Black Cat Weekly #24

By Wildside Press

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #24—another great issue packed with new and classic mystery, fantasy, and science fiction. Here are:

Mystery and Suspense:

THE ADVENTURE OF THE CURIOUS CUBE, by A.L. Sirois
A JAR FULL OF CHARITY, by Hal Charles
THE SLEEPER CAPER, by Richard S. Prather
WHERE THE STRANGE ONES GO, by Steve Hockensmith
IT NEVER GOT INTO THE PAPERS, by Hulbert Footner
WON BY MAGIC, by Nicholas Carter

Science Fiction and Fantasy:

PANCHO VILLA’S FLYING CIRCUS, by Ernest Hogan
THE ENGINEER, by Frederik Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth
THE DATE, by Larry Tritten
TRAUMEREI, by Charles Beaumont
KING OF THE HILL, by James Blish
THE OLD ONES HEAR, by Malcolm Jameson

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Feb 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667600048

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE ADVENTURE OF THE CURIOUS CUBE, by A.L. Sirois

A JAR FULL OF CHARITY, by Hal Charles

THE SLEEPER CAPER, by Richard S. Prather

WHERE THE STRANGE ONES GO, by Steve Hockensmith

IT NEVER GOT INTO THE PAPERS, by Hulbert Footner

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

WON BY MAGIC, by Nicholas Carter

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

PANCHO VILLA’S FLYING CIRCUS, by Ernest Hogan

THE ENGINEER, by Frederik Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth

THE DATE, by Larry Tritten

TRAUMEREI, by Charles Beaumont

KING OF THE HILL, by James Blish

THE OLD ONES HEAR, by Malcolm Jameson

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

The Adventure of the Curious Cube is original to Black Cat Weekly #24. Copyright © 2022 by A.L. Sirois.

The Sleeper Caper, by Richard S. Prather, originally appeared in Manhunt magazine, March, 1953.

Where the Strange Ones Go is copyright © 2018 by Steve Hockensmith. Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May/June 2018. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Won by Magic, by Nicholas Carter, originally appeared in 1915.

It Never Got into the Papers, by Hulbert Footner, originally appeared in 1939.

A Jar of Charity is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

Pancho Villa;s Flying Circus is copyright © 2013 by Ernest Hogan. Originally published in We See a Different Frontier: A Postcolonial Speculative Fiction Anthology. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Engineer by C.M. Kornbluth and Frederik Pohl, originally appeared in Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956.

The Date is copyright © 1990 by Larry Tritten. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, April 1990. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

Traumerei, by Charles Beaumont, originally appeared in Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956.

King of the Hill, by James Blish, originally appeared in Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956.

The Old Ones Hear, by Malcolm Jameson, originally appeared in Unknown Worlds, June 1942. Copyright © 1942, 1972 by Street & Smith.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly #24.

This has been an interesting for me—largely taken up by the moving of large quantities of books. (Well into the thousands.) I purchased the collection of a local fan and book dealer who had passed away, and of course that meant shifting the books from his house to my house. Boxes. And boxes. And boxes. It’s been so exhausting, I’ve decided to hire people to move the other half after I box it up. (Did you know the Earth’s gravity is increasing? That’s the only reason I can think of for books to have suddenly become so heavy. They didn’t used to be!)

Anyway, we still managed to put together another great issue of Black Cat Weekly. #24 has lots of good stories, including an original Sherlock Holmes adventure from A.L. Sirois, courtesy of editor Michael Bracken. Plus a great Steve Hockensmith tale (but not one of his Holmes-inspired stories), selected by Barb Goffman. And Cynthia Ward has found us a fascinating Ernest Hogan tale. Plus we have some classic by such talents as James Blish, Charles Beaumont, Larry Tritten, Richard S. Prather, and Frederik Pohl & C.M. Kornbluth.

