A Summons from Gregson
The remainder of the evening was a sombre affair.
It took us some time to make our way to the nearest police station, and then considerably more time to convince the officer on duty that we were serious about a dead body. By the time we returned to the alley with a constable in tow, Nayar’s corpse had grown cold. The constable accepted my medical credentials and therefore allowed me to dictate the findings for his report. We mentioned nothing of our case or that we knew Nayar’s identity, allowing the officer to conclude that our attacker’s motive must have been robbery. Neither of us desired to correct him as it suited our needs for that to remain the official word on the subject.
We returned to Baker Street without much appetite for supper. Both of us went to our rooms in silence.
* * *
The following morning dawned without a clear notion of how we should proceed. Nayar was dead, but I was sure that the signing of the peace treaty was still in jeopardy. We had little information to make a convincing case that it should be delayed or relocated, and an overwhelming fear that our enemies were bold enough to stage an attack to get their own way, even if that meant stepping finally from the shadows.
As I sat down to breakfast there was a sharp rapping on the street door below. It was followed by the sound of shuffling feet and the lock disengaging as Mrs. Hudson greeted someone. I could not hear the exchange, but the timbre of our landlady’s voice led me to infer that it was an unexpected guest. I knocked lightly on Holmes’s door, alerting him to the impending arrival of a visitor. He emerged within moments, eyes red from lack of sleep and the tension of the last few days. I was pleased to see that he was dressed, until I realised he was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing the day before.
I was about to point this out when there was a ringing of the bell and Mrs. Hudson ushered in a young constable.
“Begging your pardon, but I am seeking Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” He looked from Holmes to me and back again. “Which one of you gentlemen might that be?”
“I am Holmes.”
“I have been asked to bring you to, well, not to put too fine a point on it, the scene of a murder,” the young man said. He was in his early twenties, sunburned cheeks and curly hair, brimming with nervousness.
“We know all about the murder,” Holmes said, a look of confusion on his weary countenance. “After all, we are the ones who reported it.”
Now the young constable seemed confused. He inclined his head slightly, trying to process this new information which obviously did not sit well with what he had been told. “You are?”
“Yes. We went to the Police Station yesterday evening and gave a full report.”
“Last night?”
“Young man, you are in the exceedingly poor habit of repeating things I say. That is a habit you must be broken of. As someone who has been on the force for two years, you should know how to comport yourself.”
“How the devil do you know how long…?”
“Is that really what’s important?” Holmes said, his voice growing irritable. “Your police issue boots have two years’ wear on them. The average London constable will require a new pair every three years. You are not old enough to have been on the force for five years, therefore you are wearing your first pair. I discounted the possibility that you are a new recruit with second-hand shoes because your hair is at least three weeks past regulation length. You have been with the force long enough to grow lax in your habits. Now, are we required to provide additional information about the Indian?”
“Indian?” The constable looked utterly perplexed now.
“Yes, the dead Indian. Your colleague’s report will show that he is believed to have been intending to rob us, but during the fight he fell on his own weapon and died.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I believe there has been a mistake,” the young man said. “He is… I mean… the murder victim is not an Indian.”
“Why am I being summoned then? Who wants me and where?”
“Inspector Gregson asked me to come and bring you in, sir. He told me to tell you that he would be ever so grateful if you could see your way clear to coming and lending him your eyes.”
“We are at cross purposes and talking about an entirely different dead man,” I said. “Holmes, can we really afford the time to consult with Scotland Yard on another matter? We have a pressing concern of our own to tend to.”
“Indeed we do, Watson, but it might well be time to consult with Scotland Yard, which has the international reach we lack and Gregson may be of some use to us. I am happy to exchange my services for his,” Holmes replied.
And that is how we found ourselves accompanying the young constable, who was named Shaw, in a police carriage to the scene of a very different crime.
We rolled past Piccadilly Circus and Whitehall and continued toward the less savoury part of London, down by the water on the east side where illegal activity was rife and life appeared to be incredibly cheap.
Shaw escorted us into a dark red brick building that lacked name or number. I noted that its windows were boarded up, and there were signs of fire damage. Everything about the place spoke of sin and degradation, illegal activity under the guise of anonymity. Constable Shaw took us up a flight of stairs and down to the end of a narrow hallway, where a single candle burned, throwing a pallid cast onto a door.
