The following morning, I waved my wife goodbye, and Geller telephoned just a few hours later to say that they had arrived in Hastings and all was well. My wife had been safely delivered into her sister’s care and he was to stay nearby to keep a watchful eye on both of them.
Holmes had helped return the house to some semblance of order. We soon discovered that my first instincts had been correct and that nothing had been taken, but that by no means assuaged my desire to get hold of the villain.
That evening, settling down for a nightcap, Holmes explained how he hoped to find the fiend.
“The white powder on his overalls,” he said, taking a sip of my best brandy.
“Plaster, you suggested.”
“I did.”
“How can that help us? There must be hundreds of places in London where a chap could get himself covered in plaster. Thousands even.”
“There are. However, there is also a major construction project running through this city.”
He produced the newspaper that had been delivered that morning. Neither of us had given it more than a glance, but he threw it across the room, where it landed, still folded, on my lap.
“Examine the front page.”
I unfurled the paper to reveal the picture of a tower being constructed on Whitehall.
“The victory monuments?”
“The victory monuments, constructed from wood and covered with plaster, although if you read the report you will see that there are already calls to make at least one a permanent structure.”
“All very noble, but how does it help us?”
“The photograph, Watson. Look at the workers.”
I did, and saw that they all wore dark overalls. Of course, there was no way of telling the shade of their garments in the black and white photograph, but it could have easily been navy blue.
“The interesting thing about the project,” Holmes continued, “is that the government has purposely employed those poor souls who have returned from the front with disfigurements that may preclude them from securing work in so-called polite society.”
“Men with scars.”
“Now, look at this,” Holmes said, fishing a folded handkerchief from his pocket. He leant forward and, placing it on my wife’s prized coffee table, unfolded the cloth to reveal a splinter of wood in its centre. “I discovered this on the carpet in the hallway,” he explained. “It’s oak, and rough enough to come from timber. Now tell me, what are they using to construct the monuments?”
I glanced at the report, and looked up at him, a smile on my lips.
“Oak,” I said.
* * *
As we walked through the streets the following morning, I tried not to let my hopes run away with themselves. This was a long shot, and without my wife being able to identify the overalls, we had no idea if we were on the right track, but it was as good a place to start as any.
The site of the first monument led nowhere, but at the second tower, Holmes called over the foreman. He repeated the patter we had tried at the first site, explained that we were looking for an old friend, describing the disfigured giant. Did he work on this site?
“And who’s asking?” the fellow had replied, his eyes lighting up when I produced a banknote in the sum of ten shillings.
“Someone who wants to remain anonymous,” I said.
“Don’t we all,” said he, pocketing the note. “Although, from your description, I reckon you’re looking for Aggie. Can’t imagine there’s two of him. Least I hope there isn’t.”
“Aggie?”
“Giant of a man, that one. You should try the Cenotaph, do you know it? The one near Downing Street. If Aggie’s anywhere, he’s there.”
However, on arriving at the site, it seemed that we would be disappointed once again. The centre of the street was a hive of activity, the wooden frame of the Cenotaph being plastered in readiness for the procession. One couldn’t help but be impressed. No structure could adequately represent the sacrifice of the war dead, yet even in its unfinished state this was a sight to behold, tall and majestic. A week in advance of the parade, men were already doffing their hats, an act of respect that was more touching than a thousand marching troops would ever be.
Again we approached a workman, another banknote in my hand ready to help loosen his tongue, but this time no bribe was required.
“Aggie, aye. He’s here all right. Don’t know him too well myself. One of the quiet ones he is. Don’t say much at all.”
He looked around, scanning his fellow workers. We spotted the brute at the same moment, but before I could hush him, the workman called out.
“There he is. Oi, Aggie! Over here. Some fellows to see you!”
The giant turned, his yellow eyes widening as he became aware of our identity. Then he was off, throwing aside the pallets he had been hefting, to flee across the road.
“Watson!” Holmes called out as he sprinted after the rogue, but I needed no encouragement. Ignoring the beeping horn of the omnibus that nearly mowed me down, I took off in pursuit of him. Unsurprisingly, our quarry’s long strides had covered the road in seconds, plunging him into the crowd in the direction of Richmond Terrace.
“Stop him!” I shouted out, not caring who heard. A few days ago, I would have dared not be so bold, especially with Mycroft’s men on our tail. Now I hoped they were still there, hiding in the shadows. If they were there to protect us, then surely they could serve us as well.
Yet no one came to our aid. Aggie, if that was the man’s name, pelted through the crowd, knocking pedestrians flying. At least he was easy enough to spot, rising head and shoulders above the other Londoners.
“He’s turned off,” I called to Holmes as he disappeared to the right. We were having to manhandle our way through the throng, folk shouting at us to mind our manners. At this rate, we were going to lose him again. The devil could run like the wind. By the time we reached the corner of Richmond Terrace he would have made it to the river. There was no way we could catch up.
Yet, as we puffed our way onto the terrace, we found our prey standing stock still, his enormous arms high in the air.
In front of him, a revolver in his hand, stood the portly figure of Inspector Tovey, a stern smile etched on his face.
“I’m assuming that you’d like a word with this individual, Mr Holmes,” Tovey said, never taking his eyes from the giant. “I know I would.”
“I thought you were in Cornwall, Inspector,” Holmes panted.
“So did a lot of folk, but you know me. I’m a city boy, always have been, always will be. And as for you, Goram…”
With his gun hand steady, Tovey raised a whistle to his lips and blew hard.