The Devil’s Due

The Devil’s Due Bonnie Macbird After Art in the Blood and Unquiet Spirits, Holmes and Watson are back in the third of Bonnie MacBird’s critically acclaimed Sherlock Holmes Adventures, written in the tradition of Conan Doyle himself. It’s 1890 and the newly famous Sherlock Holmes faces his worst adversary to date – a diabolical villain bent on destroying some of London’s most admired public figures in particularly gruesome ways. A further puzzle is that suicide closely attends each of the murders. As he tracks the killer through vast and seething London, Holmes finds himself battling both an envious Scotland Yard and a critical press as he follows a complex trail from performers to princes, anarchists to aesthetes. But when his brother Mycroft disappears, apparently the victim of murder, even those loyal to Holmes begin to wonder how close to the flames he has travelled. Has Sherlock Holmes himself made a deal with the devil? THE DEVIL’S DUE A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADVENTURE Bonnie MacBird Copyright (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) This book is a new and original work of fiction featuring Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, and other fictional characters that were first introduced to the world in 1887 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, all of which are now in the public domain. The characters are used by the author solely for the purpose of story-telling and not as trademarks. This book is independently authored and published, and is not sponsored or endorsed by, or associated in any way with, Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd. or any other party claiming trademark rights in any of the characters in the Sherlock Holmes canon. COLLINS CRIME CLUB An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019 Copyright © Bonnie MacBird 2019 All rights reserved Bonnie MacBird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019 Cover images © Bonnie MacBird (figures); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (all other images) A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 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Source ISBN: 9780008195076 Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008195090 Version: 2019-08-22 Dedication (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) For my cousin, Chris Simpson Contents Cover (#u18879425-b670-5400-ab9d-7f6f9968f731) Title Page (#u005cb3ec-f7d8-519f-9a23-5fcf65b78184) Copyright Dedication Prologue PART ONE – LONDON 1 Fog 2 221B 3 Attack! 4 Devil and Hyde 5 Brotherly Love PART TWO – GATHERING THE TROOPS 6 The Greater Goodwins 7 The Spice of Life 8 The Lady 9 A Question of Taste 10 The Snake and Drum PART THREE – ALLIES AND OTHERS 11 Heffie 12 The Dogged Detective 13 The Baguette Brigade 14 Death at the Opera 15 A Voice Stilled 16 Italian Air PART FOUR – SETBACK 17 Snap 18 Helping Hands 19 Pack of Foxes 20 Might Makes Right PART FIVE – BACKWATER 21 Cat and Mouse 22 One Flask Closer 23 Zebras 24 Fabric of Doubt 25 Deep Waters 26 Into the Mud PART SIX – OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 27 Aesthetes and Anarchists 28 Conflagration 29 Embers 30 The Baker Street Bazaar 31 The Bizarre 32 221B Acknowledgements Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Bonnie MacBird About the Publisher Prologue (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) On a recent late September afternoon in London, as torrential downpours skittered down the bow window of my flat on Chiltern Street, I stood looking at the grey wall of water battering the vista below. Off to the right, across Marylebone Road, umbrellas crowded the Baker Street Station tube entrance, collapsing like evening blossoms as their owners, clad in puffy jackets, windbreakers and trainers, dashed into the building. Those doors first opened more than a hundred and fifty years ago. I blinked and imagined it was 1890, that same station, but beneath the jumble of umbrellas was a sea of top hats, bowlers and a few flowered bonnets, well-cut suits and the occasional long dress trailing across the muddy pavement. Deep below street level, noisy black engines belched steam and thundered through the darkness at terrifying speeds. Some superstitious Londoners would not venture into the depths. Who knew what devilish vapours might be swirling around down there? In 1890, London was the reigning centre of culture and commerce. But even as we romanticize those late Victorian times, we must also acknowledge that this magnificent city had her woes. What astonished me about the tale I discovered that day – inscribed in neat penmanship on a faded schoolboy notebook – was how little things had actually changed. Crime, yellow journalism, mob thinking, homelessness, murder, police brutality, fear of immigrants, dark politics – all in full flower then – and now. But who better to slice cleanly through the shifting morass of murder, chaos and moral ambiguity than the remarkable Sherlock Holmes? It was time for a dose of his clarity, courage, and intellectual rigour. So, once again, I sat down with the battered tin box which had been given to me by a mysterious woman from the British Library. What might be revealed today? I opened the box and immediately my eyes were drawn to a glint of gold. A bright coin had been glued to a thick envelope sticking out from the others. I pulled it out to have a look. The coin was old, two hundred years or more. What could it mean? Its date was long before Watson and Holmes walked the London streets. A small voice inside me said that the time was right to open the package to which this coin had adhered. As I removed the string tied round the musty envelope, a playing card fell out. On the back was a faded design in blue. I flipped it over. It was no ordinary playing card, but a Tarot card – bearing the image of a monster with a remarkably frightening visage – horns, forked tongue and a lean, muscular body. The Devil. And then a strange thing happened. As I stared at it, the power suddenly went off in my flat, silencing a Vivaldi violin concerto mid-arpeggio, and plunging me into near darkness. Outside, the rainy dusk was a dim glow. I am not the superstitious type. I got up, lit a few candles, and sat back down. I gently eased the dog-eared notebook from the envelope. On the cover, The Devil’s Due, was inscribed in Dr Watson’s distinctive, neat handwriting. Consuming this by candlelight seemed entirely appropriate. Here is what I read. —Bonnie MacBird London, April 2019 PART ONE (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) LONDON (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) ‘Sir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magnitude of this city, you must not be satisfied with seeing its great streets and squares but must survey the innumerable little lanes and courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of buildings, but in the multiplicity of human habitations which are crowded together that the wonderful immensity of London consists.’ —Samuel Johnson CHAPTER 1 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) Fog (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) London could be heaven; London could be hell. I thought I knew the city well following more than eight years of adventures with my friend Sherlock Holmes, but the extremes of my adopted home had never revealed themselves to me so clearly as they did during the adventure I am about to relate. It was in November of 1890 that Holmes faced one of the worst villains of his career, a monster responsible for a series of high profile, grotesque murders that both terrified and titillated the city. These violent deaths were strung, like so many blood-soaked pearls on a devil’s necklace. Only Sherlock Holmes could have traced the gossamer thread that tied together anarchists and artists, politicians and prostitutes, grocers, grafters, and even royalty. But in the process, he was nearly consumed himself by the fires of hell. Or in this case, St James’s. My name is Dr John Watson. At the time of this tale, I had been happily married to our former client Mary Morstan for close to two years, and had resumed my medical practice, now in Paddington. One icy Tuesday morning in November, Mary and I lingered in our quiet dining-room over coffee and the newspapers. The Russian ’flu, which had kept me monotonously occupied was at last waning and no one awaited me in my surgery. The grandfather clock ticked, crisp toast cooled in its silver rack, and time stretched on. I poured myself a third cup of coffee. It had been weeks since I had seen my friend Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile the newspapers reported that just outside our windows, London seethed under the tumult of a rising tide of immigrants from France, Italy, and Ireland, shuddered with terror as anarchists (mainly French) set off bombs, groaned under the weight of poverty and a rising crime rate, and twisted in circles over government intrigue, royal scandal, industrialism, and ‘The Woman Question’. At the same time, the city glittered with new operas and theatrical galas, and art, music and entertainment lit up her evenings. I flung down my paper and stared at the rain outside our window. ‘Listen to this, John,’ said Mary. ‘There’s a newly installed “Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police” – now there’s a title – named Titus Billings who “promises to make London safe from the hordes of foreign criminals flooding our city”.’ I sighed. ‘Hmm. I am sure there are a few home-grown ones as well.’ ‘There is more. He’s planning to do this by “arming the police, putting more boots on the street, and banishing all amateurs from criminal investigations”.’ She handed me her pages in disgust. ‘Looks an awful fellow. You don’t suppose he means Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ I stared at the image of Titus Billings on the page. He was an imperious, military type with a thick black moustache and fierce eyes. It was a case of instant dislike. ‘He’d be a fool if so,’ said I. It would not surprise me if Holmes had already tangled with the man. ‘Perhaps a visit to Mr Holmes is in order?’ ‘I am sure he is quite busy, Mary. He is no doubt behind the scenes on that strange Anson case.’ ‘The man found drowned in his bed? An impossible death!’ She shuddered. ‘Yes, an odd one,’ said I musing at the image of a wealthy man found dry, clean, and in his nightclothes, upright in his bed, yet drowned, a ‘Devil’ Tarot card in his hand. The reports had been intriguing. Mary was staring at me. ‘Well, yes, it has been quite the season for unusual murders,’ I added. ‘And Danforth, that paper magnate, stabbed to death with a letter opener,’ she urged, regarding me closely. ‘That is an odd one!’ I laughed at the irony of the crime. ‘Oh, indeed,’ I said. Holmes was no doubt enjoying that case. ‘You share Mr Holmes’s morbid humour, John!’ she chided, but I knew she was as fond of Holmes as I. ‘You know, he may have run into trouble there,’ she added. ‘Take a look.’ She laid The Illustrated Police Gazette in front of me. There, on that lurid rag was the headline ‘False Conjurer Sherlock Holmes Fails Spectacularly!’ ‘False conjurer? What on earth?’ I quickly read the article, and as I did so, felt a rising anger against the writer, one Gabriel Zanders. He hinted that Sherlock Holmes had ‘an unhealthy affinity for blood and death’, had ‘attempted to misdirect the police in the manner of a carnival magician’, and ‘caused the arrest the wrong fellow in the spectacular Danforth murder’. It ended with: ‘What dark motives are hidden behind that sallow, sinister face? Who can understand the mind of this inhuman automaton who haunts London?’ An unflattering illustration of Holmes appeared next to the article. Mary began clearing the dishes. She lingered near my chair, looking at the article. ‘John, what about a short holiday? Take some time off. Perhaps go see Mr Holmes. You are the wind under his wings, I think.’ ‘The ballast in his hold, more accurately,’ said I, smiling at the image of my friend as a fast moving though slightly unsteady ship. ‘But if I am to take a holiday,’ said I, ‘it must be with you, Mary. I am worried about that cough.’ ‘The Trowbridges have suggested a fortnight’s visit to their Cotswold manor, John,’ said Mary. ‘Fresh air. Good idea,’ I said, my heart sinking. She laughed. ‘Oh, John, you despise the Trowbridges! I will go there, and you go to Mr Holmes. Do not argue.’ She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We shall both return refreshed.’ What man has ever had a more understanding wife! With the notice of a holiday posted on my surgery door, and a word to a colleague who would take up any urgent cases, I was off within the hour. CHAPTER 2 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) 221B (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) It was thus with considerable pleasure and a free conscience that I found myself later that morning in the sitting-room of 221B Baker Street, awaiting the appearance of my dear friend. Whether he would welcome an extended visit, I had no idea. The room, as usual, was awash in newspapers, dirty ashtrays, and odd items. The chemistry table held a series of jars containing what appeared to be human fingers, and on one table was an elephant’s tusk, stained brown at the pointed end. How I missed our close association! I noticed that several newspapers including two weeks’ worth of The Illustrated Police Gazette had been laid out on the dining table, their pages folded back to specific articles. I was reading the third, tirades much like the one Mary had shown me, with mounting alarm when I was startled by a voice inches behind my left ear. ‘Dear Watson, are you finding the Gazette edifying?’ I started and turned to see my friend, who must have entered the room on a cushion of air, for I had heard nothing. ‘Holmes! You gave me such a fright!’ ‘Apparently I am having quite an effect on any number of people,’ said he with a laugh. He was still in nightclothes, his hair uncombed, and a cigarette already in hand. ‘Coffee, please, Mrs Hudson,’ he called out over his shoulder. Then to me, ‘You will join me, Watson?’ ‘Thank you, no. I have been up for hours. My God, these articles! This Gabriel Zanders, fellow—’ ‘Disregard him. He is a muckraking master of schadenfreude. He’s first to the scene of any crime and loves nothing more than to publish lurid details even before the family is notified. I took him to task for this in front of the man who happened to be his editor. He has been going after me ever since.’ ‘I am sorry to hear it. He seems bent on doing you harm.’ Holmes shrugged dismissively, then turned his focus to me. He smiled. ‘You have been busy of late, but you have decided on a holiday. What brings you here, instead of to some pastoral paradise with Mary?’ ‘Do not make me ask how you deduced this!’ ‘Perfectly simple. You have discarded your professional costume. You lack the expensive polished boots with which you attempt to dazzle your new patients, but which cause you pain in your left big toe, and the rather ostentatious gold watch which announces that you are more well established than you actually are. Instead, you are in your old suit and your comfortable brogues, which have served you well on our many wanderings, and with that old timepiece of your late brother’s, also gold but rather worn, which provides sentimental value but conveys less prestige.’ ‘All right, Holmes. I know that you— Wait! The left big toe?’ ‘Remember I have visited you in your surgery, Watson. I have noted your very different attire, shoes and watch, which I have never seen you wear elsewhere, and have drawn an obvious conclusion. In those terribly shiny boots which complete your impressive costume, I discerned a small protrusion in the area of your left big toe, and having seen your feet free of encumbrances on a number of occasions while you lived here on Baker Street, I am aware of a slight deformity which makes shoe-fit difficult. Those you are wearing now you had stretched by the cobbler on Paddington Street in March four years ago, and you have since worn them for some time, and on some very long rambles.’ I sighed. It was simple observation, coupled with that prodigious memory. ‘Really, Holmes, you risk overcrowding that brain attic of which you are so proud.’ Holmes laughed. ‘You need not worry, Watson.’ ‘Though it has served you well. I read you were being considered for Queen’s honours!’ ‘And today dismissed as a fraud!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Or rather a false conjurer. Ah, the press. It is as worth riling oneself over them as it is the weather.’ ‘Today was a particularly vitriolic attack, Holmes. Were you wrong about the Danforth case?’ Holmes yawned. ‘Of course not. Do not believe all that you read, Watson,’ said he. ‘The press seeks to create heroes and villains, angels and devils, where mere mortals exist.’ He took a deep draw on his cigarette and sank into the basket chair. Mrs Hudson entered wordlessly and set down a coffee service on the table, not bothering to remove the newspapers laid there. With a friendly nod to me and a look of remonstrance at Holmes, she exited in silence. I had meanwhile glanced at two other Zanders articles. I shook my head in anger. ‘Good old Watson. Like most people I see that you are drawn like a moth to a flame to a trifling bit of opprobrious news.’ He looked at me closely. ‘And you are transparently outraged!’ This appeared to amuse him. ‘Here’s another headline: “Baker Street Braggart Sherlock Holmes fails spectacularly.” ‘I know. Let me apply some coffee to my fogged cerebrum.’ He poured himself a cup and once again sank into the chair. I drew the offending paper from the table and sat opposite him in my old chair. ‘Shall I read it aloud?’ I asked. ‘No, thank you. I have tasted those bitter spirits an hour ago.’ I turned my eyes to the article and finished it with increasing revulsion. I looked up. Holmes was lighting a second cigarette to accompany his coffee. ‘What a ghastly business, this Sebastian Danforth murder!’ said I. ‘A well-respected MP and esteemed philanthropist who made his fortune in paper, stabbed sixteen times with a dull letter opener by his own son!’ ‘Seventeen times. And yes, a son did it.’ ‘This article says you named the wrong person.’ I pointed to the fourth paragraph and read aloud ‘“The erroneous evidence provided by that deranged poseur Sherlock Holmes” – “deranged poseur”, great heavens!’ ‘Your indignation should be directed at the word “erroneous”, Watson, not “deranged poseur”. My evidence was flawless and damning. The eldest son Charles Danforth was clearly the culprit. There were a number of indications, but a tiny splatter of blood on the murderer’s watch chain was conclusive.’ ‘Well, this Titus Billings fellow disagrees vehemently. Why? And who is he?’ ‘Billings is an unknown quantity, late of the foreign office and has been given some kind of sovereignty over at the Yard that I cannot fathom,’ he remarked casually – then vigorously exhaled a plume of smoke. I noted his foot tapping silently. ‘Tell me of the case, Holmes.’ Holmes leaned back in his chair. ‘This murderous son, Charles Danforth, who was initially gaoled on my evidence, believed his father had suddenly written him out of his will. Charles was already known to be unstable, and upon hearing this news – false, as it turns out – a shouting match ensued, with the son cursing like a fiend at his father. Shortly after, the old man was discovered, expiring from multiple stab wounds. Upon my evidence, Charles was arrested, but “new evidence”, to which I was not privy, was submitted, supposedly implicating Sebastian Danforth’s younger son. As of last night, Charles was running free. His younger brother – quite innocent – was charged with the crime and waits in gaol. But it will all be set right soon.’ ‘I should hope so,’ said I, ‘if nothing more than to clear your name.’ ‘My reputation is nothing in the grand scheme of things,’ said Holmes. ‘But this gross error allowed a monster to roam free throughout London last night.’ I was astonished at this last. ‘It is unlike you, Holmes, to be sleeping late when there are such doings afoot.’ Mrs Hudson entered with a tray of sandwiches. ‘Mr Holmes has been in his bed for less than two hours, Doctor.’ Turning to her lodger, she remonstrated, ‘You endanger your health, Mr Holmes, with all this gallivanting about at night.’ She poured me a coffee without asking. Handing it to me, she added, ‘Just see how tired he is!’ Holmes sighed. ‘I located the villain and communicated his whereabouts to Inspector Lestrade some four hours ago. This worthy endeavour involved a rather dangerous chase at the docks, and a visit to a brothel in the guise of a doctor.’ ‘Remarkable! I take back my remonstrance. Apologies, Holmes.’ He smiled, but the smile dropped as he added, ‘I have had to proceed unofficially, as I was blocked from the case by this new man, Billings. But Lestrade has the facts in hand now, and no doubt the murderer as well. I am confident he will see things through to conviction.’ Once more my friend had brought justice to bear, while giving all credit to the local police. His selflessness was one of the things about him I most admired. ‘Holmes, what a remarkable night’s work. You are to be congratulated! Perhaps you may want to rest. If so, I am happy to stay and read until you arise. We might enjoy a meal out later?’ ‘If you wish, Watson. But I shall first pay a visit to the murderer’s rather delicate wife. Constance Danforth will surely be relieved at her husband’s capture. I interviewed them both, separately of course, and perceived that she was terrified of him. Although she would not admit it, I saw evidence of burns along her arms, as if from a cigarette.’ ‘Good God!’ Holmes got up and began to stir the embers of the fire, which had nearly gone out. ‘While one cannot resurrect her late father-in-law, I am convinced that this investigation will at least serve to save the life of that innocent young woman. How much time have you free?’ ‘A fortnight. Mary has gone—’ ‘Splendid! Your room is vacant, should you care to stay.’ He began to add coals to the dwindling fire. I found myself uncommonly pleased and surprised at the extremity of my emotion. ‘I shall retrieve my luggage, then—’ I began, when a sudden bang drew my eyes to the door, and a heavyset, muscular man of about thirty-five exploded into the room. CHAPTER 3 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) Attack! (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) My first impression was of a whirling black coat and silk hat, and a silver-tipped walking stick. But it was the man’s reddened face – wild-eyed with fury and venom, his eyes nearly popping – that froze me in alarm. Spotting my friend kneeling by the fire, the intruder crossed the room in three bounding steps, stick raised to strike. I had only time to cry out, ‘Holmes!’ Just as the fiend was about to smite my friend with what threatened to be a fatal blow, Holmes leapt up, and with the grace of the fencing master he was, whirled and blocked the descending stick with the fireplace poker in his left hand. It clanged like a church bell. In one continuous move, Holmes dealt a hard right to the man’s jaw. There was a sharp crack as his fist connected, and the strapping fellow dropped like a stone onto the bear rug in front of the fire. There he lay still, face down and pressed against the great beast’s grinning countenance. It was as if Holmes had eyes in the back of his own head, so smooth had been his remarkable defence. He now stood, gazing calmly at his attacker. With one slippered foot, he nudged the shoulder of the unconscious man, rolling him onto his back. ‘Charles Danforth,’ he remarked, as though commenting on some fruit selection at an outdoor market. ‘Truly one of the most vicious murderers London has seen in some time.’ Holmes looked up at me. ‘It took tremendous strength and rage to kill his father with a dull letter opener, Watson. A ghastly way to bring about an end.’ He rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘Though I did think Lestrade would have had him in custody by now.’ Just then the wiry little police detective and two constables burst through the door, Mrs Hudson behind them. ‘Mr Holmes! Are you all right?’ cried Lestrade. Spotting the man on the floor, the policeman exhaled in relief. ‘Well, of course you are, sir. He slipped us once, but we got onto his intentions, and it was a race to your house. If only I had come in time!’ ‘Yes, well, you are here now,’ said Holmes. ‘This man’s intemperate attack, Lestrade, can only bolster your case.’ ‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes. No question. Take him away, boys.’ Lestrade’s constables hoisted the unconscious form of Charles Danforth and conveyed him out the door. Lestrade turned to Holmes. ‘Excellent work, Mr Holmes, and once again the Yard is grateful to you. And between us, sir, I am pleased that you, rather than Mr Billings, have brought the villain to heel. I will make sure that everyone knows.’ ‘Please do not do so, Lestrade. I wish you to take the credit.’ ‘But Mr Holmes, I—’ ‘I must insist.’ Lestrade looked relieved. ‘As you see fit, Mr Holmes. You were right about it all, including his poor wife, may she rest in peace. True about the burns on her arms. Cigarette, I would say. Oh … Charles Danforth is a beast!’ Holmes had frozen in horror. ‘His wife? Dead?’ Lestrade nodded wearily. My friend was galvanized. ‘How did she die? I advised you to post a guard to Constance Danforth’s house the moment I heard of this man’s release! Did you fail to do so?’ Lestrade shook his head. ‘We followed your instructions, Mr Holmes, and posted a guard directly. She was alive when we did so. ’Tweren’t her husband, though. She killed herself, the poor little dear, thinking her husband had gotten away with murder and would be back.’ ‘When? How?’ ‘Naught we could have done. Found by her maid last night. I was informed just after I saw you a few hours ago. That would make it perhaps around midnight?’ ‘How, I ask?’ ‘Poison. There was a note.’ ‘I must see it.’ ‘I’ll have it brought to you straight away.’ In a moment, the police had departed with the unconscious criminal. I closed the door behind them and turned my attention to my friend. Holmes had sunk motionless in the basket chair, head in his hands. This reaction was far more than the sudden collapse of energy I had witnessed often at the end of a challenging case. The woman’s suicide had hit him hard; clearly he had been unprepared for it. I sat opposite him and waited. ‘Holmes?’ I whispered after some minutes had passed. ‘You asked for her to be guarded. What more could you have done? Surely she felt safe with police protection.’ ‘I should have gone there myself.’ ‘You could not have predicted.’ ‘She was delicate. Frightened. Despairing. She had loved her father-in-law deeply, and he had been, I inferred, her protector.’ ‘You are a detective, not an alienist. Or a fortune-teller. How could you have foreseen a suicide?’ Holmes did not answer. ‘Instead, you went after the brute and succeeded in locating him.’ Holmes nodded but said nothing, sinking further into black rumination. After a few minutes, I informed him that I’d return in an hour with my things for an extended stay, and that I expected to entice him to a walk or a meal if he was not sleeping off the effects of the night. ‘Doctor’s orders, Holmes. Whatever lies ahead, it is time for recovery, not remonstrance.’ He said nothing, and I left, determined to return as quickly as possible. CHAPTER 4 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) Devil and Hyde (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9) An hour later, I returned. The rain had abated for the first time in days, and I convinced my friend that a ramble in Hyde Park would offer refreshment. We usually frequented Regent’s Park but today I suggested a change of scenery. We set off at a brisk pace and were soon strolling in the southern end of the park along the Serpentine. I hoped this serene, tree-lined vista would soothe my companion’s jangled nerves. Who knew how long we might enjoy the bright sunlight, with rainclouds scudding across the sky. The chill was bracing. I glanced at his thin figure, bundled in a long black overcoat and blue scarf, his collar turned up for warmth, as he walked beside me in silence, head down. I had forgotten the intensity of those black clouds which periodically rolled in to darken his outlook. He seemed oblivious to the gleaming waterway and the brilliant golds and oranges of the foliage. ‘Holmes,’ I ventured. ‘What of a dinner tonight at Simpson’s? Some roast beef, your favourite, followed by perhaps an opera? Faust, by some French composer, is on just now.’ ‘The composer is Charles Gounod – and I have seen it already. Watson, you despise opera. I am not in the humour for conversation. Is it not enough that I agreed to accompany you on this pointless meandering?’ ‘It is hardly pointless,’ said I. ‘Then what is the point?’ he asked crossly. ‘The point is to breathe, to take in nature, and to reset the mind. Look at those trees!’ Above us the canopy of golds, greens and hints of orange glowed like stained glass, sparkling intermittently as the bright sun peeked through. He glanced up at the sky. ‘It will rain again soon. Let us return to Baker Street. I neglected to bring my umbrella.’ He turned left and headed sharply north, in the direction of Speakers’ Corner. We had been out for less than an hour. ‘Holmes, shall we not concentrate on the good news? Those Queen’s honours under discussion? Not a knighthood, do you think?’ It was as though I’d thrown vitriol on his favourite coat. ‘Watson! You know me better than that!’ His vehemence surprised me. ‘It is one thing to refrain from seeking accolades, but can you not at least appreciate them when they are offered sincerely?’ I said. ‘Surely this would bring in more clientele.’ ‘Anonymity better serves my work. That journalist simply needed a story,’ he said bitterly. ‘Today I am reviled. Neither notice means anything.’ ‘Well, what of this Gabriel Zanders fellow? I am genuinely concerned, Holmes.’ ‘He is creative, to be sure. He has made it his business to vilify me, alternately deriding my abilities, and ascribing to them some dark origins.’ ‘Dark origins? But this is laughable, Holmes!’ ‘To the rational, it is laughable.’ ‘What does he mean, dark origins?’ ‘To the gullible among his readers, and those are the majority, he implies my powers are otherworldly, devilish. For his more educated readers, he implies that I have deep ties to the criminal community. Either explanation is apparently easier to swallow than my use of scientific method, keen observation and hard work.’ ‘Indeed. And the occasional flash of intuition, Holmes.’ ‘One cannot count on that. In any case, Zanders is to be ignored. Even if he is having me followed. As indeed he is, at this very moment.’ He nodded behind us. I looked about but saw no one. Holmes stalked on. I had difficulty keeping up. While notorious for not caring about public opinion, Holmes knew better than to inflame a reporter. Dark clouds had moved in rapidly to blacken the sky, and no less the mood of my friend. He scowled and picked up his already furious pace. ‘Are you trying to shake him?’ I asked, referring to his supposed tail. ‘That will be difficult in the park. Just to exhaust him, perhaps.’ ‘Well, you are exhausting me!’ We continued a moment in silence. I was growing a bit winded. ‘You are out of training, Watson.’ He picked up his pace as if to challenge me further. ‘Rather more tiresome than Zanders is this fool Titus Billings at Scotland Yard!’ ‘He does have some peculiar notions,’ I offered. ‘Slow down, please. In any case, you enjoy a challenge, Holmes.’ He said nothing, and we continued in silence. He looked no less grim. The walk was not having the effect I had hoped. ‘Holmes, perhaps I join you at an inconvenient time.’ ‘All I need is an interesting case, and the freedom to pursue it unimpeded!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nothing more!’ He glanced my way again and, with a look of contrition, added, ‘I am sorry, dear fellow. No, you are not inconvenient. Rather, in fact, most welcome. I might find bad humour overtaking me if you were not here.’ ‘Bad humour? You?’ I laughed. Holmes favoured me with one of his quick smiles. We proceeded in silence. Our relative peace did not last long. As we drew nearer to the northern end of Hyde Park, I began to discern the sound of a crowd, chanting something unintelligible in unison. We approached the fabled Speakers’ Corner, and a loud and melodious voice pierced the chill November air, followed by another unison crowd response. We came upon a makeshift dais of several wooden boxes on which stood a tall, muscular figure garbed in the long black coat, wide-brimmed hat, and white collar of a pastor. His was a handsome face, rather more sun-darkened than one associates with a London man of the cloth (but perhaps he had served his church in southern climes, I thought). Despite his sober clothing, there was something of the salesman to the fellow. His words enthralled a highly animated crowd of nearly one hundred people. ‘We must give up our vanity, give up our greed, give up our lust,’ he exhorted. ‘Because the Devil is always near. We must be on the lookout. For the Devil walks among us. Who walks among us?’ ‘The Devil walks among us,’ responded the crowd. ‘Who walks among us?’ he shouted. ‘The Devil walks among us!’ the group responded, louder this time. I paused to listen, fascinated with the hypnotic effect this man was having upon the crowd. ‘We must be on our guard,’ insisted the object of their attention. ‘We must seek him out and destroy him. Frighten him with your voices. Louder now! Where does the Devil walk?’ ‘The Devil walks among us!’ shouted the crowd. This must be the kind of ‘tent preacher’ I had read of, roaming the American South. A rabble-rouser, to my mind. Holmes stiffened and I followed his gaze to a garishly dressed young man, clean-shaven, with slicked-back hair and an eager, hungry face. He had arrived on the periphery of the crowd opposite us, scanning the scene. As I watched, he took out a small notebook and pen. He glanced our way. ‘Holmes, is that—?’ ‘Zanders? Yes.’ Holmes turned to regard the speaker with a strange expression, perhaps irony. He shrugged. ‘Come along, Watson, we burn daylight.’ ‘Look for him always. And what must we be?’ cried the speaker. ‘On our guard!’ shouted the crowd. I could not tear myself away. Something about this scene and this speaker utterly fascinated me. I grasped Holmes’s arm. ‘Look at those white lines around his fingers! Many rings, I should think. What preacher would adorn himself so?’ I felt sure Holmes would compliment me on my keen observation. ‘None, Watson. His name is James Fardwinkle and he runs a pickpocketing ring out of Holborn. I have had him arrested twice, but he is something of a greased hog. The police cannot take hold. Let us move along.’ I laughed. ‘Indeed! Look—!’ A young boy wove through the crowds, pausing to artfully extract a billfold from a pocket. He began to approach us but then, noting my challenging stare, he changed course. In a moment, he dipped into a woman’s reticule, removing several pound notes. ‘Stop, thief!’ I shouted. ‘Watson!’ Holmes whispered. The speaker swivelled to glare at me directly, his face melting into a theatrical portrayal of hurt innocence. But as he recognized Holmes standing next to me, a transformation came over it, which sent a chill down my spine. ‘That was not wise,’ murmured Holmes, looking down and adjusting his Homburg to cover his face. ‘There’s a policeman right over there.’ I gestured to a constable standing off to one side, presumably monitoring the situation. ‘Fardwinkle can hardly weasel out now. Police!’ I cried. ‘We must be off now,’ said Holmes, seizing my arm with an iron pinch. ‘Will you know the Devil when you see him?’ shouted Fardwinkle. The preacher was staring at me, or rather us. He raised an arm and pointed it at Holmes. ‘I can. I do. The Devil is standing here among us.’ The crowd turned to look at us. Their gaze focused on Holmes. Admittedly, his gaunt pallor, intensity and swirling black coat were not at that moment helping to portray the angel of justice I knew him to be. I would not let this situation intimidate us. ‘You are an utter charlatan!’ I found myself shouting at Fardwinkle. ‘Watch your pockets, ladies and gentlemen!’ Turning to Holmes, I said, ‘How can this crowd be so gullible?’ Holmes shook his head but did not release my arm. ‘There he is. The Devil. The Devil in the flesh! You know what to do!’ The speaker continued to point at Holmes. This was an outrage. We were in the centre of modern London. The Devil, indeed! ‘This is Sherlock Holmes, you fool!’ I shouted. ‘The detective.’ ‘Oh, dear God,’ murmured Holmes. He yanked my arm, none too gently. ‘Stop talking.’ ‘Sherlock Holmes, who sends innocent men to the gallows!’ shouted Fardwinkle in full preacher voice. ‘Charles Danforth! Just this week, an innocent man, freed only yesterday by the will of God. Sherlock Holmes, who has been taken by the Devil. The Devil is Sherlock Holmes!’ A woman moved up to him and batted at him with her handbag. ‘The Devil!’ she announced, nodding. ‘Not me, madam,’ he said gently, as he sidestepped her, only to find two men blocking his way. ‘Watson, run.’ I caught a glimpse of Gabriel Zanders across the crowd, regarding the unfolding drama with eager excitement. The crowd closed in and Holmes and I were separated. A leering man leaned in to me and shouted, ‘Who are you who walks with the Devil?’ Two more moved in beside him, giving me their hardest looks. ‘My name is John Watson. I am a doctor, you idiot. Now, let me pass.’ Ahead of me, Holmes was engulfed by murmuring congregants. Only then did I realize the true danger of the situation. They began to push. The man near me knocked the hat from my head. I bent down to scoop it up but upon rising could no longer see Holmes. From the dais, the speaker continued to excite the crowd. ‘The Devil and his disciple walk among us. You know what to do. The Devil! The Devil!’ Suddenly I felt the press of the furious crowd. The situation had ratcheted from zero to lethal in seconds. ‘Destroy the Devil! Destroy the Devil!’ A woman slapped at my face and a man tried to wrench my arm behind my back. I yanked free, then caught a brief glimpse of Holmes, who was attempting to fend off grasping hands without hurting anyone. Above it all, Fardwinkle continued to shout, waving his preacher’s hat towards my friend, a malicious smile splitting his sunburnt face. Two men seized my arms but, with a sudden heave, I freed myself and pushed through the crowd towards Holmes, inadvertently bumping into a young woman. ‘Pardon me, madam!’ I said, noting the beautiful young face fixed on mine. Her hand snaked into my pocket and she smiled in triumph. I pulled away in alarm, before remembering I carried nothing in that pocket. More people intervened, and I pushed through to my friend. Holmes and I exchanged a look, locked arms, and rammed our way free. Before us was the path, and beyond that, Marble Arch, and the safety of others. We ran. A couple of the men followed hard on our heels, but the policeman’s whistle sounded, echoed by another, and our pursuers gave up the chase. We did not slow down until we were safe among the milling crowds near Marble Arch. It was only when the drizzle became a sudden downpour that I realized I had lost my umbrella in the mob at Speakers’ Corner. ‘Devil take it,’ I said in exasperation. ‘My umbrella!’ ‘Devil did take it indeed, Watson.’ We took shelter under the arch, but the rain slanted in to pelt us, nevertheless. Water poured off our hats and shoulders as crowds of businessmen hurried past under their umbrellas without a thought. We were back in modern London. Holmes and I eyed each other for one tense moment, then … burst out laughing. ‘You do look a touch satanic,’ I said, eyeing the rain dripping from Holmes’s black Homburg. ‘Apparently so, Watson.’ ‘What’s this?’ I had put my hands in my pockets against the cold when I discovered a small card in the left one. I pulled it out. It had a strange, ornate blue and white pattern on one side. I turned it over. ‘Look at this!’ I exclaimed. ‘A young woman in the crowd – she must have placed it there.’ For there, in my hand, was a Tarot card, with a leering, horned figure, ornately drawn in black and white and blood red. The Devil! CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_e6e12899-a559-5df6-b4af-21133b18cd71) Brotherly Love (#ulink_e6e12899-a559-5df6-b4af-21133b18cd71) Twenty minutes later, the fire roaring and our wet clothes set before it, Holmes and I sat smoking in our dressing gowns in the sitting-room of 221B. Holmes perused the Tarot card I had been given and retrieved his magnifying glass to have closer look. ‘Anything, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘One of those fortune-telling cards, isn’t it?’ ‘Tarot, yes. Fairly common type; I’ve seen this deck before. Delarue Franc, it says here, exported from France. The Devil. How apropos.’ I stared at the gruesome horned figure dancing on the card. ‘Hmm. I see no resemblance to you. Well, maybe around the eyes—’ ‘Watson!’ ‘All, right, not the eyes. But you could both use a bit more meat on the bones.’ We sat in silence as he continued to examine the card. ‘What do you say to my idea of Simpson’s, Holmes? A bit of sustenance?’ ‘I do not like this, Watson. A card like this was found at that Anson murder. Who gave you this card? Was it one of the two dippers?’ ‘The pickpockets? Not one of the two boys, no. It was a young lady, barely more than a girl,’ said I. ‘I am not sure she was working with them.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I … I don’t know. Better dressed, perhaps?’ ‘Did you get good look?’ ‘Yes. Long dark hair, blue eyes, quite beautiful, unafraid. Bold even. Hard to tell her age, perhaps eighteen or so.’ ‘Have you seen her before?’ ‘No, and I think I should have remembered,’ I said with a smile. ‘That lovely?’ I nodded. ‘She had a mole here.’ I pointed to my right cheek. ‘And truly unafraid. Triumphant, almost.’ ‘Well, she did manage to plant this card on you. Did she get anything in return?’ ‘No. I keep nothing in my overcoat pockets.’ ‘Wise. How did you lose your umbrella?’ ‘I – I must have dropped it in the melee. Nothing else is missing, I checked, Holmes,’ said I, growing annoyed. ‘If you are sure then,’ said he, turning back to examining the card. ‘What of that reporter, Holmes? Do you think it coincidence that Zanders was there?’ ‘I do not believe in coincidence. I told you that he is having me followed. I shall be more careful. This incident will appear shortly in some rag, no doubt.’ ‘He is going to a great deal of trouble about you, Holmes. You must have truly infuriated him.’ ‘Leave it, Watson. He is simply fishing. He will tire of it when a better story comes round.’ A knock sounded on the front door and in a moment Billy, our page, stood dripping in the doorway, cap in hand. ‘Mr Holmes. Dr Watson. I have a message from Mr Mycroft Holmes, sirs. He would like to see you both, er …’ he squinted at a small white paper … ‘Towdee-sweetie?’ Holmes laughed. ‘Tout de suite? Ah, urgent, is it? Well, Watson, our comfort is short lived. The Diogenes awaits.’ An hour later, dressed once again in our city finest, Holmes and I sat near the fire in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes, the only room where conversation was allowed in his brother’s most unusual gentlemen’s club. It was a masculine, elegant room, designed to impress with a row of antique globes, thick carpeting, and gilt-edged books. A window looked out on Pall Mall, where rain continued to flood the streets. It was one of a handful of such meetings I had attended. In each case, I found myself acutely uncomfortable. There was an unsettling discord, a tension between the two brothers that I did not understand. Mycroft wielded great power and influence at the highest levels of government. He and Holmes worked together frequently, but not always amiably. In this very room, I had witnessed Mycroft Holmes once threaten my friend with a gaol term, and worse. Today’s meeting had started badly, and it was not sitting well with Sherlock Holmes. ‘Mycroft, you are full of advice and admonitions today!’ said my friend, striding around the room. ‘Do not confront this Titus Billings, you say. Steer clear of journalist Gabriel Zanders. Drop my work following the French anarchists. What is it that you do want?’ ‘I am looking out for your best interests, Sherlock,’ drawled Mycroft Holmes as he fingered a small gold pocket lens dangling from one of two heavy watch chains stretched across his ample girth. He was, as always, impeccably tailored, from his mirror-polished shoes to his professionally barbered countenance, implacable, and mountainously heavy, so unlike his brother. I felt a small pleasure that the Double Albert watch chain was perhaps somewhat tighter across Mycroft’s growing girth than the last time we had seen him. ‘First, you must hear a few things, Sherlock. Titus Billings is connected at the highest levels, I believe to a close relative of the Royal Family. One of the Queen’s cousins. Steer clear. He is out of my reach for the moment.’ ‘Extend your reach quickly then, Mycroft. The Danforth case was horribly bungled,’ said Holmes bitterly. ‘An innocent young woman died as the result.’ Mycroft sighed. ‘Sit down, Sherlock.’ ‘And Billings’s aim to arm the police?’ continued Holmes. ‘The man is a philistine. Most of them should not be trusted with their truncheons, much less a gun.’ ‘In time, I will discover the wedge, but you must be patient.’ The long thin wedge. I had heard Mycroft speak of it before. It was a metaphor, I suppose, for whatever he did at Whitehall. In the past, Holmes had hinted at his brother’s Machiavellian manoeuvring, but always in service of the greater good. However, it has been my experience that the more power a man has, the more challenging it is to retain the moral high ground. Whatever Mycroft did or didn’t do in service of the ‘greater good’, I only hoped that he shared the admirable code of honour of Sherlock Holmes. I was never sure. Mycroft Holmes lit a cigarette and offered the box to each of us. We declined and I moved the ashtray closer to him. At last Holmes sat down. Despite their differences of physique and temperament, the Holmes brothers did share uncanny skills of observation and deduction, and an astonishing ability to store an encyclopaedic range of facts. And both had developed mysterious, though I wager very different, ways of monitoring the events of their relative spheres of operation. I had no idea how Mycroft knew nearly every move made by his brother. It was not a comfortable idea to contemplate. ‘I have asked you here today, Sherlock, primarily to discuss this recent spate of unusual murders.’ ‘At last. Which exactly?’ ‘First, give me your further thoughts on that Danforth case.’ ‘Curious. An act of remarkable violence on the part of the son.’ ‘Out of nowhere, then?’ asked Mycroft. ‘I think not. There were strong signs of Charles Danforth’s instability, the family were aware of it, but the incident must have been set off by something. I do not know yet what that was.’ ‘Someone gave a push, perhaps?’ ‘Possibly. I do know that the killer was under the impression that his father’s will had been recently revised to favour the younger brother.’ ‘Had it?’ ‘No.’ ‘That is all you have?’ ‘I have been busy.’ ‘And working alone. Perhaps now that Dr Watson has rejoined you, you will be more successful.’ I could sense Holmes’s suppressed anger. He sprang up again and moved to the bookshelves where he appeared to become unusually interested in the antique globes. Mycroft continued to goad. ‘Up and down. Since you were a child. What about that Horatio Anson case? Unsolved?’ ‘I was away when that came up. Curious, though, that a former shipbuilder was found dead in bed, fully clothed and dry, yet drowned. I intend to look into it further.’ ‘And Clammory?’ said Mycroft. ‘Fellow who made a fortune with a series of barber shops, found with his throat slit with a razor?’ I exclaimed. ‘That was a strange one!’ ‘Mmm,’ mused Mycroft. ‘Sherlock? You did not investigate that either?’ ‘Away during that one as well. Upon my return, I found that Titus Billing had blocked my access to police files. I have asked Lestrade for a few in particular and expect to receive them shortly. Mycroft, this Billings is most inconvenient.’ He returned and sat down again next to me on the sofa. The two brothers faced each other for a long moment. Something passed between them. I became aware of an enormous clock ticking on the far wall. The clop of horses and sounds of carriage wheels hissing through the wet and icy streets made their way faintly through the curtained windows. ‘Anson, Clammory, Danforth,’ murmured Mycroft Holmes. I took a sip of coffee. Something was being considered by the two brothers, I had no idea what. Holmes nodded, then remarked, casually. ‘All right. Yes, I see it. Of course.’ Mycroft smiled. ‘The philanthropy.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Significant philanthropy. All of the victims.’ ‘Horatio Anson as well?’ asked Holmes. ‘Medical research, I believe. A rather large donation.’ ‘And, of course, Clammory and the Veterans of the Boer War Fund,’ said Holmes. ‘That got quite a bit of publicity.’ ‘And Danforth?’ asked Mycroft. ‘Any philanthropy?’ ‘Literacy programmes for the poor. Very different modus operandi in each killing, though.’ said Holmes. Mycroft nodded again. What was this about? I wondered. All of the murder victims were philanthropists? That seemed a spurious connection. ‘And other deaths in the family, immediately attendant,’ said Mycroft. ‘All apparently suicide.’ ‘That is most interesting. Let’s see … with Danforth, yes. Clammory, unsure. No other deaths related to Anson?’ Mycroft smiled. ‘A sister in Dover jumped off a cliff, I read.’ They lapsed into silence, allies once more. Most puzzling. A minute passed. The Holmes brothers would explain themselves in due time, I supposed. I needed more coffee and looked around for the attendant. ‘But then we are missing a B,’ said Holmes. ‘Yes,’ said his brother. ‘Perhaps there has been a B’. ‘One that may not have appeared to be a murder.’ ‘But was taken for an accident or a suicide.’ ‘Precisely. I shall have a look,’ said Holmes. ‘What kind of bee are you talking about?’ I interjected at last. ‘I am not following.’ ‘Watson, we are considering that these murders are linked, and by the same perpetrator,’ said Holmes. ‘Yes, but a bee?’ ‘Perhaps done in alphabetical order. We have an A, a C, and a D. But no B.’ I laughed. ‘Well, that is far-fetched.’ ‘People who murder in series often leave some kind of sign so they will be credited for the kill. They want to be caught, ultimately,’ said Holmes. ‘Alphabet killings are not unknown. The “Alfabeto Mortale” in Rome in the last century comes to mind.’ ‘And don’t forget the “Alfabetmord” in Norway,’ said Mycroft. He laughed, a mirthless huffing sound. ‘Ah yes, the “Norwegian Capper”. Left clown hats on all his victims. All quite famous cases, Watson. I cracked the Norwegian one myself three years ago.’ ‘Clown hats?’ ‘A double signature, Watson. The alphabet. And the hats,’ said Holmes. ‘What of that Tarot card, The Devil? Found under Anson’s pillow,’ said Mycroft. ‘It was in the papers. A signature of sorts?’ ‘I read that, yes. But found at none of the other murders,’ said Holmes. ‘Unless it went unreported. Or Titus Billings missed it,’ said Mycroft. ‘Which is credible. He is careless,’ said Holmes. ‘But not stupid, Sherlock. Take care.’ ‘A Tarot card?’ I interjected. ‘Like the one planted on me?’ ‘Ah, interesting,’ said Mycroft. ‘Planted? At the park? Do you have it?’ At the park? How had he known this? Holmes produced it from his pocket and held it up, facing his brother. Mycroft smiled, not deigning to take it. ‘Yes, interesting.’ He turned to me. ‘Who planted it? Did you notice?’ ‘A young woman.’ I said. ‘I didn’t recognize her.’ ‘It was placed in Watson’s pocket as we were set upon by a crowd at Speakers’ Corner, clamouring to find the Devil in me.’ ‘Ah yes, I heard about that. I understand Zanders was there. He is employing fellows to follow you, you know.’ ‘Yes. It is a veritable crowd, with your man following as well.’ I was surprised at this, as I had not noticed any followers. ‘Careless of you to become embroiled with that Faginesque creature at Speakers’ Corner, Sherlock. Let me see the card.’ I felt a tinge of guilt. Had we left when Holmes wanted to, all that might have been avoided. Mycroft took the card from his brother and examined it with the small glass hanging from one of his watch chains. He handed it back. ‘Ordinary. Not likely to be traceable.’ ‘My thoughts as well.’ ‘I wonder if it is exactly like the one at Anson’s body. Worth pursuing, Sherlock, if you feel you are up to the game.’ ‘You did not summon me here merely to chastise me!’ said Holmes ‘No, for several reasons. But primarily to discuss this series of murders.’ ‘You are holding back something, Mycroft. What is it?’ Outside in the hall there was the sound of high-pitched male laughter and the door swung open. ‘Ah, they are here. You have more to learn in a moment.’ PART TWO (#ulink_c33d9c51-9ffd-509e-bf46-4ff9f1d0eaf9) GATHERING THE TROOPS (#ulink_c33d9c51-9ffd-509e-bf46-4ff9f1d0eaf9) ‘Do not tell your friend what your enemy should not know.’ —Arthur Schopenhauer CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_24604a8f-7a57-5d3d-acbe-b15aa1d2dad8) The Greater Goodwins (#ulink_24604a8f-7a57-5d3d-acbe-b15aa1d2dad8) Mycroft heaved himself to his feet. ‘Welcome, gentlemen! Sherlock and Doctor Watson, I have invited this illustrious duo who have something to impart.’ Two foppish and very handsome young men spilled into the room on a cloud of cigar smoke, laughter, and the scent of expensive cologne and hair oil. We rose as Mycroft continued. ‘May I introduce to you brothers Andrew and James Goodwin, viscounts both, and members of the House of Lords.’ ‘I say, Mycroft, is this some kind of Game Day at your club?’ cried the taller of the two, garbed in an exquisitely tailored but slightly anachronistic deep blue velvet suit. ‘Everyone here seems to want everyone else to shush!’ He was a dark-haired gentleman, his long, curly locks coiffed in a Byronic style, giving a bohemian, artistic impression, contrasting with a coiled energy. ‘Yes! We were shushed five times – no six – between the entrance and this room,’ drawled the shorter of the two, whose deep green velvet attire resembled his brother’s. His appearance was differentiated by stylishly cropped hair, groomed straight back from his face and oiled to shine like patent leather. As strange as their styles were, their suits were expertly tailored, complimenting each man’s physique. Sportsmen, too, I decided. Two odd, if very rich, ducks. ‘Silence is a policy of the club, gentlemen, except for this room,’ said Mycroft. ‘Do come in and meet my brother, Sherlock Holmes, and his friend and colleague, Dr John Watson.’ ‘Sherlock Holmes! The Demon Detective!’ cried James, the man in green. ‘And his little friend, the writer!’ As if in response to my social discomfort, the taller man drawled, ‘He is an army doctor, James, not a “little friend”. Relax, gentlemen, we do not bite.’ ‘Dr Watson! I say, are you a medical doctor, then? So sorry!’ cried the shorter. ‘Because I have a toe—’ ‘James, not now!’ implored his brother, and they both laughed. At Mycroft’s gesture, the brothers claimed the seats on the sofa we had just vacated, the two of them taking up its entire long length, reclining as though they were at home in their sitting-room. Holmes and I found other seats, then waited patiently as the two young men called for coffee and cigarettes, lumps of sugar, napkins and biscuits, clean ashtrays, Scotch and Claret, causing the attendant to scurry about, bringing in item after item, only to be sent out again. Mycroft smoked his cigarette patiently and seemed to take no notice of this odd show. Holmes, however, got up and moved once again to the window, irritated. I studied them in more detail. Andrew, in blue, appeared to be older, and leaned back, languidly regarding Mycroft through a haze of cigarette smoke, a sardonic smile upon his smooth features. He was clearly a man used to privilege, and rarely challenged. A keen intelligence shined through his relaxed demeanour and I would warrant the man missed very little. By contrast, his brother James, in green, was highly strung, as though an electric current animated him always, his dark brown eyes glittering in amusement and interest. He gestured with quick movements, smoothing his patent leather hair, flicking ash from his cigarette, sipping from his Claret, taking in the room and us in darting glances. He, too, seemed intelligent, with that air of entitlement possessed by the very rich. They were a curious combination. I had heard of them, of course. Two of the youngest members of the House of Lords, they were influential and wealthy almost beyond compare. They shared an enormous house near Grosvenor Square, famous for its parties. These frivolous and foppish first impressions were carefully cultivated, I presumed, as I had also read they had recently championed a major bill in Parliament with new protections for factory workers, against considerable opposition from their own party. ‘Shall we begin?’ said Mycroft. ‘Sherlock, do come and join us. They have news which will be of interest. Mr Goodwin, may I call you Andrew, if only to differentiate you from your brother James?’ ‘Oh, indeed, do use our Christian names. Everyone does, for that very reason,’ said Andrew Goodwin. ‘Andrew, then, please advise my brother Sherlock and Dr Watson what you told me this morning.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ said Andrew taking a healthy sip of his whisky. ‘Ah, very good, this. We must get some for the house. What is it?’ ‘A self whisky. Glenmorangie from Tain. And now your news, please,’ said Mycroft. ‘Tell them, Andrew,’ said James. ‘Yes. Those recent murders. Anson. Clammory. And then that poor man stabbed by his own son!’ ‘Danforth. What about them?’ asked Holmes. ‘They are all Luminarians,’ added James. ‘Were, James, were!’ said Andrew. ‘Interesting,’ said Holmes returning to sit with the group. ‘What is a Luminarian?’ I asked. All eyes swivelled to me. The Goodwin brothers shared a smile. ‘It is a very secret organization, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Not unlike the Freemasons, who also exist to promote good works. However, the Luminarians do not spring from the building industry. They are, to a man, a breed of wealthy do-gooders, all self-made, who use their money and influence to “bring light to the world”. Hence “Luminarians”. An organization started by the two of you, I understand. That is really all I know.’ Andrew and James stared at Holmes in surprise. ‘But you know quite a bit. How is that?’ James blurted. ‘It is my business to know London intimately,’ said Holmes. James laughed and looked at his brother. ‘Well, if Mr Holmes begins to reveal what I did intimately in our mutual study at two o’clock early this morning, I’ll have him down for a witch.’ ‘What is a male witch called, by the way?’ said Andrew. ‘A warlock,’ said Holmes, matching their good humour with an uncharacteristic smile of his own. ‘I have been called the Devil, but never a warlock. And no, I have no eyes in your study. How does one become a Luminarian? Does one apply and need a second? Do you induct new members?’ ‘It is not a membership per se. There is no applying or formal induction. It’s more of a … bestowing. Kind of like the Queen’s honours,’ said James Goodwin. ‘Not quite a knighthood, but …’ ‘Oh, James! Being dubbed a Luminarian is our honour, given by us, to a very lucky few,’ said Andrew. ‘And the benefits of this honour?’ asked Holmes. ‘None really. Just the satisfaction of the honour. A certificate, I suppose suitable for framing.’ Both men laughed at the thought. ‘Oh yes, and a rather nice pin,’ said James. ‘Names, please,’ said Holmes, removing a small notebook and a silver pencil from his pocket. ‘Oh, we couldn’t,’ said James. Holmes sighed. ‘If three Luminarians have recently met untimely ends, it would be prudent if you would provide us a list of members. In case this is a … trend.’ The brothers exchanged a glance. ‘Honorees, not members. What my brother means is that we really couldn’t,’ said Andrew. ‘There is no formal list. Besides, no one knows of this group but us.’ ‘My brother knew,’ said Mycroft. ‘The recipients of this “honour” know. And those who see the pins,’ said Holmes. ‘I was joking about the pins. And the certificates.’ ‘What about meetings?’ ‘None. It is not a society in that sense,’ said Andrew. ‘No lunches? No annual Christmas dinner?’ persisted my friend. ‘You are being facetious. No, just the honour. Mycroft is a Luminarian, by the way.’ ‘You are forgetting that I declined,’ murmured Mycroft, pouring himself a Scotch. ‘How is this honour bestowed?’ asked Holmes. ‘At a private ceremony at our house,’ said James. ‘Plenty of champagne.’ ‘Of course, we invite the Luminarians thereafter to our parties,’ said Andrew. ‘Usually.’ Neither Holmes brother reacted. ‘It is a rather coveted invitation,’ he added. ‘Indeed!’ I blurted out. The group turned to look at me. ‘I, well, my wife Mary enjoys reading about your parties. In the papers. They have quite a reputation. The food. Music …’ The four men stared at me. I felt myself colouring. ‘Well then, surely you should come sometime. Dr, er … sorry, I have forgotten.’ said James. ‘Dr Watson. Make a note of that, James,’ said Andrew. ‘Please recreate the list for me, the best you can, then,’ said Holmes, beginning to lose patience. ‘Oh, I can’t think,’ said Andrew with a wave of his very white hand. ‘Neither can I,’ added James. ‘We have been up all night working on a bill we will bring to Parliament next month. Lunatic law. Inhuman as it stands. Oh, and deciding on the menu for tomorrow.’ ‘And who to invite shooting in the country next week,’ added Andrew. ‘It is quite important. Please write down those you can recall.’ Holmes extended his notebook and pencil to Andrew, who hesitated, then dashed off a few names, showed the list to James, who added one more. James handed the notebook back to Holmes. ‘These are all we can think of at the moment,’ said James. Holmes looked over the list. ‘Please try to remember more and send the rest of the list to me later today.’ ‘We shall,’ said Andrew. With a few more goodbyes, the two brothers departed as chaotically as they entered. As the door closed behind them, Holmes eyed his brother Mycroft with some amusement. ‘You turned them down, did you?’ he murmured. ‘I have turned down any number of honours, Sherlock,’ said his brother. ‘Now get to work on that list.’ ‘Why are they holding back on naming its members?’ asked Holmes. ‘Do you have a list? ‘No. And I do not think they are holding back. This is merely a hobby, not something they take seriously. Now, do apply yourself.’ ‘Doing what, Mycroft? I am not equipped to provide protection for seven or eight random men in London, nor can I detect in advance of a crime.’ He glanced again at the list. ‘An M, an R, an S and a V. There is no B here. Perhaps this Luminarian connection is a coincidence. Ah, but here is an earlier letter. F. How odd. Oliver Flynn!’ ‘The playwright!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mary and I loved Lord Baltimore’s Snuffbox. Brilliantly funny!’ ‘Watson, please,’ Holmes said. ‘Mycroft, I have discovered that Flynn is connected to a French anarchist group here in London. I have infiltrated them and, in the guise of an artist, I have been invited to a party in three days’ time. I expect—’ ‘Oliver Flynn is well-meaning, and has sympathy with the downtrodden,’ said Mycroft, ‘but he is rather misinformed about the methods he is helping to fund. Socialism is one thing, anarchy another.’ ‘Oliver Flynn with the anarchists?’ I exclaimed. ‘This seems improbable! Why would a famous playwright and bon vivant fund bombers? ‘Odd bedfellows. But yes, Watson. I shall explain later,’ said Holmes. He turned to his brother. ‘What of his connection to the Goodwins?’ ‘Social, I presume. He gets about. If our alphabet theory is correct, Flynn, as an F, could be a target quite soon,’ said Holmes’s elder brother. ‘I shall use my influence to convince him to take a sudden vacation. That should keep him safe while you pursue the Alphabet Killings, Sherlock.’ ‘Mycroft! The anarchists are my current focus. Flynn’s party is vital to my investigation.’ ‘I know about the trail you follow, including that grocer in Fitzrovia. Those anarchists are terribly dangerous, Sherlock. They are inexperienced young men fooling with explosives beyond their capabilities, driven by youthful fervour and misplaced idealism. One will blow himself up accidentally, mark my words. Stay away.’ I thought that odd. In the past Mycroft Holmes had shown he was more likely to send his brother into danger than to warn him off it. ‘Your concern is touching, Mycroft. But, no.’ ‘Drop it, I say.’ ‘Why?’ ‘The French have someone on it.’ ‘Ah, here we are,’ said Holmes. ‘Tell me it is not who I think.’ ‘I am afraid so,’ said Mycroft, ‘The French government adore him.’ ‘Not Jean Vidocq?’ I blurted. Mycroft’s silence was confirmation. Vidocq was a handsome, arrogant French operative who considered himself a rival to Holmes. He had occasionally joined forced with us but had proven to be a dangerous and unreliable man. Even his name was a sham. Vidocq was no more related to Eug?ne Vidocq, the famous founder of the French S?ret?, than I was. He had merely adopted the name for its cachet. ‘Jean Vidocq is a scoundrel,’ I said. ‘Not even terribly competent.’ The man was responsible on a previous case for pushing me down a flight of stairs! ‘He is useful, gentlemen. And you forget, he is well respected in France,’ said Mycroft. I was unconvinced. ‘I will not drop the anarchist investigation, Mycroft,’ said Holmes. ‘I am close to cracking the group via a grocery in Fitzrovia, and I intend to connect them to Flynn.’ As we stood to leave, Mycroft pinned his brother with a look that would strike fear into most. ‘Drop it, I say, Sherlock, and attend to the Alphabet Killings. One by one, men who are creating great works of charity are being eliminated. Think of the loss to those in need. Think of the greater good.’ At that precise moment, a page came in, approached Mycroft and whispered in his ear. ‘What is it?’ asked Holmes. ‘Another bomb went off. The French. Somewhere near Leicester Square.’ ‘Anyone killed?’ ‘Five dead. Six wounded.’ Silence as we took this in. Finally, Holmes said, quietly, ‘The greater good, Mycroft? Really? I will choose my own cases, and investigate however I please, you and Titus Billings notwithstanding.’ We turned to depart, but Mycroft was not finished. ‘Sherlock, that Zanders fellow – remedy that. You know better than to inflame a journalist. You are losing your touch.’ ‘Perhaps you lack a challenge yourself, Mycroft, and are bored? Here is one for you. Take care. If it is an alphabetical series, H follows E, F and G. The scythe draws nearer, perhaps to you, brother.’ Holmes did not pause for the answer but stormed out of the door, myself following. I was always happy to depart the Diogenes Club. CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_495f0b93-9267-56cc-9a4f-7cd97d822c7d) The Spice of Life (#ulink_495f0b93-9267-56cc-9a4f-7cd97d822c7d) Leaving St James’s, Holmes directed our cab slightly out of the way to an address in Fitzrovia on Charlotte Street. ‘And where are we going?’ I asked, as our cab wove through the drizzle past rain-soaked pedestrians. He had uncharacteristically hailed a four-wheeler – slower and more expensive than our usual hansom, but I was soon to see why. ‘I am in need of some cornichons and a bit of news.’ At my puzzled look, he added, ‘A French grocery,’ and began one of the transformations which I so admired. He donned a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, tousled his normally neat hair into a messy fringe, inserted a set of teeth which gave him an overbite, and altered his expression so that he looked both younger and rather feckless. My friend’s theatrical skills never failed to impress me. ‘And you are appearing as …?’ ‘Stephen Hollister. A writer. Stephen does not speak French, and neither do you. At peril of your life.’ ‘Well, there is nothing to worry about there. I have only schoolboy French.’ We rolled on. ‘Perhaps a bit more information, Holmes?’ But we were already pulling up to our destination. ‘Later, Watson,’ said he. We descended and approached a three-storey building with a small shop on the bottom floor. ‘Le Bel ?picier’ was elegantly inscribed above the door, and the window was filled with gourmet delicacies from France – mustards, jams, wine and baskets of French bread. There were also demitasse sets, and some strangely constructed coffee grinders – all loops and gears over small metal boxes. Holmes vacillated between ignoring food completely to demonstrating a quite refined taste. The tins of French p?t? looked quite promising. Inside, Le Bel ?picier was saturated with the strong and wonderful aroma of coffee. Holmes introduced me to the proprietor, a man he had mentioned at the Diogenes. Victor Richard was a jolly and rotund Frenchman, and he welcomed us heartily, pressing a cup of the hot, steaming black liquid into our hands. It was truly the best coffee I have ever tasted, dark and rich, almost like chocolate. He and Holmes proceeded to chat amiably in English about French lavender honey, wines, and then coffee. From behind the counter, Victor Richard pulled out one of the unusual French coffee grinders I’d spotted in the window. Holmes explained this was a new and better way to grind the beans for our favourite morning beverage. Although I knew him to be fluent, Holmes in character as Stephen Hollister spoke no French. In an adjacent room behind the cash register, I could hear voices, and the door to this chamber opened frequently as people passed in and out. When it was open, their voices were quite clear. Several male and one female voice spoke in rapid French, using, I presumed, slang, for I could catch nothing of what they said. At one point a handsome, intense woman of around sixty, in dark clothing and with a determined air, emerged from the room and walked through the shop. ‘? bient?t, Louise,’ called Richard. She raised a hand and gave a faint smile. ‘Some of that goose p?t? if you would, and some of those olives,’ said Holmes, and then considered the new coffee grinder, which I noted had the word ‘Peugeot’ inscribed on it. ‘Interesting contraption! If we can only get our landlady to accommodate it. I shall buy one and see.’ I knew full well that Mrs Hudson, who kindly furnished us with food, was a woman very used to routine and would not touch it. ‘Let us convince her with a gift of these,’ said Holmes with a smile, pointing to a triumvirate of small jars he had selected from the shelves – mustard, honey, and small pickles. ‘Oh, and – a baggetty, sill vooz plate,’ he said, purposely mangling the words. He pointed to a basket of the long, crusty loaves of French bread near the cash register. ‘Ah, non, non,’ the grocer replied. ‘For you, one of my best!’ He went behind the counter and selected another baguette, this one golden and crusty. ‘Still warm from the oven!’ Thus, laden with our treasures, we stood in the street, attempting to hail another cab. The heavy drizzle had turned once again to rain, and Holmes protected the baguette with a carefully angled umbrella. ‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘where to next – more errands?’ He glanced at me, reading my puzzlement, and laughed. Once again he flagged a four-wheeler and we climbed aboard. He began to restore his normal appearance as we proceeded north on Charlotte Street towards Euston Road. ‘That was obviously not about the food, Watson, although I’ll admit it is an added bonus. That little unassuming grocery store is the nexus for the French anarchist activity in London. That, and the Autonomie Club. I have slowly been gaining Richard’s confidence. You know my methods. The lady who passed through was none other than Louise Michel.’ ‘Who?’ ‘A famous French anarchist, Watson. She is said to have been one of the organizing powers behind the uprising in Paris in ’71.’ ‘What is she doing here?’ I exclaimed, suddenly imagining barricades of furniture and bonfires in Trafalgar Square. ‘We have welcomed foreigners of all stripes and political persuasions, Watson. It is part and parcel of being a democracy.’ Our hansom turned left onto Euston which became Marylebone Road. The rain had paused, but dark clouds scudded across the sky and a chill wind blew about us. More stormy weather was on the way. ‘I do not understand why we should welcome violent extremists,’ I remarked. ‘I tracked her briefly earlier this year. Louise Michel is writing articles and giving speeches, Watson. There is no law against that.’ ‘But someone in that crowd has graduated to explosives. Can that not be laid at her door?’ ‘It is not that simple, I am afraid. We must uphold the freedoms on which our country is based, Watson. A democracy always faces the challenge of discerning what is free speech and what is sedition, what is ardent dissent and what is incitement to criminal acts.’ ‘But still—’ ‘Watson, you remarked earlier on the prejudice you heard from Billings. I’m afraid that attitude is growing due to the anarchists, a tiny but very notable minority among the many Italian and French who have come to this country peacably. Most of these immigrants have nothing to do with politics or crime. They are skilled artisans, chefs, woodworkers, and professional people. But along with these come many poor, unskilled labourers, desperate to start anew. For a small subset of these, their poverty and misery make them ripe for conversion to violence.’ ‘It is a sad situation. Something must be done, Holmes.’ ‘Yes, but to help them, do you not think? The anarchists are a small, renegade part of a larger movement who believe strongly in schools for the poor, did you know that? They want to provide a means for the impoverished to raise themselves. Louise Michel has founded such a school.’ ‘All well and good, but bombs!’ I objected. ‘They feel their voices are not heard. It is a dilemma, Watson, but I agree there is no excuse for bombing. I shall combat terrorism in any form.’ ‘There is a lot in the press about the immigrant problem, Holmes.’ ‘Sadly yes, there is a growing movement – the “restrictionists”. They want limitations on immigration, tougher police, all based on fears of economic and racial decline. Titus Billings and his secret benefactor are clearly in the vanguard.’ I looked about me on Marylebone Road. We were passing the elegant Park Crescent dwellings, but even in this refined and lovely part of London there were vagrant individuals begging on the streets. ‘Titus Billings thinks the way out of our problems is by militarizing the police. By providing them with ever more brutal crowd control equipment. More deadly batons, handcuffs which break wrists, even guns. Turning them into soldiers, essentially, as if the streets were at war. How do you feel about that, Watson?’ ‘Well, I … it is hard to say. Sounds a poor solution. But … bombers are criminals.’ ‘Yes, they are, Watson. But should we allow fear to turn our country into a kind of police state? It is a delicate balance.’ ‘This is beyond my ken, Holmes.’ Holmes regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Frankly, Watson, it is beyond my own as well. It is more in my brother’s realm. But I will help where I can. As result of this stop at Le Bel ?picier, I know the exact location of a bombing they are planning two days hence.’ ‘How?’ ‘The men in the back-room.’ ‘You overhead them? How could they be so careless?’ ‘They were speaking in code, with a great use of argot – French slang, Watson. They assume no Englishmen speak their language to such a degree. However, I do. As Mycroft noted, they are amateurs. But still dangerous.’ My friend was wise to ignore his brother’s admonition. This new information could well save lives. He sighed. ‘What I do not know is when this bomb is to detonate.’ Our carriage turned south towards Baker Street and we just managed to make it inside as the drizzle turned into a downpour. Holmes scribbled two telegrams regarding the bombings and sent Billy off to the post office with them. As I hung up my wet things and noted the cheerful fire and tea things laid out, I felt a moment of thankfulness that I was not one of the homeless unfortunates huddling under an awning on Charlotte Street, or Tottenham Court Road, or even in the mews near to this very building. Instead I was comfortable and warm, and quite safe. Of course, that would not remain the case for long. CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_d73372e4-a93a-5f8f-91e6-a2eb42864236) The Lady (#ulink_d73372e4-a93a-5f8f-91e6-a2eb42864236) I settled in again by the fire and cracked open a nautical adventure book I had left behind. Holmes, pacing, checked his watch. ‘Do not get too comfortable, Watson. We must go out again shortly. Crime does not halt for inclement weather. The Goodwin brothers have not been forthcoming with the list they promised. Perhaps it is time to pay them a visit.’ ‘It has been less than two hours, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Give them a chance.’ ‘It is ridiculous that they did not have the names in their heads.’ ‘They are very social. Perhaps between parties and Parliament there are many names to remember.’ ‘Yes, yes, Watson,’ said Holmes impatiently. I nodded and added a shot of brandy to my tea. Holmes waved away the offer of the same and took out his notebook in which the Goodwins had scribbled the names of the few Luminarians they could remember. ‘Oliver Flynn is the odd name on this list. He is the only artistic member. All the rest are industrialists or businessmen. He does not seem to fit. I wonder if something is hidden in the man’s past.’ ‘What a talent he is!’ I smiled at the thought of Flynn’s play Mary and I had attended at the Haymarket only last week. It was a trifle, to be sure, but a delicious evening of entertainment. His latest was what critics referred to as a “comedy of manners”, and we had thoroughly enjoyed his skewering of the aristocratic class, although done with a modicum of sympathy. ‘Of course, he is certainly a character,’ I said, ‘Was there not some scandal brewing? Something about his unusual … romantic life.’ Holmes looked up from perusing the articles on the table. ‘Raise your view, Watson,’ he snapped. I turned back to my book, irritated. ‘Sorry, dear fellow. I should not let slander-by-Zander get under my skin. Flynn engenders more gossip than I do! He hails from Dublin originally, was an orphan who pulled himself up by his own bootstraps. This fact is little known – indeed, he hides it – but he has almost single-handedly funded the orphanage in which he spent his early years.’ ‘Fascinating, Holmes. His public persona is so different from that.’ ‘Few of us reveal our true selves in public,’ said Holmes, cryptically. Mrs Hudson appeared with what at less pressured times was the kind of announcement dearest to our hearts. ‘Mr Holmes, a client is here to consult you. A Lady Eleanor Gainsborough.’ Her expression conveyed that the visitor had impressed her, and that Holmes had better respond, and quickly. ‘I am quite busy,’ said he. ‘She was most insistent,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘Holmes, have you time for this?’ I wondered. ‘You seem to have a rather full plate.’ ‘I shall determine that, Watson,’ said he, peeved. ‘Send her up, Mrs Hudson. When it rains, it pours.’ And although indeed it was pouring outside at that moment, in walked a lady as if blown into the room by a summer breeze, so untouched was she by the weather. She stood just inside the doorway, a graceful woman of about forty-five. Her wealth and breeding were evident by her poised manner and costly raiment. But she also gave the impression, so common among the very rich, that she was wearing some kind of cloak of ethereal matter, protecting her from rain, dirt, and all the minor inconveniences. She smiled graciously at the two of us. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes? And the friend – Doctor, er …?’ ‘Watson, madam, at your service.’ She smiled faintly and turned to Holmes. ‘I am so pleased to find you here, and willing to receive me, Mr Holmes.’ She held out her hand, palm down, and Holmes crossed to her, kissing it in the manner of a true gallant. ‘Lady Gainsborough! Welcome.’ ‘Lady Eleanor, please, Mr Holmes.’ ‘As you wish,’ he said. I nodded deferentially as Holmes guided her to the basket chair which was angled closest to the fire. She placed her reticule on the table, took in the room with its slightly sinister and decidedly chaotic clutter, and then sat, arranging her burgundy velvet skirts around her. As she did so, I took in the full measure of a born aristocrat, or so I gathered from her gracefully erect posture, her porcelain skin with only the slightest natural blush, her bounteous yet impeccably arranged coiffure of dark brown curls, and the subtle touches of discreet antique jewellery. Her dress was of the finest quality, with a deep chevron of black lace panels down the front which narrowed into a waist whose tiny size belied her years. She smiled, and it melted any trace of the late autumn chill that lingered in the air and subtracted ten years from my estimation of her age. ‘Mr Holmes, I am sure you can help me. I have read so much of you and your remarkable achievements, both by Doctor Watson here, as well as in the newspapers.’ Holmes shot me a sudden glance, indicating the table where the damning tabloid articles were still arrayed. I had forgotten about them. I got up to stack them discreetly before our visitor could catch a glimpse, although I could not imagine a lady of her class taking interest in The Illustrated Police Gazette. ‘This is, of course, despite recent slander,’ she continued, dashing this thought to pieces and eyeing me with amusement. ‘My maid brings the Gazette into the house from time to time, Doctor. They are hard to resist.’ I finished stacking and sat back down. She leaned forward as if to impart a secret. ‘Likening you to the Devil, indeed! For shame! In my view, you are an angel of justice. Your capturing the Covent Garden Garrotter last summer – what a triumph, Mr Holmes! I have followed your adventures for some time. My late husband was an admirer as well.’ Holmes, more susceptible to flattery than he would care to admit, softened slightly, but turned the conversation to business. ‘Madam, I can see that you are troubled. How may we be of service to you? It must be a matter of great importance for you to have travelled though this weather, rather than for you to summon us to your school. I read that you have visited this worthy institution before coming here.’ She started at this. ‘You read me … like a book?’ ‘It is a figure of speech, madam. Watson, Lady Eleanor is the co-founder and funder of the remarkable Gainsborough School for Young Ladies, a private, charitable enterprise which rescues destitute young women from a life on the streets.’ ‘Well, my goodness, yes. You are remarkably well-informed. Of course, my girls are not only poor, but have been plucked from very specific life on the streets,’ said the lady. ‘One in which the sad young things have found nothing to sell but themselves.’ ‘I see,’ I said. ‘I am surprised you know of us,’ said the lady to Holmes. ‘Your school is quite renowned, Lady Eleanor.’ He turned to me. ‘This laudable institution provides education and training which transforms these waifs into employable young ladies – suitable for work in service, is that not correct?’ He turned back to Lady Eleanor. ‘Indeed, it is, Mr Holmes,’ said the lady, pleased at the recognition. ‘But we are hidden away in an unfashionable part of town and have had little notice by the larger community. How do you know this?’ ‘I make it my business to follow everything of importance in London, Lady Eleanor.’ ‘You must not sleep, then. But returning to my question, how could you have read that I had just now been to visit the school?’ she asked. ‘The papers do sometimes follow me – as they do you – but not by the minute.’ ‘It was written on your gloves.’ ‘My gloves?’ She held an exquisite pair of pale lavender leather gloves in her left hand. ‘The ink stain on your glove, there,’ said Holmes. Barely discernible was a small stain on one of the index fingers. ‘You are far too meticulous in your habillement to have left the house with a stained glove, therefore you did some writing elsewhere,’ said Holmes. ‘Normally, one removes gloves to write, but you left yours on, presumably because you were in an environment where you did not wish to sully your hands. I cannot imagine you engaging the type of barrister or accountant where you would feel the need, but paperwork at the school might have required your attention, and in that undoubtedly less pristine atmosphere you chose to leave them on.’ ‘I could have done so while shopping. Written a cheque, perchance,’ said the lady, who seemed amused rather than offended by Holmes’s showy display. ‘I warrant you do not do your own shopping, save for very particular establishments, a dressmaker perhaps. And there not only would you have an account, but you would have removed your gloves.’ She laughed. It was a beautiful, silvery sound. ‘Well, you are entirely correct, Mr Holmes, and I am even more convinced that it is the right thing to consult you!’ Holmes smiled at the lady. ‘It is fascinating,’ she continued, ‘that Mr Zanders of the Gazette seems to attribute your powers, which he declares are waning, to nefarious means. I personally think your past results tell quite a different story. Is it jealousy, perhaps, or does the man hold something against you?’ Holmes’s smile faded. ‘That is an astute observation indeed, madam. I once took this journalist to task for a gross indiscretion. But please, let us turn to the reason for your visit. How can we help you?’ ‘An incident occurred at my school and I require your advice, as well as your assistance.’ ‘Please lay your problem before us.’ ‘There has been an attack on one of my star pupils, a young woman named Judith. She was rescued from the streets three years ago and in that short time has proven herself highly intelligent, having quickly acquired remarkable fluency in reading, figures, and household organization. I did not know it at the time, but she speaks French, as her mother was French. Although it is French of the streets, she has sought to remedy that, and her colloquial English, with success.’ ‘Good. This attack, Lady Eleanor? What happened?’ ‘Judith was attacked in her bed last night as she slept.’ ‘Attacked!’ I cried. Holmes frowned. ‘Details, if you please?’ ‘Judith, as one of our senior and most accomplished students, has earned a room to herself. It was about two in the morning … early this morning … when an intruder entered this room, pulled back the covers, grasped her hand, and attempted to sever one of her fingers with a knife.’ ‘My God!’ I exclaimed. ‘Which finger?’ asked Holmes. ‘Er … I am not sure. The middle? The ring?’ ‘It matters. And madam, you are sure? Which hand and which finger?’ ‘The left, I think. Ring finger. But those are not the salient points.’ ‘I will determine that. What else?’ ‘The assailant was masked, hooded. She did not see the man.’ ‘Is she sure it was a man?’ ‘Yes. She struck him and he cried out.’ ‘I see. You said “attempted”. I trust he was not successful?’ asked Holmes, leaning forward in his chair with that keen expression of a hound on a scent. ‘She screamed. Her attacker fled, dropping the knife as he ran.’ ‘The wound. Deep? Superficial?’ ‘Just a shallow cut. Almost a scratch. But very upsetting.’ ‘May I see the knife?’ Holmes held out his hand. She started again. ‘How did you know I brought it to you?’ ‘Lady Eleanor, please. No games. I can see the outline of it in your silk reticule. You are clearly not used to subterfuge, nor violence. Is it bloody, have you wrapped it? If so, you will have removed evidence.’ She paused, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Mr Holmes,’ said she. ‘This is a most trying experience.’ She then withdrew the knife, holding it with distaste with only one finger and her thumb. It was wrapped in a cloth napkin. ‘Ah,’ said Holmes, examining it. ‘It has been wiped clean. That is unfortunate.’ It was an ordinary kitchen knife. Not distinguishable in any way except for small bloodstains on the blade. Holmes held it to a light on the table next to him, picked up a lens and examined the plain, flat handle and then the blade. He ran his finger along the edge. ‘Dull. No fingerprints are left. This tells us nothing,’ said Holmes. ‘Might it have come from the kitchen at the school?’ ‘I do not know,’ said the lady. ‘I am not familiar with their utensils.’ Holmes continued to examine the knife, then he tossed it on a side table. ‘I presume you want me to trace this assailant?’ ‘What I would like, Mr Holmes, is protection for dear Judith. She is my prize pupil. This has upset her greatly, and this catastrophe will delay my placing her until her wound heals. Most of my girls can only aspire to be parlour-maids or maids of all work. But Judith will be my first to graduate to a position of governess.’ ‘Impressive,’ I said, imagining this tale of rags to respectability. ‘I thought it was merely a scratch,’ said Holmes. ‘Her wound?’ ‘Perhaps I have not described it correctly. It is a small cut. But it is bandaged against infection.’ ‘Good,’ said I, thinking that few people took such things seriously enough. Holmes shifted in impatience. The lady continued. ‘I would very much like you to come to the school and to lie in wait for this assailant, Mr Holmes. I feel certain he will try again.’ ‘Dr Watson perhaps could assist. Is there an empty room nearby where he could wait?’ I was surprised at this but said nothing. ‘No, it must be in her room. And you, sir. Alone. There is not enough space for you both in the room with Judith.’ ‘Why do you not remove the girl to a place of safety?’ Holmes asked. ‘Perhaps lodge her in your own home until this villain is apprehended?’ ‘Oh, no! I – I could not do that. My staff would be – oh no! But the assailant would not likely return, then, would he? I ask you again, sir. Please come and wait in her room with her.’ I had a sudden thought of our escapade back in ’83, protecting the gentle Helen Stoner, a young woman who nearly met the same gruesome end as her sister Julia – death in her own bed by the improbable means of a trained snake, engineered by her evil stepfather. We had awaited this terrifying event by secreting ourselves, with difficulty, in the lady’s bedroom. However, the young person herself had not been present. What Lady Eleanor was proposing was quite unacceptable. ‘I am sorry, Lady Eleanor. I am otherwise occupied,’ said Holmes. ‘But I have in mind the perfect solution.’ ‘But, sir—’ ‘No,’ said Holmes, firmly. Lady Eleanor was taken aback. As pleasant and reasonable as she seemed, she was also clearly not used to hearing the word ‘no’. ‘Here is my solution, madam. I will send over one of my deputies. A young woman who will fit right into your school, a minnow in a school of minnows.’ ‘A deputy?’ ‘I have employed her before, and more than once. Her name is Hephzibah O’Malley.’ ‘That is an … unusual name,’ said the lady. Holmes noted this and glanced at me. ‘Heffie, as she is known, is an East End orphan, half Jewish and half Irish, and you can well imagine she has felt the brunt of prejudice. She has learned to defend herself masterfully. She is an accomplished street-fighter. But that is the smallest of her skills. Heffie is intelligent, subtle, and observant – an easily underestimated young person.’ Lady Eleanor looked doubtful, but Holmes pressed on. ‘The assailant, judging from his lack of success and his willingness to be frightened off so readily, is not a professional. Heffie will be able to handle him, should he return.’ I wondered that I had not heard of her before. ‘How old is this Heffie?’ asked the lady. ‘Sixteen.’ ‘You would send a child to defend my Judith?’ Holmes sighed. ‘Heffie is no ordinary young lady. Her late father was a boxer and wrestler and I have seen her hold her own against several men. Heffie will also fit in perfectly as one of your rescues. There could be no one better suited to watch over Judith. Your assailant, if he is connected with the school, will not even realize that Judith has acquired a bodyguard. Even Scotland Yard has made use of her services. Do you see? Heffie is precisely what you need.’ ‘I need you, Mr Holmes.’ ‘Madam, I am not free at present. And consider this. I would stand out in that environment like a giraffe in a pen of kittens.’ ‘I beg you to refrain from referring to my girls as minnows or kittens,’ said the lady with dignity. I will admit that I, too, was taken slightly aback by Holmes’s colourful analogies. ‘But if it is not to be, it is not to be.’ She rose, her disappointment obvious. She glanced once more around the room, revisiting the considerable clutter, including the grotesqueries on the chemistry table. She drew herself up, then ran a hand along the fireplace mantel. A finger came away dirty. She tapped some books, lying askew on a nearby bookcase. ‘Mr Holmes. You could benefit from more meticulous housekeeping. Order reflects competence! One of my girls would do wonders with this unhealthy room. She would clean thoroughly, organize all. Will you consider hiring one? I am always looking to place a girl. One of my best is available starting immediately. Anna would—’ ‘Much as I enjoy appearing competent, no thank you, Lady Eleanor,’ said Holmes with a small smile. ‘Now if you will excuse us, please.’ ‘It is hard to take no for an answer, Mr Holmes. You say Heffie can do the job I require and have insisted, past my reservations. Yet you will not take my advice. Why not consider Anna? She would tidy up this mess in a day.’ ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Holmes more firmly, ‘but this room is exactly how I like it.’ ‘But it is very kind of you to suggest,’ I offered. She paused. ‘I will expect your … Heffie, then. When exactly?’ ‘I will have her there by morning. In the meantime, place Judith temporarily in a new room with other girls. Please have an extra bed made ready in Judith’s room for tomorrow.’ She nodded and departed without another word. ‘What an extraordinary woman,’ I exclaimed. ‘In what way, Watson?’ ‘So elegant, so self-contained. And quite lovely for her age.’ ‘She is only a few years older than you. And she, or her girl, is lying, at least about a few things.’ ‘What? Seriously, Holmes? ‘The knife is suspect. It is too dull to have made a small wound. And when Lady Eleanor withdrew the knife, I also spotted a receipt dated today from Verrey’s Restaurant.’ ‘What does that matter?’ ‘Odd to dine socially while on an errand such as this. Perhaps it is nothing. But you know me, Watson. I do not find most women all that trustworthy.’ ‘Well, I disagree. I think Lady Eleanor was simply upset. Anyone would be.’ ‘Let us drop the subject, Watson. We have more substantial work to do. It is now past five and already dark. I am going to fetch Heffie and set her on the job.’ ‘I shall go with you,’ I said, curious about this girl whose description had frankly intrigued me. ‘I have another task for you, Watson. As the Goodwins have not sent over the list of Luminarians which they promised, I would like for you to go to Mayfair and retrieve it from them. That should, at least, prove entertaining. Meanwhile, I shall be back for supper by eight, and will see you then.’ ‘Shall we dine at Simpson’s, Holmes? You could do with a fine roast beef and Yorkshire pudding!’ ‘You persist, Watson! Yes, then. Eight o’clock? I look forward to it.’ CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_e8261d34-b098-55d7-af1f-115aced6c303) A Question of Taste (#ulink_e8261d34-b098-55d7-af1f-115aced6c303) My career had taken me through challenging terrain on three continents, but I will admit that there were corners of London which could seem both foreign and unnerving to me. Mayfair was one. Before departing, I sent over a quick note to the Goodwin brothers to politely warn of my impending visit and made an effort to elevate my appearance – a close shave, a fresh collar, and a quick change back to my ‘ostentatious gold watch’, as Holmes had called it. While he teased me about pretension, these touches added needed gravitas, or so I felt. My curiosity rose as my cab drew near Grosvenor Square. I had long admired the grand houses nearby but had never set foot inside one. Thankfully, the rain had ceased, but the wet streets gleamed and a touch of frost appeared on the grass on the lawn in the centre of the square. The air had grown much colder and a further freeze during the night would turn the pavements treacherous. We pulled up to an enormous home not far from the square. The Goodwins’ residence was startling in its grandeur. Three storeys high, gleaming in marble and masterful plaster, a frieze of cavorting ancients across the portico, it was a remarkable edifice. Set back from the street, and fronted with a half-moon of private driveway, the enormous house buzzed with activity and glowed with numerous outdoor electrified lights. Bathed under this bright glow, the Goodwins’ own carriage, shining black with a gilded coat of arms painted discreetly on the doors, stood at the entrance. It had recently arrived, for a glossy matched pair of chestnut beauties stamped and snorted, their breaths showing as white puffs in the frigid air. A driver sat atop, rubbing his gloved hands for warmth, while two servants, sporting powdered wigs and velvet coats adorned with gold lace and buttons, ran to and fro with packages from expensive grocers and specialty shops. Servants costumed in anachronistic livery was something I had read about but never seen. A strange conceit, I thought! Boxes from Fortnum and Mason appeared in one of the servant’s hands, and their delicious Scotch Eggs came to mind. They were a favourite of Holmes’s as he could stash them in his pockets while on a case. Unless Fortnum and Mason’s extravagant delicacies were daily fare for the Goodwins, some kind of party was being prepared. A servant took my hat, coat and cane, and I was happy that I had transformed myself, even modestly, for this visit. I was asked to wait in a salon which was, by itself, nearly twice the size of all the rooms at 221B taken together. The decor was ornate – Regency, perhaps – with baroque touches, hand-painted cabinets with cherubs madly cavorting, and much of the furniture edged in gold. The chairs and settees were upholstered in subtle satin stripes, and delicate and complicated china figurines dotted every available surface. I was afraid to move, lest I should knock over one of these costly items, and so stood rather uncomfortably in the centre of the room. I heard voices in the hallway just outside. I recognized one as Andrew Goodwin, he of the Byronic look. ‘She is simply the best pastry chef we have ever had, Billings,’ he said. ‘I will not let her go over gossip and rumour.’ Billings! Could he be referring to Titus Billings, the new man in charge of the Metropolitan Police? I moved closer to the door and secreted myself behind it so I could see them near the entry through the crack while remaining hidden from their view. I recognized Titus Billings from the newspaper. He was a huge man, taller even than Andrew Goodwin. Broad of shoulder, he was muscular, with thick, wavy black hair and beetle brows. He had a military moustache and bearing. Late of the army, I thought, just as Holmes had judged me in those first moments of our meeting at Bart’s. ‘My dear Lord Goodwin, this does not come from me. But from the … er, Royal cousin himself,’ Billings said, his booming voice lacking discretion. ‘The French are a rising menace. It would be to your own interest to replace your French staff – and the Italians, too while you are at it – with good British stock. Those Frogs in particular are not to be trusted.’ Billings dropped his voice, and continued confidentially, ‘The unnamed Royal gentleman to whom I refer purged his own kitchen of all the dirty foreigners, and good riddance to them all. The theft of his treasured silver stopped at once.’ True story or not, I was horrified to hear this blatant prejudice spilling from a man so highly placed in law enforcement. I was no na?f on the subject and had encountered deeply prejudiced men in all ranks of the military. But in this context, and so vehemently spoken by a man in his position, it was nothing short of shocking. ‘Oh,’ said Goodwin, ‘are you going about London, warning us all from door to door?’ ‘Sir!’ said Billings, affronted. ‘I am attempting to do you a favour.’ ‘Surely you cannot dismiss an entire nationality on the basis of a few anarchists and the theft of three forks? Nor will you succeed in eliminating the French from our shores. Besides, how then, shall we dine?’ he added with a smile. ‘Heed me, Lord Goodwin,’ said Billings. ‘If I could stop every Frenchman from entering Britain, I would. The dirty, lying—’ ‘My mother’s family were French, Mr Billings.’ Billings was taken aback, but only for a moment. ‘The Royal cousin himself has given me leave to act on his preferences. Of course, I—’ ‘The Royal cousin who himself is not English?’ ‘Sir, you do not take my point. I speak of the criminals among those who flood our shores. Not your relations. But bombers, thieves, murderers! We should be more selective. You would be wise to—’ ‘Let me stop you, Mr Billings, before you place both feet in your mouth and have trouble making it out the door.’ ‘But the Royal personage himself—’ ‘Our cousin as well. Oh, did you not know? I suggest you take your theories and trot on home with them where you can commiserate with others who share your views. Perhaps over a good Beaujolais. Good day, Mr Billings.’ Billings left abruptly. I thought that whoever was working closely with that blustering man ought to watch his back, for when a bully like that is chastised, others will be made to pay. I stepped back from the door, and just in time, as Lord Andrew Goodwin bounded in. I now got a good look at his at-home loungewear: a black velvet dressing gown with blue silk quilted lapels, fine embroidery all down the front and sleeves, and carpet slippers which were worked in the finest needlepoint shot with gold. He was otherwise as impeccably groomed as he had been earlier that day. What an enormous amount of upkeep went into this young gentleman’s appearance, I thought. But I quite admired him for standing up to Billings. ‘Dr Watson, how good of you to come out of your way in this terrible weather,’ he said amiably. ‘So chilly out! I’ve just had all the fires lit. Twenty-three of them, including the servants’. I am so sorry that we have neglected to send you the list as promised. We are entertaining tonight, and the thought just flew from my head.’ I wondered that someone might be murdering members of the society he had founded and yet this ‘flew from his head’. ‘Please, let us come away from this stifling room. This home has been in the family a long time, and this room was my grandmother’s favourite, and remains pleasing to our lady guests. I cannot fathom why they placed you here. Follow me to our study and see if James and I can’t come up with another name or two for you.’ As we moved quickly through the ground floor of the house, I was aware of many rooms through which a seemingly endless supply of liveried servants scurried, carrying vases of fresh flowers, trays of champagne flutes, soft lap blankets of what looked to be cashmere, silver bowls of nuts, candied fruits, and small cakes, in preparation for what were most likely distinguished guests. As they passed us in the spacious hallways, each servant stepped aside deferentially with a small bow of the head. Andrew Goodwin appeared not to notice they were there. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=48655118&lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.