A Trip to Newcastle upon Tyne
I admit that I must have gaped at Holmes as he made that revelation.
While I knew a treaty was in the process of being written, I had read as much in the papers, the location had not been publicly announced. Now that I knew it was to be in Newcastle, I too began to see how everything was starting to fit together. Still, there were some gaps, some connections that still confused me, and I said so to Holmes, trusting that he was not magicking these lines of investigation from thin air.
“I contend that these three men have a vested interest in the outcome of the treaty; whether that is it being signed or not, I cannot yet divine,” Holmes began. “Presumably they have business dealings in South Africa which will suffer as a result. They have treated with some Indian assassin—likely a contact made by Frobisher, given his time in India—the man they call the ‘mystic’, to do their dirty work, including carrying out the attack on my person.”
“But why would they send this man after you?”
“That, my dear friend, is where I believe the Wynter connection comes into play. I believe that it was our visit to the Admiralty, inquiring into South African affairs, that led to these men ordering the ‘mystic’ to attack me. We were public in our questioning, and no doubt a report was made, probably to Chatterton-Smythe. As an MP he is the most likely of the three to have contacts at the Admiralty. I was to be dissuaded from investigating Wynter’s disappearance, or perhaps they intended my death. Wiggins’s intervention means we do not know either way.”
“Now wait just a minute, Holmes,” interjected I. “We were both certain that Hampton had sent men after us. Are you now suggesting the Admiralty hired an Indian assassin as well? That stretches belief too far.”
“Indeed it does,” he said rather calmly. “Hampton was under orders from someone—perhaps Chatterton-Smythe—to keep us away from Wynter’s trail. That is as close as we have to a fact in this sordid affair. Someone else also wants us away from Wynter’s case and it is my belief that man is Edward Haldaine, who could easily have transported an Indian here and unleashed him.”
“And you are suggesting Haldaine brought in a mystic to do away with you?”
“The title ‘mystic’ would suggest he is accomplished at several things, not merely parlour tricks,” he observed. “For instance a knowledge of chemistry, including how to extract the toxins from castor beans. Could this man possibly have been their agent in Disraeli’s death? Retribution for his role in the dissolution of the East India Company?”
“But that was years ago, surely?”
Holmes cocked an eyebrow. “If these three are involved in some criminal activity in South Africa, it has to be something large enough to force them to see off Disraeli before he did something that could have a negative impact on their affairs.”
“Not retribution?”
“I think not. They have had several years to seek revenge for his push to shut down the company’s initiatives in India and the subcontinent, so their motivations must be something entirely different. But we do not know what, or for that matter the roles Wynter and the Boer conflict play in their schemes.”
This was all getting to be too much. The search for Wynter’s whereabouts had taken us to locations that were at the height of the government. We had been researching conspiracies, murder, and something to do with India and now South Africa. Two of the men Holmes just observed, may or may not have been involved in having us followed. The extraordinary circumstances to date had been staggering in their implications. I could not believe these to be true.
“But, Holmes, do we have any substantive evidence to take to any authority who can either produce Wynter or arrest the mystic?”
“Not as yet, Watson. We do not yet have all the facts and need to go about gathering them. Drink up so we may be on our way. The trail has grown more obvious, but if we delay we risk it going cold. I feel the need to act.”
Holmes’s logic was less clear to me, but his argument was compelling if far-fetched. I was ready to follow where he led, wherever that might be. The enormity of the matter was not lost on me, or I confess, the danger. However, this affair, whatever its exact nature, might threaten the Empire itself.
“What is our next move?” I asked.
“We need to learn where the treaty is being drafted in Newcastle. We also need to determine possible venues in that city where our Indian mystic may be performing, and divine how much longer he will be in the country. Once he leaves our shores, apprehending him becomes problematic to say the least. That is an eventuality we can ill afford.”
“I suppose we are off to the library, then,” I ventured. This was becoming a bit of a habit and I hoped my friend there would not feel put upon.
He nodded in agreement, then looked down at his footman’s attire. “But first, I must change.”
