The Body in the Bookseller's: A Sherlock and Lucy Short Story (The Sherlock and Lucy Mystery Series Book 21)

by Anna Elliott

  “Then perhaps you will be so good as to have a look at this photograph and tell me whether he was one of your assailants from the other day,” Holmes said.

  He picked up an envelope from the table and extracted a sheet of photography paper that appeared to have been developed in a hurry; its edges were still damp and slightly curling.

  “This man is a recent murder victim. I had Scotland Yard send over the autopsy photographs the moment that they were done.”

  Holmes handed the sheet over to Mr. Hobbes, who took it gingerly between two fingers, wincing a little as he studied the photograph of the dead man’s head and torso.

  I had attended countless autopsies and conducted many myself, but I still could not help but sympathise. The sight of a human life reduced to a flat, black-and-white image of a corpse on a mortuary slab was one that never failed—and indeed should never fail—to jar.

  Hobbes studied the image, a furrow between his brows, then finally shook his head. “I’m afraid that I cannot say for certain, Mr. Holmes. The attack happened so rapidly, you understand. I scarcely caught a glimpse of the two men’s faces before the chloroform was pressed over my nose and mouth. I believe I may say that the man pictured here does bear a certain resemblance to the second of my attackers, but beyond that …” He shook his head again, handing the photograph back to Holmes. “May I ask where he was killed?”

  “He was murdered in the basement of an antiquarian bookshop called Lovejoy & Sons. Are you acquainted with the place?”

  “Not at all. But I am afraid that I am not much of a reader.” Hobbes gave me a nod and a small smile. “Meaning no disrespect to those who pursue literary endeavours.”

  “No matter.” Seemingly untroubled by the lack of information Hobbes had so far been able to give us, Holmes reached for a second stack of papers. “Would you be so kind as to have a look at these, and tell me whether you recognise any of these men?”

  The photographs that he gave Mr. Hobbes were, I saw, of Günter Richt, Eric Brown, and Phineas Lovejoy.

  Hobbes studied each one attentively, setting them down on the table when he had finished. Finally, he looked up from the photograph of Phineas.

  “No, I am quite certain that I have never seen any of these men before.”

  “None of them could have been one of your attackers?”

  “No, I am certain that they could not.” Hobbes cleared his throat, his round face creased in an anxious frown. “If it is not improper for me to ask, has there been any progress made on the recovery of the packet? Not that I know anything of its contents, but I feel a personal responsibility for its theft, you understand. Do you believe that this dead man and the theft are somehow linked?”

  “It is a possibility, no more. The dead man had no identifying papers on him. No money was found in his possession, either, and certainly no stolen packet.”

  “Why, may I ask, did you show me his autopsy picture?”

  “We are aware of a man who traffics in stolen documents of the kind contained in the packet stolen from you. The name of the man is Meyer, and we learned that he is a collector of antiquarian books and patronises Lovejoy & Son.”

  “Ah. The site of the murder.”

  “Whether the victim was a courier sent by Meyer to collect the packet … or one of the original thieves there to accept pay for its deliverance …” Holmes made an open-handed gesture that invited speculation.

  “Difficult to say, when you do not know the identity of the fellow.”

  Holmes shrugged in return, but said nothing.

  Hobbes got to his feet. “Well, if it is not too much to ask, Mr. Holmes, might I request that you keep me apprised of any further developments?” he asked. “I regret extremely that I have not been more assistance.”

  “On the contrary, you have helped a great deal.” Holmes handed Mr. Hobbes his hat, coat, and walking stick. “Watson will see you out.”

  I escorted Hobbes downstairs, where the cab he had ridden to Baker Street was still waiting at the curb. “Please take care, Mr. Hobbes. One man has already died. If you wish, we could offer you a bed for the night?”

  Hobbes gave me a wan smile. “I fancy that I am safe enough, Dr. Watson. Our enemies know that I do not have the packet, since they stole it from me. And although I thank you for the kind offer of a bed, my wife will worry if I do not return home tonight.”

