“Bless my soul,” I exclaimed, staring in amazement at the hirsute gentleman on my doorstep. “Inspector Tovey, is that really you?”
“Indeed it is, Dr Watson,” the newcomer replied. “Larger than life and twice as ugly. May I come in?”
“Of course, of course,” I agreed, ushering Tovey into the hallway, before tugging self-consciously at the belt of my dressing gown. “You will have to forgive my appearance.”
Tovey dismissed my apology with the wave of a broad hand. “Please. I’m the one banging on your door at this god-forsaken hour – or I would be if Mr Holmes hadn’t opened it first!” He waggled a thick finger at my friend. “What was it, Mr Holmes? The scrape of my boot on the pavement, or the fact that I had kippers for my breakfast?”
Now it was Holmes’s turn to smile. “You know my methods too well, Inspector, although I dread to think how long it has been since we last saw each other.”
“Nearly ten years, sir.”
Holmes’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Really? So long?”
“You think I’d forget the Blackheath werewolf?” Tovey chuckled, patting the left side of his belly. “The scars still itch whenever it rains.”
I looked at the two men in wonderment. “The Blackheath what?” I asked. “You never told me about that!”
“A man is allowed his secrets, Watson,” Holmes said. “Even from his official biographer. Now, do you expect the good inspector to stand on ceremony, or should we make him more comfortable?”
Remembering my manners, I led our visitor through to the drawing room, and begged him to take a seat on the settee. He did so gratefully, the frame creaking slightly as it took the not inconsiderable strain. While the inspector had never been a slim man, he had unquestionably piled on the pounds since I last saw him.
We had first met Inspector Tovey in his native Bristol, during the unfortunate business with the League of Merchants in ’91. Back then, Abraham Tovey had been an up-and-coming police detective in his early twenties, determined to tackle the crimes that his colleagues worked hard to ignore: cases that confounded logic and, in many cases it seemed, natural law. It was little wonder that he had crossed paths with Holmes and me, although Tovey had barely survived his first encounter with the pair of us. Nearly thirty years later, and now at Scotland Yard, the inspector bore the marks of that terrible investigation: a glass eye that stared permanently ahead. The fake orb was the work of a true artist, but could never hope to match the vitality of the original. Tovey’s frame had blossomed, while his dark beard was now flecked with grey, but the intelligence and good humour that shone like a beacon from his surviving eye had diminished not one iota.
“There, that is better,” Holmes said, marching across to the curtains. “Now, if we could shed a little light on the matter…” He pulled back the drapes to be greeted by a sky still beset with heavy clouds. Holmes let out a sigh. “Less illumination than I had hoped. I would suggest turning on the lights, but I would not want the flicker of the bulbs to trigger one of your migraines, Inspector.”
I regarded our friend with sympathy. “I could prescribe something if that would help, Inspector. My wife suffers from the same affliction.” I stole a glance at Holmes. “Especially during times of stress.”
“Thank you, Doctor, but I’ve learned to live with them,” Tovey replied, “although I’m waiting with bated breath to discover how Mr Holmes made his diagnosis.”
Holmes took a chair by the fireplace and steepled his fingers. “There is no great mystery, Inspector. As you passed me in the hallway, I noticed a patch of yellow residue on the right side of your neck.”
Tovey laughed, rubbing the offending stain.
“Of course, I remembered your fondness for homemade remedies.” Holmes turned to me. “Any ideas, Doctor?”
“A mustard bath?” I guessed.
“The very same,” the inspector said, “with just a touch of baking powder.”
“A panacea that dates back to Roman times,” Holmes said, slipping easily into a lecture. “Also said to aid congestion and stiff joints. As the inspector’s sinuses are obviously clear, and he is having little trouble walking, a propensity for migraines seemed the obvious, if regrettable, choice. While I usually leave medical matters to Watson, may I also recommend two tablespoons of honey before bed.”
“Fascinating though this consultation is,” I cut in, eager to steer the conversation away from homespun nonsense, “I’m sure the inspector didn’t come all this way to discuss his health.”
“Indeed, I didn’t,” said Tovey, tapping his forehead, “although I will make a note about the honey. A good tip, Mr Holmes, and one I shall try tonight.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
“But as the doctor said, we should get down to business,” Tovey continued, “especially if I am to persuade Mr Holmes to abandon his journey to Waterloo Station.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow, amused that Tovey was trying to beat him at his own game. “You spied my suitcase in the hallway, of course,” he acknowledged.
“And had a word with the cabbie waiting out in the street,” Tovey said. “I’ll gladly pay him for his trouble if you hear me out.”
“You have my full attention, Inspector.”