The young policeman held open the door and we entered a room that was blinding in its brilliant colours. There were red shades over several lanterns, casting the room in a bright scarlet hue. The walls were a wild pattern of many florid colours. It was most definitely a wallpaper that one would never hang in a proper home. This, though, was far from a proper home. It looked to be exactly what it was: a house of ill repute that catered to a quiet clientele. As an army doctor, I had treated more than a few soldiers suffering from the diseases of vice. I had always felt rather sorry for the young women who were the vectors of such complaints, but I am not sure they would have appreciated my sympathy.
While I had never partaken of such services, I knew enough to recognise a brothel when I saw one and from the quality of the furniture, it was apparent that we were in an expensive establishment, despite the sordid building which housed it. As I scanned our surroundings, my eyes fell on two still figures under white sheets, one in the centre of the room, one lying on a divan, and realised that this was not just one death but two. Death had come to this part of the city with a vengeance last night.
Standing over the bodies was Tobias Gregson, an inspector with the Yard whom I had not seen since the Jefferson Hope case. Holmes considered Gregson and his colleague Lestrade the best of a bad lot, but I had a certain fondness for the tall, tow-headed man.
“Holmes, I am glad to have you here,” the inspector said by way of greeting. He turned to me and smiled. “Dr. Watson, good to see you again. I have been enjoying your accounts of Mr. Holmes’s exploits.”
“You are too kind,” I said, shaking the man’s outstretched hand.
“How may we be of service, Inspector?” Holmes said abruptly. “We are working on a case of our own and the need for us to bring it to a satisfactory resolution is pressing.”
“Very well, then,” Gregson said. “We have taken down all the details, but before we move the bodies I would very much appreciate you taking a look around. You have an eye for this sort of thing others do not.” He bent low and drew back one side of the white sheet that covered the body in the centre of the room, revealing the corpse of a young woman, not more than twenty. Her face was covered in smeared makeup, and her brown eyes were open; it seemed to me that there was an expression of abject terror in them. Her neck was ringed with dark bruises, several oval spots revealing where strong fingers had squeezed the life out of her.
Gregson then moved to the body that lay on the divan and repeated the action, pulling back the sheet to reveal a corpulent man of middle age, the lower half of his face almost obscured by a thick, greying moustache. I did not recognise him but Holmes let out his breath in a sharp hiss.
“Inspector, do you know who this man is?”
“I should hope so, Holmes. His name is Patrick Chatterton-Smythe, a Member of Parliament. His identity is the reason I am here rather than the City of London police. Once his body was identified, Scotland Yard was alerted and I was dispatched to investigate. Did you know Chatterton-Smythe?”
“We never met, at least not to be introduced, but I knew who he was. As it happens, Inspector, Chatterton-Smythe is directly connected to the very case I mentioned. His death adds an entirely new dimension to our investigation.”
“I look forward to the details, but first, let us look at Mr. Chatterton-Smythe.”
Holmes knelt to inspect the corpse without touching it. Rigor mortis had clearly set in, locking the dead man’s muscles tight. This allowed me to estimate the time of death as some time during the night, the very night Nayar tried to kill Holmes and me. It was too striking a coincidence to ignore.
Holmes pulled down the man’s collar, but there was no bruising like that on the girl. He then examined the man’s hands, his wrists, and finally forced open the mouth, peering inside with his magnifying glass. Finally he rose, nodding at some conclusion that was beyond me.
“You should know, Holmes, one of those muckrakers from Fleet Street is already sniffing around and the papers will be full of this before too long,” Gregson said. “A sitting Member of Parliament dead is bad enough, but to die in a place like this… there will be a scandal, mark my words. Not to mention the man had a wife and children.”
Holmes nodded again. “And what shall you tell his family?”
“Why, it seems obvious to me what has happened here, although I asked you to come in case there was some more innocent solution I’ve missed.” Gregson strode over to the corpse of the woman and pointed at her bruised neck. “See here, Chatterton-Smythe strangled this girl, no doubt a quarrel over payment. Then he made his way over to the divan and had some sort of apoplexy or suffered a failure of the heart, the result of shock or exertion. Look at the size of the man. And there’s not a mark on him. I’m sure the doctor will agree.”
I crossed over to the corpse of Chatterton-Smythe and made my own examination. The fleshy face was engorged with blood, the eyes popping from the head; such symptoms could be a sign of heart failure. I could see no obvious marks of violence, and said as much to Holmes. However, my companion shook his head.