Here’s the complete lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure

Soul Searching, by Laird Long [short story]

A Fine Kettle of Fish, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

Dead Wrong, by Frank Kane [short story]

Taken for a Ride, by Hulbert Footner [short novel]

Random Harvest, by Michael Allan Mallory [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

Duenna to a Murder, by Rufus King [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy

Soul Searching, by Laird Long [short story]

On Stony Ground, by Cynthia Ward [short story]

Corrigan’s Homunculi, by Larry Tritten [short story]

Carillon of Skulls, by Lester del Rey and James H. Beard [short story]

Abel Baker Camel, by Richard Wilson [short story]

The Great Nebraska Sea, by Allan Danzig [short story]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE ADVENTURE OF THE CURIOUS CUBE,

by A.L. Sirois

No sooner did he pulled the slim cheroot out of his shirt pocket than his brother bristled. No, you don’t! Take that filthy thing outside.

What? Don’t be so wet.

I won’t have you stinking up my rooms. Mycroft folded his arms and glared at his younger sibling. "God knows why you’ve started smoking in the first place, at your age. I have to endure Father’s cigars at home, but here I make the rules. Now, out with you."

Oh, very well. Sherlock shrugged into his cape and stalked out. Mycroft’s rooms were on the second floor of the building, which faced a small quad. He hurried down the stairs and out the door.

It was a lovely April evening in 1868. The magnolia tree in one corner of the quad was in full flower, but Sherlock was not interested in spring blossoms. Someone in one of the nearby residential buildings was playing a violin—Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2 in E-flat major—passably well, Sherlock thought. Certainly better than I can do.

He came from the family home in West Sussex to visit Mycroft, an Oxford undergraduate. Mycroft wanted a government intelligence career.

As far as Sherlock was concerned he could have it. After a few recent experiences, including (with Mycroft’s assistance) successfully rescuing a kidnapped Oxford don, the younger Holmes decided to become a consulting investigator. Oxford had superb chemistry professors, and that subject greatly interested him.

Leaning against the door, he took the cheroot out of his pocket once more, ran it under his nose, and stuck it in his mouth prior to lighting it. When a tall, thin man entered the quad, Sherlock glanced at him, and away—then back, for the fellow was obviously wearing a disguise.

Holmes couldn’t help grinning. He knew a thing or two about concealing one’s identity, and this person was making a bad job of it: his inept costume consisted of a crude wig whose colour did not match his closely cropped black beard, and what Sherlock was sure were fake spectacles.

The man paid him no mind, but headed across the open space to the college building on the far side. Though the evening light was failing, Holmes saw his brown skin and fine features. A native Indian, he guessed. He mentally stripped away the glasses and wig. In his mind’s eye was a wiry man with a straight nose and fierce eyes. A recent headline flashed into his mind, accompanied by memories of an engraving of Captain Nemo the science pirate following purported sightings of his submersible vessel Nautilus off the Cornish coast...

Holmes blinked. Without the disguise, this man could be Nemo! Now, what might the infamous Captain Nemo, clumsily endeavoring to hide his identity, be doing here at Oxford? Intrigued, Sherlock thrust the unlit cheroot back into his pocket and was just about to follow his quarry when he noticed yet another man—two men, actually—who were apparently trailing Nemo. The older man wore a frock coat and a tall, flat-topped hat; the other one, long mustaches and an old bowler.

What have we here? Holmes drew back into the shadows.

As the pair entered the quad Nemo vanished into a doorway. Holmes saw the older of the two men turn to his companion. Hurry up, Scrawls! he hissed. Don’t let the damned wog out of your sight!

Holmes got a good look at the speaker’s face. With a start he recognized I. V. Barbicane, the American inventor who was recently reported to have made foolish, heated pronouncements about funding a lunar expedition. Holmes remembered the storm of ridicule these statements engendered in the papers. His curiosity now fully engaged, Sherlock slipped out of the doorway after Barbicane and his man.

Nemo and Barbicane, two renowned if infamous scientists, sneaking around an Oxford quad. Fascinating. He hurried after the Americans.