  “Good night, then.”

  I bade him goodbye and watched as the cab drove off into the night. Then I mounted the stairs back to the sitting room.

  Holmes had seated himself in his accustomed place by the fire and steepled his fingers. “I take it you have seen Mr. Hobbes safely off in a cab?”

  “I offered him a bed for the night, but he refused. He said that his wife would worry if he didn’t return home.”

  “Not likely,” Lucy said.

  I glanced at her in some surprise.

  “Look at the state of his clothes—everything rumpled and dirty? I didn’t know he was married, but since you tell me he is, any wife who really cared about him would have seen to it that he had fresh clean clothes to put on, especially after his having been attacked. She would have wanted to feel she was doing something to help.”

  She cast a quick, betraying glance at Jack as she spoke. I had not fully considered it before, but this case, coming so soon after Jack’s ordeal as a hostage, must have been difficult for them both.

  Lucy gave a slight shake of her head, her expression firming. “However, Mr. Hobbes’s marital woes are neither here nor there. The important fact is that we are no nearer to finding the anthrax than we were before. Or to finding Clarissa.”

  As though the cosmos had decided to answer her, the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted her final words.

  Holmes immediately rose from his chair and answered it, all his previous languor gone. “Yes?”

  A pause, while he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line, and then he said, “Yes. I see. You will of course keep me apprised of all future developments.”

  He replaced the receiver and turned to face us.

  “Lestrade’s officers have been to the address on Betterton Street, and found it entirely deserted. The back windows are flimsy affairs, with locks easily forced, allowing them to get inside and conduct a thorough search. They found nothing. Not only is there no sign of either Günter or Miss Lovejoy; the place is entirely empty. No furniture whatsoever, not so much as a scrap of paper or a matchstick.”

  “So we’ve no idea where Richt or whatever his real name is might have taken the girl,” Jack said.

  Holmes didn’t sit down again, but remained standing, pacing the length of the room. “It is unfortunately not an exaggeration to say that she might be practically anywhere in London.”

  Lucy glanced at Jack again. “There is one option we could try.”

  She seemed to ask him an unspoken question, and after a moment, Jack nodded.

  “We already have the Betterton Street address,” Lucy began.

  Holmes, as he had done earlier, seemed to anticipate her suggestion even before she could lay it out. “You believe that sooner or later, Meyer will wish to shake off his surveillance and make a visit there?”

  “He’ll need to, won’t he? He knows that he’s being watched, but as soon as he reads tomorrow’s morning papers, he’ll hear about the unidentified murdered man in the Lovejoy’s basement and Phineas Lovejoy’s arrest, as well as Clarissa’s kidnapping. But if Parker was one of his agents—either as an assassin or as a courier—Meyer will need to find out whether the man succeeded in his mission or sent him any messages about where the anthrax is now. I imagine that the first place he’ll look for a message is the address on Betterton Street.”

  “And if he does go there and finds no messages of the kind?” Holmes asked.

  “What if he does, though?”

  Holmes brows lifted in understanding. “Ah. You are thinking of putting a cat among the pigeons.”

  Lucy’s han
ds were tightly folded in her lap. “It’s a way to ensure that we’re not stuck simply waiting any longer. Lestrade and his men have searched for the anthrax and found nothing. We can’t afford to arrest Adolph Meyer or even bring him in for questioning. For one thing, we haven’t a shred of proof that he’s broken any laws, and he’s an experienced enough operative to refuse to give us any information, no matter what tricks of interrogation we use. And in the meantime, the anthrax is still out there, and depending on who Meyer’s contact is, it could be sold to another power who might as easily unleash it on the world as Germany. Our best chance is for Meyer himself to lead us to either the anthrax or to whoever has it at the moment. Suppose, for example, that an unsavoury character is there waiting for Meyer at Betterton Street, carrying a message for him?”

