In League with Sherlock Holmes, page 1
To Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:
Steel true, blade straight
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
by Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger
THE STRANGE JUJU AFFAIR AT THE GACY MANSION
by Kwei Quartey
WHAT MY FATHER NEVER TOLD ME
by Tess Gerritsen
THE CASE OF THE WAILING GHOSTS
by Joe R. Lansdale and Kasey Lansdale
THE TWENTY-FIVE-YEAR ENGAGEMENT
by James W. Ziskin
WHEN YOU HEAR HOOFBEATS
by Robin Burcell
MR. HOMES, I PRESUME?
by Joe Hill
DYING IS EASY
by Joe Hill and illustrated by Martin Simmonds
THE OBSERVANCE OF TRIFLES
by Martin Edwards
INFINITE LOOP
by Naomi Hirahara
A SÉANCE IN LIVERPOOL
by Lisa Morton
BENCHLEY
by Derek Haas
THE MURDERER’S PARADOX
by David Corbett
A SCANDAL ON THE JERSEY SHORE
by Brad Parks
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NORTHRIDGE BILKER
by James Lincoln Warren
CUMBERBACHELOR
by Maria Alexander
A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY
by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
INTRODUCTION
by Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger
When Dr. Watson suggests to Sherlock Holmes in “The Five Orange Pips” that the identity of a late-night caller ringing their bell might be “some friend” of Holmes, Holmes famously answers, “Except yourself I have none.” We know that this is an exaggeration, for Holmes must admit to at least a few close acquaintances: Wilson Hargreave of the New York police; old Sherman, the taxidermist and owner of the dog Toby; young Stamford, who introduced Dr. Watson to him; the French detective Francois Le Villard; and of course, Mrs. Hudson, who was so fond of him. Perhaps the truest measure of a man’s friends is the roster of those who attend his funeral. As can be seen by the contemporary newspaper report discovered by Leslie Klinger in 2012, I Holmes’s mourners included dozens of professional colleagues, former clients, and others whose lives he had touched (as well as, it must be admitted, some who wanted to be sure that he was dead).
The circle of Holmes’s friends continued to expand long after his active years, as Dr. Watson’s accounts of their years together grew more and more popular. Films of Holmes’s cases made him the most popular subject in the history of cinema. Thousands of radio broadcasts and stage plays further spread his fame and won him new friends. Today, there are over three hundred members of the Baker Street Irregulars, hundreds of members of Holmes societies in numerous countries, and thousands who belong to local Sherlockian groups, every one of whom would name Holmes as their friend.
The origin of this series of anthologies has been told before. We were asked to appear on a panel on the subject of Holmes at a mystery convention and requested the addition of Lee Child, Michael Connelly, and Jan Burke. When the organizer protested that those were the guests of honor of the convention, we mentioned that they were also secret admirers of Holmes and would be fine panelists. After a splendid panel discussion, we thought, “Why don’t we ask them to write stories inspired by Holmes?” The panelists agreed, and the rest, as they say, is history: This series now extends to more than ninety distinguished writers—drawn from the genres of crime fiction, thrillers, fantasy, science fiction, horror, and other fields, including artists, novelists, screenwriters, and short story specialists—all happy to count themselves “in league with Sherlock Holmes.”
We’ve been approached by agents asking if their clients could submit stories. We’ve been asked by well-known writers of Holmesian tales if they could join the company. We’ve turned these down, not because the materials we would have received would fall below our standards but because we’ve tried to keep to a simple and consistent approach. Firstly, we have limited the contributors to our friends. This is, after all, a project for our own enjoyment—not “work”—and the pay is far below what these fine writers usually command. Secondly, we have strictly—well, pretty strictlyII—required that the contributors must be persons not previously known to be friends of Holmes. There are dozens of fine anthologies consisting of pastiches of the Holmes tales written by dozens of well-known pasticheurs. Ours are intended to be different, because—thirdly—we have emphasized that we are not asking for stories about Sherlock Holmes; rather, we seek stories inspired by Dr. Watson’s tales of Holmes.
The responses to our invitations have been delightful, astonishing, amusing, and even breathtaking (which should be no surprise, considering the credentials of those we’ve invited to contribute). Here you’ll find tales of persons who think like Holmes or admire Holmes or set out to emulate Holmes. There’s even stories featuring Holmes. You’ll discover secrets about some of Holmes’s acquaintances and his foes. You will journey to Victorian England, the modern New Jersey shore, the teeming metropolises of London and New York, and many points in between. Some of what follows are detective stories, some are not. We hope that you will be as delighted, astonished, and amused as we were—and henceforth boldly proclaim yourselves to be “in league with Sherlock Holmes”!
Laurie R. King and
Leslie S. Klinger
I. The article, which appeared in the May 27, 1891, issue of the Yorkshire Evening Press, is reprinted in Leslie S. Klinger, “In Memoriam Sherlock Holmes,” Baker Street Journal 62, no. 2 (Summer 2012): 22–28, and a collection of Klinger’s writing, Baker Street Reveries (Indianapolis: Gasogene Books, 2018). The memorial service in question, held in St. Monica’s Church in May 1891, was, of course, a sham, perpetrated by his brother Mycroft, for unbeknownst to Dr. Watson and virtually everyone else in the world, Holmes was alive and well in 1891.