He was careful to be as quiet as possible when he entered the building, which smelled of dust and tobacco. A book with a piece of notepaper stuck in it sat on a table by the door. He picked it up and read the note. Thanks for the loan, old chap, it said.

You’re welcome, old chap, he thought, and tiptoed up the stairs with the book tucked under his arm. Though younger than any Oxford student, he was tall enough that he might reasonably be taken for one in case anyone questioned his presence.

Before him was a staircase. He heard footsteps ascending stealthily. Barbicane and Scrawls, of course. He ghosted up the stairs in their wake.

A landing was ahead, beyond which the stairs turned to the left. Holmes kept as low as he could and inched up until his eyes were level with the floor above. Down a short hallway Barbicane and Scrawls crouched near a doorway, obviously listening to a conversation in the room beyond. Barbicane slowly drew a revolver out of his pocket. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. From the closed room he heard muffled voices, one of which was a rather sing-song Indian cadence, but could not make out any words.

Frowning, Holmes lowered himself a step. I’ve got to get closer. A year ago he would have given up at this point; now, emboldened by a few recent detecting successes, he refused to be thwarted. Come, Sherlock. Nothing ventured!

Clutching the borrowed book he walked confidently up the stairs into the second floor hallway. Barbicane and Scrawls straightened hurriedly, Barbicane slipping the gun into his pocket as he stood. Sherlock pretended not to notice. Scrawls, the one with the bowler hat, was thuggish in looks, with Barbicane much the more notable of the pair. He was of middle height, an inch or two shorter than Holmes, with strong, square features and one thick eyebrow across the bridge of his nose. His expression flitted from surprise to a sort of contempt. Holmes sauntered up to the door. A brass name plate thereon read G. WILLIAMS, and beneath that, GEOLOGY.

Who are you? Barbicane said in a quiet but menacing tone.

Hullo, chaps, said Holmes. I’ve got to speak to the professor regarding an assignment. May I get by?

Scrawls took a step toward him and Sherlock braced himself for an attack, but Barbicane’s meaty hand fell on his underling’s shoulder. I’m afraid the professor is rather busy, he said, a patently disingenuous smile spreading out on his heavy face. We’re waiting for him ourselves.

Oh really? Sherlock deliberately raised his voice. And who are you? Americans, aren’t you? What are you doing—?

Keep your voice down! Barbicane exclaimed.

Listen, sonny, you better move along, said Scrawls, raising a fist.

I say, are you threatening me, sir? Holmes said, even more loudly, hoping to alert Nemo and Professor Williams to the threat outside the room, thereby allowing them to prepare for trouble, or perhaps to flee.

Without warning the door was thrown open, revealing a stocky middle-aged man with longish white hair, a prow of a nose, and tangled eyebrows beneath which two icy blue eyes regarded the trio of intruders.

Who the deuce are you lot and what do you want? he demanded, eyes flicking back and forth between them. When his gaze landed on Sherlock, his scowl cleared.

"I recognize you, at least, he said. Holmes’s brother, aren’t you?"

At your service, said Sherlock, inclining his head.

Ah. I remember you from that business with Dodgson’s kidnapping last year. He looked at Barbicane and Scrawls. But who are these people?

Barbicane began to bluster. Holmes looked over the professor’s broad shoulders into his apartment. There stood Nemo, still wearing his idiotic wig. At least he’s got rid of the glasses, thought Holmes.

Holmes ducked under Williams’s arm and scuttled into the room. Ignoring Scrawls’ shout he walked quickly to the submariner, who drew a dagger from inside his coat.

Captain Nemo! Holmes said. You see I know who you are. I also know the fellow behind me is Mr Barbicane. You are in danger. We must leave.

Nemo raked him with a sharp glance. Barbicane? he said, still holding the dagger. I did not see that wretched American following me. As to leaving, there is no way out other than the door.

Holmes stepped to the window, which was open to catch the clement night’s breezes. Behind him in the corridor, the professor’s voice grew sharper and Barbicane’s angrier. The sill was choked with ivy... The ivy! he said. I think we can climb down it. He threw a leg over the sill and grasped the dusty stems. They clung tightly to the ancient building’s wall and he lowered himself without fear.