  Holmes pursed his lips in consideration and then, in one of his quick explosions of movement, sprang up from his chair and went to the telephone.

  A few moments and several demands made of the telephone operator later, Holmes had Mycroft on the other end of the line.

  “Mycroft?” Holmes held the receiver to his ear. “Yes, I require that you tell all government and police agents currently keeping Mr. Meyer under surveillance to stand down … Yes, I am quite aware that everyone from Inspector Lestrade to the Prime Minister himself will not like it. I am not in the business of consulting their feelings; I am telling you what must be done. Mr. Meyer must not be aware that his surveillance has been relaxed; that would arouse his suspicions. The men keeping watch must be given instructions to allow Meyer to lose them when he next leaves his house. I believe that will not be until morning, but it would be as well to be certain by ensuring that those orders go into effect immediately … Yes, I can personally guarantee that Meyer will not elude our grasp. One has no need to follow a man if one knows where he is going … Very well. I will await your call.”

  CHAPTER 14: LUCY

  Holmes rang off. I had only heard his side of the conversation, but I could easily fill in the blanks and imagine what Mycroft’s part had been—and awareness of just how much was at stake if my suppositions were wrong was a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach. Clarissa’s life. The unleashing of a disease that would claim millions of other innocent lives.

  Holmes’s expression as he faced Jack and me, though, was calm. “Mycroft is going to ring back, once he has spoken to his contacts within the Prime Minister’s cabinet. And in the meantime—”

  For a moment Holmes’s eyes unfocused, his thoughts apparently following some complicated inner track. Then his gaze cleared. “In the meantime, I believe that I have an errand best carried out by Flynn. I shall return once I have communicated with him.”

  He flung a houndstooth cape around his shoulders and was gone; a moment later, I heard the front door open and close downstairs.

  “Have you any idea what errand he intends to assign to Flynn?” Watson asked.

  I shook my head. Perhaps it was because I was too distracted by my own worries, but in this particular case I seemed even less able to guess at the direction of Holmes’s thoughts than usual.

  “Maybe to keep a watch on Günter’s address, in case he or someone he knows turns up there?” I said.

  Although that didn’t seem as though it would be worth seeking out Flynn or any of the other Irregulars in the middle of the night; Günter’s removal of all of his belongings made it almost certain that he had no intention of ever returning to his rented address.

  Watson covered his mouth to hide a yawn. “Well, I believe that those of us who, unlike Holmes, are not immune to the human body’s need for sleep had better get what rest we can for the remainder of the night.”

  Smothering another yawn, he went out.

  “Becky is already asleep downstairs,” I told Jack. “Or at least pretending to be. Maybe you ought to sleep, too? Watson is right, unless there are any new developments, there’s nothing further that we can do tonight.”

  I thought Jack looked tired, but after a moment’s hesitation, he shook his head. “I’d better write a up a report for the Yard. A lot’s happened tonight. You go and get some rest, though.”

  The report writing wasn’t so urgent that it couldn’t wait. But if Jack couldn’t or didn’t want to sleep, I wouldn’t argue. However much I might hate being helpless to banish whatever memories were troubling him.

  I bit my tongue before I could ask him again whether he was all right, and instead put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t sit up until dawn.”

  “I won’t.” He covered my hand briefly with his and squeezed. “Don’t worry.”

  The downstairs flat that comprised 221A was smaller than 221B, but contained a comfortably furnished sitting room with an adjoining bedroom. Becky would have taken the bed, but there was a chintz-covered sofa in the sitting room.

  I sat, drawing my feet up and pulling over me the afghan that Mrs. Hudson had knitted and kept folded on the back of the sofa cushions.

  I didn’t lie down, though. I waited, listening, and then after a few moments said softly,

  “You can come out if you like. I know you’re awake.”

  The rapidity with which Becky’s blond head popped through the bedroom door confirmed my suspicions.

  She sighed as she came to curl up next to me on the sofa. “What gave me away?”

  “Nothing. I just know you.”