* * *
We managed to get to the London Library just before it closed for the day and I persuaded Lomax to allow us to stay after hours. Much as I might have found the lengthy history of Newcastle interesting reading in other circumstances, I needed to focus on its most immediate condition. Much of what I read confirmed what I already knew: references to its past as a mining town and a major site of industrial manufacture.
In reading on more recent history I came across an item that made me shudder as pieces continued to fall into place, creating a picture I liked not in the least. “Holmes,” I said in a voice appropriate for a library despite us being the sole patrons, “the ports do take in trade from India and Newcastle is in fact the entry port for shipments of castor beans. In fact, their volume seems to grow by the year.”
He paused his own reading to absorb the information, his keen mind matching it with what we had learned so far. A curt nod of his head meant he accepted the fact, added it to his limited repository of information and resumed his research.
The volumes he was perusing were not related to the recent periodicals but were older works, dark leather-bound and reeking of age. “What are you studying?” I asked.
“Those symbols I copied down. I am trying to ascertain what they mean, where they came from. The notations were always next to property not financial transactions. But I cannot fathom what they mean.”
“Might we need to consult a real estate expert?”
“I would hope not because I believe we are pressed for time and finding someone versed in arcane symbology will be difficult to come by. However, I see where knowing of such a fellow might actually come in handy in the future.”
I merely grunted in assent and refocused my attention on the newspapers. Holmes made his own sound of frustration and with a loud thump, turned aside from the ancient tomes to assist me in our contemporary research.
Holmes sat beside me, working his way through back issues of various newspapers, searching for articles related to the peace treaty with the Boers. At one point, he thrust a newspaper just below my nose and stabbed a finger at an article. “Watson, the treaty is scheduled to be signed in a week, on 3rd August!” A date not too far away, I noted. Closer, indeed, than I would have liked.
“You think something will happen to stop the signing?”
“A mystic assassin who just happens to currently be in Newcastle as the British preparations for treaty are being finalised? I should say that is more than mere coincidence, wouldn’t you?”
“You say that, but we still have no evidence of any connection between the men at the club and the treaty,” I protested. “You are looking for coincidences that conform to your bias, rather than letting the facts form the basis for your deductions. This is most unlike you, my friend. You are usually far more rigorous, but I fear you are allowing the grand conspiracy to run away with you. We need incontrovertible proof.” Holmes took this with good grace.
“Quite right. We need more evidence, and we cannot find it in London. We must make haste to Newcastle first thing in the morning.”
“Holmes,” I said, not entirely sure how to broach the subject, “not to be indelicate, old man, but do you have the funds for the fare?”
Holmes took out his wallet and did a fast count. “I should have just enough, I believe. My time at the Horse and Hounds was certainly providential. But you are correct, my parsimonious friend, we should be careful with our spending.”
“Even if we solve this case, we will be fortunate if Mrs. Wynter pays her bill promptly. Our rent is due on 1st August,” I added. Holmes was silent, leaving me to presume we were tapping the last of our finances. He rose from his chair and headed for the door.
“Where are you going now?”
Holmes glanced back over his shoulder. “To find the Baker Street Irregulars.”
I left the London Library shortly after, returning to Baker Street. As was my wont, I was up a good part of the night, reading and contemplating the case. Holmes himself returned well after dark, but we were both up as the sun rose. Upon exiting 221B, I was not at all surprised to see Wiggins’s grubby face and several of his gang loitering on the street corner.
“Mornin’, guv’nor,” said he to Holmes, tipping his battered cap. The other boys, in similar states of grime, silently saluted. “Is it time?”
Holmes nodded. “I should think so.” He turned to me. “Let us find a cab.”
He stuck out his arm and a passing hansom began to slow for us. The boys scattered as if on some silent cue.
“What are they up to?” I inquired.
“General mayhem,” Holmes said with a slight smile. “I also had one of the Arabs play postman, delivering a letter of inquiry regarding those symbols. In reviewing the handwriting samples I obtained at the East India Club, one included a random sketch with some numbers. It looked remarkably like one of those symbols so its identity has risen in importance.
