Sherlock Holmes - The Persian Slipper and Other Stories

By Brenda Seabrooke, David Marcum and Derrick Belanger

Did you ever wonder where Sherlock Holmes found the Persian slipper he keeps his shag tobacco in? Had Holmes and Watson ever met before that day at St. Barts? Did Holmes really believe in curses when he said he did?
Dr. John Watson reveals the answers to these questions in The Persian Slipper and Other Stories along with cases involving the putative Naval Man, a night spent at a gentlemen's club, Holmes' second marriage proposal, a movable tree, and a surprising wedding ending.
Eight traditional pastiches with a touch of fantasy here and there were published in Holmes anthologies at Belanger Books in the US and MX Publishing in the UK. Brenda Seabrooke is the author of 22 books - mostly mysteries - for young readers and many stories in anthologies and literary journals. She has received a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Robie Macauley Award from Emerson College and was a finalist for the Edgar Allan Poe Award at Mystery Writers of America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MX Publishing
• Release date: May 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781787059863

Book preview

Sherlock Holmes: The Persian Slipper and Other Stories

The Stage Is Set

Fog climbs out of the river

to roam the darkened streets

and shrouds alike Mayfair and Whitechapel,

limits lamplight blur but magnifies

the mournful tones

of the one-eyed watching clock.

The fire purrs in the grate

applewood if available

armchairs drawn to the hearth,

the Persian slipper nailed

to the fireplace’s right side filled

with navy-cut shag perhaps

steeped in rum sailor-style.

The square-shouldered brandy

decanter ringed with balloon glasses

the favourite Scotch at the ready

Watson on the left works his way

through a medical journal.

Holmes on the right peruses

the day’s newspapers

keeping his eye on crime.

London lies silent, hushed, waiting

The clop of hooves on cobblestone,

Hansom wheels trundle to a stop

at 221 Baker Street

the door knocker lifts.

The game is afoot.

Published in The Proceedings of the Pondicherry Lodge December 2021

The Marzando Matter

I set out with a light heart driving Mrs. Fenton’s pony cart to her brother’s croft where I would leave it for him to take tatties and neeps to market and keep it there for the winter. The pony’s breath smoked on the cool October day as we trotted along the country roads leaving Edinburgh’s cap of smoky haze behind us. My mother lent me to her friend because I was home for midterm and had nothing to do but she was wrong on that matter: I had much to do. Dr. Gillespie said now that I was fifteen, I was old enough to shadow him to see if I really wanted to be a physician. I’d run errands for Dr. Gill’s surgery since I was small. I was familiar with a doctor’s life and already knew that was my choice.

Still it was pleasant to be in the clean air of the countryside. I took deep breaths to clear my lungs and nasal passages of any catarrh from the coal smoke of Auld Reekie as people called Edinburgh. I suspected a connection with lung ailments even though some medical men thought smoke was a deterrent for those diseases. How could dirty smoke be good for anything?

I arrived at the croft in time for a midday meal of bread, cheese, and tea. Mr. Roberts arranged for me to ride with another farmer to the next town. From there I could walk to my destination or if I was early enough, buy an up-top ticket and take the coach to Rosegiel but as it happened I just missed the coach. I walked to my destination at my father’s aunt’s croft, a widow since her husband died last year. This trip was twofold, to keep her in touch with the family and cheer her up since she lived alone now.

As I trudged up the lane to the low white-washed cottage, I saw in just a year, neglect had set in. The cottage needed a fresh coat of white-wash. Some of the fencing sagged so low, if she’d had any cows, they could’ve stepped over it. Weeds grew knee-high around the doorway and in the remains of the garden behind the house. I’d bought myself a meat pie in the last town and brewed myself tea with a small fire and the kettle on the hob. The hearth was cold to the touch so I knew she had been away for some time.

With the energy from my tea, I set myself to work on some of the cottage’s neglect. I found remnants of whitewash in the barn and after mixing it, had enough to cover the front of the house and the side entrance. I propped up the fencing in the last of the light.