“I’m afraid, Inspector, that these events are more nefarious than you suspected. The girl was indeed strangled, but not by Chatterton-Smythe. Observe the marks on her neck, clearly made by a man’s hands, not by a ligature. Now look at our MP’s hands.”
I did so, and immediately saw what Holmes was talking about. “He’s wearing a signet ring!”
“Exactly, Watson. Now would a man in the throes of a violent argument think to take off his signet ring before strangling his victim, and then calmly put it back on his finger? See, the ring has a small opal set into its face. Had it been worn by the girl’s attacker, her skin would have been torn, and yet it has not.”
Gregson nodded at this, but did not look completely convinced. “Then who killed her, and how did Chatterton-Smythe die? Are you saying he was also murdered? But how? Some kind of untraceable poison?”
I had had enough of untraceable poisons for one case, and so was relieved when Holmes laughed and shook his head.
“No, Inspector. Not this time. Both our victims died of the same cause, but in different ways. Come—” He beckoned to us both, and we crowded around the body of the dead MP. “Here, Watson, bring that lantern and raise it to the face.” I did so, and Holmes pulled down the jaw, stiff from rigor. “See, Inspector. Note the bruising on the nose, practically obscured by the reddening of the skin. And what do you observe in the man’s mouth?”
Gregson peered closer, his face intent. “See? I see nothing, Mr. Holmes.”
“Look at the man’s molars.”
It was a moment before Gregson spoke. “Is that thread?” He drew back and I took his place. Sure enough, with the aid of Holmes’s magnifying glass, I could see several strands of black fibre caught between Chatterton-Smythe’s back teeth.
“Yes indeed, Inspector,” said Holmes. He seemed more animated than I had seen him for some considerable time.
“And what is the significance?”
“Really, Inspector, is it not obvious?”
“Come now, Holmes,” I said. We did not have the time for my companion to play games.
“Well, let us look at the evidence. We have an unknown woman, clearly strangled by a powerful man, given the size of the finger marks on her neck. But not by the man who lies dead in the same room, as he wears a ring that would have cut into her skin. Both their faces are engorged with blood, a sign both of strangulation and apoplexy. I say that both victims died as the result of their breath being stopped by an unknown hand. Chatterton-Smythe has bruising around his nose and black fibres caught in the back of his mouth. From that we can deduce that his nostrils were held shut and a wad of black material was pushed into his mouth, resulting in suffocation.” Holmes swept his arm to encompass our surroundings. “Yet there is no such material in this room, so clearly the murderer took it with him, or rather them, as surely this must have been the work of more than one villain, to subdue the woman and to also hold the man down while another stopped his breath.”
Gregson’s expression was one of revulsion. “So what was the motive? A robbery gone awry?”
Holmes shook his head. “No, Inspector. This was nothing short of cold-blooded murder designed to besmirch Chatterton-Smythe’s reputation.”
“And the murderers?” Gregson insisted.
“That, Inspector, is something I endeavour to discover, and discover quickly. If my suspicions are accurate, the situation has grown even more dangerous than I first suspected.”
“You said before Chatterton-Smythe was involved in your most current case. Can you give me the details?”
“I can and will be happy to share them. In exchange, I may need Scotland Yard to help me to intercede on England’s behalf to stop more murders being committed before this investigation has run its course. But first, I suggest you dispatch a constable to locate the body of an Indian man called Nayar, and arrange for it to be sent to whichever morgue these two bodies are destined for. Watson and I reported the death to officers from the local Police Station, and I believe it has a bearing on these murders. That victim is connected with the larger matter and having all three bodies in one place may prove valuable.”
“A third body?”
“Yes, Gregson. The mortal remains of an assassin that very nearly made victims of Watson and me. It was that very body I thought to be the reason for young Shaw seeking me out this morning.”
Gregson looked somewhat overwhelmed, but he nodded in agreement. “I need to make my report to the government; seeing as the victim was an MP, the Yard is treading lightly. Why don’t you accompany me and give me your story on the ride?”
“That would be agreeable,” Holmes said. “Come, Watson.”
I stepped over the corpse that still lay on the floor, feeling great pity for the young woman, who was most certainly a victim—if not entirely an innocent one—in a much bigger affair. I hoped that her name would be discovered and that she would not go into an unmarked pauper’s grave. I would treat her as fairly as possible when writing up the account of the case.
