Watson on the Orient Express

by Anna Elliott

  “No, I’m sorry—”

  Before I could finish, the front door crashed open with enough force to rattle the front windows, and Holmes burst in like a tornado in tall, gaunt human form.

  “Maps! I need a large-scale map of Clapham, ordinance surveys, and the results of the most recent government census.” His eyes had the abstracted look that meant that eighty percent of his attention was focused on whatever theory he was currently developing, and that Becky and I could either help or stand out of his way.

  “Clapham?”

  “The Lavender Hill police station where Watson was arrested is near Clapham Common.” Holmes, already halfway up the stairs, tossed the words back at me over his shoulder. “The police officers there appear to be lacking in basic intelligence to an almost super-human degree. But they were able to tell me that Watson was discovered unconscious, in the company of his two supposed murder victims …”

  Holmes seized hold of his stack of London maps, scattering several across the floor in the process, jerked open the one dealing with Clapham, scanned it, and then stabbed with his finger at a small curved road labelled Meteor Street. “Here. One assumes that his kidnappers had the rudimentary good sense not to leave him directly outside their front door.”

  Holmes swept an arm across the breakfast table, clearing off in a single avalanche the morning papers, several books, and a teacup which I narrowly rescued from smashing on the floor. He spread out the map on the newly cleared surface and bent to study it, still speaking.

  “However, transporting both an unconscious man and a dead body through the streets of London is an undertaking fraught with potential complications. One would imagine that they would not have taken him far—say, no more than a mile or two at most—from the house in which he was being held. There is a chance—and I admit that it is only a chance—”

  He stopped as Becky appeared beside him with a thick manila file in her hands.

  “What’s this?”

  “All of Mycroft’s reports about people associated with the Sons of Helios. Their names and addresses and everything.” Becky handed Holmes the file. “That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? Check through and see whether anyone associated with the Helios people owns any properties in or near Clapham?”

  Holmes stared at her a moment, then the grimness that etched his features relaxed in a brief smile. “As you say. After a morning spent communing with the imbeciles in charge of the Clapham Police, it is a relief to meet with an intelligent mind at last.”

  “You need to hear what else Becky has to tell you,” I said. “Watson was able to telephone here earlier, while we were gone.”

  Holmes listened with focused attention while Becky relayed her account of Watson’s telephone call again.

  “That confirms beyond doubt that the account I received at the Lavender Hill police station was falsified,” he said when she had finished. “They would have me believe that Watson attacked a police constable in order to make his escape. They also said Watson was bearing papers that identified him as Lord Harwell.”

  “Who has vanished.”

  “Perhaps the kidnappers intended to kill Watson and have the body discovered and identified as Lord Harwell’s.”

  “But now that he has escaped, they must change their plan.”

  “It also sounds as though at least some of the constabulary at Lavender Hill may be in the pay of Lord Sonnebourne and the rest of his organisation, which isn’t good news for the cause of seeing justice done. But it does make it more likely that they have some sort of headquarters in that area—otherwise why bribe the local constabulary?”

  “Why indeed?” Holmes opened the file Becky had handed him and began to rifle through, tossing each paper to the floor as he finished with it. Mrs. Hudson was going to have an aneurism when she saw what Holmes had done to the room—or she would have, if she weren’t too worried over Watson to care.

  Holmes’s brows were still knitted, even as he scanned rapidly through the list of names.

  “There’s nothing else that you can recall?” he asked Becky. “You heard Watson say that it was vitally important that he convey what he had learned about the ‘Or—’ and then he must have been forced to drop the phone. You heard nothing, however faint, that might indicate how he meant to finish that message?”

  Becky shook her head. “No. I’m sorry! I wish I had!”

  “It can’t be helped. You did well to remember the rest of the conversation exactly.” I could almost see the blend of tension and frustration that ran through Holmes like an electric current under the skin. But he spoke with what was for him uncharacteristic gentleness. “We must simply hope that we find—ah!” He broke off, seizing hold of one of the file sheets hard enough to crinkle the paper’s edges.

