Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 2

  “I know dashed little,” Lestrade said. “How was the man killed—if indeed he was even dead in the first place?”

  “Of course he was dead,” Holmes replied. “You have my word on it.”

  “All right, then—he was dead. So how did he disappear from under our noses the way he did? I’d bet my pension there was only one man who came into the darkened room—he was a big chap, I’ll give you that, but not big enough to have off with a body too quickly for us to catch him in the act.”

  Holmes sat back in his chair and sucked at his cheroot for long seconds before answering.

  “I have been asking myself that same question, Inspector,” he said. “And as yet I do not have an answer for you. But I will.”

  Lestrade polished off the brandy in one gulp and stood.

  “Well, until you do, Mr. Holmes, I ain’t about to do anything official in this matter. We’ve got a man—a body—missing: that’s all we know at the moment. There’s an assault on a police officer to consider, of course, but we have no suspects to talk to, and no leads to follow, if I understand you right?”

  “Only a most tenuous thread at the moment, Inspector.”

  “Well, then,” Lestrade replied. “Let me know when you find someone I can repay for this bump, and I’ll come running. Until then …”

  He left us sitting by the fireplace.

  Holmes sat quietly for so long I thought he was pondering the problem. I contented myself with having another snifter and lighting up a fresh pipe. He surprised me by speaking, just after I had gotten the bowl lit to my satisfaction.

  “What would your question have been, Watson?” he said.

  “Please do not tell me you’ve been fretting on that? What’s the matter, Holmes—are you afraid I might have stumped you?”

  Holmes smiled. “You know me better than anyone else in London,” he said. “If anyone were to get the better of me, I would expect it to be you.”

  “Well, then, I shall leave you guessing,” I replied. “And it will warm the cockles of my heart on cold winter nights to know that I have at least bested you once.”

  Chapter Three

  EF

  I retired to bed around midnight, leaving Holmes sitting by the fireplace. He was still there when I rose in the morning.

  Holmes has a remarkable ability to focus his mental effort and bend it for long periods where he almost seems to be in a trance, or even asleep. I have seen him sit upright in that same armchair for ten hours at a stretch with nary a flicker of an eyelid to show that he was still conscious. He often emerged from these sessions physically tired, as after a long energetic walk, and this time was no different.

  His eyes opened, and he stared straight at me for several seconds before I saw recognition there.

  “Be so kind as to ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare a light breakfast, Watson,” he said. “We need to be out and about this morning—and soon, too, if we are to make some headway on this case.”

  That was all he said before rising and tending to his ablutions. I did as I was bid and went downstairs where Mrs. Hudson was bustling around her kitchen. I passed on Holmes’ request for a light breakfast. She waved me away.

  “He’ll have bacon and eggs, and like it—I have nothing else at hand. It’s this weather, you see? None of the shops has anything fresh at all. I remember when …”

  I beat a hasty retreat—when a Scottish woman of a certain age uses those three words it is best to plead a prior engagement, otherwise you might still be listening to her story by Christmas. When I returned upstairs to the apartment, Holmes was back in the armchair again, puffing contentedly on a fresh pipe.

  “Well, Watson,” he said, “it seems we have a genuine mystery on our hands. I have examined all the details from several angles and have not yet come to any firm understanding. I will say this, though—I believe Mr. Green saw something he was not meant to see—and for that, he was killed by persons as yet unknown to us. Today, we shall attempt to shed some light into the darker corners.”

  Mrs. Hudson arrived to put out breakfast—she was as good as her word, laying a table of eggs, bacon, toast and enough of her fine marmalade to disguise any staleness in the bread itself. Holmes took to it with gusto despite his earlier request for a light meal, and after two cups of strong, sweet tea, professed himself ready for action.

  I barely had time to collect my service pistol from my room before Holmes shepherded me out into Baker Street.

  3

  If anything, it was already even warmer than the previous day; an oppressive, stifling humidity that sapped the strength from a man and enhanced the stench of a city that seemed to be rotting under the heat. If I had thought the shade inside a cab might help, I was immediately proved wrong. Our thankfully short journey to the Lyceum in the Strand brought back to mind some of my less-memorable days in India during the monsoon, and I was soaked with perspiration as we alighted outside the theater. Holmes looked as annoyingly cool and dapper as ever, having barely broken a sweat.

  “Come on, Watson. I believe we left here too hastily last night. I must see Green’s room before too many others have trampled through it.”

  Fortunately the theater interior proved to be an oasis of darkness and cooler air, and I quickly forgot the discomfort of the journey as anticipation grew. Holmes had the air of a man on the hunt and as ever I was only too happy to follow.

  The theater seemed to be empty save for a single cleaning lady up on the stage brushing away last night’s sawdust. She paid us no attention as we made our way quickly backstage and into Green’s dressing room.

  To my eye it looked exactly as we had left it. There had been no attempt to repair the broken door; a chair lay on its side where it had fallen during the scuffle in the dark; and the jars and bottles of stage make-up sat undisturbed on the dressing table. Holmes ignored all of these and made straight for a china teacup on the table.