The police carriage was not as comfortable as I had imagined it might be, luxury obviously spared, and with three of us within—Shaw rode atop with the driver—it made for close quarters. Holmes outlined what we had uncovered in a clipped manner, keeping to the facts and refraining from sharing his thoughts and observations. The Houses of Parliament loomed over us as we rounded a corner and Gregson did not look at all pleased to be there. I could not blame him. This was sad business, but now also a most dangerous one, and there were no procedures for such a case for him to follow. He was a dogged sort, and the more time I spent in his company the more I grew to like his earnest demeanour.
“What exactly will you tell the leadership?” I asked.
“I will tell them the facts and share your thoughts about what truly happened,” Gregson said.
“Do not speak of the conspiracy or the diamonds,” Holmes instructed.
“Why not? You cannot expect me to lie to the House?”
“Of course not, only to omit certain facts. If Chatterton-Smythe’s compatriots learn we know as much as we do, I suspect they will go to ground and complicate the case. I need to return to the East India Club, where I last saw Chatterton-Smythe, and learn what I can from his surviving conspirators, Frobisher and Haldaine.”
Gregson nodded in agreement, but the expression on his face told me he did not like it. Anyone with even the slightest interest in current affairs knew that the government was already dealing with pressing issues concerning Afghanistan, the absorption of the Boer region, and the constant matter of Ireland. A political scandal like this could bring it down. Holmes tried to reassure him. “Gregson, you have my word you will be informed of the facts and will be free to act accordingly, taking the credit for bringing down a criminal conspiracy, preserving the signing of a significant treaty and protecting the realm. That’s all good for you and for Scotland Yard. I daresay it will be the making of an already fine career.”
With that, we climbed down from the carriage and walked north, back towards Baker Street.
En route, Holmes outlined his intention of resuming his disguise as a footman at the East India Club. “Chatterton-Smythe’s murder is likely a sign of a falling out between him and Frobisher and Haldaine. While I am thus engaged, I would have you track down Wiggins and the rest of the Irregulars. I need them to make themselves available for additional duties urgently.”
We parted ways, Holmes on to Baker Street to prepare his disguise, I in the general direction Holmes thought I was likely to find the boys. It was only a matter of minutes before I spotted a pack of urchins. Not knowing their names, I wondered how to address them, but was relieved of the dilemma when Wiggins emerged from the group, walking toward me with a cockish swagger to his step, the others following behind him as baby ducks do their mother.
“Mornin’, Doctor,” said he brightly. “Mr. Holmes got some work for us, ’as he?”
“Looking for a good cracksman?” one boy chirped.
“Need us at a flash house?” another asked.
“Want us to recommend a ladybird?” a third added, getting a round of laughter from the others at my expense.
“Nothing of the sort, young man,” I corrected. And then I paused, not entirely sure what Holmes had planned for the boys. I said as much. “I will be absolutely honest with you and say that I have no true notion of what Sherlock desires from you, only that he asked me to bring you to him.”
“That’s handy,” Wiggins said. “I’d rather be doing something for ’im than be in the clink any day of the week. Follow me, gentlemen,” he grinned and set off, leading the way. The rank he afforded the ruffians earned him another round of laughter as I and my strange entourage made our way to 221B. They waited on the street while I went upstairs to find Holmes.
Upon entering our rooms, my companion was already in his footman’s attire. “Wiggins is here?”
“Indeed, along with his followers,” I confirmed.
“Most excellent,” Holmes said.
“Holmes, are you placing these boys in danger?”
“I would think not, Watson,” said he. With that, he picked up his walking stick, the only weapon he allowed himself, and returned to the street.
“Look at the mobsman,” one boy called as Holmes emerged from the front door.
“Ready to give up detecting to work for the swells?”
“Need us to knock over a toff?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Holmes chided the youngest of the bunch, a boy of no more than ten, with very curly locks and bright freckles. “I don’t know what you might think Wiggins does for me, but whatever tales he tells you, burglary is far from it.”
“Would if you paid me,” Wiggins offered with a grin.
“Thank you, no. Today, you and the boys will accompany me to the East India Club.”
“Oooh, fancy.”
Holmes ignored the interruption. “When I signal you, there will be two men who require following. Split into two groups, one for each man. Within your group, take turns to follow closest, to make certain you are not detected. This particular engagement will necessitate you moving throughout parts of town where young men like yourself would most likely be chased off by local policemen, so be watchful and do nothing to draw unwanted attention. It is imperative you keep these gentlemen in your sights at all times. I will require regular reports, so set up a relay system to ensure the information remains current.”
