Chapter Four

From emperor and king down to the humblest peasant - we accept them all, if - and it is a big if - if their execution is decided to be socially justifiable.

- Jack London, The Assassination Bureau, Ltd.

Though I did not recognise it at the time, my belief in the Assassination Bureau began to solidify on 25 January 1911. That was the day I read in the Times of the murder of David Graham Phillips. The poor man had been shot in New York’s Gramercy Park on the 23rd and had died the day after. I had met him just that one day in Baker Street, but needless to say, I was shocked and mourned the loss of a gifted acquaintance.

Still, with no evidence to connect Phillips’ death to the prediction of his murder in the letter Jack London had sent us more than half a year before, I paid scant attention to the details of the matter. As I wrote to Holmes, the newspaper reported the shooting to have been the singular act of a madman.

And yet neither Holmes nor I could escape involvement. Phillips’ sister, Mrs Carolyn Frevert, knew of Graham’s visit to Baker Street; and in March of 1912, just under two months following the one-year anniversary of her brother’s death, she came to England with the purpose of prompting Holmes to investigate some curiosities in the official report of the shooting. For details regarding the success of her quest and our subsequent journey to New York, one may consult my own account of the case, which I titled The Seventh Bullet.

In spite of the accuracy of my narrative, it still needs to be said that I did withhold some minor facts that at the time I considered irrelevant to our investigation. Though Phillips’ political writings had clearly antagonised many in the upper classes, Holmes and I could find no links between his murder and any widespread international syndicate like the Assassination Bureau. Consequently, I omitted from The Seventh Bullet any reports of my meetings with Holmes in the fall of 1912 related to our evolving sense of some worldwide conspiracy.

Infrequent as such meetings were, recording them would have created the false impression that Holmes and I were involved in some sort of active investigation. In truth, Holmes and I seldom worked together following his retirement. Indeed, after returning from New York, Sherlock Holmes seemed quite content to reacquaint himself with his bee colonies in the Sussex Downs.

I, however, maintained no such responsibilities; and it was not long after Holmes’ departure from London that I gained an important insight. Having been exposed to the vagaries of the criminal mind through our work together, I found myself hungering to learn more. Detecting, I discovered, had caught my fancy; and with no Sherlock Holmes in the vicinity, I began to cultivate my own professional relationship with Scotland Yard.

On not a few occasions, I was pleased to contribute my medical expertise (such as it was) to investigations conducted by the Metropolitan Police. In point of fact, my work for the Yard went on for years following Holmes’ retirement; and as a result, I, unlike most common citizens, was never particularly surprised to discover uniformed constables at my door. My wife was the one who never grew accustomed to their presence.

It was just such a visitation from the police that re-enforced my certainty in the existence of the Assassination Bureau. The event in question occurred late one dark, rainy afternoon towards the end of April in 1912. The general melancholy associated with the sinking of the Titanic still hovered in the air, and the downpour had done nothing to wash it away.

Our housekeeper answered the clang of the bell.

“Is this the home of Dr John Watson?” I heard a clipped male voice ask above the steady tattoo of raindrops.

“That’s all right, Mrs Meeks,” said I, hurrying towards the open door. I knew that whoever was out there stood only partially sheltered beneath our small porch roof, and I wanted to usher the person out of the rain as quickly as possible. It turned out to be a uniformed policeman draped in a shiny black slicker. I welcomed him into the entrance hall and identified myself.

“Sir,” said he, the water from his slicker dripping onto our vestibule carpet, “Inspector MacKinnon has asked if you could accompany me to the Old Bell Tavern in Fleet Street.”

“MacKinnon,” I repeated, picturing the Inspector’s grand walrus-moustache. We’d first worked together more than ten years before on the Amberley case, an investigation that I reported much later in the sketch called “The Retired Colourman”. Concerned that Holmes would be the one to solve the problem (as indeed he had), MacKinnon turned quite appreciative of my friend when Holmes allowed the credit to be given to the Inspector. As a result, the two had got along ever since.

“Has there been a crime?” I asked.

“A murder, sir.”

“A murder is it?” I raised my eyebrows. “Let me get my things. I’ll join you in a moment.”

“I’ll wait for you in the motor just outside,” said he and, informally saluting me, exited into the rain.

Though I no longer maintained an active surgery in 1912, I did make myself available for the occasional consultation with former patients. Fortunately, on this day there was no one scheduled. Thus, I donned my waterproof and, grabbing my medical bag, bowler, and umbrella, informed my wife that I was to be engaged with work that afternoon for Scotland Yard.

