The Mile End Mynah Bird

by Mark Mower

In the days prior to the Christmas of 1919 there remained a general air of despondency in Britain, with the interminable upheavals caused by the aftermath of the Great War. While there had been widespread jubilation at the end of the conflict, the mood of the population had soured with the slow demobilisation of troops from the western front and the influenza pandemic that had continued to sweep across Europe. In the previous month alone, there had been around a thousand deaths in London, and with the significant shortage of medical personnel to cope with such demands, I had felt it my duty to come out of retirement and assist where I could. By day, I attended a number of patients on a private basis, while three nights a week I acted as an unpaid consultant at the Charing Cross Hospital just off the Strand.

I was on duty one evening when a young man was rushed into the emergency ward of the hospital on an orderly’s trolley. My first thought was that he was yet another victim of seasonal excess; a merrymaker who had fought or fallen under the influence of too much strong liquor. Yet, the police officer who accompanied him explained breathlessly that the patient had been shot, the result, he said, of what looked like an attempted murder. As fortune would have it, the shoulder wound sustained by the man looked worse than it appeared, the bullet having passed across the top of his collar bone. With some minor surgery we had the patient patched up and sedated for the night within a couple of hours, just before I finished my shift at ten o’clock.

Police Constable Dunning had continued to wait for news of the patient, and when his charge had been transferred to a bed in a quiet side ward of the hospital, had pulled up a chair alongside the sleeping man. Dunning was a tall, fair-haired Scot, with broad cheek bones and exceptionally large hands. He explained that his divisional inspector had ordered him to stay with the injured man as a measure of protection. Curious to know why the metropolitan force was taking such precautions, I asked him who the patient was.

“He told us his name was Jonathon Christie. Beyond that, we know nothing of the man. It was the only information he was prepared to share with us, Doctor.”

“Then why the heavy-handed police presence?” I queried.

“The man who shot him was Serang Sayan, a Lascar sailor. He is wanted in connection with a number of assaults which we believe he carried out with his brother, Bhandarry, under the direction of an East End moneylender named Sydney Vulliamy.”

“...And both Vulliamy and Bhandarry Sayan appear to have disappeared, PC Dunning. Neither has been seen for over three weeks, according to my sources...”

Both Dunning and I turned sharply towards the door as the voice came from behind us, my own senses heightened immediately by the familiar timbre. “Holmes!” I cried. “What brings you here?”

“I might ask you the same, Watson, but your attire speaks for itself. Not quite the relaxed retirement you had in mind, I’d warrant.”

Dunning looked from Holmes towards me with evident glee. “Dr. Watson! I’m so sorry, sir, I hadn’t realised from our earlier conversations that you were the ‘Dr. Watson’. Mr. Holmes has been with us for the past month. It has been an honour to work with him and now I’ve finally got to meet you as well.”

I smiled at him and then nodded affectionately towards Holmes. “Not much of a retirement for you either, then?”

“No, just can’t keep out of trouble. But it is good to see you, Watson. It must be a good six months since we last spoke.”

We chatted along for a few minutes, catching up on all that had happened, relaxed in each other’s company and almost oblivious to the presence of PC Dunning, who sat quietly by the hospital bed. At sixty-five, Holmes retained a youthful look, his dark hair swept back and showing only a fringe of grey at the temples, his eyes still bright and alert. He stood tall in a fawn-coloured Norfolk jacket with matching waistcoat and trousers and light-brown brogues.

We moved on to the subject of the shooting. Holmes explained that he had been given a short briefing on the events earlier that evening, but asked Dunning to provide his own account. The officer was pleased to oblige: “About six-thirty, we received a telephone call from a Mr. Metcalf, the landlord of the Bancroft Arms on the Mile End Road. He said that a scuffle had taken place in the tap room of the bar and a man had been shot. The gunman had been prevented from leaving the bar by some of the pub regulars, who had taken the small pistol from him. They held him prisoner until we arrived about half-an-hour later.

“I accompanied Inspector Banns and PC Moxon. When we got there, the inspector and I were delighted to see that the man being pinned to the ground by three hefty drinkers was Serang Sayan.”

Holmes nodded while Dunning paused and gestured towards Christie. “This young fellow lay face down on the floor of the tap room. We thought he was dead at first, but when we turned him over, we could see that he was still breathing. He looked to have been shot in the shoulder at close range by the Derringer pistol and was probably knocked unconscious as he fell to the floor. Sayan clearly thought he’d killed him, for when the inspector asked the publican for some smelling salts and brought Christie around a short while later, the sailor made a wild lunge at him. Before we separated them, Sayan glared at Christie, held a forefinger to his own lips and then ran it across his throat.”

“As if telling Christie to keep quiet or face the consequences?”

“Yes, Doctor, that is what we believe. And it seems it had the desired effect. Christie would only tell us his name and refused to say anything further about the attempt on his life.”

At this, Holmes expressed some surprise. “He has said nothing at all beyond that?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Well, actually, he did say one other thing, although it didn’t seem that significant. He said: ‘Please take care of Delilah’.”

“And you have no idea to whom he may have been referring?”

“No, sir. He has been silent ever since. Inspector Banns and PC Moxon left to take Sayan to a nearby lock-up, and I was instructed to wait for the ambulance and to stay with Christie until told otherwise.”