“I admit I cannot fathom of the numbers. 33, 27, 50, 20, 59, 10. It may be a cypher, it may be some bank account. This leaves me at a loss.”
My eyebrows raised in surprise at such an extraordinary finding but such is the way with Holmes and his investigations, of that I have learned more than once. I glanced out the cab once more and saw the final three urchins bolt. As they did so, I spotted our old friend, the man who had followed me from the Horse and Hounds. His idea of a change in disguise was a fresh coat; otherwise he looked just as he had when I’d led him a merry dance. As Holmes and I climbed into the cab, three of the boys gathered around him and proceeded to make a racket. I presumed they were making certain there was no possibility of him overhearing our instructions to the driver. I looked out of the window and smiled with delight. The hapless man could only watch as our cab rolled out of sight.
* * *
We arrived at King’s Cross Station at eight, but as it turned out, the next train to Newcastle would not leave until past ten so we had time to spare. We secured our tickets and then passed much of the two hours before departure with the morning newspapers and a breakfast bought in the small station café. Holmes took it upon himself to study the comings and goings of our fellow passengers. When he finally settled into a seat opposite me, I presumed the boys had done their job well and that there was no sign of our pursuer, but I was still concerned as to whether the man had spotted our bags. They offered him a clue that we were about to travel. Of course, there were several stations the cab could have taken us to, on all sides of the city. Would he possibly know that we had discovered the Newcastle link? It seemed unlikely. Holmes had not been unmasked while eavesdropping on Frobisher, Haldaine and Chatterton-Smythe.
That Hampton would continue to have men following us even as our investigations took us further and further from the Admiralty was cause for concern.
“Holmes,” I said, interrupting whatever private musing he was undertaking. “What on earth could Wynter have gotten himself mixed up in if Hampton still has people following us?”
“Do not forget that apart from the naval men enjoying some extracurricular activity, we also have the Indian assassin to contend with. Our movements are of interest to a good many people it would seem. Something is afoot, that is for sure, but beyond that, Watson, I would not hazard to conjecture without more information. After all, that is the purpose of this trip.”
We took the East Coast Main Line, a conglomeration of smaller lines that had merged through the years, and resulted in the sleek, speedy Flying Scotsman. Its ultimate destination, some nine hours later, was to be Edinburgh, but first we would have to endure stops in Peterborough, Grantham, and Doncaster before a half-hour stop for lunch in York.
Holmes and I settled into our compartment, with me taking a window seat while he sat close to the door in order to study the other passengers as they moved up and down the corridor outside. On the platform, the guard blew his whistle and the engine responded with a lurch as the brake was released, then we were underway. Steam streamed past my window as we gathered our head and powered away from the platform. As we began the journey, Holmes had withdrawn a notebook and was working out various combinations, trying to find a meaning in the jumble of numbers he had obtained from the gentlemen at the East India Club. After a quarter hour, he appeared to have given up.
We were perhaps an hour outside of London when Holmes—who had satisfied himself that none of our fellow passengers posed a threat and had been reading my copy of The Times—stiffened and asked for the other newspapers. Something had obviously caught his eye.
I had also picked up the latest editions of the Standard and Daily News and offered them to Holmes. He paged through them, scanning the dense columns of text carefully and without saying a word. His focus alarmed me, but I held my tongue, waiting for his conclusion.
“Watson, did you see this thimble of a report from South Africa?” He thrust a finger at a story on page fourteen of The Times, one I had missed when I thumbed through the papers at King’s Cross. It was a report of the death of Charles Lewis, a solicitor, who had passed away suddenly after a short, mysterious illness. While details of the single column inch report were scant, the piece did contain a single gem that sparked my interest: he would now be unable to complete the work he had begun on “a treaty of great significance”. I understood Holmes’s alarm immediately. The news of Lewis’s death only made it as far as the British papers because of his relative status in the Boer community, I was sure.
“It is possible that this man Lewis did not die from natural causes,” Holmes said, voicing my own thoughts. “The coincidence of this undiagnosed illness so close to the signing of the treaty has me convinced there was foul play involved.”
“Holmes, surely there can be no connection between Lewis and our case,” I said.