I found her note on the bed when, weary with the long journey and my labours, I hauled myself up the winding stairs to sleep. Her great-niece was having her first baby, she wrote, and she went to help. She didn’t say where or I might have joined her in the morning. Nor did she say when she would return. Make myself at home, she wrote.

***

I awoke to a drippy day, glad I’d whitewashed the day before. I cleared the weeds from around the doorway but the rain settled in and I’d no wish to sit in a cold cottage wasting her coal. I donned my black Inverness, inherited from my older brother, as protection against the day’s wet bluster and set off. I’d been told Rosegiel was somewhat larger than the town where I bought my pie. Indeed I enjoyed a hot mutton stew, a wedge of pudding and a cup of tea accompanied by the crackling fire at the Black Bear. I lingered as long as I could in the inn’s warmth but finally left at the same time as a group of men laughing and jostling each other. I heard the name Marzando and magic mentioned but could make no sense of it. I followed to see where they were going. I’d nothing better to do on this rainy day but sit alone in the cottage as the coach wouldn’t return for three days.

Some of the men were joined by their wives. One couple seemed to be in disagreement. I want to see it as much as you do, she said, tossing her head so that her red hair bounced under her bonnet. Why do you get to have all the fun?

I’ll want my tea when ‘tis over, the man, obviously her husband, said.

You can have it same as me, she said, or fix it yourself.

The man sputtered at that but didn’t stop her from joining him and the crowd moving up the high street. At the cross street the crowd grew larger before it was funnelled into a building that looked like a community hall on the outside and proved to be one inside despite theatre touches here and there such as curtains at a raised end facing the benches. The draw-curtains hung from a board painted to look like a short curtain.

I paid my penny to an old crone wearing a lot of chains and coins around her neck and a red scarf on her head and took my seat about midway in the hall.

They probably have poultry shows here, a voice murmured behind me. I turned around to see a thin boy close to my age. He glanced at me but didn’t return my smile. His accent was English upper but I thought I heard a Highland burr buried underneath.

I turned my attention back to the stage. When everyone was seated, we waited for something to happen. I didn’t know what this show was supposed to be. Was it a play? A musical concert? Before I could ask, from behind the stage came a long drum roll and the curtains opened slowly to reveal a hellish light, red from pierced metal cylinders holding candles under red-tinted glass across the front of the raised stage.

Very effective, drawled the voice behind me.

And it was. Suddenly a dark-haired woman in silver spangles stepped from the curtains on the side of the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, may I present to you the world’s greatest magician, descendant of the world’s first magician Dedi, master of ancient arts of Egypt, India and the mystical Druids, master of magic, wizard of the wonderful, the magnificent Marzando the Great!

Something moved against the black curtain across the back of the stage. With a twirl, the shadow revealed itself to be a man in a black suit. Tall and imposing, his top hat made him even taller until he swept it off with a flourish and showed us it was empty. He reached into it with his other hand and pulled out a white rabbit. The audience gasped in amazement as the rabbit wiggled in his grasp. It was alive.

Not magic at all, murmured the voice behind me.

Maybe not, but I didn’t know how he did it.

The Great Marzando took a carrot out of his pocket and fed it to the rabbit to prove it was not a puppet he was causing to kick.

His spangled assistant whisked the rabbit away into a black bin on the edge of the stage where presumably it munched its carrot for the rest of the show which proved not to be very long.

And now I will show you some of the wonderments of the world.

The assistant set out jars and the magician poured liquid from one into another to make it turn different colours with a tap of his wand and all the time he continued to talk about magic and the wondrous things he would show us, a river of words sounding like song or a poem.

Basic chemistry, came the disgusted comment behind me.

As if he’d heard the boy’s remark, the Great Marzando stepped to the front of the stage and peered into the audience. I need the assistance of a bright lad.

Immediately boys all over the hall raised their hands or leaped up. I raised mine, too.

You there, the tall boy in the middle. The magician pointed to my right shoulder. I didn’t think he meant me. I wasn’t tall for my age though I hoped to grow more before next half-term. The boy behind me stood up and though he was tall, looked a bit younger than me as he slouched to the stage steps. He climbed up and stood beside the magician. He was almost as tall as Marzando.