For Krishna’s sake! Nemo ground out, but followed. They weren’t halfway down when Holmes, looking up, saw the Americans’ heads appear in the window.

Stop! shouted Barbicane, aiming his gun. Or I’ll blow your Limey head off.

Holmes, perspiring more freely, said, Oh, do shoot at us, do! And keep shouting! By all means, attract more attention!

I’ll get ’em, growled Scrawls, shoving Barbicane aside. He grabbed hold of the ivy just as Holmes and Nemo leapt to the ground. Holmes pushed the Indian toward Mycroft’s building across the quad. That way, Captain!

Nemo trotted off across the quad. Holmes turned to confront Barbicane’s henchman, who dropped heavily to the sward and advanced with arms raised threateningly.

Holmes stood, knees slightly bent, awaiting Scrawls’s rush. The thug did not disappoint: when he was within a few yards of the boy he dashed forward, a confident grin on his face—only to find himself flipped over Sherlock’s hip and thrown heavily to the ground. His bowler hat rolled away on its brim.

Holmes almost laughed in Scrawls’s face as the American looked up at him in amazement. How—?

Holmes faced him, knees bent again, ready for another onslaught. You wouldn’t understand, he said between his teeth. Again Scrawls rushed him, and again he flipped the man.

This time, instead of waiting for Scrawls to recover, Sherlock dashed after Nemo and caught up with him scant yards from Mycroft’s dwelling. What does he want? Sherlock gasped out. Never mind, he added after a glance behind in time to see Barbicane hurry out the door toward the still prone Scrawls. We’ve got to get inside. My brother lives here.

He seized Nemo’s arm and all but dragged him into the building. Mycroft’s room was but a few steps down the upstairs hall, and Sherlock and Nemo were at its door in moments. Sherlock rapped at the wood panels.

Finished your evil smoke, have you? came Mycroft’s voice from inside. He opened the door. Sherlock and Nemo pushed in past him. Sherlock whirled around and slammed the door shut.

Lock it! he told Mycroft, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the stranger accompanying his brother.

Who in the world is this? he demanded. "Wait—the Prince Dakkar, infamous captain of the Nautilus! How diverting."

Now it was Nemo’s turn for widened eyes. "How could you possibly know who I am? Either of you!"

Mycroft glanced at his brother. Sherlock said, News reports, a disguised Indian gentleman... an elementary deduction.

And for my part, said Mycroft, turning to Nemo, your pardon, prince, but you smell faintly of curry, fish, and machine oil. He shrugged. As my brother says, the deduction is an easy one. Now Sherlock, he added to his sibling, let this be a lesson to you about why smoking should be discouraged; it deadens one’s sense of smell.

Sherlock made a conciliatory gesture. We can discuss it later. Our pursuers are approaching from below.

I believe they are after this, said Nemo, digging into a pocket and pulling out a small cube of dull grey metal which he showed them on his outstretched palm.

Mycroft picked it up and regarded it with curiosity. Mmm. And what is it? He handed it to Sherlock, who likewise frowned at the small sample.

A metal with which I am unfamiliar, he said. Congratulations, Captain. He looked at Nemo. You have stumped us. Not an easy thing to do.

It is almost pure titanium, said the submariner.

Sherlock scoffed. Sir, it cannot be. No one has succeeded in creating such a thing.

Titanium! Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. I have heard of it. Most rare; and, as my brother says, not available in its pure form.

Until now, said Nemo in obvious satisfaction, pocketing the cube. Professor Williams is an expert in ores and mining. I wished to confer with him concerning—

At that moment there came a pounding on the door.

Additional revelations must be postponed. Mycroft reached for a wooden box on the mantelpiece and from it withdrew a gleaming pistol. Nemo took his dagger from his coat as Sherlock gripped the fireplace poker.