“No,” he asked in a tone that I had come to recognise as being one of disapproval. “Wynter was in South Africa and has disappeared. We already have one suspicious case of death with the former PM, and now this lawyer working on the very treaty that might be the catalyst to everything we’re investigating. This is far more than coincidence.”
I reread the story then read a similar account in the Standard, although the Daily News carried no mention of the death. Based on the few details presented in the reports, both of a similar paucity, a proper diagnosis was impossible; Lewis had suffered from gastrointestinal symptoms and slipped into a coma in the course of only three days. But Holmes had been teaching me to think more deductively over the previous few months.
“The man’s rapid decline strikes me as markedly similar to that of Disraeli,” I said, slowly conceding the point. I couldn’t help but think that we were missing some detail, some finer point that would change our perceptions of everything, but it was thus far elusive.
“I concur, Watson,” Holmes said. “And if as I believe, Lewis was poisoned with the same castor extract as the prime minister, we can further conclude our original hypothesis was indeed correct and we are on the right track. What alarms me is that we may have a problem on two continents linked by poison from the castor bean, but if they are truly connected as seems to be the case, it serves to shed light on our main investigation.”
“Wynter,” I said. However, the global implications of these deaths and what could possibly be gained by stalling the treaty struck me as something far beyond the remit of our adventures to date. Even prior to my meeting Holmes, he had never taken on a case of such a scale or sensitive a nature.
“Quite right. We do owe Mrs. Wynter an answer,” he said. “But it cannot be denied that this has grown beyond a poor old woman’s missing son. The Indian assassin is an agent for powerful men who I believe are trying to disrupt a peace that has been hard won, and seek to rule the world with their greed. They must be exposed and brought to justice. Along the way, I do hope we can find answers for Mrs. Wynter, but she can no longer be our primary concern. The game has changed. This is bigger than one missing sailor, Watson. And that only serves to make me all the more determined.”
Holmes sounded resolutely defiant, and I was glad to see the fire lit under him. However, his dismissive attitude towards the fate of Norbert Wynter concerned me. His mother was our client, not to mention the answer to our financial straits.
Holmes snatched up The Times once more. “I had almost forgot. Did you also notice the item of significance?” he asked, taking me by surprise.
“I read both accounts and saw nothing else regarding the death of Charles Lewis,” said I, shaking my head.
He turned to a back page and handed me the paper, a finger tapping a small notice. This announced that Nayar was concluding a year-long tour of England with a two-week appearance at the Theatre Royal in Newcastle before returning to his home on the subcontinent. It was headed LAST CHANCE TO SEE THE GREAT INDIAN FAKIR!
“Ships travel to and from India out of the port of Newcastle,” Holmes said. “Not only do they import castor beans, but I daresay they now export murderers. And see here—” he pointed to a list of performance dates “—he was in Exeter at the end of March, then Oxford, and was performing in London at the Adelphi from the 10th to the 20th of April.” Holmes looked exultant. “Disraeli’s health truly failed on the 17th, while at his home on Curzon Street. And Nayar was only two miles away!”
“How did an Indian fakir gain access to his residence, to Disraeli?” I asked, thinking that such a man would be somewhat conspicuous.
Holmes snorted. “He didn’t need to feed it to Disraeli on a spoon. I imagine a man of his talents would be well able to slip in at night, gain access to the kitchen, or perhaps Dr. Kidd’s own medical bag. That man was feeding his patient all sorts of pills and potions. Easy enough to exchange one quackery for another.”
“That sounds awfully tenuous to me, Holmes.”
“The truth will make itself known in good time,” he said.
I had nothing to disprove this, and my instincts told me that Holmes was correct in thinking this stage performer was the man who had attacked and nearly killed him, but his extrapolations were dizzying to my mind.
“Holmes, you are still healing from the beating he already gave you. Do be careful before you engage him again,” I warned, knowing he would not heed my words if it came to a physical brawl.
“I will do my utmost to avoid further injury, rest assured. This will more likely be a match of words and wit, not fisticuffs. It is my intention should things go that far, though, to give him the sound thrashing he so richly deserves.” I sighed at that.