“The usual arrangement?” Wiggins asked.
Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a handful of coins. “A shilling each for the day’s work should suffice. When I receive satisfactory information that proves helpful, a guinea for each.”
The promise of additional pay energised the group of ruffians, who began dusting themselves off and running their grimy hands through tousled hair in a futile effort to improve their appearance. All thoughts to our dwindling financial resources were banished as I chuckled at their meagre efforts then turned to my companion.
“And me, Holmes? What would you have me do?”
“Today you rest, Watson. Take the time to consider all we have learned and all we still need to learn. Apply your own thinking to the matter and when I return, I daresay sometime this evening, we will compare notes.”
This was perfectly acceptable to me given how tired the last few days had left me. But then I recalled the invitation to visit one of Norbert Wynter’s comrades on the Dido, Lieutenant Louis Dodge. Much as I wanted to take my leisure, I forced myself once more into the streets.
* * *
I took a cab to the house of Louis Dodge, just two streets from Trafalgar Square. As I emerged from the cab, I noted the sun was still shining strongly but dark storm clouds were chasing it from the horizon. I feared more rain was to come.
It was an imposing house, and the front door was nicely polished with a brilliant bronze knocker that neatly fit my hand. It was a matter of moments before a butler answered and I presented my card.
“Are you expected?” he asked in a soft voice.
“I have been invited to see Lieutenant Dodge but we do not have an appointment. I just now had the free time to pay him a call,” I said.
He nodded once, had me wait in the vestibule and went off to inform his master. Dodge, I knew from my research, was one of the three men listed as wounded during the battle at Majuba Hill. His wounds were serious enough for him to be discharged for medical reasons and this was the home of his parents.
I had been waiting for some minutes when I heard the heavy thump of canes against thick carpet and the shuffle of footsteps. Lieutenant Dodge was a young man, but he used two sticks to assist his walking. His face was handsome and clean-shaven with bright blue eyes and slicked back hair, and he gave me an easy grin as he approached; I felt myself exhaling in relief. He might have been physically damaged, but from all appearances his mind remained whole, which was no small blessing.
“Dr. Watson?”
“At your service,” I replied. The butler ushered us into the drawing room where two high-backed chairs were arranged before a dormant fireplace. Dodge shuffled over and lowered himself heavily into one of them. I took the chair opposite.
“It’s late enough in the afternoon, Markham. The single malt if you please.” The butler nodded without comment and went to a side table where he filled two small glasses with amber liquid. Once they were delivered, he left us alone.
“You appear well enough,” I allowed as Dodge took a sip from the glass.
“If I keep this up, they say I may need the one cane by Christmas,” Dodge said in a cheery tone. “It’s hard work.”
“Are you in pain?”
“You know, doctors always want to know about pain first. I don’t know why that is,” Dodge said.
“Pain indicates whether you are healing.”
“Good point,” he said and sipped again. I took a companionable mouthful and found it to be quite good stuff, at least fifteen years old, with a deliciously smoky flavour. “Now, sir, how may I be of service?”
I explained my connection to Mrs. Wynter and at the mention of Norbert’s name, Dodge’s face brightened considerably.
“Ah, Bertie! What a chap he was. The kind of man you always want at your side in a pinch. I tell you, Doctor, he was the most punctual man I had ever met. Although he was particularly poor at cards,” he chuckled at the memory, “he was one of the best darts players I ever lost a sovereign to. They wanted to turn him into a sharpshooter but he refused. Didn’t like the gunpowder, he always said.”
I began scribbling in my notebook. “Anything you can tell me about Lieutenant Wynter would be most helpful.”
“Happy to oblige,” Dodge replied. “He was particularly poor at telling jokes but loved hearing them, believe you me. Bertie was always going on about his girl, Caroline something.”
“That would be Miss Caroline Burdett,” I corrected.
“Yes, that’s right. Lovely thing. Have you met her?”
“I recently had the pleasure.”
“She as pretty as the picture or did he hire a model to fool us all?”
“She is a striking woman,” I allowed.
Dodge let out a good-natured laugh. “Good for him. They were going to get married once he got back.” At that, his features clouded over, much as the sky outside was filling with darkness. I continued to write, allowing him his thoughts.
“That was a rough day,” Dodge finally said.
“The battle at Majuba Hill?”
He nodded. “Beaten by farmers we were. I watched one of our sailors get it in the neck before they got my hip. Ogle—the lieutenant in charge of the naval brigade from the Dido—warned us it was going to be bad. He wasn’t wrong, just underestimated how bad it was to be.”
