Mrs Hudson had not exaggerated. An unseasonably dense, greenish-yellow fog had followed last night’s storm, converting an ice-frosted London into an opaque mystery. No four-wheeler was available, so we bundled into a hansom, its lack of enclosed cabin making for a very chilly ride through the murk. To my surprise, Holmes directed the driver first to an address in Kensington.
‘Watson we shall detour from this case briefly to inform Lady Eleanor Gainsborough of the facts surrounding her prize pupil. I cannot imagine it will please her, but I feel I at least owe her the report. And then … onto our main task!’
We were forced to inch along as the driver could see no more than a few yards before him. Holmes was taut with impatience, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his knee.
‘I am surprised you took on Lady Eleanor, Holmes, given how busy you are just now.’
‘Perhaps a mistake, Watson. But I have committed and must follow through.’
‘I wonder why did she not call the police about the attack on the girl?’ I said.
‘Perhaps in some way she suspected a ruse and did not wish to risk scandal.’ He paused, and smiled at me. ‘Or perhaps she has heard of Titus Billings and thought better of it.’
‘Odious man! But I sense she has a particular admiration for you, Holmes.’
He shrugged. ‘The public response to me has been polarized of late, Watson.’
‘Hers was particularly ardent,’ I persisted.
He waved the thought away. Our cab continued at a snail’s pace. Few were on the road, as driving about in this deep fog was dangerous. The gaslights along the streets remained lit even in daylight, pale orbs glowing in the fog like out-of-focus moons, helping us keep to our route.
I put this minor peril out of my mind and turned my attention to the case, which seemed as impenetrable as the mist through which we were travelling.
‘Holmes,’ I ventured, ‘I still cannot understand why the murderer would send such a letter to the Goodwins.’
‘There is something of the showman in our killer, Watson. He is proud of his work and wants attention, admiration. People who kill in series like this usually accelerate their game, shortening the time between murders, making each more gruesome, or in other ways creating a growing sense of horror. For them, it is a kind of theatre. They have been known to send notes to the police.’
‘Like the Ripper!’ I exclaimed. ‘Then why not this time?’
‘Perhaps he has. Perhaps Titus Billings has ignored it and will not say. Or it could be that this highly intelligent killer believes an idiot is currently in charge of the police force. Billings has, after all, appeared to fumble this investigation. Perhaps the killer miscalculated by sending his letter to the Goodwins, who did not announce it to the press, but rather kept the threats private.’
‘I see,’ I said.
‘Our killer has an agenda and is playing a long game. I have theories. But what worries me, Watson, is that the killer may attract a macabre following. When murderers receive a lot of press attention, imitators may get ideas. All the more reason to close this case quickly.’
Soon we arrived at an elegant home at Courtfield Gardens. It was a graceful four-storey building in the middle of the block, with columns on the front portico, impressive but not ostentatious. A Gothic style church across the street barely visible through the mist impressed me as a sinister apparition from a dark fairy tale. I shook my head at the fanciful thought. I had not had enough sleep.
We were admitted by a maid and left to wait in an enormous first floor reception-room, which, unlike the building’s exterior was nothing short of astonishing. It was like standing inside a life-sized ‘cabinet of curiosities’, so popular in years gone past. The walls were papered in a riot of greens and hung with paintings of wild animals and the stuffed heads of an actual lion, ibex, black jaguar, and one beast I couldn’t identify – perhaps an anteater.
A marble fireplace was flanked by two tall ivory tusks, intricately carved with animals spiralling up the long shapes. Aside each were tall glass cases in which were housed dozens of delicate hand-blown glass orchids, each with a beautifully handwritten label. On tables under the animal heads was a magnificent collection of shells – twisting, delicate, iridescent – and by the window, a gilt-edged set of large, illustrated books, one open to a painting of an orchid.
There were no chairs, only a large flat item that looked like a mattress, surrounded on three sides by carved wooden-backed bolsters upholstered in a silk paisley of bright reds and pinks, shot through with golden threads.
