Chapter Seven

“Mr. Hinckley—my friend and associate, Doctor Watson.”

“Doctor Watson—Mr. Hinckley. And, of course, Inspector Lestrade you know.”

I had arrived back at Baker Street bursting with my news and expecting to find Holmes alone. Instead, there seemed to be a room full of people.

Mrs. Hudson was clearing away the tea things—good heavens, had I been gone that long? Lestrade was over by the fireplace discreetly brushing cake crumbs from his jacket and Holmes was sprawled in his favourite chair and showing no inclination to rise from it. Instead, he appeared to be enjoying my evident stupefaction as I shook hands with a mousy little man who looked as though he lived in perpetual twilight—which, in a sense, he probably did.

To add to my confusion the little man pumped my hand up and down with surprising strength—gained, I presumed, from carting those heavy dead tomes around all day.

“Delighted, Doctor, delighted to meet Mr. Holmes’s alter ego, if I may put it so. My, my, such an exciting day! Little did I think when I was drinking the morning cup of tea which my landlady, Miss Lippincott, so kindly prepares for me that I would be the victim of a dastardly attack. One does not expect mindless violence in a department such as mine. Oh, dear me, no. Egyptology, perhaps, in the light of its current and somewhat misplaced vogue … And then to be rescued from durance vile by no less a personage than the world famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes …”

I thought I saw Holmes raise an eyebrow minutely, though whether the response could be attributed to vanity or irony, it was impossible to tell.

“Oh, I shall have such tales to tell at the next meeting of the Curators and Librarians’ Association.”

There was a warning cough from the direction of the fireplace.

“… though Mum is, of course, the word for matters which only those of us who are, so to speak, ‘in the know’—know.”

And he tapped his beaky nose significantly.

Holmes now decided he had played this particular fish long enough to his own amusement.

“As I suspected, Watson, the imposter who took the real Mr. Hinckley by surprise and, only after a fierce struggle …”

Hinckley puffed himself up at the recollection of that titanic encounter.

“… managed to subdue him, held him captive in the store room, where I found and released him shortly after your departure. He was then able to decipher and explain the inscription on the book Briggs was holding in the photograph …”

“Oh, you mean the Book of Kor,” I offered casually, “the teachings of the Great God Kor, the holiest of relics for the people of Zakhistan?”

There was total silence in the room for all of a minute before Holmes rose from his chair and grasped me by the shoulders.

“Watson, I declare I never get your limits. There are unexplored possibilities about you, my dear fellow. Here are we dithering and dickering about with our paltry pieces of eight, when you have obviously unearthed a treasure trove!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” I said with all the modesty I could summon up. “But I do believe I have both seen and observed a few things since we parted.”

And then I told of my encounter with Uma, the Emerald Lady, which provoked—as I knew it would—the immediate response.

“My dear fellow, the fair sex really is your department, isn’t it?”

To which I felt no need to offer a response.

Holmes was now pacing the room, his brow furrowed in concentration, his hands clasped behind his back. It was an attitude I knew so well.

“Capital, Watson. So now we have breached the enemy camp, though the situation of your Emerald Lady seems parlous, to say the least. The so-called ‘Mr. Smith’ is clearly deranged. It is to be hoped that we can bring matters to a speedy conclusion.”

At that moment the thin voice of Hinckley piped up.

“The lady’s account of the Book of Kor is, indeed, riveting, though incomplete as to certain details. From your account, it would seem that she does not wish to give you an impression that her country remains mired in medieval superstition—

“The legend of the God Kor, for instance, is surrounded in considerable speculation. There are even versions that claim that he was of extra-terrestrial origin and that his golden eagle was some sort of mechanical contrivance that landed there by accident. We moderns, of course, who know that ‘flying machines’ are a mechanical impossibility, can easily discount such a story.

“However, what can not be gainsaid is the importance the Zakhistanis through the ages have accorded the Book of Kor. So holy is it that they believe that any non-believer who so much as touches it will die. A prophecy they are perfectly prepared to fulfil themselves, should the God not intervene first.”