  “This was still warm when I arrived yesterday evening,” he said. “Had I had more time I might have paid more attention to that fact.”

  He sniffed at the contents of the cup. “A South China blend,” he said. “And rather unpleasant. But there’s something else there, an odor I cannot identify. I do believe Mr. Green might have been poisoned.”

  He took a small glass phial from his pocket and carefully poured the cup’s contents into it, sealing it with a rubber stopper. He held it up to the light. It looked golden, almost glowing. He studied it for a few more seconds, and then put the phial away in his waistcoat pocket.

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Holmes,” I said. “There’s more to this case than meets the eye—I can feel it in my water.”

  Holmes laughed. “Much as I admire your instincts, Watson, you will forgive me if I trust to my methods.”

  With no further ado, he got down on his hands and knees and began a painstaking search of the floor and rug, starting in the area where Green’s body had been and working outward in tight circles. I knew better than to disturb him in this activity, and to try to help would only earn me an admonishment for meddling, so I went back out into the corridor, lit up a cheroot, and prepared myself for a wait.

  My recollection of the struggle in the dark room was only of vague shapes and shadows; that, and a bruise on my knuckles, was all I had to show for the encounter. But as I stood there in the theater corridor and looked left and right, I realized one thing. Whoever had taken Green’s body had to have been both strong and quick to make it along the length of the passage and not be seen by Holmes when he left the room in pursuit no more than five seconds later.

  3

  I was almost finished with my second cheroot before Holmes pronounced himself satisfied with his search.

  “Lestrade has been to that bar in Whitechapel again; Mr. Green is—or was—fond of long walks in muddy conditions somewhere outside the city; and there is a strange tang where our intruder put his feet—faint but unmistakable, and as yet I cannot place it. It may be no more than that he stepped in a
spillage of vinegar, or it may be something more pertinent. I need more facts, Watson. And to obtain them, I am afraid we shall now have to go to Hackney.”

  Chapter Four

  EF

  The trip to Hackney proved every bit as uncomfortable as I had expected, despite the fact that Holmes paid extra for haste, which at least afforded us a breeze, albeit a warm one.

  Holmes had given the carriage driver the card containing Green’s address. At first I was not sure he would agree to take us; it was a long trip for a central London driver—and there was something else bothering the man, something that only became apparent after he had read the actual address.

  “Them’s not safe parts to be around, sirs,” he said. “Not for gentlemen like yourselves. You hear stories in my line of work—foreigners, or so I’ve heard. That area is full of black-hearted sailing men that’ll slit your throat for a groat.”

  I showed the man my service pistol. “We can take care of ourselves—and you, for that matter.”

  “As long as we’re out of there afore dark,” was the last thing the driver said as we set off. “Ain’t no way I’m waiting around for you after the sun’s down.”

  Holmes assured him that we intended to be back in town for an early supper, and that mollified the man somewhat. But it seemed that Holmes’ request for haste was unnecessary—the man drove as if the hounds of hell themselves were at his heels. This was not a great problem while we were on the maintained streets in town, but once past Euston the carriage rocked and swayed as we hit ruts and holes. By the time we disembarked I was feeling more than a little shaken and slightly queasy.

  “The street you want is over there a-ways, sirs,” the driver said, pointing past a row of cottages that had seen better days. “You can’t miss it—if you reach the old church, you’ve gone too far. I’ll just wait here for you. Shall we say an hour? And if you’re not back, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  Holmes assured the man that we would indeed return in plenty of time, and offered him a handsome bonus if he would be as good as his word and stay. I was not so sure it would be enough, for I had seen the look in the man’s eyes. It wasn’t just a driver’s normal reluctance to go beyond his usual territory—this was more akin to stark terror.

  I remarked on the fact to Holmes as we walked past the cottages and into the road where Green lived.

  “I saw that too, Watson,” he replied. He looked around. “Maybe he has seen this street before.”

  It was only then that I paid attention to our surroundings.

  3

  I have had the misfortune to visit many poor communities both in my years in the Army and in tending to the sick in the sprawling chaos that is London, but I have rarely seen a more squalid, degenerate sight than that which met us in Hackney.

  The street—a loose term in this case—was obviously one of the oldest still extant in the modern city, being mainly black-and-white-timbered exteriors beneath dingy thatched roofs. The road was packed earth and rough gravel, with no pavement to speak of. Rubbish and sewage lay strewn in the dirt; barefoot children danced in it as if it were paved in gold. Only one in every four of the buildings looked inhabited, and of the others, some had fallen in on themselves, yet more had obviously been burned to the ground, and one had a tall birch tree growing up through the thatch, although even that was twisted and stunted. There was only a small huddle of adults in view, and none showed any sign of desiring conversation—indeed, they pointedly turned their backs on us as we walked up the narrow thoroughfare.