Mycroft looked them over. Mmm. It will have to do. Concealing his weapon hand behind the door he opened it on the two irate Americans. With amusement Sherlock noted a large dent in Scrawls’s bowler. May I help you?

Where is he? Barbicane growled.

Mycroft looked down his nose at the man. Ah. Mr I. V. Barbicane, I believe. Where is who, sir?

That damned—wait, how do you know who I am? The wog told you! Or that other punk.

By no means, Mycroft said, his voice icy. By your accent you are American. I specialize in diplomatic and intelligence studies here at the university, and am familiar with your likeness from various periodicals and newspapers. You can be none other than the well-known American armaments manufacturer. I have read many articles about your project to build an enormous gun capable of firing a projectile at the Moon. The international community is quite abuzz over it.

Barbicane favored him with a disdainful gaze. Clever young buck you are. But, he went on, glancing over Mycroft’s shoulder, I see my quarry within. Kindly stand aside.

Mycroft brought the gun from behind the door. Sherlock stepped forward with the poker. Nemo held his dagger at the ready.

Dear me, said Mycroft. I rather doubt you’ll be able to dispose of all of us before you are overpowered, sir. Particularly as you only have one pistol; otherwise your slovenly man here would have drawn one. Negative publicity of this sort would not go over well with your colleagues at the Baltimore Gun Club, I suspect, and might imperil your attempts at practical rocketry.

Barbicane showed his teeth in a fierce scowl as he brandished his gun. I’m warning you, he said.

Mycroft examined the weapon with interest. Ah, he said. A superb Remington 1858 pocket revolver. Originally of .31 caliber, I believe—Sherlock? Would you concur?

Sherlock stepped forward and peered at the gun. Indeed, he said, but it seems to have been converted to a .38. That gives it rather more stopping power.

Thank you, brother, I thought as much. Addressing Barbicane once more, Mycroft said, Sir, a single shot from your pistol—powerful though it may be—will within moments bring any number of people here. He sniffed loudly. Do reconsider, I beg you.

Scrawls sucked in a breath in order to speak, but Barbicane restrained him. Very well, he growled. We will take our leave. He looked hard at all of his adversaries in turn. "I will remember you three, I assure you. Especially you, Captain Nemo. We shall speak again."

I trust not, Nemo replied. A good evening to you, Mr Barbicane.

Barbicane glowered at him and spat on the threshhold. He turned and was gone.

Mycroft, eyebrows raised, watched the Americans troop down the stairs. The downstairs door opened, then slammed shut. What a rude fellow, he said, and turned to his guests. Now then, he began.

Sherlock gasped. Professor Williams! We must check on him.

They hastened to the professor’s rooms, to find him bound and gagged on his bed, irate and red-faced but otherwise unharmed. I don’t know what might have happened if you had not come along, young man, he said to Sherlock after he was freed. "I am most grateful.

As for Captain Nemo... Williams bowed to the submariner. I confess to harboring rather a sneaking admiration for you, sir. I was something of an anti-imperialist myself, in my youth. I would not admit it to my colleagues, however, he said aside to Mycroft, who gave him a wintry smile.

Thank you, sir, said Nemo. Now then, before we were interrupted, I was about to show you this. He took the cube of titanium from his pocket and handed it to Williams, who accepted it with an air of reverence.

Is this... ?

Nemo nodded. Titanium. Almost completely purified.

Extraordinary! However did you manage it? But—where are my manners? You must all join me in a cup of tea.

Soon they sat sipping Darjeeling and munching on biscuits. Now then, sir, said Williams, what need have you for such an exotic material?

"I wish to upgrade the hull and bracing systems of the Nautilus, said Nemo. I want something stronger and lighter than steel. To that end I have been experimenting with various metals. I have been somewhat successful in reducing titanium tetrachloride with sodium in a batch reactor with an inert atmosphere, say of helium, which is easily obtainable, at a temperature of 1,000°C. Dilute hydrochloric acid is then used to leach the salt from the product."