Glistening in the rain, the black police motorcar stood growling at the end of our stone path. I opened my brolly and through the downpour negotiated my way along the drenched flags until I landed safely on the unforgiving cushions inside the car. The machine lurched forward, and almost immediately the sweeps of the windscreen wipers provided metronymic accompaniment to our drive. The bright lights and oncoming headlamps reflected in the soggy roadway as we rumbled along Queen Anne Street; and soon after joining the tangle of London traffic on Southampton Row, we were motoring southeast down the Strand.

The Old Bell Tavern in Fleet Street is among the oldest public houses in London. Designed by Sir Christopher Wren in the early-seventeenth century, it was intended for the convenience of the stonemasons constructing St. Paul’s. Today, despite the sheets of rain, the bright light, which shone through the Tavern’s half-curtained windows, made the establishment imminently noticeable. We rolled to a halt directly before the entrance.

Disdaining the need to open my umbrella, I made the short dash to the door and quickly found myself inside, trickling water onto the small stone floor at the entrance. To my left and right stood a pair of wooden tables, and a few feet beyond rose a handsome bar of polished dark wood. The taproom looked ready for business, but there were no patrons within; the tavern was closed.

It was not empty, however. At a wooden table at the centre of the illuminated tableau sat the bloodied body of a grey-haired man dressed in a dark, well-tailored suit. Slumped forward, he sat with his disfigured head face down on the red-splattered table top amidst the plates and tankards before him. A pool of blood had spread beneath his chest, the crimson liquid having worked its way to the edge of the table and dribbled onto the floor where it had formed an additional but smaller puddle near his patent-leather boots. Needless to say, the man appeared quite dead.

Yet strangely, it wasn’t the body that surprised me the most at this ghastly scene. It was the presence of Mr Sherlock Holmes. As far as I knew, he had planned to stay put with his bees in Sussex following the resolution of the Phillips affair.

“Holmes!” I managed to blurt out.

“Ah, friend Watson,” said he, “good of you to come.” He was dressed in his traditional inverness cape and ear-flapped traveling cap.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Inspector MacKinnon greeted me, removing his bowler in the process. “Sorry to bring you out on a day like this, but murder has no call to wait for good weather, you know.” He spoke with a lilting inflection quite out of place for so morbid a scene.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I replied, hoping my professionalism might mask my confusion. “What’s happened here?”

“Bloke was shot twice,” the policeman answered matter-of-factly. “Once in the head; once in the chest. We have the man who did it - a fellow called Wainwright - as well as the pocket-gun he did it with.”

“Good work,” said I.

“Thank you, Doctor. It’s really quite cut and dried. The killer came in, shouted something at the victim about losing his life savings, and fired at him twice. Still, I know how you and Mr Holmes like to be consulted on these dramatic cases, and I feel certain that this case will be in all the papers.”

“Quite right, Mr MacKinnon,” said my friend, “given the identity of the deceased. It’s why I made the journey up from Sussex.”

“Why call it a ‘dramatic case’?” I asked. “Who is the poor wretch?”

Sherlock Holmes flashed one of his amused but cynical smiles. “I hesitate to tell you, old fellow. It is a name with which you are familiar. The murdered man is none other than Mr Charles Morton-Watt, the infamous financial wizard.”

Charles Morton-Watt! A thrill of horror coursed through me when I heard the name. It had been almost a year since London’s letter had identified the dead man before us as another prospective target of the Assassination Bureau, but clearly I had not forgot the warning. Obviously, neither had Holmes.

Suddenly, it dawned upon me. Though I may have successfully fooled myself into ignoring Jack London’s paranoiac aspersions for a while, I could no longer conceal my suspicions. Thoughts of an insidious and far-reaching conspiracy, I was now forced to admit, had been lingering in the back of my mind ever since January when I had first heard of the murder of David Graham Phillips.

“He enjoyed mingling with the common folk,” observed the Inspector. “People said that’s what he was doing here.”

For the moment, however, I was envisioning a broader picture than the scene in the Old Bell Tavern. If a banker could be murdered in so populous a place as a public house and David Graham Phillips could be shot down on a sidewalk in the middle of New York City, did it not follow that - however preposterous the concept appeared - attempts on the life of Theodore Roosevelt and Mycroft Holmes might be imminent? Perhaps, it was finally time for attention to be paid.

Listen to me, I thought to myself, I’m starting to sound like Jack London.

“Do you wish to examine the body then, Doctor?” MacKinnon asked.

Lost in my conspiratorial hypotheses, I nodded numbly and laid my hat, coat, and umbrella on a nearby chair.

“If you don’t mind,” said Holmes to the Inspector, “I’ll conduct my own investigations.”