There was some comfort that came with each new piece of information, each clue fitting in with the general picture Holmes had first created out of little more than wisps of fact, but I will admit it was cold. But now that the mysterious poisoner had a name, Nayar, we had new focus.
A sudden noise broke my reverie. It was the door at the end of the carriage, and I moved to the other end of our compartment and peered out into the corridor. A clergyman was approaching, wearing the vestments of his office, complete with the Canterbury cap and double-breasted cassock, not to mention a large, ornate wooden cross around his neck. He looked to be in his sixties and had grey hair clipped close to his broad head. His gait appeared unsteady, rolling with the lurch of the train, and he frequently clutched at the wall to steady himself.
Something about his movement seemed awry. Unnatural. No, not unnatural, I realised—practised. “Curious. Do you believe the good father to be inebriated so early in the day?” I asked Holmes.
Holmes watched him for a moment and shook his head. “I do not believe him to be a man of faith at all.”
“A thief perhaps, working the train?” I ventured.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes.
We watched in fascination as he ambled and stumbled and finally fell over one gentleman who was trying to pass, all apologies and blessings as he patted him down, confirming, I believed, my suspicion that I was watching a conman in action. When he came level with our compartment he nearly fell in. A bony hand reached out, clutching on to my shoulder for support. I revised my impression immediately as his warm breath was tainted with the tang of alcohol. He quickly straightened himself and waved his hand, forming a cross in the air just above my head, mayhap warning the evil spirits of whiskey, cognac and other temptations away.
Holmes coughed, attracting the priest’s attention.
“What is the trouble, my son,” the man said, in a practised voice pitched at the level of confidant and confessor. He paused, meeting Holmes’s eyes for the first time, and then the most remarkable thing happened. His entire character changed as his shoulders slumped and eyes wrinkled. He appeared more disappointed than anything and I was most confused.
“Damn it all, Holmes,” the man said, much to my astonishment. “You take the fun out of everything.”
“Watson, I would like to introduce you to Charles Bennett, imitation priest and full-time pickpocket. Please return the wallet to my companion, Dr. Watson, there’s a good chap.”
Bennett sat on the seat beside me and reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing my wallet. Somehow, even with my suspicions, I had completely missed the lift. He seemed a trifle reluctant to hand it over.
“He’s not a priest,” I said, stating the obvious as was often my wont.
“Indeed not. Bennett is as much an Anglican as I am a cricketer,” Holmes said before turning his attention to the man. “You are wearing the detachable collar the Anglican clergy abandoned some time ago, Charles. But you maintain its use to make it easier for you to slip in and out of costume. Most clergy today no longer wear the complete vestments away from the pulpit and I am also given to understand the cap is going out of style, but it is a familiar picture of piety so helps complete the illusion. The double-breasted cassock is useful as it allows you to secrete your stolen goods. Now, if you would be so kind?”
“Didn’t mean to bother a friend of Mr. Holmes,” Bennett said, then turned his attention back to my companion. “Whatever are you going north for? It’s godforsaken country up there, man. No one gets out of there alive.” This last he said with a grin.
“The doctor and I are headed to Newcastle on a case.”
“Is that a fact? Well, Holmes, if you don’t mind, I intend on continuing my occupation, but out of deference to your presence, I shall move on to the next car, if you are agreeable?” He rose to leave.
I expected Holmes to put an end to this nonsense immediately and summon the guard to have the man locked up on the spot, but he didn’t. Instead he called out, “A moment, Bennett. You no doubt trade the wallets to someone back in London, yes? You hear things, so tell us, what news travels in your circles?”
Bennett stroked a well-manicured finger under his chin, deep in thought. Then he shook his head. “I am sorry to say I really have not heard anything that strikes me as out of the ordinary, Holmes.”
“You don’t happen to keep up with international affairs do you?”
The thief stared at my friend. I tried to judge his expression but could not read faces as well as Holmes. He covered his mouth, seemingly to hide a yawn. “Apologies, I do not. I have enough to occupy my attention on these fair shores.” He stretched. “I’ll be damned but I could use some fresh air.”