I recognized it as a majlis, a type of Eastern divan on which one lounged rather than sat. What Englishman would fling himself down on such a thing in company with those he had just met? It might be better suited to the lounge of a Turkish bath, not a sitting-room in Kensington.
We stood awkwardly until a tall butler with a faint blond moustache and an expression of practised neutrality entered, directing a footman to take our things. Then suddenly into this remarkable room swept the lady we had met yesterday, wearing an embroidered kaftan of green, her beautiful dark hair tumbling down her back in the manner of a Pre-Raphaelite princess. Even at her age, she was a stunning creature. She quickly wiped away a tear.
‘Oh, Mr Holmes! Thank you for coming! And you as well, Dr, er – I am surprised you have arrived so quickly!’ She rushed to Holmes and embraced him. He stiffened in alarm and, I assume, pain.
‘Oh, I am sorry!’ said she, patting the splinted arm. ‘Your arm! A cast?’
‘It is just a temporary measure. A touch of arthritis, madam,’ said Holmes. ‘What did you mean, “arrived quickly”? I came to bring news of Judith’s attack. I received no summons.’
‘Your girl! She ran away. And my Judith … but we are at cross purposes. We shall have tea in the solarium, and clear up this mystery.’
We dutifully followed the lady to her solarium, an enormous and whimsical space constructed in the atrium of the grand house. A steamy heat inside this room allowed for an array of tropical plants and even trees to flourish in abundance. I heard the sound of birds and looked up to see five bright parrots perched in limbs at least twenty feet above our heads. The oppressive fog, visible through an intricate glass and ironwork roof, provided an eerie canopy of opaque greenish grey light, giving the effect of being inside an aquarium.
And, indeed, one whole side of this atrium contained an actual aquarium, fanciful in design, with filigreed decoration echoing the patterns in the roof. Weedy green fronds waved amongst fluorescent corals and brightly coloured fish. This was clearly the home of a formidable collector, and one with an artistic sensibility.
In the centre of the room was a grouping of gigantic, carved teak armchairs, to which Lady Eleanor guided us and bade us to be seated.
‘This room and the one you were in display just part of my late husband’s vast collection,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘Lord Gainsborough was an amateur naturalist and used his fortune to help collect and document various rare species. He travelled world wide and donated more than a thousand specimens of flora and fauna to the British Museum.’
‘I noticed the labels on the cases there, and in here as well, inscribed in a lovely hand,’ I said. I felt like a small child perched on my oversized chair, and although he said nothing, I sensed Holmes was growing impatient.
‘Yes, that is my doing,’ said the lady. ‘I helped my husband catalogue his collection, as well as his donations. I began as his secretary, you see. It was a natural fit. I am known for my handwriting.’
Holmes managed a polite smile. ‘But to the point, madam, and before I tell you our news – why have you summoned us here?’
‘Judith has run away. Your girl has as well. I think there may be a connection and I am terribly worried.’
Holmes and I looked at each other.
‘Madam, perhaps Judith’s leaving the school is for the best,’ said Holmes. ‘I have difficult news for you but shall not insult you by delaying further. Heffie left your school to report to me. I am afraid she discovered that Judith, your prize pupil, is a duplicitous young lady. She is running a brothel business from inside the school. It involves four other girls, servicing local workers and using rooms in an adjacent business.’
At these words, the lady turned white. A storm of emotions flickered across her beautiful face in rapid succession – surprise, pain, outrage, anger. It was clear that she had not known.
Holmes continued. ‘Apparently she has managed to hide this from everyone else at the school. Heffie gained Judith’s confidence and learned that the story of the attack was untrue—’
The lady gasped. Holmes pressed on.
‘She told Heffie that she had falsified the attack in order to trap the school’s visiting music teacher. He had discovered Judith’s activities and threatened to reveal her when his own advances were rebuffed.’
