.”
“Anyone,” she said. “You can hire anyone but him.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t know Sheridan Holmes. He is the most queerest, irregular, amateur detective I have ever seen, swear it to my father. He’s the worst of fools.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “The worst of fools are actually the best of geniuses.”
“But he’s strange.”
“That’s not unusual. Every day, I dress up in white, black or gray. And you blame me for being strange and not being so colorful.”
“He shoots at his own home and eats sandwiches everyday…”
“That’s not bad.”
“…He plays his violin three am in the morning…”
“And?”
“…He exercises before breakfast…”
“I fixed up my roof and I still haven't ate breakfast.”
“He stays up all night…he nibbles toothpicks…he’s risks getting himself killed every week…he’s some James Bond wannabe…he disguises himself…raves himself of some believer of the genius ‘loco’ (which I believe is Spanish for crazy)…he’s rude…and practically, he’s a virgin!”
“So am I!”
“But you’re—you’re engaged.”
“Which is why I need to hire this man.”
Gregson sighed. “My dear Rachel!” she stammered with desperateness. “He’s a loather of women! You! Me! If I had someone to watch over that man, then I’d let you.”
“And my dear Gregson,” I rang a bell, “my future husband is in danger”.
“But someone should watch—”
“Then I’ll be the one!”
Gregson went silent.
“See, see?” I forced a point. “There’s benefit for all of us. You have someone to watch over Mr. Holmes, I have help in finding my Fiancé, and he has a client.”
“who are you talking about,” A new voice interrupted.
Stamford was at the door after handling some minor affairs somewhere else around New Scotland Yard.
“The amateur,” she said in a low flat voice. With than, she exited the door, past Stamford who went in.
“Well!” Stamford exclaimed, trying to cheer me up. “I suppose you finally experienced the wrath of Mrs. Gregson.”
“And Mr. Holmes? How strange is he?”
He smiled and sat on the edge of the desk. “Ah, don’t mind Gregson. The cold’s getting to her. You see, although many people in the Yard call him ‘the amateur’, he’s a brilliant man. Not to exaggerate, but he’s clever as six napoleons, although he is a little queer in his ways. Maybe you’ve seen him at the University since heoften studiesthere without a degree. Every case I have, I have him help me. He lives down your street, the northern part of it, near the underground.”
“No wonder why you stop by my flat very often.”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s part of the reason why. He’s fond of me giving him all sorts of riddles and assisting him with his work. It’s just that a case such as this, I don’t know if he’ll take it unless it’s a challenging or an outrageous one. I’ve heard of such stories like the dunadasseparation case or that very interesting occurrence when they had a problem of Thor Bridgeand—Hey!Ever heard of the Boscombe Valley Mystery and some case of an engineer’s thumb that was cut off while he escaped murder in a priory school in some Shoecombe old place?”
“Shoecombe old place?”
“It’s an abbey grange.”
“But why would someone sever an engineer’s thumb?”
Stamford shrugged. “God knows. They say that he knew something about the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfaxwhoever she is, and that she was involved in some confidential thing called the Bruce-Partington plans.”
“A very complex case,” I remarked.
“Which is why he took it. That case is perhaps the one evidence why I highly suggest you should hire him. Even Hosmer would—” He stopped and glanced at me, asking if it was okay to speak of it. I looked at him back, permission granted.
“You know what,” he changed the subject. “I promise you’ll find Hosmer. I swear it.”
“So what do you think?” I said. “Should I ask Mr. Sheridan for his help?”
He raised his hands, palms up in uncertainty. “It’s up to you.”
Baker Street is one of the most memorable of all streets in London. Although I’ve lived here for several years, I never had the freedom to visit this colorful looking area. And to explore it for the first time, I had to break my father’s orders. I taped a “closed” sign on the door at seven in the morning and walked down th street that day to see the man who I foolishly thought was Hosmer’s only hope.
Unfortunately I was lost in Baker Street, confused with every address, every home and building and sign capped with snow. Here, a mile north from my flat, the place was preparing a another busy day, a twenty four hour cycle of it’s pubs, hotels and small shops pouring it’s busy aroma into the frosty air. Seeing the nearest man in sight, I turned to find a man in bright overalls inside his coat, baseball cap and glasses, carrying an easel, a bag of paint tubes, and a white canvas. The way he stood, he bounced his heels a bit, a jolly, maybe Irish, and not reacting to the cold. No shiver, burr, or chatter from his teeth. He was indeed an active type of person, and some of the paint was smeared on his face.
“Excuse me sir, do you know where 221—”
“Est-ce que, vous m’excusez pouvez repeter cela lentement?”
“Please sir, talk English. Where is 221 Baker Street at?”
“Je n’ai aucune idee ce que vous dites. Veuillez repeter cette…”
“221 Baker Street. Can you understand me?”
“…Madame, veuillez, etre patient un moment ce…”
“Hallo! Do you read me?”
“…un moment ce qui sont vous disant?”
“Ugh! Forget it! “
I tramped away from the painter, frustrated as the French-speaking, “Irishman” continued his moronic questioning at me. After what seemed a safe distance away from him, I suddenly heard a fresh sentence uttered from him.
“Madam, just in case you’re wondering, 221 Baker Street is four blocks from here.”
I looked around, and saw no one but the painter looking at me. I paced back at him, full of questions, and a stern feeling of this senseless joke.
“Did you speak English?”
The painter, blushing a bit, shyly looked at me with a question.
“Did you speak English?” I repeated
“Why—yes” he said slowly.
“And you said Baker Street is four blocks down from here?”
“Yes. That’s right. Would you like me to show you where it’s at?”
I paused a moment, quite suspicious. I minded about my father’s strict rules, and perhaps the first time, began to consider how right he was than overprotective or snobbish he was.
Do not talk to a stranger, especially the strange one who looks quite too happy.
But did it really matter?
“Actually, you can just tell me the directions,” I said.
“Actually,” he returned the favor, “I’m good at navigating than explaining.”
Indeed, this strange one who looked quite too happy was getting on my nerves.
“Well sir,” I said under my breath, the first stages of becoming irritated.“ I do thank you for your generosity but have to go alone. I’m in a hurry.”
Being the respectable type of person, I quickly headed down the street, avoiding the painter.