What’s your name, lad?

Sherwin Soames, sir.

Well Sherwin, would you like to make some money?

Certainly, sir. Was I imagining it or was Sherwin dragging out the r in sir? Was he committing sarcasm?

Let’s see if we can find some coins. I suspect you have more than you think you have.

Indeed.

The Great Marzando gave him a quick look but then went on with his constant comments bidding him to choose hands, look behind his ear, all the places where a coin would not usually be found. The audience loved this. They thought the boy was one of them, probably a relation from an outlying farm who’d had a growth spurt since last they saw him and maybe he was but I suspected otherwise judging from his previous comments.

The door opened behind me and a group of men entered. They didn’t try to find seats which might have been difficult with the hall filled, but stood against the back wall, watching. The magician paid no attention to them and I wondered if they were part of the act but I dismissed the thought. They looked authoritative by the way they stood, feet apart, hands though weaponless, at the ready.

"And now I, the Great Marzando shall present the greatest magic trick the world has ever known, performed first for the Grand Moguls of India where I learned from an ancient fakir who claimed to be a hundred and fifty-seven years old.

You may take your seat Sherwin, he told the boy who stepped back and disappeared behind the dark curtain. I waited for him to return to his seat behind me but he didn’t.

The rope, Magda, if you please, he told his assistant.

She reached into the darkness and brought out a coiled rope which she handed to Marzando with a great flourish. He put his right hand out for it as everybody leaned forward on their seats not to miss a thing. Suddenly the magician clutched his heart, gasped I die and crumpled to the floor.

Magda ran to him and fell to her knees. She turned and in an anguished voice cried, Is there a doctor in the house?

No one stepped forward. I stood up, uncertain since all I’d done was run errands for a doctor’s office but I saw medicine being practiced. Perhaps I could help since nobody else could.

I ran to the stage and leaped onto it. In two steps I was beside the man. I knelt and loosened his collar. I noted the tall boy watching from the side curtain. Why didn’t he try to help?

Magda looked surprised at my youth. I’m a doctor’s assistant, I said as I lifted the magician’s wrist.

Do something, Magda implored, wringing her hands which held a bright red scarf.

I put my fingers on his wrist to take his pulse. It was as strong as mine. To my great surprise, he opened the eye away from the audience and winked at me.

What was this? Another trick?

Maybe because I was obviously a boy, the audience thought so, too and began to clap.

Play along, the magician said out of the corner of his mouth.

Is he dead? Magda cried.

He is beyond help, madam, I said.

Ooooohhhh! she shrieked and staggered to the front of the stage where she tripped over her scarf and fell over the cylinder of red light thus exposing the candle. The flame caught her scarf. With a scream she flung it off. The scarf seemed to travel across the stage until one end reached the jars of chemicals and created great gushes of smoke. The flame continued along the length of the other end of the scarf and leapt to the side curtain and suddenly the theatre was filled with smoke and flames.

Some of the glass jars exploded, frightening the crowd which now stampeded to the door, overcoming the group of men standing near it. I tried to raise the inert body of the magician but he rolled away into the darkness of the side of the stage and the tall boy said, He’s as healthy as we are. Let’s get out of here.

We can’t go through those flames and smoke.

There’s a stage door behind this curtain.

Close to the stage floor where I knelt, the air was clearer but when I stood up I choked as he pulled me after him. I followed him blindly into the thick dark smoke. I can’t tell how far we moved inching our way to the side through the flaming curtains and beyond until a door was opened by somebody and we fell through it into the alley beside the hall. The door closed as we lay there gasping huge gulps of the cold night air before we attempted to stand. We must’ve been watching the show longer than I thought. The sun had already set behind the hills. Only a little grey light remained and that would soon disappear.

The magician stood in front of us and looked perfectly healthy to me. You got the take? he asked his assistant in a low voice. And the rabbit?

She nodded. Quick! Into the cart. Take us to your farm, she said in an urgent whisper to Sherwin.

He climbed into the cart. I don’t live around here.