The lady’s eyes glistened with tears. She seemed to grab onto this fact like a drowning man reaches for a lifeline. ‘The music teacher? Mr Pembroke? Oh! We … we must find Judith,’ said she.
I reached out to take her hand, but she withdrew it, turning instead to Holmes and taking up his good hand in her own. He stiffened.
‘Please, Mr Holmes,’ she said. ‘Judith probably ran away once she knew that Heffie had discovered her. Or that awful man – that teacher! Whatever Judith has done, there is something good inside the girl. Redemption is always possible! I know it. Please, will you help me find her?’
I became aware of a slight meaty odour in the room which floated through the dense smell of orchids.
Holmes frowned slightly and freed his hand. ‘Madam, I am on a very pressing case at the moment. There is a vicious murderer at large, and—’
Suddenly, a loud sound – which to my ears evoked the giant drawbridge of a castle suddenly being let down, although I had never heard such a thing – came from somewhere in our immediate vicinity. Perhaps right behind me. I leapt up and turned, as did Holmes, looking in the same direction. There was nothing there.
‘Sit down, gentlemen. It is just Belle.’
What on earth? We both sat. I felt a little sheepish.
‘I suppose the disappearance of one unfortunate young woman cannot possibly compete with a case of murder,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘Or murders. Nevertheless, I must beg you, Mr Holmes. Please.’
I felt a strange pressure on my ankle followed by a sharp pinprick, and looked down to see that the enormous, spotted paw of some giant animal had reached out from under the large teak chair on which I was sitting and wrapped itself around my foot, its claws pricking the inside of my ankle.
With an involuntary yell, I shot to my feet.
Holmes was standing, too, staring aghast at the giant fur appendage curled around my ankle. Something was under my chair. Something feline. Something like—
‘Belle!’ cried the lady. ‘Let him go. Down, Belle. Belle, no.’
The paw slowly uncurled from around my ankle and retreated beneath the chair. The sound of an idling motor engine rumbled from down there.
‘It is just my cat, Belle. She is harmless, unless you attack me. She is very protective.’ Lady Eleanor smiled wanly. ‘It is a comfort, since my husband died such a horrible death.’
‘Cat?’ I edged away from my chair.
But there was nothing quite like a ‘horrible death’ to rivet my friend’s attention. ‘Your husband, Lady Eleanor?’ asked Holmes, fixing on the alternate fact. ‘I read that Lord Gainsborough had a heart attack his sleep.’
Horrible, perhaps to the widow. But what kinder way to go, really?
But before she could answer, my chair itself suddenly moved, and out from under it oozed a spotted animal – one who had compressed herself into such a small space that Holmes and I were further astonished at her actual bulk as she unfurled herself.
Belle was a leopard. A fully-grown leopard wearing a jewelled collar She sat down a few feet away, curling her tail around her legs, and regarded me with flat, yellow eyes. Even seated, her head was three feet off the ground.
No one moved.
Belle yawned, showing four-inch fangs, then turned to lick herself energetically on one shoulder. Holmes and I, frozen in position, looked at each other.
‘Belle is quite tame,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘My husband brought two leopards from South America to the London Zoo four years ago. One was pregnant but died shortly after giving birth to Belle, whom I then raised by hand. She is a sweet girl unless, well, as I said …’
I shuddered. I did not even like house cats, for their sudden pouncing. This was in another league entirely.
Holmes coughed. ‘I am allergic to cats,’ said he. ‘Perhaps we could return to the parlour.’
The lady smiled at us in understanding. A moment later, the cat having been banished to her ‘room’, Lady Eleanor and I sat rather uncomfortably near the floor on the Arabic majlis. It was awkward in the extreme. I kept glancing at the hall which led to the solarium.
Holmes declined to join us in repose on the majlis. Instead, he roamed the room in his nervous manner, stopping here and there to glance at the unusual collection of objects as he proceeded to ask our distraught hostess a series of questions. I struggled to retain my dignity on the awkward seating.