“I see. Well, the bad news is that Sayan has managed to escape. Inspector Banns left him at the lock-up in the charge of a constable who was evidently duped. Apparently, Sayan fell to the floor of the cell, shaking violently and foaming at the mouth. The constable unlocked the door, believing him to be suffering some sort of fit, and was immediately set upon by our man, who escaped and was last seen heading along Hanbury Street. Banns has alerted all divisions to keep an eye out and, despite all of the yuletide demands on the force, is confident that Sayan will be retaken. In the meantime, he has asked me to look into Christie’s affairs and see if I can make sense of what has gone on and how it might relate to our wider investigations into the affairs of Vulliamy, the moneylender.”

“Is this moneylender dangerous then, Holmes?” I enquired.

“Yes, he set up his money-making venture in the East End about three years ago. Those who fall foul of him and fail to repay their loans and the exorbitant rates of interest he charges have been subjected to threats and assaults, perpetrated by his loyal sidekicks, Serang and Bhandarry Sayan. The Hindu brothers have gained some notoriety for their barbaric methods of extracting money from those in debt to Vulliamy.

“So far, the gang has managed to stay one step ahead of Inspector Banns’ men who were tasked with shutting down the moneylending operation. Scotland Yard fears that Vulliamy is being protected by a high-ranking officer within the force who is receiving bribes in return for intelligence on the unfolding police investigation. The Commissioner, Sir Nevil Macready, asked me a month or so back if I could provide some assistance. As yet, I have seen no evidence of police corruption in the case, but believe that Sidney Vulliamy and Bhandarry Sayan are lying low in the knowledge that we are investigating their affairs.”

PC Dunning then asked, “Do you think it possible that Serang Sayan might come here and try to finish Christie, Mr. Holmes?”

My colleague answered him directly. “No. I think that very unlikely. Clearly, you will need to be on your guard, but I suspect our sailor will be long gone.”

Dunning look relieved. Holmes then probed whether the constable had taken time to search Christie at any point. Dunning shifted uneasily and admitted that he had not. It was then that I remembered Christie’s grey woollen jacket in the operating theatre.

“Actually, Holmes, I had to cut the jacket from Christie before we could patch up his shoulder. I asked one of the orderlies to package it up along with his boots and a necklace and place them in one of the lockers outside the theatre. I could go and retrieve the package, if you think it important?”

Holmes beamed. “Excellent. That would be most helpful.”

When I returned to the side ward, Holmes was sat on a chair on the opposite side of the bed to PC Dunning, looking intently at the patient. Somewhat incongruously, a looped paper chain was strung just above his head - the colourful decoration having been made earlier by some of the children unfortunate enough to be occupying beds in the lead up to Christmas. He was puffing away on a pipe, the strong tobacco smoke mingling with the smell of surgical spirit, and reminding me of happier days in the upstairs room of our Baker Street apartment.

“You know, I should tell you to take that pipe outside the ward, Holmes,” I said with a broad smirk. “The hospital takes a dim view of smokers on surgical wards these days.”

Holmes looked at me absentmindedly and then removed the pipe from his mouth. “Apologies, Doctor. Old habits die hard, as they say.”

I passed him the package. He removed the string, undid the bundle, and placed the brown paper on the floor. One sleeve of the grey jacket lay on top of the garment, the result of my earlier work with the scalpel. Holmes glanced over it, and then dropped it onto the brown paper. Lifting the rest of the jacket he then began his detailed examination; smelling the woollen fibres, checking all of the pockets, removing a couple of items, and scrutinising every point of interest with his familiar magnifying glass. When he had finished, he turned his attention to the necklace which also lay on top of the jacket, and then the footwear: a pair of scuffed black leather ankle boots which had clearly seen better days. It had been some time since I had seen him in action, and I was every bit as fascinated as PC Dunning to watch the consulting detective at work.

After what seemed like an age, Holmes looked up and spoke. “Not much to be gathered, but a few pointers which may be useful. Christie is an apprentice stonemason, left-handed, and twenty-two years of age. He lives in a modest house in Mile End Old Town and is a keen gardener. He also has a nervous disposition, which may be the result of a recent loss, and is a devout Anglican and pacifist.”

Dunning chortled. “Mr. Holmes, you are truly remarkable. How any man could presume to know so much, from so little, is beyond me.”

I recognised the hint of irritation which passed momentarily across my colleague’s face. “Constable, if you had searched Christie you would have been able to discern much of this. He wears a St Christopher’s medallion, a clear sign of his faith. On the back there are two separate pieces of engraving. The first is his name and date of birth, probably done when he was given the medal as a child - the engraving being difficult to pick out given the wear on the silver. A much more recent engraving displays the name ‘Benjamin Christie’ and a date of ‘2nd November 1919’. It suggests the very recent death of a family member - a father, brother or uncle, perhaps - which may account for his nervousness. His nails are ragged and bitten to the quick, and yet this is not a long-standing habit, for he has well-formed cuticles.

“In his pocket is a three-year old document which announces his official status as a ‘conscientious objector’. It tells us that he was successful at his wartime tribunal in seeking to be excused from bearing arms, but was required to undertake some trade or profession in support of the war effort - clear proof of his pacifism and again suggestive of a strong religious conviction. The document also identifies his address on ‘Louisa Street’, about half a mile from the Bancroft Arms. I know the area. It is a road of well-appointed terraced houses which have small gardens to their rear, and is a refuge for many tradesmen and professionals of the middling order.”

“But how do you know Christie is a stonemason - and an apprentice at that?” quizzed Dunning.

“A close examination of the fibres on his jacket reveals evidence of a fine white dust, unmistakably tiny fragments of Portland stone. His left hand bears the scars of his profession: the hard skin on the fingertips, the engrained dust on the palm, and a slight swelling around each of the knuckles. In muscular terms, his right arm is the more fully developed - confirmation that it is used to wield a stonemason’s mallet. At twenty-two, he is unlikely to be a master stonemason, so alongside the other discernible facts, I would suggest that he is still completing his apprenticeship. And if I had to be pushed on the nature of his work as a non-combatant during the war, I would submit that he was most likely engaged in preparing tombstones and memorial plaques for those who died fighting on foreign soil.”