“Was Wynter with you?”
He shook his head and drained his glass. He stared at it a long moment and I rose, took it from him and gave him a liberal second helping.
“Bertie was with the others, mixed in with the men from the Boadicea. We all landed together that morning then were split into squads and sent around the damned hill. Last time I saw him he was marching as if we were on parade. He wasn’t taking it too seriously.”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
Dodge took a long pull of the Scotch. I noted his hands clenched and unclenched, likely working his way through the unwelcome memories. “He saluted me, gave me a daft grin and marched off. When the firing was over, I was carried back to the Dido to be patched up and was out of it for some time. When I came to and asked after the others, I heard there were casualties… and fatalities. Bertie never came to visit, never sent a note and it was days later before it dawned on me he must have been one of the dead.”
Something nagged at me and I reviewed some of my earlier notes and then looked directly at Dodge, who met my gaze with clear eyes. He could clearly handle his liquor.
“You have a question, Doctor?”
“Mrs. Wynter had it intimated to her by the Admiralty that Norbert Wynter was not killed but may have turned coward and deserted…” Before I could finish the thought with a question, Dodge let out a shocked laugh that resembled a bark.
“Bertie a coward? Never, Doctor. Never and a day. He may not have been the smartest man on the ship or the best card player, but he was someone we could all count on. Someone we could trust, rank be damned. Did you know he volunteered to be part of the mission? Would a coward, with so much to lose, do that? Tell me who blackens his name and we will have words.”
I hesitated, lacking a name to offer him.
“Tell me his name, Doctor!” Dodge’s expression had turned into one of fury. “Whoever that dog is, he was not aboard the Dido. He was not a member of that crew or he’d know better!” Then he gulped the rest of his Scotch. “It was a rotten day all around. You know, they never told us what happened. How we got so badly beaten. But from what I overheard the surgeons say, it was worse, far worse than anyone let on. I can’t believe it was just three dead and three wounded. Something’s not adding up but I never did have a head for numbers.”
His suspicions tallied with what I had already heard. Wynter might not have been the only man missing after the battle but no one was willing to admit as much.
There was little left to say so I politely finished my own glass and shook Dodge’s hand and took my leave. A light rain began to fall, warm to the skin given the day’s heat, as I emerged into the street. What he told me matched what I had already heard and a clearer picture of our missing man was forming in my mind. And yet, we still had no eyewitness account of what had befallen him.
* * *
The remainder of that dreary day passed with a great deal of tedium. I returned to Baker Street, and after straightening my own belongings, I tidied up our sitting room, careful not to disturb Holmes’s ongoing chemical studies. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson has learned through trial and error where she might and might not clean, which made my job easier as there were almost layers of control within the outright chaos. With those tasks accomplished, I settled into my chair and reviewed my notes. Everything his comrades had told me confirmed his mother’s suspicions and firmed my resolve that Norbert Wynter was anything but a coward. The Admiralty was obfuscating his absence if not outright lying, in addition to trying to roughly put us off the investigation. Someone would have to answer for that when this sordid affair was over.
As the day progressed towards evening, I found myself neither making new discoveries nor drawing fresh conclusions of worth. Instead, I took a simple late lunch and enjoyed tea with Mrs. Hudson. I quickly grew restless, a testament to just how thoroughly my companion was rubbing off on me.
As night fell, I grew increasingly anxious for Holmes to return. If questioned, I would have said that I was eager for fresh news, which was only partially true. Given the events of the last few days I would have welcomed any word that assured me of his safety.
Finally, I heard his familiar footfalls on the stairs and I straightened up in my chair, journal in hand, ready for his report. Opening the door, he saw me in my chair and broke into a broad grin.
“Ah, Watson, still awake. Excellent,” said Holmes, still looking every inch the perfect model of a footman.
“Any trouble at the club?”
“Not at all.” He sank down into the seat across from me. “Several of the staff recognised me from my previous visit and assumed I was again covering for an absence. I merely occupied myself, succeeding in appearing busy despite the fact I only served our suspects.”
“Both Frobisher and Haldaine were at the club?”
He nodded, then spied my journal and cocked an eyebrow at me. “More melodrama for the masses?”
I admit, I continued to chafe under his withering criticism of my stories since he would have preferred they read like university texts, dry and to the point. And deathly dull. I chose to inject an element of thrill to my accounts of the detection process, but I never embellished. The fact that he never forbade my literary endeavours was evidence that he enjoyed the small celebrity they gave him.