‘You referred to a horrible death, Lady Eleanor. Did the papers get it wrong?’ asked Holmes.
‘Yes. It was terrible. I—I— Oh, I can’t. It just … I just …’ She covered her eyes and turned from us. ‘The papers said one thing, but the truth is another. You see … He was in the bath when he died. We had just had the house electrified.’
I anticipated what followed.
‘Do sit with us, Mr Holmes.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘My husband put a lamp into the bathroom. I told him not to. But—’
‘It fell into his bath and he was electrocuted?’ finished Holmes.
‘Yes.’
‘Were you in the house at the time?’
‘No, I was out.’
‘The servants?’
‘All three were at market. We had been planning a party.’
‘Did the police consider foul play?’ Holmes paused, a large piece of something like lava or coral in his hand. He set it down.
‘They concluded there was no foul play. They did ask me to prove I was elsewhere, and I did. I was with a lady friend and we were—’ Her voice broke. ‘We were shopping for gloves on Oxford Street. I bought some pale blue ones … with a little rose … Oh, if only I had been here!’
‘You could not have foreseen this, Lady Eleanor,’ I said.
‘Was it ruled an accident, then?’ continued Holmes.
‘Yes. My husband was a difficult man. But the thought of him being murdered …’ She fought back tears. ‘The lamp just fell in, apparently. It must have been terrible for him. Our solicitor got the story changed for the papers. Out of consideration for me.’
Holmes was silent for a moment. He glanced at me. Then, ‘Madam, I must ask you a few questions about your husband. I do not wish to be indelicate, but I would like to set my mind at ease about something.’
‘Ask whatever you like.’
Holmes paused, standing before the front window. The fog behind him was now brighter, almost an absinthe green.
‘Precisely how did he amass his great fortune?’ he asked.
She swallowed, then answered readily enough. ‘My husband was what you call a business speculator. He bought and sold other businesses. He had an uncanny knack for knowing when a business was in trouble, and for – I don’t know – transferring funds from one bank to another. At least, I think so. I was not privy to the details. As a woman, you know …’
‘And how was he regarded by colleagues in his field?’
‘He had few colleagues of his stature, Mr Holmes. He kept his dealings quite private. Even from me.’
‘Was he well regarded? Liked, perhaps?’ asked Holmes. ‘Many friends?’
She hesitated. ‘Admired, yes, very much so. Liked? That is a question I cannot answer. He was rather like you, Mr Holmes, in that he did not bother much about public opinion. And he socialized rarely. Collecting was his passion.’
Holmes turned to a table standing in front of the window. ‘Ah, I see you have Sanders’ Reichenbachia!’ said he, pausing at four gilded volumes displayed there.
‘What is that?’ I asked, not following his rapid digression. I thought the Reichenbach was a waterfall somewhere.
‘Four volumes on orchids, lavishly illustrated. Sanders’ take on leading orchidologist Heinrich Reichenbach’s work,’ said Holmes, once again displaying the arcane nooks and crannies of what he called the ‘little empty attic’ of his brain. This diversion struck me as odd. But Holmes rarely did anything without purpose.
‘Orchids have a sinister history, do they not Lady Eleanor?’ he asked. ‘Orchid hunters have been known to die or disappear out in the field.’
‘I don’t know, Mr Holmes. I think of them simply as beautiful flowers. As you can see, they were only one of my husband’s passions.’ She gestured vaguely to the room.
‘Very lovely labels,’ I said, nodding towards the glass cases. Her icy glance told me how lame was my repeated gambit.
Holmes continued. ‘Were there any businesses which – or, rather, people who – resented your husband’s transactions? Anyone harmed, left destitute? Anyone with their dreams dashed or their family fortunes sold on the block?’
‘My goodness, I would hope not! None that I know.’
‘Was Lord Gainsborough a Luminarian?’
