By Cry or by Blood

“I dare say my face looked as bewildered as yours did just now when first I read this message. Then I re-read it very carefully. It was evidently as I had thought, and some second meaning must be buried in this strange combination of words.”

—Dr. John H. Watson, “The Adventure of the Gloria Scott.”

Holmes awoke, donned his dressing gown, and joined my smiling countenance at breakfast. He said nothing, but lit his pipe and returned my smile. He filled me in on his progress at the theatre over coffee, and we took to our heels. The rector had called us in.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, when my wife returned, she gave into my hands this dreadful declaration hidden beneath some late bills.”

He entrusted it to Holmes, who glanced at the paper and passed it to me. I held it carefully as he surveyed the envelope and read it aloud:—

Women’s wiles lead to women’s trials—Death to Suffrage!

Holmes said, “Watson, it is similar to Irene’s note. Extravagant oversized paper, a good weight, tinted pale green. Though this one shows it is specially printed or engraved with a family crest. See where the top of the sheet has been cut off at an angle, that mark is not a smudge, but cut from its printed aspect, an incautious man of means. A stationer may be able to place it.” He handed me his glass. “I’ll search for fingerprints. Has anyone else come into contact with this besides you and your good wife, Rector?”

“No one, it’s been sitting intact in her desk for a week.”

“No dusting maid?” Savory shook his head. “Is there anything more to tell?” I said as Holmes smiled at me.

“You will keep it confidential? In the hands of the press, it could undo all my good work.”

Holmes waved him to continue.

“It arrived with the late post on Saturday prior to the horrible event that has brought us together. With the advent of Mrs. Savory’s brother, she put it aside with other mail and left for their family home in Brighton. It was only on her return yesterday that this further abomination was discovered. I hope it helps you in your investigation, gentlemen. It is truly monstrous. The sooner put to rest the better. Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I am happy to get on with my restorations and grateful for your dispelling of the ruinous superstitions. Our Lady Chapel requires meticulous care to be made safe, strong and whole again.”

We caught a cab. Holmes pointed it southeast along the river. Doctor, I intend on interviewing our Doggett’s winners twenty to twenty-five. Do you have your revolver with you?”

As it turned out, the heavy weapon in my pocket proved to be unnecessary. We enjoyed an afternoon meeting honourable gentlemen race winners on both sides of the Thames. In the cab, we travelled east on Lower Thames Street to the Wapping Docks. Robert W. Duckwood, number twenty, took his time answering our summons.

“Must be out on the river,” I said.

“He certainly has a good view of it and access to the docks,” said Holmes surveying the moored ships, his back to the door.

“You can see Doctor Addleton’s surgery from here.” I indicated.

The door opened and a rather cordial gentleman 5’10”, forty or forty-one, invited us in. He was dark, clean shaven, high-nosed, grey eyed and served us a good sherry. Holmes tactic on interviews like this was to give our host the lead, and ask a few seemingly innocuous questions. Duckwood was a jovial sort. As he lived so close to the docks, he had humorous tales to tell about every level of boat or ship—quite an enjoyable visit.

In the cab, Holmes said, “Watson, he seemed a different class from what I would expect. His hands show him up.”

“Educated men like William East also take on this race, Holmes. East is a Cambridge man. Duckwood’s race was twenty years ago.”

Holmes introspective face now turned to me. “It’s more than that, Watson. The sherry we were served was from mature stocks, not affected by the recent blight. This man has a fine wine cellar.”

“How did you see that?”

He breathed out a cloud of cigarette smoke and said no more as our cab continued further south to Blackwall. Holmes interviewed Richard Harding, who was a serious soul and a solid man. At forty-five he still worked on the river, and he ferried us across from Canary Wharf where we took a cab through Bermondsey.

We arrived at George Wright’s houseboat. Holmes leapt out, asked the cabman to wait. Mr. Wright welcomed us across his gangplank. He presented us with the weathered face and arms of a man who spent his days in the elements. Over brown ale, he shared tales from the life of a paddleboat skipper. Holmes pocketed his card for future excursions and another Doggett’s winner had passed his test.