“And so ‘Smith’—or whatever his name really is—is using this belief to justify his own independently motivated actions,” said Holmes ruminatively. “The God Kor is merely using him as his agent, or so he would have the others believe. ‘Accept what I do—or you betray the will of Kor’.

“And talking of his identity, I believe Lestrade has something to offer in that direction, don’t you, Lestrade? He was about to reveal it when you made your dramatic entrance, Watson.”

Lestrade now moved over to the table and took an envelope from his inside pocket. With magisterial deliberation he removed the contents and laid them out on the table, as if he were a croupier dealing a hand of cards.

“Scotland Yard has managed—using its considerable resources—to track down the aforementioned and elusive Mr. Robert McKay—one of the so-called Seven Sinners. By pursuing a fiscal trail …”

“Oh, come along, Lestrade,” Holmes interrupted him impatiently, “what have you found out about the fellow?”

Lestrade dropped the formality immediately. I often wonder if this is not his side of the game the two men have fallen into playing with one another.

“He’s a rum cove, McKay, by the sounds of it. After that business up at Oxford, he’s never seemed to settle anywhere for long. A brilliant academic mind. Written a dozen books. Held a chair at several minor universities—but never for very long at any one place. Restless sort of chap. Travelled all over the place but particularly in Asia …”

“What was his subject?” Holmes asked.

“Oh, I can tell you that,” said Hinckley. “If it’s the same Robert McKay—which I presume it is—he was for many years one of the leading authorities on ancient anthropology. We have many of his early theses in my department. A brilliant mind, as you say, Inspector. Such a tragedy we have had nothing from his pen these past several years.”

Lestrade consulted his notes.

“Quite right, sir. ‘Professor of Anthro-po—what you said. But then, two or three years ago he dropped out of sight, like … until just the other day. We have a record of him buying a house in central London—I’ve got the address ‘ere somewhere …” He began to consult his papers. “Anyway, we managed to dig up a few photos. They’re a year or two old now, mind.” And he indicated the table.

As I leaned over to examine them, I heard someone gasp and then realised that it was me.

“But that’s him,” I exclaimed. “That’s Hinckley!”

Only then did I remember that, in my excitement at telling them about my encounter with the Emerald Lady and parading my superior knowledge about the Book of Kor, I had completely forgotten to report on my original mission.

I attempted to repair the omission forthwith and told them how I had followed the cab into which I had clearly seen the false Hinckley climb.

“But when it arrived at Eaton Square, it wasn’t Hinckley any longer. This is the man who got out and went into No. 36!”

“Then we’ve got ’im, Doctor—Mr. ’Olmes. It’s as clear as day to me now.”

“Then perhaps you will be so kind as to explain it to the rest of us, Lestrade?” said Holmes, settling back into his chair again.

Lestrade was now in full stride.

“McKay falls out with the rest of his Oxford friends, nurses this grudge over the years. He starts to travel to foreign parts, then turns up in this Zakhistan place, where he hears about the Book of Kor and how the locals will do anything to get it back. ‘Right,’ he says to himself, ‘I happen to know where that is. I’ll get it back for them—and you can be sure he’s getting a fair old reward for doing it—and I’ll get my own back at the same time. What could be neater?’

“Then, when he finds Briggs ’asn’t got the book after all, he loses control and kills him. Goes over the edge, like. ‘Hello,’ he says, ‘why not do the same to all of ’em, until I find it? It’ll look like the Curse of Kor on the infidels and, in any case, those infidel johnnies are in it up to their necks already, see?”

“And what about this morning’s events, Lestrade? How do you explain them?” Holmes asked calmly.

The Inspector paused briefly and a frown knitted his brow. Then he plunged on.

“’E’s killed Briggs. Now he tries Pelham but Pelham hasn’t got it, either. So he kills Pelham. Oh, and by the way, we checked Pelham’s flat. As we thought—torn apart from top to bottom.”

He paused dramatically. Holmes motioned to him to continue.

“A fascinating thesis, Lestrade.”