PC Dunning looked on in awe. Holmes concluded his deposition with a few final words: “As for the gardening, the underside of his boots testifies to the frequent use of a spade. There are clear ridges on the left hand sole where the ball of the foot has been used to tread down on the spade. The ridges are absent from the other sole. We know that his house has a garden. I would expect it to be well-tended.”

“Bravo!” said I. “And what do you propose to do now, having learned so much about our mystery man?”

“Why, visit his home, of course. There is no time like the present, my friend.”

“Splendid. I have just finished my shift, so if you have no objection, Holmes, I would be pleased to accompany you.”

PC Dunning looked crestfallen. “I wish I could join you, gentlemen, but duty compels me to stay here until I am relieved by PC Moxon. Good luck with your endeavours.”

It was surprisingly mild that evening as we walked out onto the Strand in search of a taxi. There was a strong and welcome aroma of ground coffee and a hint of roasted chestnuts in the air from one of the many cafés that had sprung up now that the war had ended. Lanterns and glittering decorations adorned some of the shop fronts, and while it was busy on the thoroughfare with flurries of festive revellers, it took us little time to find a taxi rank and a cabbie willing to drive us the three miles into Mile End Old Town.

Sat in the back of the taxi, Holmes announced suddenly that he had not been entirely honest with PC Dunning. “There are some features to this case which are, for the moment, somewhat baffling, Watson. I did not wish to set hares coursing by mentioning it, but it was clear to me that Christie had gone into that pub for a specific reason. He is no drinker. In fact, in an inside pocket of his jacket was a signed ‘pledge’ in support of his abstinence. Close to it was another item I failed to point out to Dunning - a sheathed hunting knife made by J. B. Schofield of Sheffield. Hardly the sort of weapon we might expect a pacifist to be carrying. Until I am in possession of some further data which may shed light on these apparent anomalies, I would prefer to keep the matters from the police.”

“Understood, Holmes - as you wish.”

It was a little after eleven o’clock when we alighted from the taxi at the entrance to Louisa Street. The gas lamps along the street cast a warm glow on the yellow brick terraced houses, which were nicely proportioned with a front entrance door, single downstairs window, and two upper sash windows comprised of six-over-six panelled glass panes. Christie’s property was some way along the street to our right. Unlike many of the homes nearby, it appeared to have no Christmas decorations on view. Just before we reached it, Holmes whispered that we should be discreet in our business. I noted that he had already withdrawn from his pocket a set of keys.

“A stroke of luck, Watson - a standard Davenport rim lock,” he said in a hushed tone. His fingers worked quickly as he sought out the correct skeleton key and inserted it in the lock. With a faint click the lock was undone, and Holmes turned the doorknob. We wasted no time in entering the house and closing the door behind us.

For a few seconds we stood in darkness. I heard Holmes returning the set of keys to his pocket and then saw a slim shaft of light stretching out before us and illuminating the narrow hallway of the house. Holmes held in his hand a small silver canister, from which the light was emanating.

“A new toy?” I whispered.

“Yes, indeed - a Winchester pocket flashlight. A small gift from a grateful American client. It is powered by two small electric batteries. I wouldn’t be without it.”

On the right, a short distance along the hallway was a closed door. Holmes opened it and we stepped into the room to find that it was the front parlour. Illuminated by a gas lamp across the street and the more telling beams from the flashlight, it looked to be sparsely yet luxuriously furnished, the wallpaper a dark red colour with an intricate floral pattern. Either side of a small fireplace and hearth on the opposite wall there were tall mahogany bookshelves filled with volumes of all sizes. Set in the far corner against the window was a small green leather armchair with an accompanying side table. It was the full extent of the furniture.

“Mr. Christie is clearly a man of modest means,” I ventured.

“You forget that he is still completing his apprenticeship. This is a desirable property for someone of his age and profession. I would venture that he inherited the house from his parents and until recently lived here with an older brother.”

I expressed some surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“The décor is too florid and fussy for a working man in his early twenties. On the mantelpiece is a photograph of an older couple and beside it another of two dark-haired men, unquestionably brothers, the younger looking of which is Jonathon Christie.”

“...With the other being the recently deceased ‘Benjamin Christie’?”

“My thoughts exactly,” chimed Holmes.

As we were about to step out of the parlour and back into the hallway, there was a loud shriek from elsewhere within the house. We both froze, the beam from the flashlight playing out into the empty hall and giving us no clue as to the identity of the screamer. A chilling voice then uttered: “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!”

Holmes strode out of the room and passed quickly along the hallway. I followed behind, noting a stairwell to our right, as we entered the main downstairs room of the property. In the uncertain light, we relied on the flashlight to make sense of what now lay before us: a mirror on one wall, a large table in a corner on which sat a piece of white stone, another bookshelf, and a couple of wooden dining chairs. A space no bigger than fifteen feet square with a window directly ahead of us and a further closed door to the right. And yet, nowhere within the space could we see any human form. As my eyes began to scan around the floor for anyone lurking near the wainscot, the same screeching voice echoed around the room, “Two down and one across! Two down and one across!”

The next noise came from Holmes, who broke suddenly into an uncontrolled chuckle and guffaw. It left me with a discomforting sense of bewilderment. What exactly was going on?

