Bright and early, I found Holmes, silk-hatted and carrying his stick, waiting for me in the entrance to 221B Baker Street, and we took a cab to New Scotland Yard, built upon the foundations of an opera house that could never have known more drama than the construction that now occupied the site.
G. Lestrade—now assistant to the chief inspector, with an office down the corridor from his immediate superior—greeted us warmly and bade us sit down opposite a desk piled high with documents. A bit less wiry than of old, but every bit the bull terrier in features as well as temperament, he snatched a paperweight from atop a stack and offered it to Holmes, asking him what he made of it.
My friend examined the object, which appeared to be nothing more interesting than a three-sided piece of granite with a sort of spine down the middle.
“Early Cenozoic,” he pronounced. “Pre-Clovis, but effective enough in stopping three—no, two specimens of the species Mammuthus imperator; this third mark is but a chip, not a notch, and much more recent than the others; some careless handler, no doubt.” He stroked an edge with the ball of his thumb.
“Nothing else?” Lestrade sat back and hooked his thumbs inside the armholes of his waistcoat, looking pleased with himself.
“Apart from the fact it was employed as a weapon within the past twelve hours—fatally, I’m bound—not a thing.” He returned the item to the inspector’s desk.
“Gad!” Our host lunged forward and pounded the desktop with both fists. “The hounds gave me their word they wouldn’t go to press with it until this evening! I might have known you’d be up with the early-bird edition!”
“Good inspector, I haven’t seen a paper. The grey-matter adhering to the spearhead is scarcely dry, and apart from some certain police officials—present company excepted—I’ve yet to meet the man who could spare so much and live. Women are a horse of a different colour, as they seem quite capable of thinking without brains.”
“I’ll thank you to spare me your conjurer’s tricks until I’ve broken my fast. Sometime around midnight, a watchman in the British Museum surprised a burglar emerging from the curator’s office with a satchel full of money from the safe where the donations are kept. The thief snatched the nearest object, a property from the Primitive Man exhibit, and bludgeoned the poor sod to death. It wasn’t the watchman’s night, nor for that matter his murderer’s; he bolted out the door straight into the arms of the constable on patrol. I rather thought I had you this time, but I’d forgotten your sharp practices.”
“Watson, next time we set out for the Yard, be good enough to fetch me a smart rap on the medulla with the mallet you use to test a patient’s reflexes. It’s the responsibility of a good guest to level the playing field.”
Lestrade sighed. “I take it from your genial conversation you’ve come for a favor.”
Holmes explained the purpose of our mission. The other man stiffened at mention of Pietro Venucci.
“As I told the young lady, it’s impossible. The body is in Stranger’s Field, where they bury indigents, executed criminals, and convicts who die behind bars in cases when no one has come forward to claim them. It’s situated atop a section of Roman catacombs, and the Home Secretary has banned all excavation on behalf of the Royal Historical Society, to preserve the artefacts from destruction.”
“It’s one grave. I shall apply for a variance.”
“Apply away, but you’ll find the grave impossible to locate. Most of the records were destroyed last spring when the river overran its banks and flooded the basement where they were kept.”
“I shall examine those that survived.”
“You’ll need the permission of the courts. Miss Venucci’s relationship with the deceased must be confirmed, and that can take months.”
Holmes’s smile was sinister. “An embarrassment of riches, Inspector. I might have accepted one excuse, possibly even two. But you continue throwing boulders at me in desperation, like blind Polyphemus. I believe we’ll stroll down to Stranger’s Field and chat up the caretaker.” He began to rise.
Lestrade leaned across the desk and gripped his wrist, stopping him. The inspector’s expression was stern, but not aggressive.
“Sherlock, I’m speaking to you as a friend, and not as an official. This is one investigation that must remain closed.”
It was a rare event to see my companion puzzled. In all the years we’d known him, Lestrade had never before addressed him by his Christian name.
“You cannot leave it there,” he said. “If you know me well enough to call me friend, you know too I shan’t be warned away without an explanation as to the nature of the danger, and why it’s necessary.”
For a moment I thought Lestrade would refuse. I was sufficiently familiar with that stubborn expression to expect him to take that course. However, he released his grip on Holmes’s wrist and sat back again with his palms resting flat on the desk.
“The assassin’s shell is of no account. No one cares about the nationality of the worms that feed off it. But with you involved, any action is sure to find its way into the press. It’s best for all concerned that Venucci remain forgotten, along with his old associations.
“I’m not threatening you,” he said. “Neither the Yard nor Whitehall would press any charges against you. Thanks to Dr. Watson and his busy pen, the prime minister himself could introduce into evidence a photograph of you strangling King Edward and no jury in England would vote for conviction. But your sudden loss, through disappearance or worse, could never be repaired; this government could not survive it.
“I ask you,” he concluded, “who is to solve the murder of Sherlock Holmes?”