With a look from Holmes, I reached to the window of the compartment to open it, but to my surprise, I could not make it budge. I rose and left the compartment, and tried the nearest window in the corridor. It too was stuck fast.
“What the devil,” Bennett asked, once more staggering, but this time my practised eye showed he was not pretending.
I walked down the corridor and peered into the other compartments, Holmes at my heels. Several of their occupants were asleep, others yawning, and at least two others were attempting to pry open their windows in vain. Holmes turned to me, concern clouding his features. “I have read of this, Watson. Criminals will tape up the windows and the air vents, pumping gas into the carriage to knock their victims unconscious, then pillage their belongings.” He tried the handle of the door that led to the next carriage. It would not budge. “See here, the door has been bound shut. Do you have a knife?”
“No. This is monstrous,” I said, already beginning to feel sleepy, confirmation that Holmes was correct. He reached into my coat’s outer pocket and withdrew my handkerchief and rapidly tied it around his face. I understood, despite my hazy condition, that he was attempting to filter out the gas and remain alert to thwart the thieves, although I was somewhat put out that he had used my only handkerchief.
We hurried back down the corridor and I peered into our compartment. Bennett was already asleep and would be of little use. Suddenly a figure appeared from a compartment at the other end of the carriage. A man, his head entirely covered with a complex gas mask. His nightmarish countenance was constructed from glass eyepieces, a rubber-coated hood with a short hose connected to a canister strapped to his chest.
At first, I feared it was one of the navy men, sent by Hampton to escalate matters from merely following us to ending us. His silhouette was wrong, however. He was shorter and slighter, not at all built for the rigours of the sea. I could only ascertain so much given the peculiar picture he made.
As bizarre as his appearance was, the knife in his right hand was downright deadly.
I struggled to remain alert, determined to bear witness to what was to come next. The nightmare man began stalking down the corridor towards us. All I could think was that despite our best efforts, we must have been seen and followed, allowing this assassin to gain access to the train complete with this diabolical scheme to eliminate one or both of us. That, or we were the victims of the most appalling luck and had stumbled into a train robbery.
I knew that Holmes had not travelled with a weapon but he would not simply allow the man to take his life. He darted towards him, but abruptly ducked into the carriage next to ours, which housed an elderly lady, now asleep. He returned with a large carpet bag under one arm, a skein of wool and a pair of knitting needles protruding from the opening. I could not imagine how this would help our defence. I pounded on our compartment window, willing it to shatter, but I felt the strength ebb from my arms. Beyond the glass the landscape became a hazy blur, my eyes no longer able to focus, the unseen gas stinging and drawing tears. I watched, helpless, as Holmes stood in the corridor, the carpet bag in hand, as the masked man closed in.
The man approached to within striking distance. Facing him, Holmes held up the carpet bag. As his attacker’s arm swung in an arc, the sharp blade pointed at Holmes’s heart, my companion hefted the bag in an upward counter, deflecting the blow. Holmes was lucky; his opponent’s mask apparatus clearly impeded his vision and motion, and it made his gait stiff from its weight. Even so, he swung again, though this time Holmes opened up the bag and caught his attacker’s arm between the handles. He slammed it shut, both immobilising the arm and preventing it from bending at the elbow.
Clasping the bag with one hand, it was Holmes’s turn to strike and he thrust a knitting needle, not at the man, but at the hose that connected the mask to the canister. His aim was true and the wooden point punctured the hose, making a deep tear, but the thin needle also broke in two. Holmes tossed his end away, but the other remained in the hose, defeating its intended purpose as it effectively plugged the hole. The man’s struggles though did not permit more damage as a leg kicked out, forcing Holmes to disengage. With the rasping sound of his breathing as it filtered through the mask’s vent filling my ears, I watched as the nightmare man flexed the once-trapped arm. Holmes took advantage of that moment and braced himself against the walls of the compartment and the corridor. He hoisted himself up, swinging his long legs with great force, and kicked out at the attacker’s mask and canister, stopping the man in his tracks. Holmes pressed his advantage and rushed the man. They both fell to the floor, bodies entangled in a frantic fight.