‘That word is familiar. What is it?’
‘An honorary society. You have heard of it, then?’
‘Yes, I have heard the word,’ she said.
‘Was it through your husband you heard the word?’
‘I am not sure. I may have read of it in the papers.’
‘It is a secret society. They are not in the papers,’ said Holmes.
‘Well, then, I suppose I heard the word from Peter.’
Holmes moved to a side table. ‘Did your husband fraternize with the Goodwin brothers?’
‘Mr Holmes, I do not understand what you are getting at. Peter’s – my husband’s death is still a fresh wound. And now this news of my dear Judith—’
‘My apologies, Lady Eleanor, but I must insist. I have good reason. The Goodwins?’
‘Goodwins? Why, yes, he knew them. He mentioned them once or twice. I have, of course, read of their famous parties.’ She attempted a smile.
‘Did you ever attend one of their parties?’ I interjected. ‘I have heard such wonderful things.’
‘No,’ she replied, coldly. Holmes glanced at me in annoyance. I shrugged.
She rose to her knees, to escape from the majlis, and presumably from me.
Holmes extended his good hand and drew Lady Eleanor to her feet. As I struggled to my own feet after her, he continued the barrage of his questions.
‘What about after your husband’s death, Lady Eleanor? Did you yourself suffer any accidents, receive any threats? Any sense of personal danger to yourself? A loose carpet on the stair? A near miss of some sort? Anything whatsoever threatening?’
My friend, in his eagerness, had become something of a human Gatling gun.
‘You frighten me, sir.’ She moved away from Holmes and now took up his former place, silhouetted by the front window. Her slender figure was erect, and I imagined her expression resolute. Despite her fears, this was a lady who would not be crushed by ill fortune.
‘Let me think,’ she said. ‘Why, yes! Now that you mention it, I suppose there was something. I put it down to carelessness. Not long ago I was nearly run over in the street. I was distraught, grieving. I looked up just in time.’
‘Run over? By what?’ Holmes asked eagerly.
‘A four-wheeler. Driving far too fast.’
‘Where? When?’
‘In front of the house, here. Last week.’
‘Did you see the driver? Did it seem intentional?’
‘I did not see the driver, no. Intentional? It had not occurred to me, but I suppose it is possible. I did get a glimpse of the man inside the carriage.’
‘Can you describe him?’
We were both facing the lady, our backs to the door leading from the hall. I suddenly caught that scent again. I turned around. Belle sat in the doorway, staring at us. Perhaps she had escaped her ‘room’.
‘Do you mind? The cat,’ I said.
‘Leopard. Oh, Belle, shoo,’ said Lady Eleanor. ‘She won’t hurt you.’
The cat slunk away.
Holmes and I took up other positions, so that we could keep an eye on the doorway. He turned back to the lady. She might have been smiling, but backlit as she was against the window I could not quite see. I supposed every visitor reacted in this way to Belle.
‘Madam,’ said Holmes, ‘the man in the carriage?’
‘I caught only a glimpse. A large man. Tall, very heavy.’
‘Tall?’
‘His face was high up in the window.’
‘Moustache? Beard?’
‘Clean shaven,’ she said. ‘Though I could not swear to that.’
‘Hair colour?’
‘I … I don’t know. He was wearing a top hat. That is all. It was so fast.’
‘How do you know he was heavy?’ persisted Holmes.
‘I … well …’ She put her hands up to her lower cheeks. ‘Heavy here,’ she said. ‘Jowls.’
Holmes shot me a meaningful glance. I understood that he now feared Gainsborough might well have been a victim of the Alphabet Killer. And that the lady herself could be in danger.
‘Excuse me, Lady Eleanor, I noticed a telephone in your hallway. May I use it, please?’ Holmes asked. She nodded, and he left the room briefly.
She looked after him, distraught. We lingered in uncomfortable silence until Holmes returned from the telephone.