“Well, then ’e remembers the photograph he left behind all messed up and ’e has another look at it. Now—and here’s the nub of the thing, gentlemen—while he meant to point out the victim and tell us that a Sinner had met his just deserts, he now notices something else …”

“Which was …?”

“’E notices that this ‘ere book, wot got ’im into this business in the first place, is sitting there right smack in the middle of the picture, crying out to be identified by somebody else with the wit to check out what it says on the cover.”

“Somebody like you, Lestrade?”

“Well-er—yes. Well—like us.” And he swept his arm around the room in an all-inclusive gesture. For a moment he looked slightly disconcerted, but then he carried on, swept away by the force of his own narrative.

“You see, gentlemen, by now he knows something else that is likely to upset ’is apple cart. He knows that Lestrade of Scotland Yard is on the case …”

“Not to mention Sherlock Holmes,” I couldn’t help adding.

“Of course, Doctor, I was just coming to that. And Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well known consulting detective. The power of inductive reason means we’re going to track down the meaning of that book.

“So he keeps a careful eye on your movements, Mr. ’Olmes and this morning, sure enough, he finds you going to the British Museum. Now, is it likely, with everything that’s going on, that you and Doctor Watson are spending a quiet morning looking at a lot of mummies? I don’t think so.

“Now, he’s a smart one, this Mr. McKay, I’ll give him that. He guesses where you must be going, gets there ahead of you—and the rest we know. Then, when he thinks he’s managed to put you off the scent, so to speak, he hops into a cab, resumes his normal appearance and goes ’ome.

“There, you see, Doctor,” he concluded triumphantly, “as I’ve often heard Mr. ’Olmes himself say—‘There are no mysteries, once you know the explanation.’”

And with that he dropped into a chair, looking for all the world like a cat that has had more than its share of cream.

I looked over at Holmes. So often had he brought one of Lestrade’s edifices tumbling down with a pointed word or two but on this occasion I saw no sign of dissent. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“Well, Lestrade, you seem to have explained everything. All that remains is for us to go along to Eaton Square—36, I think you said, Watson?—and apprehend Mr. Smith-Hinckley-McKay. Perhaps you would have one of your men call upon my brother Mycroft and ask him to meet us there. It seems only fitting that, having been in at the beginning, he should share in the dénouement.”

Ten minutes later we were in the Inspector’s carriage bowling south towards Eaton Place. As we left him at the kerb side, I had the distinct feeling that—despite our effusive thanks—Hinckley was looking a little forlorn, rather like a child seeing the door of the toy shop close in his face. But still, he would have a lot to tell the fellow members of the Curators and Librarians’ Association.

Nothing disturbed the peace of Eaton Square and I had the distinct impression that nothing ever did. The same well-dressed people got in and out of the same immaculate carriages. The same neat little nannies walked the same shiny perambulators. God was most certainly in his Heaven and all was right with the world in the immediate vicinity of Eaton Square, S.W.I.

Having said that, I thought I detected a certain diminished sang froid on the part of the concièrge of No. 36. He greeted us politely enough but looked uneasy, I felt, when Lestrade introduced himself.

“Is there something wrong, Inspector? I assure you that I would be the first to know. This is Eaton Square, after all, and …”

“That, my good man, is precisely what we are here to find out. I believe you have as one of your tenants a Mr. Robert McKay?”

Now the concièrge—who had given his name as Judson—was distinctly worried, although, like any good professional, he attempted to hide it behind a courteous manner.

“Oh, Mr. McKay? Indeed, yes. A very—private gentleman, Mr. McKay. In any case, Inspector, I’m afraid you’ve missed him. He went out some little time ago and it must have been something important, for he was in a great hurry.”

“So much so that he didn’t even have time to address a word to you?” Holmes enquired.

“As a matter of fact, that’s quite right. We always take a moment to exchange pleasantries. We’ve quite a pride in these little courtesies at 36. Why, I’ve had tenants say to me …”

Whatever the tenants had to say to Mr. Judson we were not to learn, for Lestrade—now with the bit firmly between his teeth—took command of the situation.