Williams listened to the rest of Nemo’s explanation with great interest, occasionally interjecting a comment. Sherlock understood most of what the two said, but he noticed that Mycroft made no pretense of paying attention.

You don’t find this fascinating? Sherlock murmured at one point.

Mmm. Not in the least. Another biscuit?

Williams was saying, I daresay you can make the process work, sir, but apparatus large enough to supply the amount of metal for your purposes will be cumbersome, and extremely expensive to construct. It will also be dangerous to operate.

I suspected as much. Nemo sighed. I fear I must look elsewhere for a suitable material. Nevertheless, I thank you, professor. He and the Holmes brothers took their leave of Williams and returned to Mycroft’s apartment.

Once there, Nemo prepared to depart. Though I was at pains to keep word of my interest in titanium quiet, he said, obviously Barbicane got wind of it. I do not know how he could have done.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, who nodded. Sherlock said, Clearly you have an informant, a spy, in your organization, Captain. Most probably among your crew.

Nemo looked at him in surprise. But my men—they have all been with me for years. They share my ideology, my hatred of the imperialistic nations.

Sherlock is doubtless correct, said Mycroft. Money can easily change people’s minds, my dear sir. History has taught us that lesson again and again.

Nemo knotted his hands together, scowling. Alas, it has. I do not, however, understand why Barbicane would have gone to such lengths to learn about my research.

Mycroft tapped his chin thoughtfully. Possibly he suspects you of wishing to build a space vehicle of your own.

Nemo looked at him in surprise. I? A space vehicle? He gave an incredulous laugh. Absurd!

Is it? Mycroft cocked his head at Nemo. Given that you have proven to be something of a thorn in the side of... shall we say, certain government entities, sir, your personal history is relatively well-known. You are a descendant of Sultan Fateh Ali Khan Tipu of the Kingdom of Mysore, famous for the Anglo-Mysore Wars in which crude rockets were used against the British. One might say a fascination for rocketry runs in the family.

Nemo scoffed. Ridiculous, Mr Holmes. I have no interest in rockets.

Evidently Mr Barbicane thinks otherwise, Sherlock said.

It is of no concern to me what he thinks, said Nemo, making a dismissive gesture.

It should be. Mycroft steepled his fingers. "Having conquered the seas, why would you not wish to go further? It is how he thinks, what he would do. He cannot imagine you would not do the same. He has proven himself to be a determined and unscrupulous adversary, especially if, as my brother and I believe, he has managed to subvert the loyalty of one of your men."

Nemo’s eyes grew cold. In the name of Kali, I swear I will root out this spy. He bowed to them in turn. I am in your debt.

We play for different teams, Captain, said Mycroft, but at bottom we all seek to rid the world of corruption and malign influences.

And war, Nemo replied. I would not see a future in which Barbicane’s obsession with rockets leads to their increased use in combat.

I’m not sure what may be done to prevent it, Sherlock said, accompanying Nemo to the door.

We all must do what we can, Nemo said. His dark eyes, Sherlock noted, were solemn, even sad, beneath tangled eyebrows. "Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, and from those who are cold and go unclothed. Barbicane’s fanaticism leads to such a world. That, my friends, is what I will always fight against.

"Now I take my leave. I long to get out of these constricting British garments and into proper clothing. Why you must wear your shirts tucked in, I do not know." With that, he bowed once more, and disappeared into the night.

Sherlock and Mycroft watched him go. The man is an enemy of England, Mycroft murmured. I should... alert the authorities of his presence on our soil.

"Yet we helped him. I liked Nemo, Mycroft. He has charisma."

Mycroft scoffed. The deranged can be most charismatic. I’ve met a number of such people here at Oxford, as well as in the Crown’s employ.

"Nemo did not strike me as being deranged. And you said we all work for the same goals."

I did, didn’t I. Mmm. Mycroft frowned.

Sherlock did not quite smile. Fear not; I won’t mention it again. He absently took another cheroot out of his pocket.

Mycroft sneered. "No. And if you must smoke, in the name of Heaven at least try a pipe."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Al Sirois