The Adventure of the Bespectacled Band

by Jeff Baker

When I was thirteen, my Father had me run occasional errands for him. Sometimes, this involved delivering messages, sometimes packages. I wasn’t sure what he did for a living but as I was out of school, I didn’t care. This time, it was a message, a piece of paper folded and sealed with old-fashioned wax.

And I got to take it to one of my very favorite people; Old Doctor John, who I figured must have been a hundred years old, but in 1928 he was a lot younger than I am now.

The times he made house calls, or when I took messages to him, he had some of that peppermint candy from a jar, but that was not as wonderful as the stories he told of the years he lived off in London where he tended the sick or helped his friend solve the sometimes bizarre problems that came his way.

That Summer evening, with music playing in the air, I ran over to Dr. John’s office to deliver the message.

Dr. John was his usual, happy self, until he opened the message. As he read through it, I saw his expression turn grim. He mouthed one, strange word: “Mycroft.”

“Young Lad,” he said to me, and somehow I felt the importance of what he said from his tone of voice. “I must, and your Father and I must, ask you to do something dangerous, if you will.”

My heat beat faster. I nodded.

“Do you hear the band playing in the distance?”

“Yes,” I said. “They are rehearsing in their front yard. Near us.”

“I must ask you to go there and pretend to listen to them play. Applaud if you want, but do not think you are anything but a listener. And count how many of the people, including the conductor, are wearing glasses.”

“Glasses?” I said.

“Yes, glasses.” This is vital. They will never suspect you. But this is dangerous. Even more dangerous if you do not do this.”

I nodded.

I started running to the street where the music was coming from, then I realized that I should not appear to be in a hurry. I should appear to just be walking by and happen upon the band practicing there in the yard. Which is what I did. It was a small group, maybe twenty people and they were playing, rehearsing a piece I remembered from when the famous American bandleader Sousa had come to our town a year earlier and my family and I had heard it.

They were all dressed casually and the big man who was the conductor had taken off his jacket and was in his shirt sleeves. I loved the music, but I remembered my mission. I drew closer, pretending to listen intently and I carefully counted the number of people who were wearing glasses. I counted three times to be sure.

I stayed there, watching the band rehearse and then I casually walked down the street, opposite the way I came, repeating the number in my head. When I was far enough away, I ducked down a side street and ran back to Old Doctor John.

His response was simply “Splendid!” He wrote the number down, along with a short note and put it in his jacket pocket. “This,” he said, “I had better handle. And you had better get home.”

It was a week or so later when I found reason to step into Old Doctor John’s office again.

Old Doctor John grinned at me.

“Some day, I may be able to tell you of the service you performed for your country and maybe the world. For now, the only reward you will receive is my gratitude and this little gift.”

He handed me an envelope which smelled of tobacco and chemicals.

“That is just a trivial note once written to me by that old friend I sometimes tell you about. I’m sure he would want you to have some sort of souvenir for your service and your silence.”

I nodded. I did not open the old letter until I got home. It made me smile. Like Dr. John’s fabulous friend was talking to me.

It was many years later when I came upon a rumor that the town I lived in had supposedly once been the headquarters of a spy ring which had been broken. I smiled again.

I will be 101 years old next week. I still have not shown the letter or told this story to anyone.

Until now.

—-end—