My gaze followed the beam of his flashlight into the corner of the room to our right. It was then that I saw the reason for his mirth. Hanging from a chain, on a hook fastened into the ceiling, was a cage some three or four feet in diameter, in which I could see perched a striking, stocky-looking bird of oriental appearance. The blue-black sheen of its feathers was tinged with a purple hue, and I could see distinct bright orange patches along its wings. In contrast, the legs and bill of the specimen were a bright yellow and it was around ten inches in height.

“My God, Holmes! It’s a damned parrot!”

“Hardly - this bird is something far more impressive. You are looking at a Mynah bird, a creature which can imitate the human voice.” He moved closer, angling the beam of the torch away from the cage, so as not to shine the light directly into the bird’s eyes. “A most remarkable specimen, eh? And another mystery solved...”

“Yes. I’m thinking that this must be Christie’s ‘Delilah’?”

The Mynah bird seemed to chirp in confirmation.

“It seems we all concur!” laughed Holmes. “And I’m pleased to see that the ravages of war and early retirement have not dulled your senses, Watson. Now, let’s see what other clues we can find.”

It was good to be back at his side. I had quite forgotten just how much I had missed Holmes and the adventures we had shared for so many years. He seemed to be in fine fettle and, having scanned the rest of the room with the flashlight, walked across to examine the white stone on the large corner table.

“This is very nearly completed - a grave marker, no less. But why would Christie labour on this at home, rather than at work? He seems to have fashioned it here on this very table, with just a few basic tools.” His hands worked their way around the stone cross, touching its contours, feeling the fine dust which covered each surface. “I may not be a master stonemason, but this looks like a pretty basic piece of work, with little finesse. I would say that Christie produced this at some speed and with little enthusiasm.”

“Perhaps he picks up the odd private commission, outside of his day to day work, to earn a bit of extra money?” I suggested.

“Hmm... Possibly.”

“Two down and one across! Two down and one across!” Delilah’s piercing squawk filled the room once more.

“Is it conceivable that our rare avian has a penchant for those strange word puzzles that you used to delight in, Holmes?” The comment was made in jest, but my colleague responded positively.

“That is not so far-fetched. You may remember that the first ‘word cross’ puzzle appeared in the New York World five or six years ago - the invention of a Mr. Arthur Wynne, a journalist originally from Liverpool, I believe. Since that time a number of American newspapers have included weekly or daily ‘crossword puzzles’ within their pages. I confess that I still find them diverting in the absence of any other mental stimulation. It is possible that Christie enjoyed the same leisurely pursuit, although it’s hard to imagine him shouting out the elements of a puzzle he may have been struggling with.”

“Yes, I imagine the bird will only remember and repeat short phrases which are said over and over again.”

“I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!” shrieked the Mynah.

“Indeed,” mused Holmes, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised the bird afresh, “how true.”

Our continued investigation of the downstairs living room threw up no further clues. Beyond the room was a small kitchen, again sparsely furnished, with a small side door from it leading to the rear garden of the property. The set of skeleton keys again proved useful.

In the narrow beam of the flashlight, we stepped quietly outside the back door and into a short passage which ran along the length of the kitchen. To our left was the wall of the neighbouring property. Beyond the passageway, paved slabs, laid end to end, ran down the length of the garden to the left, ending in a wide gate set within a wall at the bottom. To the right of this I could just make out a small wooden shed. The remainder of the land was given over to soil, most of which had been overtaken by weeds. The garden was flanked on both sides by tall brick walls, shielding us from view.

Holmes edged forward in small steps, doing his best to examine all areas of the garden in the uncertain light. I tucked myself in behind him so as not to impede his progress.

Two-thirds of the way down the garden he paused and turned to me, whispering, “This patch of earth has been dug recently. But the rest is something of a mess. Christie may be less of a gardener than I imagined.” I nodded in agreement, noting a spade, still upright, in the soil beside a long open trench.

When we had reached the end of the garden, Holmes spent some time looking in through the window of the wooden shed. He held the flashlight above his head and played its beam down at an angle into every part of the interior, standing on tip toes at one point to ensure that he had seen everything he could from his vantage point. With a quick look over the smokehouse lock on the outside of the door, he had apparently seen everything he needed to.

Before returning to the house, Holmes spent some minutes examining the paving slabs and soil close to the green-painted garden gate. With some excitement, he pointed down at a number of distinct muddy tracks on the first half dozen paving slabs. I nodded again in confirmation as he brought the torchlight up to see my reaction. I had seen the tracks, but had no idea why Holmes felt them to be so significant.

It was only when we were back in the kitchen and he had successfully relocked the rear door that we began to speak. I followed him through to the living room, where he lit a candle on the table and switched off the flashlight.

“Well, what do you make of it all? Casts a new light on the case, don’t you think?”

I had to confess to being none the wiser. “I’m sorry, Holmes. I did see the tracks you pointed to near the gate and the recently dug earth. I also saw the contents of the shed - a few tools hanging on the rear wall and the painted boards and advertising signs stacked up on the floor nearby. But I have no clear idea what it tells us.”

“What did you see on the signs?” asked Holmes.

“Some painted pictures of fruit and vegetables, and some prices for various produce.”

“Precisely - you saw everything I did, and yet you seem not to have grasped its significance. Christie is clearly a stonemason as we suspected. However, it seems reasonable to conclude that his recently deceased brother was a greengrocer, who plied his trade from a hand cart. The signs and track marks tell us as much.”

I felt a tad slighted. “Well, I saw no hand cart. How do you explain that?”

“That is a lead which we have yet to follow. But you cannot doubt that a hand cart was involved. You saw the tracks yourself. A larger vehicle would not have fitted through the gate.”