  “You’ve found something?” I asked.

  “Adam North.” Holmes read from the paper, a rising note of grim triumph in his tone. “Known associate of Lord Sonnebourne and the Sons of Helios, according to Mycroft. In possession of a number of properties in and around London, one of them being a house on Gowrie Road, in Clapham.”

  10. LUCY

  “So Lord Harwell’s body has been found near to his estate,” Holmes said. “When?”

  “This morning, when Watson was being held in the Lavender Hill station,” I said.

  “Thankfully, that rules out the possibility that the body is Watson’s.”

  We were in a hansom cab, rattling our way through the five-mile journey that would take us across Vauxhall Bridge and finally to Clapham. I had used the journey so far to bring Holmes up to date on the latest developments in the Harwell case.

  “But the body was found in a farmer’s irrigation ditch. And no signs of violence indicate that he died by sinister means. So it may not be Lord Harwell’s. From what we learned he didn’t strike me as the type to go wandering about the countryside alone.”

  We bounced over a rut in the cobblestones that made the carriage springs squeak and our seat sway.

  “Especially with his tendency to gout,” Holmes agreed. “Lord Harwell would have been far more likely to ride anywhere he wished to go in his own carriage. And with Sonnebourne and his organisation involved, the body may be a substitute. One moment.” He broke off speaking and rapped on the ceiling trapdoor to attract the driver’s attention. “Halt, please.”

  Our cabbie was a crabbed, elderly individual who seemed to regard all of London and its foibles with a rheumy and jaded eye. He had, his overall appearance said, seen every manner of oddity that the great city could offer, and now nothing would shock him.

  However, when the carriage drew to a halt and Holmes and I exited, we found the driver staring in astonishment at the two small figures who had been riding along by clinging to the bar beneath the driver’s seat.

  Holmes regarded Becky and Flynn with no surprise whatsoever. “When stealing a ride on a hansom cab, one must take into consideration whether the individual whom you are attempting to follow is observant enough to notice the effect that your added weight at the back is having on the cab’s manoeuvring. One of you might have gotten away with it. The two of you combined are enough to make your presence quite obvious, particularly when the cab drives over a bump.”

  His tone was mild, but Flynn got very busy studying his own shoes. Becky was the first to speak. “We’re sorry. We only wanted to help find Doctor Watson!”

  Holmes gave a questioning glance at me. I hadn’t been aware of the carriage’s altered manoeuvring from their weight. But I ought to have noticed that Becky had been far too willing to be left behind in Baker Street. I hadn’t realised that Flynn had returned, but he must have arrived just as Holmes and I were leaving.

  I weighed our options. “With Watson on the run, it’s not very likely that they’ll have left anyone at the house in Clapham, in case he gets in touch with us or Scotland Yard and is able to lead us back to it. At most, they’ll have a single guard on watch outside the place, on the chance that Watson finds his wa
y back alone and can be taken captive again.”

  “True,” Holmes agreed. “Ours is primarily a reconnaissance gathering, in hopes that they may have left some clue that will point us towards their plans—and thus towards Watson’s current location. One would have expected him to make his way back to Baker Street by now. Unless he has some far more urgent mission at hand.” Holmes’s brows furrowed, but he turned to Flynn and Becky. “Very well, the pair of you may stay. Both because returning you to Baker Street would take time and because I am loath to refuse any extra pairs of observant eyes in our search of the Clapham premises. Mind you!” He held up a finger as Becky started to speak. “You will both promise me here and now that you will exercise the greatest of care. No risks. No going off alone. These are ruthless and dangerous people with whom we are dealing, and underestimating them would be a grave if not mortal error.”

  Becky and Flynn looked somewhat awe-struck that they weren’t being either punished or sent straight home. But their heads bobbed in simultaneous agreement.

  “Right you are, Mr. ’Olmes.”

  “We promise,” Becky echoed.