I said nothing.
“Oh, very well,” Holmes said, divesting himself of a pair of white gloves one finger at a time. “I arrived and immediately determined that Frobisher was already present. Having had an ownership stake in the original East India Company the gentleman appears to revisit past glory by practically living at the club. I noted that he always maintains the same table and by way of preparation, suspect that he is in the habit of ordering the same meals. As a result, the staff like him because he rarely makes a fuss and his needs are easily met.
“I served him tea and later a small lunch. I noted quickly that he appeared out of sorts, agitated. He had several of the day’s newspapers with him though he did not appear to read them. His manner spoke of having less than his normal amount of sleep and his body language spoke of great tension. Other than the basic pleasantries he said nothing to the other members of the club or the staff, myself included, which I am led to believe is most out of character.
“Finally, in the early afternoon, nearly half past one, our co-conspirator Haldaine arrived. I marked immediately that he appeared equally tense. The pair glowered at one another for a time, neither speaking. I offered them tea but Haldaine waved me away with a demand for whiskey despite the early hour. This encouraged me, knowing well that a man who imbibed that early will likely loosen his tongue sooner rather than later.
“So was my hope, but in fact the two men spoke little, instead flicking through the newspapers without much interest although he did make some odd margin notes in one paper, allowing me to finally obtain a sample of his handwriting. However, when another footman arrived with two copies of the latest edition of The Times, they devoured them like starving men.”
“I haven’t left our rooms for hours,” I interrupted. “What did the papers say? Was it about Chatterton-Smythe?”
“Inspector Gregson appears to have been correct in his assumption that the journalists of Fleet Street would emphasise the lurid details.”
“Which was only to be expected; it is a ripe story,” I remarked.
“There was great speculation about how this would affect the Liberals and other political nonsense, to which I paid little heed. But once the news spread, it was almost the sole topic under discussion by other members of the club. While few knew him, all knew of him. And it was at this point that Haldaine finally said something that caught my attention. ‘Things have gone too far. Maybe the time has come to shut down the entire operation.’ As you might imagine, Frobisher was not best pleased by the prospect, which confirmed to me that we were skirting close to the very heart of the matter. It was clear that Frobisher at least and perhaps both men were behind Chatterton-Smythe’s death. There was no surprise, they did not remark on the particulars of his death, merely on the fact that events had progressed too far. But that is hardly proof for the court.”
“Or why, Holmes. There is no motive. Or rather, we do not know what it is.”
“That’s where you are wrong, my dear Watson,” Holmes said. “Frobisher started talking about the money the operation has cost them to date, accounting for the funds expended on bringing in the foreign operatives, which I took to mean Nayar and his colleagues. He was most insistent that more revenue be generated in order to replenish their reserves. That set me to thinking about how Nayar was paid.”
“In diamonds,” said I, following my companion’s chain of thought. “Diamonds from African mines.”
Holmes nodded in agreement. “They want more diamonds from those self-same mines.”
“But Haldaine wants to end things?”
“So it seems. And clearly he was not the only one, for he said ‘Chatterton-Smythe was right. He saw that every passing day was bringing us closer to exposure.’ Frobisher, though, disagreed. ‘I will do nothing of the sort. We have invested years into this operation and need to bring it to a satisfactory, not a hasty, close. Just because a paper is signed on means everything changes, nothing changes. These things take time.’”
I was always amazed at my companion’s power of recall. He could recount great tracts of conversation word for word while I often struggled to remember what I had had for breakfast that day.
“Haldaine seemed subdued and suggested that their efforts to derail the signing of the treaty might still work but he was clearly concerned,” Holmes went on. “But by their own confession, the pair hired the Indian criminals to delay the treaty signing to benefit their mining scheme. We apparently did not dig deep enough into researching the mines, Watson, something we need to address tomorrow.”
“Dig deeper? My god, Holmes, did you just make a pun?” Holmes glared at me, rather unamused.
“Quite unintentional, Watson, this is no time for jokes of any sort. We need to do more research into the mines in and around Pretoria. These are the final strands of the web, Watson. We are close to understanding everything.”
“Back to Lomax and the stacks?” I asked.
“No, we need government documents, we need current maps, and ownership papers. I suggest you sleep as much as you can tonight so you are fresh for what promises to be a lengthy spell of dreariness.”