“Granted. But what significance does this have for the case and the attack on Christie?”

“Two down and one across!” It was Delilah, reminding us of her presence in the corner of room.

Holmes smirked. “That clever bird has just given you the answer, my friend.”

“No, I don’t see it at all.”

“Cast your mind back. Sidney Vulliamy and Bhandarry Sayan appear to have disappeared. Serang Sayan had attempted to kill Christie. It is possible that the two acts are linked. Let us suppose that Christie wished to kill the moneylender.”

“Hence the Mynah’s repeated call: ‘I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!’”

“Exactly,” replied Holmes. “Christie is a man of faith, a teetotaller and a pacifist. A resort to violence would not ordinarily be part of his modus operandi, and yet we find him carrying a hunting knife and involved in an altercation with a violent offender in a public house a few days before one of the most significant events in the Christian calendar. Serang Sayan does not usually resort to firearms. The attacks he has carried out for Sidney Vulliamy have been vicious, but he has always stopped short of murder. Why is he also acting out of character?”

“You suspect this has something to do with Christie’s older brother?”

“Yes - that is the key to this. It cannot have been easy trying to eke out a living as a greengrocer, with all of the deprivations that we continue to experience here in London, despite the end of the war. It is not fanciful to imagine that the man may have found himself in debt, paying over the odds for a limited supply of fresh produce, while his customers struggle to find the cash to pay for the fruit and vegetables he has on display. In desperation, he is reluctant to fall back on the limited earnings of his beloved younger brother, so turns instead to Vulliamy, the local moneylender. From there it is a slippery slope into debt and the unwanted attentions of the Sayan brothers.”

At last I could see where he was heading. “So you believe that they murdered the greengrocer and Christie has been seeking to exact his revenge?”

“That is possible, although it is more likely that their heavy handed tactics led to his suicide. Either way, I do believe that they were responsible for his death and Christie has indeed been out for revenge - with some success, I have to say.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Come on, Watson! You must know where this is leading. I was right to suggest that Christie has been doing lots of digging recently, but a look at the back yard tells us he is clearly no gardener. If I am not mistaken, that freshly-dug section of earth towards the end of the garden is now the resting place of Sidney Vulliamy and Bhandarry Sayan. He murdered them and transported their bodies here using the greengrocer’s cart. It was the perfect way to move them without attracting attention.”

My surprise was palpable. “Really - how can you be so sure?”

He turned towards the bird cage. “It was Delilah here that confirmed the matter. She is well named. Was it not Delilah, a woman in the valley of Sorek, who betrayed Samson in the Book of Judges? This Mynah bird has done the same for young Christie. Not only has she told us of the man’s deep-seated hatred of Vulliamy and his intentions to ‘kill him!’, but she has provided us with testimony on Christie’s thoughts after the murders. The bird can be forgiven for misquoting the stonemason. ‘Two down and one across!’ was no reference to a crossword clue. What Christie actually said was, ‘Two down and for one a cross! Meaning that he had only managed to despatch two of the three men he sought and felt obliged to provide a Christian burial for Vulliamy.”

“The crudely carved stone cross which sits on the table here!” I added. “Perhaps he believed that as a Hindu, Bhandarry Sayan would not require the same treatment.”

“That is my supposition.”

“And the confrontation in the Bancroft Arms - was that Christie’s attempt to assassinate the last of the trio?”

“No, unlikely, I would say. It seems more plausible that Serang was pursuing Christie, in the full knowledge that the stonemason had murdered Bhandarry and Vulliamy. He was carrying a loaded gun, after all. Christie would not ordinarily have gone into a public house. I believe he entered the establishment in fear of his life, having been chased by Serang. That working hypothesis also helps to explain why Christie has, so far, been tight-lipped about the whole affair.”

“He is fearful of being exposed as a double murderer!”

“Yes - the Lascar’s finger across the throat gesture seems to confirm that. He was telling Christie to hold his tongue. Serang will stop at nothing to avenge the death of his brother, but he will not risk involving the police. He has too much to lose. We must be wary, Watson. This man is extremely dangerous. It is not the first time we have faced such an adversary. You might remember the Lascar sailor we encountered in the case you so lovingly embellished as ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’?”

Had it not been for the wry smile that accompanied his words, I might have taken the remark as a criticism, but knew that not to be the case. I ignored the taunt and turned instead to our plan of action. “Where do we go from here?”

“I have a suite at the Grosvenor Hotel in Victoria. There is more than enough space for the two of us. I suggest we take advantage of a decent meal and a good night’s sleep and then set out first thing tomorrow to track down our elusive sailor.”

I was taken aback. “Really - is there not a case for acting while the iron is hot, so to speak?”

“Serang Sayan is going nowhere, my friend. He has half the metropolitan force out looking for him, an East Bengal sailor far from home. I know exactly where he will be hiding, and it will not hurt to keep our powder dry for a dawn assault.”

With that, he extinguished the candle and resorted once more to the flashlight. As he reached the door of the living room, he turned to me and nodded towards the corner of the room. “Don’t forget Delilah, Watson! We can’t leave the poor creature here, especially as she has been so helpful in our enquiries!”

It was close to five-thirty the next morning when I was woken rather sharply by Holmes in the luxurious surroundings of the Grosvenor Hotel. Our arrival the previous night had sparked a considerable flurry of activity. Holmes had left the Mynah in the care of a bemused night porter with full instructions to ensure that the bird was fed and watered and properly accommodated. The concierge had arranged for a bed to be made up for me within Holmes’s suite, and some ten minutes later, a salver of turkey sandwiches, a side plate of mince pies, and a bottle of Burgundy had arrived in the room. It has been sometime since I had enjoyed such extravagance.