You then. The magician turned to me.

I don’t live here either but I’m staying at a farm. We could go there. Until you feel better. I tried a little sarcasm of my own.

Sherwin gave me a funny look as he moved over and handed the reins to me. I climbed in and turned around. Where did they go? The assistant and magician had both disappeared.

They’re under the black velvet cloth topped by straw in back, Sherwin whispered. I think the straw is sewed onto the cloth. When they lift it, the straw stays in place.

How odd. Why would he think that? Must be some kind of stage trick.

I concentrated on driving the cart. What’s the horse’s name?

Pegasus, said a muffled voice from the back of the cart.

But it’s black.

It’s a joke, Sherwin whispered. Or maybe part of an act in which the Great Marzando turns the horse back to its natural colour by washing off the black dye.

I glanced at him. Was he joking, too? You can’t always tell with sly Scots but Sherwin didn’t sound Scottish now. His burr had disappeared.

It wouldn’t be the first time a horse has been disguised by dye. Happens a lot in racing. So I’m told, he added

Or did you observe it for yourself?

He laughed. Caught me. Yes, I sneak in and pretend to be a stable boy sometimes when I can get away from school. I pick up tips for my brother to bet on the horses. He rewards me well. Enough to pay for tobacco and the occasional sherry if he’s buying.

Tobacco at his age? It hadn’t stunted his growth.

I doubled back on a road behind the town and now drove us onto the high road. When we’d gone a bit, the Great Marzando said from the back, Are we clear of the town now?

Yes, we are. We’re going away from it.

Pull over then, boy. What’s your name?

Uh Ian, sir. Ian Dotson. I don’t know why I concealed my identity. Something in the back of mind told me when things aren’t what they seem, to take cover.

Well Ian, pull over and let’s make some adjustments.

I did as directed and turned around to see two unknown figures emerging from underneath the black straw-covered cloth that didn’t move or spill. Sherwin was correct about that.

The dazzling dark-haired assistant in the spangled dress, Magda was now an elderly woman with grey hair under a nondescript hat, a grey shawl over her blue cloak. The Great Marzando transformed himself into an old farmer with grey hair under a cap. Both walked stooped over as many elderly farm workers did from strenuous work. All that bending is hard on the back muscles and maybe the bones as well, I’d heard Dr. Gillespie say many times.

Beth here will drive the cart into town as if coming from the east on her way west to Oban to visit her sick sister. I’ll tag along with you boys as your uncle come from around Dumfries way. The men looking for me won’t know the difference.

Why are they looking for you? I asked though I could think of many reasons.

You heard of the magician calls himself the Great Zinestra?

No, I said, I haven’t heard of any magicians until tonight.

He calls himself a magician but he’s a stealer of tricks. He must’ve heard I was doing the Great Mogul Rope Trick and come to try to steal it from me. Not many magicians know this ancient eastern trick. I am one of them and I’d be willing to wager not more than two others know it and they may not know it as well as they talk about it.

I never wager. I need all my pennies to pay for medical school in a few years.

Sherwin snorted or it could have been the horse.

Never mind. Up you go, my dear. He handed Magda now Beth up to the driver’s seat and I gave the reins over to her. Turn right at the crossroad and it will take you back into town headed toward Oban.

Thank you kindly young lad, she replied in a querulous voice.

I’ll see you in Oban, Marzando said.

And I’ll see you. Gee up, Peggy, she said and Pegasus trotted smartly into the roadbed. Once on it, Magda-Beth slowed the mare down to a walk as if nearly at the end of a long journey.

Now then, lads, where’s that farm of yours?

It’s not mine. It’s my aunt’s. She’s away so it will just be us if Sherwin is coming along.

I wouldn’t miss it.

Let’s get a leg on then, shall we lads?

We started walking and it seemed to take longer than the walk from the farm to the town. Nobody had much breath for talking and as the night turned colder I began to worry about taking two fine fellows to my aunt’s simple farmhouse and the problem of nothing to eat there but eggs from the chickens. The farm isn’t fancy, I began.

We do not expect marble halls, do we Sherwin?