All during the long western trip to Richmond, Holmes was silent, with his hat pulled down. Once there we met with Henry G. Messum and enjoyed a much appreciated, simple, yet hardy luncheon. This was followed by an enjoyable walk to Thomas I. MacKinney. He lived near Old Deer Park and we swapped stories. I bet Holmes it was the one mud in all London, I could recognize at a glance. Again we crossed the Thames, this time via the Hammersmith Suspension Bridge to meet with an affable gentleman, Thomas G. Green for tea. Afterwards, we took our cab for one last trip east.

√ 1874	Duckwood Robert W	Wapping
√ 1873	Messum Henry G	Richmond
√ 1872	Green Thomas G	Hammersmith
√ 1871	MacKinney Thomas I	Richmond
√ 1870	Harding Richard	Blackwall
√ 1869	Wright George	Bermondsey

“What a splendid day on the river! I am well stuffed; any more of such hospitality and I won’t eat for a week!”

“Ha!”

From Hammersmith we took a northerly route, up Old Oak Road through North Kensington and eastward to Regent’s Park. Holmes was quiet on the ride back. We had learned quite a bit about the history of the Fishmongers Race, the gentlemen knew nothing of the yachtsman we were hunting, and all six men had been discounted as suspects.

Holmes leapt out at Baker Street and ran up to our fire. He sat in silence for some time, with his newly packed pipe, lost in thought. I knew he was reassessing the facts of the case with his smoke rings and showed no awareness of Mrs. Hudson’s inquiry into his previous night’s activities.

He finally put up his pipe and joined me. Poured himself a cup of coffee, threw Irene’s letter to me, and gestured with the sugar tongs.

“Watson, this is the cause of last night’s concern, read it.”

“Suffrage will end by cry or by blood! From their bones will rise a free and independent Irish Republic!”

“Another one, Holmes! This was found in Madam Adler’s dressing room?”

“Yes, and she knows nothing about it. She’s not involved. I fear for her life. She is at St. Pancras under guard.

“This is horrible, Holmes! Is it the same hand?

“Yes. Do you see the dichotomy?”

“There is no animosity between the Fenians and the Suffragists?

“More than that, the more radical suffragettes see the Fenians as allies. Yet the larger, peaceful group does not share this conviction. It may be a clue or it may just be proof this man is the intellectually disabled brute you think him to be.” He lit a cigarette.

“Surely those notes are conclusive as to the motive,” I ventured.

“Yes, possibly, but why post them, Watson? What self-important fool would announce his presence at a murder scene?”

“Clearly, an inexperienced man or one who feels himself above the law, taunting his pursuers as the Ripper did.”

“The Ripper was meticulous at his work. Even the great Doctor Bell and I were kept at bay for quite some time by his superior perfectionist qualities. The Priory case is careless in execution, yet the planning is well done. As if two separate minds are involved.” He sipped his coffee. “Our iniquitous Priory case does hold some features of interest, does it not, Doctor? Following my chemical and fingerprint analysis, I shall depart to St. Pancras for an early dinner.”

“Bravo, Holmes!”

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow and moved to his test tubes where he analysed the messages and their envelopes.

“He wore gloves, no usable fingerprints, Watson! Please pass this on to Inspector Das. It will help him in his research.” Holmes gave me the envelope and carefully washed all chemical residues from his hands. He changed, leapt the stairs and out our door, violin case in hand. His hansom was already ahead of the traffic as I watched from our windows.

When I returned from Scotland Yard, Wiggins reported to me the result of his meal at the Swan Inn Chelsea. He observed the yachtsman betting and losing at darts, playing cards, drinking pints of ale and generally enjoying himself. He was treated like a regular so it shouldn’t be difficult to acquire his true name. I gave Wiggins his pay and let him go.

Holmes believes that this man never worked on the river and therefore was not a member of the Worshipful Company of Watermen and Lightermen. This would disqualify him from the race. My guess would be that on a bet, he may have used another man’s name in order to compete and win. Young men of twenty do sometimes make foolish mistakes. Not a very honest individual but it was apparent this was the extent of his unlawful behaviour, and the Inn was just a favourite pub. Another thread unravelled.

Later on at dinner, Mrs. Hudson and I shared impressions. It was clear there was an understanding between Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes. After addressing her many pointed questions, I believe I assured her that Madam Adler was worthy of such devotion. She wondered if this were another thread to the gnarled and bewildering mystery the great detective was working to unravel. Yet, it seemed to me this was the untangling of a very different skein.