“Good morning, my dear fellow! I trust that you slept well? A maid has just returned your shirt, washed and ironed, and these trousers have been pressed to within an inch of their lives! I took the liberty of ordering room service - a small cooked breakfast to help us on our way.”

My response was heartfelt. “Holmes, it is a pleasure to be back in your company. While it seems slightly bizarre to be investigating grim murder at such a festive time, I cannot tell you how much I have missed our adventures together.”

I could see that my comments had touched him, but he turned away, avoiding my gaze, busying himself with the tray of breakfast items and the large tea pot at its centre. Our conversation thereafter was focused on the case.

Evidently, Holmes had been busy during the few hours that I slumbered. He told me that he had managed to reach Inspector Banns by telephone a short while earlier and had arranged for a team of detectives to meet us later that morning at a point of rendezvous. He had also pinpointed the location where he believed Serang Sayan would be hiding.

I expressed my disbelief at this rapid rate of progress. “How on earth did you manage to find the hideout without leaving the hotel?”

“Eyes and ears! You remember the old days when we made good use of the Baker Street Irregulars, that proud group of itinerant ragamuffins that I valued so highly. Well, while the Irregulars are long gone, their erstwhile leader, the indomitable Charlie Wiggins, has always stayed in touch, and prior to the War ran a successful business as a private investigator. Having been called up for war service, he has now returned to London, keen to resume the profession. This is the first opportunity I have had to involve him in a case and he has clearly lost none of his talents. I called him by telephone last night and set him to work. Only half-an-hour ago he rang back to say that his discreet enquiries had enabled him to locate the hideout close to the Mile End Road.”

“But how did he know which area to concentrate upon? You cannot tell me he has the ability to search the whole of London in one night?”

“No - but it was clear that the search would be more limited. Our hypothesis was that Christie’s brother had worked as a greengrocer using a hand cart, and that Christie had used the cart to transport the dead bodies back to Louisa Street. The tracks on the garden path indicated that more than one journey had been made. I therefore concluded that he moved the bodies one at a time.”

“I see. So you were working on the basis that with the weight of the bodies, Christie had travelled a relatively short distance?”

“You have it in one. I told Wiggins to focus his attention on the streets close to Christie’s home. He found what he was looking for on White Horse Lane.”

“And what was he looking for?”

“The missing cart. Having taken the second of the bodies back to Louisa Street, I believe that Christie returned to the murder scene a final time. The more I thought about it last night, the more convinced I was that he would only have done that for one reason.”

“Which was?”

“To collect a third body to fill that one remaining trench in the garden. I believe that he thought he had killed all three men and was returning for Serang Sayan. However, when he got there, he found that the Lascar was still alive and waiting for him. Christie flees, leaving the cart, and is pursued by Serang. He tries to escape into the Bancroft Arms and is shot by the sailor and left for dead.”

“It sounds remarkable, but fits the facts as we know them. And if Wiggins has found the cart at the hideout, it lends further credence to your theory.”

“Indeed. And with our breakfast finished, we can now put our theory to the test.”

It was just past seven-fifteen that morning when our taxi dropped us off at a quiet location along White Horse Lane. Waiting there was Inspector Banns and six uniformed constables, all armed, we were told, with standard issue Webley revolvers. Holmes quickly briefed the men on what we had found out and Banns confirmed that he knew exactly where to find the hideout. Some minutes later the police had the three-storey brown brick building surrounded. Holmes and I stood at a safe distance across the street watching the drama unfold.

At a given signal, two of the officers were sent to the rear of the house to affect an entrance. Less than a minute later we saw a man stagger from the front door of the dwelling. He had not reached the gate of the front garden when he was brought down in a rugby-style tackle by one of the larger constables. The officer retained his grip and kept the sailor pinned to the floor until the others came to his assistance.

Inspector Banns seemed delighted with the arrest, having said earlier that he feared Serang might be in possession of another firearm. But as the officers searched the prisoner, he was found to be carrying only a short knife, some three or four inches in length. The man was no taller than five feet in height, but looked extremely strong and muscular. His bright penetrating eyes fixed on Holmes as we approached the officers, a look nothing short of pure hatred. Holmes smiled back at him, impervious, it seemed, to any threat the man posed. The prisoner then seemed to shake violently and vomited at the feet of one of the constables.

Banns stepped aside from the others and shook us both by the hand. “Thank you, gentleman, I forgot to mention it earlier, but it seems you were right about the garden in Louisa Street. I sent two men there immediately after your telephone call this morning, Mr. Holmes. Two bodies were uncovered, and a pathologist is now at the scene. He tells me that there are no obvious signs of violence on either man. So it seems we have some further questions to ask of Jonathon Christie.”

“I wonder, in that case, Inspector, if you would permit the two of us to have a short interview with the man, before your formal interrogation. It may help to prepare the ground for you if he knows that the police are already aware of the crime he has committed.”

Banns narrowed his eyes slightly while looking at Holmes and then cast a quick glance in my direction. “I’m sure that would not be a problem, sir. You have been invaluable on this investigation and I trust your integrity. Christie is now out of hospital and currently detained in Bow Street Police Station. I will make the arrangements as soon as I return to the station. Would two o’clock this afternoon be soon enough?”

“That would be perfect,” replied Holmes. “I am very grateful to you.”

