Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

at his reflection in a mirror on the wall. Douglas stared at it, too, and frowned.
    “That is a nasty wound you’ve got there, Holmes. Perhaps the ship’s physician…”
    “Tosh,” Holmes replied. He opened the medicine box with its mirrored lid. Inside were a used strop and straight razor, along with a little jar of carbolic acid.
    “I have no clue what ‘tosh’ means in this regard, Holmes. That is a bad cut—you must see a physician!”
    “Tosh means tosh… ah, here we are!” Holmes exclaimed. “Ask, and you shall receive!” He mixed a handful of carbolic crystals with a few drops of water from the pitcher.
    Then he frowned.
    “Something doesn’t sit quite right,” he muttered.
    “Beatings seldom do,” Douglas opined.
    “When you mentioned that the redheaded man
chose
me, Douglas, you were unintentionally correct. He did choose me. A ruby, cabochon cut, did this. But they weren’t the sorts who could afford a ring at all, much less a cabochon! You noticed, yes?”
    “The cabochon? Or the redhead?” Douglas asked. “I have to admit that I did not.”
    “He wore it on that sausage he no doubt refers to as his ‘pinkie’.” Holmes frowned. “And it barely fitted.”
    “What are you saying, Holmes, that someone
gave
it to him?”
    “Lent it, most likely, yes.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “To cut me.”
    “A knife would not serve?”
    Holmes grimaced. The carbolic acid was beginning to sting.
    “With a knife, it is too easy to slip up, do real damage,” Holmes explained. “Whoever arranged this did not want me dead—merely warned.”
    “Warned of what?”
    “I haven’t the foggiest.”
    “What good is a warning if you are not certain what you’re being warned about?” Douglas protested.
    “You fought them, Douglas, and yet you ask such a question? They were back-alley fighters, at best. Clearly not professional killers—merely incidental. Our presence here has disrupted a plan of some sort…”
    “Your presence, you mean,” Douglas corrected. “Secretary to Edward Cardwell. I would be of no consequence to them.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “You say ‘perhaps,’ but you do not know what sort of plan,” Douglas said.
    “Of course not,” Holmes shot back. “How should I? I am a secretary in an office! D’you think this sort of thing happens to me every week?”
    He stared again at his face in the mirror. It was an ugly cut, running from the top of his cheekbone nearly to the top of his lip. Bearing the sting, he applied more carbolic acid, hoping it would heal properly, and not leave too prominent a scar.
    In truth, he was thinking of Georgiana. If she was in any way displeased with his appearance, he feared he could not bear it.
    And where in the world
is
she?
he wondered.
    “If Georgiana is aboard, under an assumed name or otherwise,” he said aloud, “I must find her. In the morning, I shall do a thorough search of the ship—”
    Suddenly the
Sultana
pitched, interrupting Holmes’s thought and sending both men scrambling to hold onto something solid, while the cabin creaked and groaned as if it were in agony.
    Douglas peered around with concern.
    “I am afraid the captain’s prediction was right—we are hitting a patch of very bad weather,” he said. “Searching a ship in a storm is not the soundest plan, Holmes.”
    “Nevertheless,” Holmes responded with great determination, releasing his handhold, “I must.”
    The ship pitched in the other direction, sending him skittering into Douglas.
    “Beg pardon,” Holmes muttered, touching his forehead as though they were two strangers who’d bumped each other on the train.
    Then he sat hard on his bunk.
    “Strange,” he said. “Even when the ship is not pitching, my head continues the movement…”
    “You might have a touch of seasickness,” Douglas posited. “Understandable, under the circumstances.”
    “Tosh…” Holmes replied. But he nevertheless put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.
    * * *
    Douglas