  The heat was even more oppressive here, so much so that the haze caused the view ahead of us to waver and flow like a fever dream. Our destination would be, according to what few house numbers we could find, at the far end, an area dominated by a squat stone church of a great age that faced the length of the street. The closer we came to that building, the fewer people we saw out and about—no children played, and there was no sign of the stray dogs that seemed to plague the lower reaches of the road. A sweltering dampness wrapped us like a wet blanket as the heat became almost unbearable. I was very glad when Holmes turned off the road and rapped, hard, on the door of number 23—the Green residence.

  An elderly lady—or so I thought—answered the door. I took her for Green’s mother, as she was as bent and wizened as the trees outside; she barely came up to the height of my chest and moved like someone beset with back pains over a long spell of years.

  I got a better look at her as we were welcomed inside the house, and I had to revise my first opinion—she was little older than I, but had been stricken by either weariness or illness and had aged before her time. Her eyes seemed bright and clear enough as she studied our faces.

  “Have you seen my John?” she asked. “Only he didn’t come home last night, see—and my John always comes home.”

  She led us into a parlor that belied the poverty and squalor outside, being well appointed with fine, if aged, pieces of furniture, all kept spotlessly free of dust.

  “You’re that Sherlock Holmes fella, ain’t you?” she said. “John told me all about you—putting ideas into his head. It wouldn’t surprise me if this isn’t all your fault.”

  It certainly surprised Holmes. “What do you mean, madam?”

  “Oh, madam, is it?” She jabbed out a finger, poking Holmes sharply in the chest. “I’ll give you ‘madam’ if my John has come to any harm.”

  Holmes, unable to deal with a lady in that state of mind, left her to me. I managed to persuade her to sit down, and mollified her somewhat by offering her a smoke. She took to it with the gusto of a seasoned practitioner.

  “John was happy till he met you,” she said to Sherlock. “Doing his shows and bringing home good money. Then you went and told him about how you connect things, one to another. It ruined him, that did. He spent hours making up stories trying to make things join up with other things. Tried to explain it all to me once, but it fair made my head hurt so I told him to stop, After that he took to taking walks out past the church. He said it cleared his head, said it helped him with his palace—that’s what he called it, after seeing you. Filled his head with more nonsense; that’s all it did. Then he came back from a walk early yesterday morning, all excited-like. Said he’d found something that even Sherlock Holmes won’t have spotted. And that were I last I saw of him.”

  It had all come out of her in a rush, and the act seemed to drain the life from her, She slumped back in her chair, tears running down her cheeks. “He didn’t come home last night, see—and my John always comes home.”

  I leaned forward, intending to tell her—as gently as I could manage—that her husband would never be coming home, but Holmes put a hand on my arm.

  “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is even now looking for your husband,” Holmes said. It wasn’t quite a lie, but it was hardly the truth, and I was not happy in its telling, but I had to admit it seemed to mollify the lady somewhat.

  “You’ll tell him to come home, won’t you?” she said, her voice soft and low. Fresh tears were not far from the surface.

  “Can you tell us,” Holmes asked, “what you think he found on his walk? What set him off?”

  Unfortunately, that was exactly the wrong question.

  “Set him off? That were you—you and your hoity-toity ideas. My John were fine afore he met you.” She started to rise out of the chair, but then had to sit back down, the exertion too much for her. “Now get out of my house. You’re not wanted here.”

  We beat a cautious retreat, but she had a parting shout for us as we reached the door.

  “Don’t come back unless you’ve found my John—I’ve an axe out the back I keep for firewood, but it works just as well on heads.”

  3

  Holmes made straight for the churchyard on leaving the house.

  “I told you, Watson,” he said. “Green saw something he shouldn’t have—and it got him killed. Let us see if we can arrive at the bottom of it.”

  We were to be disap
pointed. The church was exactly what it seemed—a sad ruin that had once been full of worship and joy now tumbled into rubble and dust. What few patches of stained glass remained told of a wealthy history, but the interior was little more than a muddle of broken pews arranged in front of a stone altar whose great antiquity was obvious, even in the little light that penetrated inside. The extensive cemetery to the rear looked out over the expanse of what had been Hackney Marshes and was now one of the largest areas of open grassland in London. A muddy river meandered at a snail’s pace nearby, and the only things moving apart from us were swarms of black flies. The whole place had an air of sullen morbidity that did not sit well with me at all.

  Holmes strode around the building, studying it at length.

  “I see nothing that might have piqued Green’s interest,” he finally admitted, before setting off through the graveyard.

  Like the church itself, the stones were of considerable age, many going back to the seventeenth century and others looking even older, although they were so eroded by time and weather as to make the inscriptions illegible. Matted grass, briar and hawthorn ran rampant everywhere, making access to some parts of the cemetery hard going indeed, but Holmes pushed on, even to the extent of having his trouser legs ripped and torn by thorns.

  After twenty minutes of this, he finally admitted defeat and we returned at a slow walk to the front of the church. We were ten yards from the building when Holmes stopped and sniffed.

  “Do you smell it, Watson?”

  “You know me, old man—unless it’s burnt or burning I do not smell much of anything—too much boxing and not enough keeping my guard up, I’m afraid.”