I was about to rise and do as he suggested, when there was a banging at the street door. I could hear Mrs. Hudson exclaim, “This is no time to be making such a racket! There are proper people trying to sleep!” which brought a ghost of a smile to my companion’s lips. Then the street door opened and someone came rushing up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time.
Wiggins burst into our rooms, Mrs. Hudson hot on his heels. “You just don’t go barging into other people’s homes, young man!”
“It’s perfectly alright, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes assured her, rising from his chair. “Wiggins is always welcome at my door.”
“Well, be that as it may, Mr. Holmes, there’s a way of doing things, and banging on the door fit to raise the dead isn’t it.”
“My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. Wiggins, apologise to Mrs. Hudson.”
The boy bowed deeply, almost folding himself in two as he begged her indulgence. His grin betrayed the fact he was far from serious, but it was good to see that the lad was none the worse for his exertions. He seemed bright-eyed and most excited about something. He looked fit to burst with information.
“Got some news you want to ’ear tonight, guv’nor,” he said, loudly. “The two men you had us follow. The skinny one went over to the Lamb and Flag for some nasty business.”
“Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to bring young Wiggins some water? Thank you,” Holmes said. To Wiggins he continued: “Have a seat and give us all the detail you can muster.”
“This has got to be worth a guinea if not two,” he said, taking Holmes’s normal seat.
“The details first, if you please,” Holmes said with a smile, clearly enjoying the ruffian’s company and mercenary manner. “I will decide how much they are worth.”
“Right you are. So, Tommy and Pig Boy followed the fat one…”
“Edward Haldaine is his name,” Holmes filled in.
“Haldaine, right you are,” Wiggins said. “Me and three of the others followed the skinny man…”
“William Francis Frobisher,” Holmes corrected.
“Why they got so many names? They frightened they might lose some?”
“It is a sign of social status,” my companion explained.
“A lot of hot air wasted if you ask me,” Wiggins said, accepting the glass of water from a disapproving Mrs. Hudson. He at least had the wherewithal to give her proper thanks this time. The urchin, it appeared, was not totally without manners.
“Unsurprisingly, no one asked you, Master Wiggins,” Holmes said. “Now, details, boy, where exactly did Frobisher go?”
“We thought he was just taking in the night air, but then we could tell he had a particular place in mind. He meandered a bit, like he thought he might be being followed, then with his head down hustled over to Covent Garden in maybe quarter of an hour. He went to Rose Street and stopped to watch the fights.”
“That’s not where a boy should be,” I began to say, but stopped short of rebuking Wiggins when I received a stern look from Holmes. The Lamb and Flag, London’s oldest pub by most accounts, had earned its nickname of the “Bucket of Blood” thanks to the bare-knuckle boxing bouts held there with great regularity. Word had it, the alley became the place to go to hire thugs, muggers, and killers.
“The skinny… that is, Mr. Frobisher, stood and watched for a few minutes, but Willy said he wasn’t really watching the fights as he was watchin’ the audience.”
“An astute young man,” Holmes said.
“When the loser was carried off, the skinny man walks over to a bunch of fellows and talks them up. We took turns gettin’ close enough to overhear best we could. He pulled out a wad with more pounds in one place than I ever seen, and peeled a few right off. I wanted to practise my tooling skills, you know,” said he, wiggling his fingers, demonstrating just how light they were. “But knew you’d be cross with me if I wound up gettin’ pinched.”
“More that you got caught than the fact you picked the man’s pocket,” Holmes assured him. Now it was my turn to give him a look.
“This huge fella, boxer’s nose and bald as you like, took the money and they shook hands.”
“Did you happen to hear who was being targeted for a beating?”
“Oh for sure I did. That’s why I’m here, see.”
“Go on,” said Holmes.
“Get this, Mr. Holmes, ’twas the other one, the fat man… Haldaine.”
My jaw dropped, but Holmes merely nodded as if he had expected as much.
“Interesting. Well done, Wiggins.” To me he said, “First one or both conspire to kill Chatterton-Smythe when his resolve weakened, and now that Haldaine is showing the same second thoughts about this affair, his partner is ready to help him see the error of his way and keep him in line.”
“Oh no, you’ve got that wrong, Mr. Holmes,” Wiggins interrupted.
“How so?”
“The skinny man, Frobisher, ain’t looking to keep Haldaine in line.”
“No?”
“He wasn’t paying for no beating, see. He wants the fat man killed, end of story.”