I left Holmes shortly afterwards to return home and attend to one of my private patients. He appeared to be on the mend and imbued with more than a little festive spirit, insisting that I accept a plump turkey from him as some recompense for the many days I had spent nursing him back to health. The consultation lasted about an hour, and after preparing a light luncheon and catching up on some correspondence, I made my way to Bow Street. Holmes was pacing up and down in the lobby of the building when I arrived.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, concerned by the look on his face.

“Yes - just a few odds and ends I cannot fathom. Christie seems curiously ill-named. One wonders how he could have countenanced multiple-murder at this time of year given his apparent faith. I have had a subsequent telephone conversation with Inspector Banns. He tells me that Serang Sayan has been admitted to the Royal Free Hospital suffering from severe stomach pains. As yet, they are unsure whether this is another ruse on his part, but Banns is taking no chances and has two armed officers sat beside his hospital bed. I believe he is genuinely ill and may well have been on the earlier occasion when he escaped custody.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Firstly, that I find it hard to imagine he could have faked the foaming at the mouth stunt. And secondly, I have been considering how Christie - a small man not given to violence - managed to overpower three vicious men armed only with a hunting knife. He must have been convinced that he had killed all three to have the confidence to move their bodies one by one in the grocer’s cart. And yet, the bodies of Vulliamy and Bhandarry showed no signs of violence. The only plausible explanation is that a powerful gas or poison may have been involved - one that was administered by Christie himself.”

A few minutes later we were seated in a large ground floor interview room facing Jonathon Christie. He was still heavily bandaged around his upper body, but the colour had returned to his face. The stonemason was the first to talk. “I understand that one of you is Dr. Watson, the surgeon who operated on me last night?”

“Yes,” I replied, “that’s me.”

“I just wanted to say how grateful I am for your assistance, Doctor. I genuinely believed that I was going to die, as the pain in my shoulder was excruciating.”

“In the scheme of things, a routine piece of minor surgery. I have seen much, much worse in recent times, Mr. Christie.”

My veiled allusion to some of the wartime casualties I had dealt with was clearly not lost on Christie. “Yes, I cannot begin to imagine how anyone coped with the carnage of the Great War. It left many scars.”

“Like those on your brother Benjamin?” Holmes’s question bypassed any pretence of courtesy and hit Christie hard, just as my colleague had intended.

Christie took a second or two to readjust before responding. “I have, of course, heard of you, Mr. Holmes, and read many of the good Doctor’s tales of your adventures. Meeting you under these circumstances does not seem quite so inspiring. I imagine you already know every facet of this case and have come here to present your deductions in a theatrical denouement designed to pamper your ego and send me to the gallows.”

Holmes appeared to take no offence from the remark and responded with admirable composure. “On the contrary, Mr. Christie, Watson and I have made good progress in piecing together various leads and observable facts, but we are still unclear on a number of significant details. We know that you are a man of faith who has struggled with his conscience since the death of your brother. We believe you set out to murder the three men you blamed for his death - Vulliamy, the moneylender, and his two accomplices, Serang and Bhandarry Sayan. My supposition is that you gassed or poisoned all three men and then sought to bury their bodies in your back garden. Had it not been for Serang Sayan, who clearly survived the poisoning, you may well have succeeded. In the event, when you returned to White Horse Lane for the third time, you found him alive and out for revenge. He chased you along the Mile End Road and into the Bancroft Arms, where he then shot you. Until the police arrived, he was convinced you were dead, and having realised that you were not, gestured for you to say nothing about the events that had led to the attack.”

“That is accurate in every respect. Although I am still bewildered as to why he should have wished for both of us to remain silent.”

Holmes nodded. “Serang operates according to an ancient criminal code. He would rather go to his death than inform on another law breaker. He also believes in a tenet that you may now share, namely, ‘an eye for an eye’. He will stop at nothing to avenge the death of his brother.”

“Then we are not so different after all. As brothers, Benjamin and I were raised in a devoutly Christian family. He held firm to his faith, as did I, but found it increasingly difficult to adhere to the strict pacifist ideals of my parents. When war was declared, he announced that he was enlisting to fight overseas and within weeks left us for his regiment. My father died soon afterwards, and my mother a year later. I was left to run Benjamin’s greengrocer’s stall until I faced the call-up.

“I thought long and hard about my decision, but applied for conscientious objector status and then appeared before a tribunal. I was granted an exemption from bearing arms but told that I would have to take up a trade or profession in support of the war effort. With the grocery business struggling to pay its way, I enrolled as an apprentice stonemason. It was tough living alone and making ends meet, but I survived until Benjamin returned home in 1917. He was suffering from shellshock and spent six months recovering.

“Having little else to support us, I continued with my apprenticeship and Benjamin did what he could to resurrect the greengrocery business. Within a couple of weeks, it was clear that it was never going to provide us with a reliable income, and Benjamin began to drink heavily, spending whatever meagre earnings he had made. I did not feel I could voice any objection, as I felt like a fraudster, having stayed at home, refusing to enlist.

“Sidney Vulliamy had been at school with my brother, although it would be stretching it to say that they had ever been friends. But in need of a few pounds and developing an expensive taste for alcohol, Benjamin turned to the moneylender. Vulliamy was only too happy to assist, spending time drinking with Benjamin and showering him with gifts - one of which was ‘Delilah’, the Mynah bird, who had originally belonged to Bhandarry Sayan.

“It took some time for Benjamin to realise he had been deceived and that all of the money he had been lent would need to be paid back in short-order, along with a considerable sum of interest. Unwilling to saddle me with his debts, and terrified about what the Sayan brothers would do given his obvious inability to pay, Benjamin took his life. For once, I was not prepared to sit back and turn the other cheek.