II. Neil Gaiman, John Lescroart, and Jonathan Maberry were exceptions in two of the previous anthologies, each having previously written a single story about Holmes, but we really, really wanted them to participate.
THE STRANGE JUJU AFFAIR AT THE GACY MANSION
by Kwei Quartey
During the months of June to August, the weather in my hometown Liati Wote, which lies at the base of Ghana’s Mount Afadja, can be quite cold—at least for a Ghanaian. It was there one evening, during a weekend off from my detective work, that I joined my dear friend Prosper around a crackling wood stove, simmering upon which was a large pot of palm soup, emitting the most heavenly aroma. As we awaited the readiness of the meal, I told him the tale of the murder at the Gacy mansion.
As I told Prosper, I would almost certainly never have solved the crime had I not consulted one Superintendent Mensah Blay. The legendary detective, known for his formidable powers of observation and deduction, had retired after a rumored nervous breakdown during his final days in the Ghana Police Service (GPS). What had caused his abrupt decline was unclear. Some suggested that it was the death of his beloved wife, while others claimed that Blay’s own genius had “overpowered him” and inflicted irreparable harm to his psyche.
At the time I went to see the superintendent, I was a young, inexperienced homicide detective at least half Blay’s age. My colleagues at the Criminal Investigation Department had decried my idea of seeking his help, even though the case had us all completely at sea.
“Superintendent Blay doesn’t like to see anyone,” a colleague warned me.
Another, “He is not taking on any new cases.”
“He will kick you out,” said yet another.
* * *
From what I knew, Mensah Blay now spent much of his retirement time engaged in the hobby that had become his livelihood—making wooden toys for children. When Blay had been much younger, he had made them for his own children and then, with the passage of time, his grandchildren. Blay’s delightful yet robust replicas of cars, planes, and trains had functional moving parts, as did his dollhouses, with doors and windows that opened up to reveal perfect tiny furniture and staircases within. As a matter of fact, I had bought one of his miniature cars for my own little boy.
After asking around, I found out that the superintendent lived in Kasoa, a bustling suburb in the Central Region. It would mean a somewhat prolonged journey from my home in Accra, and without any way to contact him in advance, I had no assurances he would be there.
The morning I set out to Kasoa, the weather was miserable. An intense monsoon-like downpour had caused flash floods in several Accra neighborhoods. To get to my humble little Toyota, I rolled up the hem of my trousers and took a splashing run across a street along which water was rushing like a muddy stream. People in Accra are famously unprepared for the rain.
Traffic to Kasoa is always dense. The fifteen-mile journey took me all of two hours, by which time the rain had ceased and the sun was attempting to sneak around the clouds blocking its way. I followed some vague directions given to me by an old policeman who claimed he knew where Superintendent Blay lived. The difficulty was that his directions lacked clarity, containing such descriptions as, “near the Barclays Bank” and “opposite the MaxMart store.” What I did know, however, was that the superintendent lived atop a hill in a house he had built himself. Along the way, I came across a vendor roasting plantain on a grill at the side of the road and asked her if she knew the whereabou
“You mean Mr. Blay?” she said, expertly flipping the slices of plantain. She nodded and pointed up the road behind her. “Go straight.”
I followed this terse direction and went up a rutted laterite road that ended in a thicket of neem trees, at which point I could proceed no farther on wheels. I ditched the car and continued on foot. The sun was now fully out again, and as the climb was rather steep, I perspired quite a bit despite my relative youth and vigor. On the crest of the hill, I came to a house painted a lurid green. A dog with a sandy coat came out barking and wagging its tail. It wasn’t too serious about defending its property and didn’t object to my patting its head. It followed me amiably as I approached the house but stopped at its guard post under the shade of a mango tree.
I came to a ramshackle door at the front of the house and knocked firmly. I received no response, so I went around to the rear of the abode where I found a courtyard so overgrown with weeds that they pressed up against the low, rusty gate before me.
In the near distance, the back of a shed faced me, but from the other side, which I could not see, I heard a man’s voice singing softly. It was not a studied performance, but rather an incidental accompaniment to another activity.
“Hello? Superintendent Blay?” I called out.
The singing stopped.
“Hello?” I said again.
A head looked around from edge of the shed and I was astonished. Framing his face like a starburst was a shock of perfectly white hair. I guessed his age to be late sixties, but he could have been older than he looked. At any rate, he was a trim, smallish man wearing a soiled white T-shirt and a pair of ragged khaki shorts. He held a block of wood in one hand and a chisel in the other.
“Superintendent Mensah Blay?”
His brow creased. “Yes?”
“I’m Inspector Desmond de Souza. Please, may I come in?”
Blay nodded and gestured me in. The gate squeaked as I opened it against the foliage.
“Can I help you?” Blay asked.
“Please, I would like to talk to you about…” I trailed off, not sure what approach would be most persuasive.
“About?”
“About a murder case I’ve been working on without success. I work at CID Headquarters.”