As they grappled, I gave up on pounding at the glass and instead, used what little of my strength remained to grab the large wooden cross hanging from around Bennett’s neck. Tightening my grip so it would not slip away, I smashed it against the window and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound as the glass splintered. One more strike, although in honesty it was no more than a tap given my dwindling strength, shattered the window. Glass went flying as summer air rushed in.
I braced myself on the frame, inhaling deeply albeit slowly, and as the fresh air filled my lungs I could already feel myself growing more alert. No doubt the gas in the carriage was being pumped in from some hidden canister and would soon run out, defeated by the endless supply of air.
My mind clearer, I turned back to the battle in the corridor. Holmes was now atop the assassin, and as I watched, he ripped at the man’s mask. A brown face was revealed confirming my earlier thought he was not from the Admiralty. Was this Nayar, the mystic we were hunting? Had he found us first?
The man snarled with rage, the sound mixing with the susurrus of rushing air, and he rose to a kneeling position. Holmes was no stranger to fisticuffs and landed two quick right jabs and even from where I was I could hear the man’s nose snap. The second blow also sent his head back at such an angle that it collided with the wall, stunning him. Holmes took up the man’s knife, which had skittered from his grasp. He then paused long enough to remove his makeshift mask and breathed deeply.
“Are you alert, Watson?” he called to me.
“I am feeling better, yes,” I replied.
He handed the knife, hilt-first, to me. “Cut through the bindings around the door handles at both ends of the car. Keep the doors open. That will help revive our fellow passengers more quickly. Then go to the guard’s carriage and find a conductor. We will need help securing this villain until we reach York.”
He stood erect and tested his arms and neck, assessing himself for damage. I wanted to check him over, but our priority was to free the other passengers from this deadly carriage and arrange for our Indian attacker to be taken into custody.
I worked my way down the carriage, looking at the passengers slumped in their seats and was all too aware of just how terrible this day might have been if not for Holmes. I do not mind admitting that I shivered at the prospect, a chill chasing down my spine.
By the time I returned with a conductor, most of my fellow passengers were waking, disorientated and frightened. Bennett, to his credit, was playing the role of priest to perfection, calming down as many people as he could. His very appearance among the passengers went a long way to restoring calm. Order was soon reinstated once our fellow passengers realised they were sleepy but unharmed. That is, of course, the remarkable resilience of the English people in the face of adversity.
Holmes helped the conductor haul away the assassin to the guard’s van at the front of the train near the coal supply. By the time he returned a short while later, our shattered compartment window was the only evidence that the journey had been anything other than smooth. He took his seat beside me.
“Our assailant is not Nayar, of that I am sure,” he began. “He did not say so much as his name, he bore no more than a passing resemblance to the fakir. A cousin or brother perhaps.” I knew better than to question Holmes about it now, but determined to ask him later. “The respirator he wore was most interesting. That was Samuel Barton’s design, introduced in 1874, and while I have read about its operation, using lime, glycerine-soaked cotton wool and charcoal to filter the noxious air, I have not had the opportunity for an up-close examination before this moment.”
“If the contraption was of English design, how would an Indian come in possession of it?”
“A very good question,” said Holmes. “One to add to our lengthening list, I’m afraid. Now, I can only presume someone learned of our whereabouts and must have sent a signal, which was no easy undertaking. We should be flattered, Watson, we have our enemies worried. Consider the logistics of this attack, assuming we were the intended victims. The car would need to be mostly sealed before passengers boarded at King’s Cross—whilst we were at breakfast in the station café. They had almost two hours between our securing the tickets to Newcastle, so were able to discover our destination with old-fashioned bribery or simple subterfuge at the ticket office. What we can be sure of is this man had accomplices. Nayar and his kin may not be their only operatives. It would explain how they evaded my street Arabs. They were trying to free us of one tail, not multiple shadows. I now fear that there might well be a cadre of Indian agents working for our friends at the East India Club. Obviously we were mistaken and the boys didn’t succeed, but even so they had less than two hours to accomplish this while we waited for our departure. That shows not just an ability to act quickly, but a level of influence.”
