Onion Vendor's Secret , livre ebook

The Onion Vendor’s Secret
A Sherlock Holmes Adventure
Marcia Wilson




Published in 2020 by
MX Publishing
www.mxpublishing.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Marcia Wilson
The right of Marcia Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



The Onion Vendor’s Secret
“I suppose,” said Sherlock Holmes, “you may as well write it up. It will keep you occupied for a few days. More, if you persist in supporting the sentimentalism that is infecting the common taste.”
This prickly observation was finalised with a loud cough, and the Great Detective once again reclined upon his sick-bed, with his wrist over his eyes in the very picture of ailing petulance against the backdrop of his bedroom window and its view of his bees devouring a stand of blue tansy.
“My dear Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I was not even asking for such a thing – and my thoughts are more upon your health, which you have severely neglected.”
“Neglect – what of it? The war is over, Watson and to that end I have funnelled my energies. Now I rest as the world muses – give them something to celebrate over and perhaps they will leave me in peace!” He sniffed and added, “If you keep to the facts and not the window-dressing, you ought to finish before our guest arrives with Tuesday’s milk-cart.”
Although his tone and words were strident, I understood the warmth of his feelings. The Great Game, which he had played so well, had cumulated with the Great War, and now he and the world were equally spent. They had both shared the miserable truth that large emergencies do not remove the smaller ones. That he was still alive was a wonderment to me, I who have felt this astonishment far too much in my life.
As I write with my pen in the past and my eyes upon the future, it occurs to me what an extraordinary life it has been to share it with such a friend as Sherlock Holmes. Long gone are the days when I was a shattered veteran of the desert, and he a young consultant on the verge of becoming an active force for justice . I have no regrets save in general: that of each case my readers saw, there were at least twenty left silent and unseen. Some patiently await their day in the vaults of Cox; some were remarkable for only a day – and became un-remarkable just as quickly. These “Mayfly Cases”, as Holmes once described them, were important for the intellectual exercise, and he viewed them with the absent respect a master musician gave to the importance of his warm-up scales. The most beloved of these must surely be that of the gentleman’s hat, which led to the discovery of a precious stone within a goose.
But some cases fall into a category where they have taken on veritable lives of their own in the imagination of the public. These are what may arguably be termed “the immortal ones” for their continued attention and fascination. They remain as talked-about as they were upon the day they were emergent news. Most are our shorter adventures, such as the matter with the repulsive Roylott, and I have it on good authority that not a single British jeweller can pass the year without someone asking for a stone to emulate the aforementioned Blue Carbuncle. If Holmes bemoans my florid style, I admit that I am equally baffled by the never-ending pleas from my publisher, his wife, and even the random acquaintance upon the street, for these immortal tales.
By now my reader has suspected my intention: I am permitted at long last to break silence and offer them what they have so often begged to read – A return to Dartmoor.
I apologise now, for I will not satisfy the countless pleas for the impossible return of Jack Stapleton from a watery grave, or the marriage of his widow to Sir Henry, and it is certainly not about a return of a devilish hound. But I beg the reader’s pardon one last time and suspend judgment until they have read the tale through. Crime has been the livelihood of Sherlock Holmes with all the necessity of a knot into a skein, and some knots need time to untangle.
“Halloa!” exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, his interest sharp and his enunciation perfectly clear as he held his favoured cherrywood between his teeth. I looked up from my breakfast in time to see him leap from the table to the window to peer down his nose at the street below. “Now this is no light thing,” he observed to me without looking away. “Onion Johnny is about to pay us a visit.”
My old wounds were paining me, but I threw down my napkin and went to see this marvel for myself. This time of day, the city was choked with early news-chaunters, messenger boys, and rented cabs as the public strove to move between train stations. Against the swarm of obstreperous humanity, a little Frenchman stumbled with an exaggerated, uneven stride we knew well. Like all his kind, he stood out by the unmistakable costume of his profession as an oignon vendeur : A short coat over his striped shirt matched a navy beret upon his dark head. Like a tiny fisherman’s float in a great sea, he bobbed in and out of the confusion. He was hardly a prepossessing size to manage for himself, but he held a stout stick upon his shoulders, and upon that stick depended heavy braids of French onion, which slowly swung back and forth and encouraged others to make way.
“I believe this is a first, Holmes. I’ve never seen him at Baker Street before the end of his work-day.”
“To be sure he has from time to time, but he is not unlike a pony in a coal-mine. If he deviates from his schedule, we may blame the path; he lacks the imagination to wander off it himself. His world is shaped by clocks and blinkers.”
I studied the heavy weight of his cargo again and attempted to use Holmes’s methods. “He must have stopped selling his wares to come here.” For it was clear that he was desperately making his way to us; his face kept turning up to reassure himself that our rooms had not vanished in the curling fog, and I was certain it was relief in his dark little face to glimpse our forms behind the glass. For all his efforts, he was stymied by the slow march of brick-carters that blocked his crossing. Despite the anxiety of his situation, we had to smile as he stamped his foot.
“And which of my methods have you used to determine this, Watson?” Holmes smiled around his pipe-stem and puffed cold vapours.
“It is the meagrest of observations, I fear. I remember he told you once that his bundles weigh up to two-hundred-and-twenty pounds, and it would seem he has nearly that much to carry.”
“A simple observation is often the correct one, Watson. Bravo! And bravo, Johnny!” For the little man had abruptly nipped down the street in order to get around the parade faster. “He shows initiative today! Well, Watson! At the very least we can say our breakfast-time has proven diverting.”
Before long, our guest was gasping by our low fire. His wares had been abandoned for safe-keeping in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, and he strode in with his sun-darkened face flushed from exertion. A chapelet of the pink two-pound Roscoff onions swayed easily in his hand. Not for the first time I marvelled at how of a type he was.