The policeman encompassed the entire taproom with a wave of his bowler. “You go right ahead, Mr Holmes,” he laughed. “Look anywhere you wish. All I know is that we’ve caught the villain red-handed. Somebody grabbed him while he still held his smoking Derringer. He’d fired both barrels - twenty-two calibre bullets.”

Like a gunfighter from the American West, the heavily-moustached MacKinnon struck a pose opposite the dead man, his right arm extending straight out, the hand held gun-like - thumb up, index finger pointed directly at the corpse. Emphasising the recoil, he jerked his arm each time he barked news of the shot: “Bang! One bullet struck him in the head. Bang! The second bullet hit him in the chest. Case closed.”

I made my way among the chairs to what was left of Charles Morton-Watt. Strangely, or so I thought at the time, Holmes moved off in the opposite direction, manoeuvring past a pair of tables to reach the front windows. Drawing the white curtains aside, he took a brief look at the panes down which, like falling tears, coursed countless rivulets of rain. Almost immediately, however, he concentrated his examination on the woodwork that framed the glass. MacKinnon scratched his head, a classic portrait of confusion.

Meanwhile, I looked at the dead man. At first glance, the Inspector seemed correct. Buckled over the table as the body was, it was easy to see both the exit wound in the back from the bullet hole in the chest and the severe damage to the occipital bone at the rear of the skull caused by the bullet to the forehead. It all seemed clear enough. And yet I could sense that something was wrong.

The Derringer is a small-calibre weapon, and both the bullet hole to the forehead and the resulting cavity at the rear seemed much too large for single shots. What’s more, a careful inspection of the bullet hole in the back of Morton-Watt’s bloodied jacket revealed the unmistakeable burn-marks from a pistol fired at close range. That the hole itself was too neat for an exit wound became redundant in light of the powder-blackening on the fabric.

At the same time I made these discoveries, Holmes was employing his magnifying glass to scrutinise the right side of the wooden window frame.

Shortly, I heard him utter a cry of satisfaction; but when I turned to face him, his expression remained stoical, his eye still close to the lens.

“Holmes?” I queried.

He looked at me with a quick glance. “Well, Watson,” he asked, “what do you make of it?”

“Two points jump out.” As I spoke, I noted Inspector MacKinnon’s smile, hooded as it was by his moustache, slowly disappear. “There is altogether too much destruction at the back of the skull to be the result of a single twenty-two-calibre bullet to the head. I suspect it would have required at least two such missiles to create this kind of mess. Assuming I am correct, further examination should reveal that the large entry hole in the forehead is in actuality the identical spot where two bullets entered the skull, one immediately after the other. What’s more, the powder burns at the back of the coat indicate the poor man was also shot from behind.

“Excellent, Watson!” cried Holmes. “I shall make a detective of you yet!”

I always enjoyed Holmes’ compliments - in spite of the smudge of sarcasm that so frequently accompanied them. Inspector MacKinnon, however, was not so pleased.

“Two shots to the head and one in the back require more than Mr Wainwright’s two-bullet Derringer,” said he, shaking his head. “Three shots mean a second shooter. Witnesses - and there were lots of them - reported hearing only a pair.”

“My dear MacKinnon,” observed Holmes matter-of-factly, “the shot in the back occurred at precisely the same moment as one of the head-shots. That would account for people saying they’d heard only two reports.”

“Mere theory, Mr Holmes,” said the Inspector. “A barmaid standing just behind the victim was quite insistent that she heard only the two shots. She repeated herself a few times to make sure we’d taken her statement correctly. And I’ve already told you, we’ve got our man - John Wainwright, a disgruntled investor in one of Morton-Watt’s shady business schemes.”

“And yet,” said I, my confidence strengthened by Holmes’ support, “I’m certain that a police autopsy will verify my conclusions.”

MacKinnon, now holding his bowler behind him with both hands, rocked slowly back and forth. He appeared uninterested in my findings.

“Gentlemen,” said the policeman, “I repeat: we already have our man. I didn’t invite the two of you here to open a new can of worms.”

Sherlock Holmes offered the policeman a beguiling smile. “Come, Watson. It is obvious our services are no longer needed.”

I collected my coat and umbrella and, tipping my hat to MacKinnon, followed Holmes out into the darkness. The rain had subsided to a gentle drizzle, but I opened the brolly anyway. Holmes was content to let his inverness protect him as we began walking up Fleet Street in the direction of the Strand.

After a few paces, however, he leaned in under my umbrella in order to be heard. “You’re quite right,” said he. “The man was doubtlessly struck twice in the head by the two bullets from Wainwright’s Derringer and - at precisely the same moment - shot through the back with a much more powerful pistol by someone standing behind him. Having made up their minds, the police didn’t bother to look.’