“That all makes good sense, Holmes, but at the risk of seeming like an idiot, I cannot fathom why this is happening. I see that it is, obviously, but I am at a loss to understand the whys and wherefores that would normally draw the strands of a case together. It feels like we are no closer to a solution than we were before and yet you have been attacked not once but twice, which would suggest we are close to our ultimate goal, surely? So how can I not see it?”
Holmes’s smile was almost indulgent. “All will become clear, I believe, now that the distraction has passed. We begin by determining the motivation.”
“And how, pray tell, do we do that?”
“The question starts with: who would benefit from all this madness? If Wynter was indeed mixed up in all this, as it would seem on the most superficial level, did he see something in South Africa he should not have and was killed for it? There are more questions of course: why kill Disraeli? Why kill the solicitor in South Africa? I daresay, at present, we are no closer to answering any of these questions than we were a few days ago, but our enemy does not know that. They see our actions and believe them to be reactions, I think.”
“Then let us examine these questions one at a time,” I suggested.
“Very good. It will help pass the hours productively. Perhaps we shall even deduce something. Let’s start with The Times article on the solicitor, Charles Lewis. It mentioned that he was working on a treaty, presumably assisting in a legal capacity. Could it be our treaty, which is currently being worked on in Newcastle even as we hasten our way there? Was Lewis brought in by the Boer government to prepare their demands? Perhaps his death, if it were the first of several, could sow seeds of fear among the international delegation gathering for the signing? For all we know, others have died the same way. It is only our luck that one such death merited reporting in an English newspaper.”
I nodded in agreement, following my companion’s reasoning, terrified at the thought that others might die. It was possible.
“Now that we know that there are at least two Indian assassins in play,” Holmes began, but I had to interrupt.
“Holmes, could this be one of those death cults I have heard about?” I inquired.
He chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. “Actually, Watson, history shows there were only two organisations that might possibly be considered death cults. The lesser known of the two is the Aghori ascetics, worshippers of Shiva the Destroyer. They believe that contact with the dead will enable them to better understand the true nature of the universe. They trace their origins to Kina Ram, who left the mortal realm a century ago, having lived for some one hundred and fifty years. Whilst active very little knowledge of them has filtered west.
“The popular literature, though, has glorified the Thuggee cult, which is now considered extinct. One of the better things the East India Company and Her Majesty’s army did was eradicate these killers from Indian society. They faded from sight in the last century and once they were considered gone for good, the Criminal Tribes Act was passed in 1871. Therefore, a cult of killers is not a practical answer to the question of the Indians. It is far more likely they were independently contracted.”
“How on earth do you know all this?” I asked.
“Obviously, I have read up on such options once I identified the weapon that nearly dismembered me,” he said.
I merely nodded at that, knowing he would immediately forget this information at the case’s conclusion.
Holmes continued to say, “We do not need to assume that the first, Nayar, was responsible both for Disraeli’s death in England and Lewis’s death in South Africa. There are likely several, one of whom killed Lewis, while Nayar himself hastened Disraeli’s death. That is my current hypothesis. Now, ask yourself who would gain from his passing? He was out of office and was little more than an irritant as Conservative leader.”
“But before that, he was vehemently in favour of peace,” said I.
“Which someone did not want to happen, for their own purposes,” Holmes added, a smile on his lips.
“How did his death influence the peace treaty with the Boers?” asked Holmes. “The fighting had ended by the time he took ill.”
“I daresay I have no clue, Holmes,” I admitted.
“Think, Watson. If this conspiracy is as large as it appears, money is being expended. One spends money in the expectation of making more. This leads me back to the men of means.”
“You mean Frobisher, Haldaine, and that MP fellow, Chatterton-Smythe?”
“They seem the most likely candidates, given the current limits of our knowledge. After all, they were the ones to mention an Indian mystic and we have one in the same town where the castor beans arrive. All very convenient.”
When we finally disembarked at York for a hasty lunch, we caught sight of the local constabulary taking charge of our would-be murderer. I suspected they had not had his like to deal with before.