“I shall have to ask you to use your key to let us into Mr. McKay’s flat, if you please. My colleagues and I are investigating a series of serious crimes and we have reason to believe there may be evidence on the premises. Of course, if you insist on an official warrant, that can be here in a matter of minutes—along with several uniformed constables who will probably traipse up and down Eaton Square for the rest of the day. Still, if your tenants don’t mind that …”

Judson visibly shuddered. Pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket he led the way up the front steps and into the lobby.

As we did so, a cab pulled up and Mycroft levered his bulk to the pavement, ordering the cabbie to wait.

“A useful trick I learned from our friend, Oscar Wilde,” he explained, as he puffed up the steps to join us. “If you find a good cab, keep it all day.”

In a few terse sentences Holmes brought his brother up to date.

“I believe I have done justice to your thinking, have I not, Lestrade?”

“Oh, certainly, Mr. ’Olmes.” Turning to Mycroft. “Quite obvious, really, when you use what I like to call ‘deductive reasoning’.”

“Well, well, McKay, eh?” said Mycroft. “He always was something of a queer fish, but even so …”

Lestrade motioned imperiously to the concièrge to lead the way.

Up a grand and sweeping staircase we went, an ill-assorted little group, until on the first floor we came to a solid oak door bearing a highly-polished letter ‘4’. Judson produced a key from his ring and opened the door with the flourish of an impresario presenting an act.

We entered another world.

The room was like another chamber in the British Museum—except this one would have been closed to the general public, for it was a shrine to erotica.

The late afternoon sunlight illuminated carvings and paintings that bore the signs of their different indigenous cultures but otherwise had only one thing in common. They depicted every possible variation of the sexual act and the fact that most of them were exquisitely rendered by craftsmen of no mean skill made them all the more insidious in their appeal. Heaven knows why, but I found myself thinking how grateful I was that my darling Mary was not there to see this lewd display.

“‘L’ for Lust.”

It was Mycroft putting into words what the rest of us were feeling.

Only Holmes seemed unsurprised by the sight. While the rest of us stood there transfixed, he examined every corner of the flat—checking the bedroom and bathroom that opened off the main room. He returned to us, shaking his head.

“The bird, I’m afraid, has flown.”

Then, turning to Judson, who was rivetted by a bronze of two young men that owed more to Sparta than SW1 …

“You have failed to tell us of what transpired here earlier today. I would be grateful if you would relate everything you heard and saw. The slightest detail may be of the utmost importance.”

Judson’s jaw, which had been slightly ajar from his perusal, now dropped appreciably.

Holmes gave the man no quarter.

“Any faux gentility on your part will do nothing to help the people who employ you and may significantly impede the progress of a criminal investigation. Your failure to be entirely and immediately frank with us may well constitute a criminal act in its own right. Isn’t that true, Inspector Lestrade?”

“A very serious offence,” Lestrade chipped in with his best official tone.

“I assure you, gentlemen, I had no intention of withholding information. I was merely concerned with the privacy …”

“Of your tenants,” I offered. I have learned in working with Holmes in this mood that it often helps if the person being questioned feels that one of us, at least, is sympathetic to his plight. It certainly worked on this occasion.

“Exactly, sir.” Judson looked gratefully in my direction. “I thought there was something amiss the moment Mr. McKay arrived back earlier this afternoon. He wasn’t himself, if you know what I mean.”

“In what way ‘not himself’?” Mycroft boomed.

“Brusque, almost rude. Not himself at all. Why, we usually enjoy a few friendly words …” Then, seeing Holmes’s granite expression—“You see, the strange thing was that when he came in, I thought he was in already,” he finished lamely.

Then he remembered something. “And then he started talking to himself …”

“What do you mean—talking to himself?” Lestrade was looking a little less ebullient than he had when we entered the flat.

“Well, I just happened to overhear as I was going about my duties, you understand. He seemed to be arguing with himself. Naturally, I couldn’t hear the actual words …”

But not for want of trying, I thought.