“And I am glad of it. You won’t believe how relieved I was to hear your name mentioned at Scotland Yard this morning.” The inspector shook his head. “Always knew that Pritchard was a bad ’un. Glad someone finally exposed him.”
“It was nothing,” Holmes insisted, modestly.
“Nothing or not, I was about to take a trip of my own, seeking you out on the South Downs – but here you are, solving crimes, on the streets of London town, thank the Lord. If I need any man’s help at the moment, it’s that of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Help in what way?”
Tovey shifted forward on the settee, lowering his voice, as if worried that he would be overheard. “Two days ago, a hand was found on the banks of the Thames, not far from Tower Bridge.”
“A human hand?” I replied, feeling a shiver of anticipation at the inspector’s macabre revelation.
Now it was Holmes’s turn to roll his eyes. “I doubt the inspector is talking about a monkey’s paw, Watson!”
“I only wish I were, Mr Holmes,” Tovey replied. “It was human all right, and as fresh as a daisy, as if it had been severed that very day.”
“Intriguing,” I admitted. “And you hope that Holmes can identify its original owner?”
Tovey shook his large head. “No need, Doctor. We know exactly whom it belonged to. I had the damned thing fingerprinted, you see?”
“And found a match?” Holmes asked.
“Samuel Pike,” came the reply. “Small-time crook, arrested for burglary back in 1911. Sentenced for two years, he was, but got himself released after just eleven months for good behaviour. By all accounts, a likable enough fellow, despite having light fingers.”
“Then it sounds as if you have your man,” said Holmes.
“That’s just it,” Tovey replied. “I thought I did, until I did some digging. You see, Pike volunteered for service in 1914.”
“Making amends by serving his country,” I commented. “Admirable.”
“And tragic,” Tovey said. “I decided to pay a visit to his last known address.”
“Was Pike there?” Holmes enquired.
“Nursing a bloody stump?” Tovey asked. “That would have been nice and easy, wouldn’t it? But no, I questioned his wife, who just sat there shocked as you like, the colour draining from her face.”
“Fearing for her husband’s safety,” I suggested.
“That’s what I thought, Doctor, until she insisted that the hand couldn’t belong to Pike at all. ‘It can’t be Sammy’s,’ she said. ‘It just can’t.’ But there was no doubt about it, the fingerprints were conclusive. The hand was Pike’s.
“And then she gets up, Mrs Pike, and walks across to the dresser on the other side of the room, like she’s in a trance. I continue with my questioning, assuming that she’s in shock. When did she last see her husband, does he work down by the river? That kind of thing.”
“And whether he had fallen back into his old ways, I should imagine,” said I.
“She didn’t answer,” Tovey continued. “She just stood there, her back to me, hands on top of the dresser. I tried again: ‘Mrs Pike,’ I said, ‘if you think your husband is in trouble…’ She just made a noise, either a sob or a laugh, I couldn’t tell which. ‘Sammy’s long past trouble,’ she said, and opened a drawer. When she turned round, she had an envelope in her hand, which she passed to me without another word.”
Tovey turned to face Holmes. “I don’t mind admitting that my blood ran cold when I recognised what it was.”
The inspector reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small rectangular notebook.
“Too many of those letters have been delivered, Mr Holmes.”
I knew what was coming even before he read the words he had copied from the dreadful missive:
Dear Madam,
The King and Queen deeply regret the death of your husband in the service of his country, and I am commanded to convey to you the expression of Their Majesties’ true sympathy with you in your sorrow.
Yours very faithfully,
Keeper of the Privy Purse
“So he died during the war,” I said.
“The letter was dated the seventeenth of May 1917,” Tovey revealed. “‘Now do you see why that hand can’t be Sammy’s?’ Mrs Pike asked as she took back the envelope. If I didn’t believe a letter from the Palace, I could ask a fellow called Mallory who drank in the local pub. He served with Pike in France, and had seen him killed.”
“And did Mr Mallory corroborate the widow Pike’s story?” Holmes asked.
Tovey slipped the notebook back into his jacket pocket. “He did, and said there was no doubt about the matter. Samuel Pike took a bullet to the head and was dead before he hit the ground. Mallory said he’d never forgot it, Pike staring up him, with half his head blown off.”
“But you said that Pike’s hand was fresh when you found it,” I said, struggling to make sense of Tovey’s sorry tale.
“I did, Doctor,” the inspector confirmed. “No sign of decay whatsoever.”
“Which leads us to ask,” cut in Holmes, as calm as a man commenting on the morning’s weather, “how a freshly severed hand could find itself in London, two years after its owner was killed some two hundred miles away.”