  Becky tucked her feet under the blanket. “Where is Mr. Holmes sending Flynn?”

  “I don’t know. Holmes wouldn’t ask him to do anything too dangerous, though. He cares about Flynn.”

  “I know. Jack hasn’t gone out, too, has he?” Becky asked.

  The note of anxiety in her voice made me wince inwardly. Jack and I weren’t the only ones haunted by memories of the kidnapping.

  “No, he’s just upstairs, writing a police report. You can ask to read it in the morning and correct his spelling in case he’s gotten any words wrong.”

  Becky gave me a small smile.

  “So you were listening on the stairs all the time we were talking?” I asked.

  “Most of the time,” Becky admitted. “I didn’t hear everything. Just something about … anthrax? What is that?”

  “Something that could make a lot of innocent people very sick and even die.”

  “Then it’s very important that you find out who took it and get it back, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Becky’s eyes were sober in her small face. “And I heard you say something about a man called Günter? And that you think he killed someone and then abducted someone named Clarissa? Because he might be working with Mr. Meyer, the one who wants the anthrax?”

  Becky had heard a good deal, but I couldn’t chide her for it. I would always rather to hear all the facts of a case—no matter how unpleasant and frightening—too. A known fear could be faced and defeated; an uncertain one crept and followed you around like the London fog, ugly and intangible and impossible to escape or dispel.

  “We think so, yes.”

  “But if he and the man in the bookseller’s shop were both working for Mr. Meyer, why did this man Günter kill him?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible that Günter might have decided to keep the anthrax and offer it to a bidder other than Meyer for a higher price.”

  Becky frowned, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “But then why would he kidnap Clarissa?”

  “I know. That part still doesn’t make any sense. Unless Clarissa is somehow a part of it.”

  “Do you think she might be?”

  “I wouldn’t have said so. But if her father is—or was—the one who received the stolen anthrax and was planning to sell it to Meyer, his being in prison would have made the sale impossible. Meyer might have ordered Günter to take Clarissa either for leverage or because he hopes that she knows where her father might have hidden the anthrax packet. Even if she wasn’t aware of what exactly he was hiding.”

  “But Inspector Lestrade and everyone else haven’t found
it in the shop.”

  “Not yet, no.”

  Becky sighed and then tried not to yawn.

  “You should be asleep now,” I told her.

  It was a mark of how tired she actually was that she didn’t argue. “Can I stay out here with you until I fall asleep, instead of going back to bed?”

  “Of course.” If I couldn’t help Jack, at least I could make someone feel better tonight.

  With another sigh, Becky leaned against me. She was silent for a moment, then asked, “What is Clarissa like?”

  “She’s a sweet girl. You’d like her, I think. She has blond hair like yours. And a cat called Dr. Johnson.”

  Becky’s eyelashes were starting to droop. I waited to see if she would drop off, but she roused herself again to say, “Finding the anthrax and stopping whoever wants to use it is going to be dangerous, isn’t it.”

  She didn’t make it into a question, and I didn’t answer it as one. Instead I asked, “Would you rather that Jack and I didn’t have such dangerous professions?”

  “Sometimes.” Becky turned her head to look up at me. “But then there’d be no one to stop people like Mr. Meyer—or help people like Clarissa, would there?”

  CHAPTER 15: LUCY

  Beneath his moustache, the line of Watson’s mouth was grim. “It will be a miracle if this plan succeeds, Holmes.”

  Holmes was focused on the house across the street from us: number 39 Betterton.

  It was early morning, and a few depressed-looking rays of sunshine had dared to penetrate the autumnal mist. The house we were watching was a small clapboard affair that crouched disconsolately between two larger brick buildings. It seemed to be as entirely deserted as Lestrade’s policemen had found it yesterday, with the windows that weren’t boarded over remaining tightly shuttered.

  But right now, at his own home in Great George’s Street, Meyer was being lulled into the false belief that he had given his surveillance the slip so that he could make his way here.