  Holmes gave them both hard looks, but finally nodded. “In that case, I believe you will be more comfortable if you pass the remainder of the journey in the carriage seats with Lucy and me.”

  Adam North’s house on Gowrie Road proved to be the end unit of a rather dreary row of square brick town-houses, with nothing at first glance to distinguish it from the neighbouring houses on either side. Having paid off the cabbie, Holmes stood regarding it for a moment.

  Tattered and dirty curtains covered the windows, but there were no lights showing through the gaps or any other hint of occupancy from within.

  “I don’t see a sign of anyone watching,” I murmured. I had been scanning the street. There were several women with shopping baskets over their arms, a chimney sweep, and a rat catcher with his terrier dog on a leash, all passing along the road. But no idle loungers who just happened to be parked on the pavement opposite, no one who appeared to be going about their own business, but was in fact keeping a watch on the property.

  Holmes nodded and started up the short brick walkway that led up to the front door.

  It had rained two days ago but been fine ever since, and now there were crumbles and patches of dried mud on the bricks. Holmes peered at them.

  “Several individuals have passed this way as recently as yesterday evening. Men, wearing common labourer’s boots. There are two distinct sizes. And a third man, who wore a gentleman’s dress shoes and gaiters and walked with a slight limp.” He bent to study the impressions in the mud more closely. “I believe I can also detect the prints of a woman—”

  “If you’re looking for them’s as were lodging at number twelve, they’ve all gone.” The voice, loud, female, and strident, came from a woman who had just emerged from the house next door—ostensibly to shake out her front rug, but more likely to find out what we were doing. Stout, with thin lips and keen dark eyes, she took in our appearance with a curiosity that fairly bristled from the ends of her stringy black hair.

  “I see.” Holmes, as quick as anyone I had ever known to take a potential witness’s measure, drew out a half-crown from his pocket and held it meditatively in one hand. “That is a pity. I had heard that a friend of mine was visiting here, and had hoped to find him. But they are gone, you say?”

  “Cleared out just after midnight, all of them. Saw ’em load a pile of trunks and boxes into a carriage and drive off.” The woman’s eyes were fixed on the half-crown, but she gave a snort of derision. “And if they’re friends of yours, Guv, I can tell you I don’t think much of ’em! Up and making noise at all hours of the day and night, they were. I ’ad to pound on the wall twice last night and tell ’em to pipe down so’s I could get to sleep!”

  “Most inconsiderate. You ought surely to be recompensed for the annoyance they caused.” Holmes added a second half-crown to the first. “I wonder if you can describe any of the people you saw living here?”

  The woman looked blank. “If I can wha’?”

  “What he’s wondering is whether his friend’s wife might have come to stay here as well,” I said. “I have a picture of her here.”

  Holmes gave me a quick glance of surprise as I drew out the photograph of Mrs. Torrence that I’d taken from his files before we left Baker Street. We had been chasing her long enough that I wasn’t willing to let any opportunity to track her pass by.

  “Oh, ’er.” The woman nodded, eyeing the picture. “Came a day or two ago, she did. Didn’t stay long, though.”

  “A day or two ago? That would be the sixth or seventh?” Holmes asked. I could see his quickening interest, though he kept his tone casual.

  “Dunno about that.” The woman shrugged.

  “I see. And when everyone left? Did you notice how many people there were?”

  “Three men. One of them must have been taken poorly, I think. The other two’d got ’im all wrapped up in a cloak and blankets and were carrying ’im between them. I thought maybe as ’ow they were taking ’im to a doctor. They packed ’im into the carriage, then loaded the trunks on afterwards. And mortal ’eavy one of ’em must ’ave been, because it took the two of them—big strong fellows both of ’em—to lift it.”

  Watson. I had no doubt that the supposedly ill man had been Uncle John.

  “Did you see which way they went?”

  “Dunno.” The woman shrugged again.