‘Madam, I am afraid I am on a very pressing case at the moment. I have called Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard, a fine man with whom I have worked many times. He and his men will be here shortly. If my theory is correct, I fear you may be in danger. Someone will stay with you until I can close this case.’
‘Me? Why? Why would I be in danger?’
‘It is complicated. Please believe me and accept this protection. I must be off now. If you would kindly ring for our coats?’
‘Mr Holmes, please! I want no police in this house!’ exclaimed the lady. ‘Imagine, with Belle? And – well, who knows if they are honourable men? Sensible men? Sir, can you not send someone in your place – perhaps this Mr Wilson here—’ she waved dismissively at me – ‘to investigate and stay with me yourself?’
She placed a delicate hand on his good arm and took hold, her face turned up to his, pleading.
Despite my irritation, I had a sudden flash of my wife Mary, vulnerable and taking comfort from me when she was a client of ours on a dangerous case, and before we fell in love.
‘Mr Holmes, my husband left me well looked after,’ pleaded the lady. ‘I can pay anything you wish. Please!’
Holmes gently untangled himself from her. ‘I am sorry, Lady Eleanor, I cannot stay,’ he said. ‘Good day.’
Stumbling through the dense fog, it then took us fifteen minutes to flag down a hansom on nearby Gloucester Road. Few were hiring the two-seaters in this weather, and few were on the road. As we departed Kensington, I mused on what felt like an escape.
Lady Eleanor was not the first woman to desire close personal attention from the great detective, nor would she be the last. Whether for them it was a kind of hero worship, the allure of fame, or the challenge of attracting a man who seemed immune to their charms, I could never tell. But none could sway Sherlock Holmes when pursuing his case or his quarry in his own way.
Holmes directed the driver to Pentonville Prison, where he intended to question Charles Danforth. We rode for a few minutes in silence, inching through the treacherous brume, our ulsters soon dripping with moisture.
I held up a hand before my face. Even at arm’s length I could see tendrils of fog in the way. ‘My God, this weather!’ I exclaimed. It was extreme, even for London.
‘Orchids,’ said Holmes.
‘What about them?’
‘Consider this, Watson. Six years ago, a tragic series of deaths occurred in the Amazon. It was an orchid-collecting expedition in which eight men went in and only one came out alive. It was a dangerous area, but so many disappeared and never a trace was found. Murder was suspected, but if I recall correctly the case was never closed. If Lord Gainsborough had a hand in this—’
‘Oh, I remember reading about that. But it was some time ago.’
‘Watson, please recall that we are considering each victim as having a past evil deed to their credit. If this orchid disaster was his doing … well, you see my point. And, of course, there is his known philanthropy later. This fits squarely into the victim profile. Lord Gainsborough, it would seem, could very well be our “G”.’
‘But the date of his death … would he not have been the first? And then out of order, alphabetically?’ I asked. ‘It happened roughly when the Anson killing did, correct?’
‘Yes. But, except for this, Gainsborough hits all the marks.’
‘And the peripheral deaths? Could they all be by the same hand?’
‘Some, perhaps. Not directly, but possibly inspired by or in some way caused. It would be too coincidental if they were not, Watson.’
‘Then you fear for Lady Eleanor’s safety, Holmes? Even all this time after Lord Gainsborough’s death?’
‘Who knows? But Watson, I will not make the same mistake as with Mrs Danforth. I warrant that suicide is not in this lady’s future, she seems made of stronger stuff. However, if her husband’s death is connected, and if she is targeted by this ongoing killer and his plans, at least I can rest easy knowing that she is safe.’
We continued in silence for several minutes through the increasingly opaque fog which mirrored our thinking. Or at least my thinking.
‘Holmes,’ I ventured at last, ‘you are not allergic to cats, are you?’
He laughed. ‘Not at all,’ said he. ‘Although we may have made a narrow escape from some claws, nonetheless.’
He glanced sideways at me. A smile flickered over his face and was gone.