“… and his mood seemed to come and go. At one moment he laughed—a rather unpleasant laugh …” His face clouded at the memory. “Then everything went quiet. And a little later, as I told you, I saw the back of him as he went out. And that is positively all I can tell you, gentlemen.”

As he had been talking, Holmes had been pacing around the room and I noticed that he was careful to touch nothing. Suddenly his head snapped in the direction of the unfortunate Judson.

“Who cleans Mr. McKay’s rooms?”

“Oh, no one, sir. Mr. McKay is most particular that nothing should be touched and now I can see why. Some of these pieces appear to be most—unique. He made a point when he took the flat that he would look after that aspect of it himself. No one is allowed to enter these rooms. Why, I myself have never seen inside since the day he moved in.”

He looked, I though, a little wistful, as he surveyed the room.

“And yet someone else has been in here,” said Holmes. “Someone has moved all the larger pieces, as well as the pictures—anything that might contain an aperture …”

He did not need to add “… that might contain a small book.”

“… and I fail to see why someone who was clearly a perfectionist …”

“Oh, indeed. Mr. McKay would often say—‘A place for everything and everything in its place’. It’s a creed I’ve lived by myself …” His voice faded away as he caught Holmes’s eye.

“… would bother to move objects that he had taken great care to arrange in the first place. You see the marks in the dust and the slight scratches where the heavier items were moved in a hurry?”

And, indeed, looking closer where Holmes had indicated, the marks were evident.

“McKay was not talking to himself. There were two men in this room, as is perfectly clear from the indentations in these two armchairs. Men of habit like McKay have a favourite chair and will use no other …”

I thought that I could name at least one other person in this room of whom that was also true. Perhaps even two, if I were honest.

“There were two men who argued. One of them left. Which leaves us with one …”

“But Mr. ’Olmes,” Lestrade objected, “there’s nobody in this ’ole flat except us.”

Now Judson interrupted excitedly.

“I’ve just remembered something else. I did hear one thing Mr. McKay said. He said—‘I think it’s time somebody paid a visit to the lady’. Do you think he could have had a woman in here?”

I was surprised that Holmes did not answer at once. Then I saw that he was looking at a large object that dominated one end of the room. I was surprised now that I had not taken more notice of it earlier but the contents of the room were so bizarre that one’s visual sense became blurred.

It was made of wood and stood about seven feet high. At first glance I thought it might be an Egyptian mummy case but the surface design was all wrong for that. Although time had faded it, it looked like a primitive depiction of a woman with an enigmatic smile. She stood there with her hands primly folded in front of her but there was something wholly malevolent about her.

I saw that Holmes was not kneeling in front of the object, as if giving obeisance. He put his finger on the richly-patterned carpet, then lifted it for our inspection. It was stained with a drop of blood that the pattern had concealed.

“‘It’s time somebody paid a visit to the lady,’ I believe you said, Mr. Judson. I might reply—‘Cherchez la femme’. Except I very much fear that we have found the lady in question.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured close to my ear, “an Iron Maiden.”

Quietly as he had spoken, his words had carried to Holmes, who rose to his feet and began to examine the object from all angles. He seemed to be speaking to himself, as if reading from one of the volumes in his Index.

“A medieval instrument of torture, fashioned with cruel irony in the shape of a woman by someone who clearly had no love of women. Few escape her close embrace and I fancy this is a case where she has been overly affectionate. Ah!”

He seemed to press something on the side of the casing and slowly the whole front of the accursed thing swung open. There, impaled on the metal spikes that lined the whole contraption, was the man I had seen leave the cab and enter the building earlier that day. Hair, beard, moustache, just as I remembered them.

Holmes was examining the dead man’s face minutely, running his fingers along the jaw, as if seeking to find the pulse that was long gone.

Behind me I heard Mycroft reciting under his breath—

“An age in her embraces passed

Would seem a winter’s day,

Where life and light with envious haste

Are torn and snatched away.

“Our friend, Pope had a word for every occasion, however lugubrious. Wouldn’t you agree, Doctor?”

Before I could answer, there was a loud noise from the doorway that made us both turn in that direction.

The genteel Judson had fainted.