  Beyond learning that Watson and Mrs. Torrence had definitely been here, we were no nearer to finding them than before. And we had clearly reached the limit of what useful facts the neighbour woman could tell us.

  “Well, we thank you kindly for taking the trouble to speak with us,” Holmes said. “We’ll just go and see whether my friend left any message for us as to where he might have gone.”

  I couldn’t tell whether our informant continued to believe in the fiction of Holmes’s friend or not, but she snatched the coins from his hand and waddled back in through her own front door.

  Becky and Flynn were already at the house, peering in through the front windows.

  “No one about,” Flynn reported. “Everything’s quiet as a grave.”

  “The front door is locked, though. Should we pick it?” Becky asked.

  “Not too obviously. We don’t wish to arouse undue suspicions among the neighbours. Or be forced to explain our presence here to the local police, whom we know already are not to be trusted.” A furrow marked the space between Holmes’s brows, and he glanced quickly up and down the street. Nothing had changed; it was the same ordinary scene of London street life as before, without anything to arouse suspicion. But Holmes’s frown remained.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  He shook his head as though to dislodge an errant thought. “Nothing definite. But I think we would be wise not to go in through the front door. The place feels too quiet, somehow.”

  Holmes might scoff at tales of second sight and supernatural premonition. But he also had not survived as long as he had in a dangerous profession by ignoring the subconscious awareness of danger that manifested as nothing more definite than a prickle at the back of the neck.

  Either Holmes’s uneasiness was catching, or else I felt it, too. There was nothing here that I could put my finger on as clearly wrong, but the cold inching its way across my skin refused to be dispelled.

  Flynn had gone off to scout about the place, and now reappeared from around the side of the house, popping his head out from the narrow alley that separated this block of town homes from the next. “There’s a window half open at the back,” he said. “Kitchen, it looks like. I could maybe get in that way, open the door for the rest of you.”

  “Yes, very well, we’ll have a look,” Holmes said.

  As Flynn had said, the window at the back opened into the kitchen, although the interior of the house was so dim and the window grimy enough that it was difficult to make out much besides the hulki
ng outline of a big iron stove and a rickety-looking table. Afternoon shadows were beginning to fall, turning the dreary greys of the small paved yard where we stood greyer still.

  Flynn tugged on the window sash, which looked half-rotten and was covered in peeling paint. “Give us a ’and ’n I’ll be in in two shakes.” He out of all of us didn’t seem to have been affected by whatever had disturbed Holmes.

  Holmes lent his own efforts to prying up the window, which resisted, stuck, then finally slid up with a screech that sounded loud enough to bring all the neighbours running. But nothing happened. The yard remained empty, save for ourselves, the house deserted and silent.

  “All right, ’ere goes nothing.” Flynn hoisted himself up onto the window ledge and swung a leg over the sill.

  “Be careful!” Becky had been quiet but now spoke up, her voice sounding edged with worry.

  “Nothing to it, see?” Unconcerned, Flynn ducked under the window’s frame, swung his other leg over, and dropped down inside with a thump—and then a sharply metallic click.

  “Don’t move!” Holmes’s voice rang out instantly, crisp and authoritative. “If you wish to remain alive, do not move one single muscle, Flynn, do you understand me?”

  “What is it?” Flynn had frozen just inside the room in response to Holmes’s order.

  Holmes edged nearer to the window, close enough that he could peer inside. “Unless I am mistaken, there is a pressure plate secreted beneath the floorboards, linked to an explosive device that was activated when Flynn stepped upon it and that will detonate when his weight is removed.”

  I stared at him. “What?” We had dealt with bombs and explosives before, but I had never heard of such a thing.

  “If I am correct, the device is similar to the land mines employed by the British Army during the Siege of Khartoum in 1884.” Holmes spoke half absently, the majority of his attention clearly focused on a furious examination of our options.

  Flynn gulped. “What if I just jump out of the way?”

  “Unfortunately, no matter how fast you move, the blast of the explosive would be great enough to reach you.”