“I’m retired,” he said abruptly but dispassionately. “I no longer involve myself with police cases.”
“Please,” I stammered deferentially. “I’ve come all the way—”
“From Accra,” he said, sounding impatient. “Yes, I know.”
I was momentarily confused. “You know, sir? Em, please, were you expecting me?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
“Oh,” I said, still not getting it.
“The paper stub sticking out of your breast pocket is the bottom of a toll ticket dated today,” Blay said, “which means you’ve traveled from another region. I heard on the news this morning that the Greater Accra Region had had a sudden and unseasonal rain shower that resulted in flash flooding in the city, which was duplicated nowhere else in the country. You have fold marks at the bottom of your trousers as if you rolled them up for some reason—to prevent them getting them wet, for example. The specks of mud spatter on your trousers are consistent with your splashing through some flood water, very likely placing you in Accra.”
It was an extraordinary, all-around picture: this little man with a crown of white around his head and what appeared to be—at least for the moment—an uncanny talent for deduction.
“Nevertheless,” Blay continued, “you are not originally from the Greater Accra Region. You are a Fante from the Western Region, are you not?”
I smiled. “Yes please, I am. But that one was easy. My surname shows I am descended from the colonial Portuguese who settled in the Western Region.”
“Nor did I claim my simple observation to be more than that,” Blay retorted.
He began to turn away from me and I had a flash of panic. “Please, will you listen to my story, sir?”
He shook his head. “I’ve already given you an answer.”
“Okay, sir,” I said, “but then will you at least mend one of your toys?”
Blay whirled around. “Which toy?”
From my pocket, I produced a miniature VW Beetle and held it out to the superintendent. “I bought it for my little boy a couple of years ago. He takes it with him wherever he goes.”
Blay’s face softened as he took the miniature from me and regarded it with the smile of a parent beaming at a favorite child. “One of my originals,” he said. “I see it’s the left rear wheel that’s coming off. I can fix that for him at no charge. It’s no problem. Come along, Mr. de Souza.”
I followed him to his workspace in the open courtyard under the shade of a canopy. Blay pulled a chair up for me, and I watched him in silence as he worked on the toy with much dexterity and skill, only once using a small power tool. Meanwhile, I racked my brain for a way to persuade him to listen to my story of the case and, hopefully, help me with it. He said nothing at all as he repaired my son’s toy, and then he presented it to me with only a hint of a smile.
“Thank you very much, sir,” I said.
He nodded.
“Goodbye,” I said, rather mournfully.
As I walked away dejected, he called out to me. “Who was the murder victim?”
* * *
At this point in my tale, the palm soup was ready to be ladled into a large, shared bowl over plump mounds of fufu. Nothing bonds friends more than partaking in a common dish. After we had washed our hands and begun the feast, Prosper urged me to continue my story.
Wiping my lips to continue, I told him how thrilled I had been that Superintendent Blay had changed his mind and decided to assist me with the baffling case. It appeared that my giving him my son’s toy to repair had touched a soft spot within him. Blay invited me into his home and we sat down together. After I had expressed my profound gratitude, I began my tale.
* * *
In the Sakaman District of Accra where the Blue Lagoon Road meets the Busia Highway, there is a large expanse of land called Gacy Park. Both a recreation and event space for weddings, parties, ceremonies, and so on, it is a beautiful area of manicured green lawns and symmetrically planted palm trees. All of this gigantic property is—or, I should say, was—owned by Peter Adjetey Gacy, a millionaire and entrepreneur. To say that he had a reputation for ruthlessness in business would be an understatement, and, of course, he had some enemies, personal and otherwise. This was relevant because on the morning of the tenth of March, Gacy was found murdered in his study.
Gacy lived in a sprawling mansion on the premises of his park in a secluded area that few people know about. In fact, he had built two mansions not far from each other. A family man, he loved to have members of his nuclear and extended family around him—the ones he liked, I should add. Living in the same large house were Gacy’s wife, Efua, their daughter, Celine, and the older of their two sons, Robert. The younger son, Edgar, resided at the Airport Hills Estate.
On the ninth of March, Celine Gacy was married to Matt Roos, the son of the Swiss Ambassador to Ghana. The wedding, held on the grounds of Gacy Park, was lavish and almost certainly excessive. The after-party lasted well into the late evening. Celine and her new husband went off to the second mansion for some much-needed rest in advance of their honeymoon.
Gacy hosted three close friends, Jacob Baah, Solomon Damptey, and Cleophus Ferguson, for an overnight stay. The three guest rooms were next to each other on the ground floor of the mansion. On the second floor were Gacy and his wife in the master bedroom, and their son Robert in the far bedroom on the opposite side of the landing.
Everyone had retired to their respective bedrooms by midnight, but as was his habit, Gacy went to his study on the ground floor to do some work. He was a night owl and a compulsive worker who thrived on only three or four hours of sleep—as if his riches would evaporate as he slumbered.
When Efua woke in the morning, she was surprised to find her husband wasn’t in bed. This was unusual, since Gacy usually returned to bed before dawn. As she got dressed, she heard an awful, animallike scream of terror downstairs, followed by a high-pitched wailing.