“But in the name of Justice-”

“As you know, old fellow, it’s especially comforting for the Yarders to ignore loose ends in closing up these sensational crimes. They like to put such cases to bed. But I discovered a bullet lodged in the woodwork, the bullet that had been fired into Morton-Watt’s back. It passed straight through the body and proves that a second shooter had fired at Morton-Watt from the rear. It’s fortunate no one else was hit during its flight.”

“But who could have done such a dreadful deed?”

“Quite possibly, the very barmaid who insisted so vocally on having heard only two shots. MacKinnon said she was directly behind the victim.”

“A female shooter, Holmes?”

“And why not? Though it is the era of the New Woman, I imagine suspicion would be less likely to fall upon a female executioner.”

“Executioner?”

“Oh, yes. Make no mistake about it. This Charles Morton-Watt wasn’t just killed last night. He was executed.”

I paused for a moment to allow this observation to sink in. It flitted about with my own suspicions regarding the Assassination Bureau, suspicions I had so far hesitated to resurrect aloud. Instead, I remained practical.

“But even if it was a woman who committed the crime,” I ventured, “how could a second shooter go undetected? MacKinnon said the pub was crowded.”

“Classic diversion, Watson. Wainwright was shouting and waving his Derringer about. Everyone was looking at him. No doubt the second gun was concealed - perhaps in a towel carried by the barmaid - if not by someone else. The second shooter’s job was to fire at precisely the same moment Wainwright did. It’s of no consequence now, however. Were one to investigate more fully, I’m certain he would discover that, no matter the identity of the second shooter, he - or she - has long since disappeared.”

We stopped beneath an electric street lamp in order to be more easily seen by passing cabs. A veil of illuminated mist encompassed the light. “You’ll stay with us tonight,” said I to my companion. “Dinner’s included. Our cook is quite capable of serving three. I believe rack of lamb is on the menu.”

“Thank you, old fellow,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands together as I hailed a taxi. “Your invitation sounds much more appealing than a late train back to Sussex.”

I must confess that my offer was not purely altruistic. First, Phillips; now Morton-Watt. It was time to discuss my fears about the Assassination Bureau with Holmes. No longer could any reasonable person who had read Jack London’s letter ignore the implications of a second shooter in the Bell Tavern. To me, the mysterious second assassin that Holmes envisioned at the murder scene seemed not unlike those unknown vigilantes on Juneau Wharf, the self-styled executioners who, as described by London, had shot and killed “Soapy” Smith in the name of preserving law and order.

With additional shooters on hand to make certain the “job” was done right, the murders of Smith in Alaska and now Morton-Watt in the Old Bell Tavern seemed anything but simple. Though vaguely disguised as revenge-killings, I believed that one would be hard-pressed not to call them what they really were - “assassinations”.

It made complete sense to me, and in the taxi I offered my interpretation to Holmes.

“Coincidence,” he snapped.

“I thought detectives don’t believe in coincidences.”

“As a general rule, Watson, that is the case. But have you forgot the investigation of the man called Black Peter, which you yourself recorded? Though the initials, ‘P.C.’, were found on the sealskin tobacco-pouch in Black Peter’s cabin, they turned out to belong not to Peter Carey but to Patrick Cairns. Had friend Hopkins recognised the simple coincidence in the matter, he himself might have cornered the true murderer.”

“But surely, Holmes, that was different. It was but a minor point in a single crime. In this case we’re discussing a series of murders with multiple similarities. In such instances, dismissing the presence of coincidences could be fatal.”

“Perhaps - but one must be careful. It is the seductive nature of coincidence, old fellow, that enables visionaries to concoct the most fantastical of conspiracy theories. What’s next? Are you going to tell me that the Assassination Bureau miraculously conspired to run the Titanic into an iceberg? How many times must I say it? The Assassination Bureau is a fiction, Watson. For me to believe in it, you’ll have to produce the evidence that proves its existence; and, mind you, I don’t think you’ll be getting any help to do so from your friends at Scotland Yard.”

His remonstrance to the contrary, I refused to be put off. “I take it, then,” said I defiantly, “that you still won’t warn your brother.”

“He will tell you the same thing I just did, old fellow: without sound facts to prove it, no conspiracy exists.”

So ended our discussion - but not my own newfound certainty. I remained fully convinced that there was more to these murders than Holmes was willing to admit. A quiet tension hovered over our dinner that evening. Breakfast the next morning was similar. In the end, I offered Holmes a grim farewell as he secured a taxi for Victoria and effected his return to Sussex. By that time, at least, the rain had ended.