“I knew enough about Vulliamy’s operation to realise that he operated out of the White Horse Lane address. I also recognised that I would stand no chance of fighting all three men if it came to violence. So I hatched a different plan. I found it was surprisingly easy and cheap to buy tartar emetic over the counter. I purchased small amounts from chemists all over the capital, so as not to attract attention. The yellow crystals seemed to dissolve easily in alcohol, which I hoped would also mask any taste it had. Knowing the three to be keen drinkers, I mixed a large quantity of the antimony with decent Scotch and then arranged to meet them in White Horse Lane.

“Vulliamy welcomed me into the house, saying how upset he had been to learn of Benjamin’s suicide. It was all I could do not to attack him with the hunting knife I had hidden in my pocket. But I was not to be outwitted. I maintained that my brother’s death had come as something of a shock, particularly as we had significant debts, and said I had heard that Vulliamy had occasionally lent money to people in the neighbourhood and asked directly whether he would consider extending me some credit.

“The man seemed to relax instantly and invited me to sit at a table in the centre of the room. He must have believed to that point that I had arranged the meeting to challenge him about the way he had treated Benjamin. With more than a hint of irony, I indicated that I would be forever indebted to him and had brought the Scotch as a goodwill gesture.

“Just imagine that, gentlemen! I’m in the lion’s den and yet I have become the hunter - my greedy prey happy to distribute the whisky glasses and drink a toast or two to our financial transaction. So greedy were they that they didn’t even realise I wasn’t drinking with them. I watched as all three downed the first glass and Vulliamy poured a second. It was only on the third glass that the bottle stayed on the table. Serang was the first to fall, landing heavily on the floor and clutching his stomach. He began to be sick immediately. Vulliamy never rose from his chair. His face turned ashen and within five minutes it was clear that he was dead. Bhandarry attempted to get up and make it to the kitchen. After only a few steps he slumped against the table, sending the whisky bottle and the glasses scattering across the floor.

“I sat and watched for twenty minutes, the only sound coming from Serang, who continued to lie on the floor. I guessed it would only be a short time before he too slipped away. I left the house and walked back to Louisa Street. I had the cart ready at the back gate and wheeled it the short distance to White Horse Lane. Using the rear door to Vulliamy’s house, I first dragged his body to the cart, covered it with a tarpaulin and transported him to my home. His body went into the first of the three trenches I had already prepared, and I quickly covered the corpse with soil. I then did the same for Bhandarry Sayan.

“On returning to the house for a third time, I knew instantly that something was amiss. As I entered the back door, Serang fell upon me, but in his weakened state I managed to fend him off, pushing him against a dresser. As he came at me again, I realised he had a gun in his hand and retreated back through the door, expecting to be shot any moment. I ran from the house, turning briefly to see Serang tripping over the abandoned cart. He seemed to be gaining in strength, and as I ran out onto the Mile End Road, I could see that he was still following. In desperation I entered the Bancroft Arms. The rest you seem to know already...”

Christie slumped back in his chair. He looked visibly relieved as if recounting the tale had somehow lightened his burden. I made an observation in the sudden silence that had engulfed the room. “It is not unusual for antimony poisoning to affect people in different ways. Some, like Vulliamy, will decline very rapidly in the face of such toxicity. Serang was probably saved because he began to vomit straight away. This would have expelled the contents of his stomach immediately, the poison acting very much like its own antidote. Of course, it remains to be seen whether he will survive the ordeal. From what I hear, he is still very ill.”

Christie shrugged. “What is done is done. I still cannot find it within me to feel any remorse. So, what will happen to me now, Mr. Holmes?”

I could see there was no point in pretending that anything positive could ever come from the predicament that Christie now faced. Holmes clearly felt the same. “There is no easy way to say this, Mr. Christie, but there seems little doubt that you will be tried and found guilty of murder. If you are willing to cooperate fully with the authorities and freely admit your guilt, there is some chance that your sentence might be commuted from one of execution to life imprisonment. That decision rests with you.”

Christie did not seem perturbed by Holmes’s words and had but one final request. “I know I am in no position to request anything further from either of you, but must ask. Would it be possibly for a decent home to be found for Delilah? I have a curious affection for that bird. She has been my only companion for some weeks now, and the only living creature I felt I could talk to throughout all of my troubles.”

Holmes smiled at Christie and then turned to me with a sly wink. “Dr. Watson and I understand completely. Rest assured I will be pleased to look after the bird myself. Her conversation has already proved to be most enlightening.”

It was on Christmas Eve that I next saw Holmes. I had arranged to meet him for lunch at the Grosvenor Hotel and arrived a few minutes early. To my surprise, he was already waiting in the reception area, and as soon as I had entered the hotel, he grasped me by the elbow and led me back out again to a waiting taxi.

“No time to waste, Watson. I’m afraid our luncheon will have to wait.”

He bundled me into the back of the black cab and gave the driver our destination before continuing. “You might remember that at the start of the Christie case, I mentioned that I had been asked to investigate whether there might be a high-ranking officer within Scotland Yard who was taking bribes to protect Vulliamy. I feel confident that I will be able to reveal who that officer is in the next hour - a revelation likely to send shock-waves throughout the organisation.”

I could not resist taunting him: “So this time we are looking for a mole, rather than a bird.”

Holmes laughed out loud. “I’ve missed have your acerbic wit and welcome repartee, Dr. Watson. Lest I forget, as I am often prone to do at this time of year, a very Merry Christmas to you!” And with that, he slipped back into a short period of intense introspection, as only the great detective could. For the first time in over five years, it felt like a very joyous occasion indeed.