Chapter Twenty-Four

“Mr Holmes?” Julia Simms gave me an anxious look. I suppose my appearance spoke for itself. “Come in. Sit here in the parlour. Let me bring you a pot of tea.”

A moment later Davenport joined us. “How are you, Mr Holmes? Doctor?” he said shaking our hands.

“About as well as expected,” Watson said.

“Has something happened? I see that it has.” He motioned for us to sit. “Just a moment.”

Watson and I sat in silence. Outside, Pimlico was rattling into life. Shadows from the street passed the green concave panes of glass, becoming misshapen and not quite human. The inn smelled of spirits and sawdust. Despite the early hour, the place was immaculate. It was odd to find so public a place so still. It felt as if the building were holding its breath, waiting for its customers. Or perhaps it was I who was waiting.

Soft footsteps, a familiar foot, hurried down the stairs. The door opened and there she stood.

Beatrice.

Watson and I rose.

“You have news?” she said. She did not sit. She did not smile or even acknowledge me at all. I was a stranger.

“That fellow Rickman,” I said. “He’s dead. He hanged himself in Schwartz’s shop.”

“I wish he was alive so I could kill him,” Billy said, bursting into the room. I have known him since he was hardly able to reach my knees and that was the first time I ever saw him weep. His face was blotched and his eyes bloodshot. I thought he’d been weeping for hours, perhaps days. Was he weeping at the funeral yesterday? Was that only yesterday? I cannot remember. I was so lost in my own grief and anger I had no room for anyone else.

“So it is over,” Beatrice said. “A shame he did not kill himself before he murdered Tommy.”

Billy was sobbing. Beatrice put her arm around him and said, “Thank you for letting us know.” Then she turned and left us standing there. Dismissed.