Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  Once upon a time, I might have been tempted to answer that I miraculously went whole days without caring about Lady Lynley’s opinion on my personal life.

  But now I didn’t even care enough to bother with the reply—although I did take note of her mannerisms so that I could mimic her to Jack when I went home tonight. He would think her statement about aristocrats being willing to tolerate American accents very entertaining. Becky would, too.

  Lady Lynley’s shoulders twitched, and she said in a slightly brisker tone, “Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. You will make inquiries?”

  She still hadn’t reacted to the suggestion that Alice might have come to some harm. And yet she was troubled. By now I was certain of it. I could see it in the tightness of the skin around her eyes, the tension in her fingers as she gripped the handle of her teacup.

  Lady Lynley was frightened about something—just not her missing maid.

  Of course, that didn’t mean that I was obligated to investigate on her behalf. Before today, we had never even met, and I didn’t have any concrete reason to think that Alice was in danger.

  But Mrs. Charlotte Teal—whom Lady Lynley had also dragged into the conversation at every available opportunity—apparently was a friend of hers.

  That still didn’t mean that I owed Lady Lynley any favors … and yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it actually did.

  I sighed. I occasionally wished in the course of investigations that I could be more like my father. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t feel morally obliged to take the case of a vain, silly, snobbish woman just because he had been instrumental in getting the son of the woman’s friend arrested for murder.

  Or maybe he would. If I had learned one thing about my father, it was that he was more human than he cared to admit.

  “I’ll make inquiries,” I said out loud. “And report back to you if I find anything at all about whether Alice has turned up in London.”

  4. A MURDER VICTIM

  Thursday, January 6, 1898

  WATSON

  Holmes and I were attending an evening concert when we had the news from Lestrade that a police inspector had been murdered. While dying, the man had asked for Sherlock Holmes. His body was at St. Thomas Hospital. Would we come?

  I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach as we arrived. I feared that the dead man was Miss Janine’s missing fiancé.

  My fears were confirmed when we entered the hospital mortuary and saw Lestrade standing beside a body on the marble slab at the center of the room.

  “This is Inspector John Swafford. Or was,” said Lestrade. “He died asking for you.”

  “I blame myself,” said Holmes. His eyes gleamed with a bitter intensity, and his voice was dry and tight.

  “Why would you say that?” Lestrade asked.

  Holmes was already bending over the body. “After Newman’s trial this past Tuesday, a woman calling herself Miss Janine approached me outside the Old Bailey. She named Inspector John Swafford as her fiancé, said he had gone missing, and that he was investigating Thomas Newman.” He told Lestrade what had happened since, and continued, “Now it is painfully clear to me that I ought to have done a great deal more.”

  I was at Holmes’s side. I heard the resignation in his tone as he continued: “This man’s appearance perfectly matches the description given by Miss Janine.”

  Indeed, the body of Inspector Swafford was that of a middle-aged male, Caucasian, thin, wiry, still fully-clad, though in shabby attire. He had the look of a laboring man: coarse and careworn, his features gaunt and raw-boned, framed by a thatch of thick black hair and a full black mustache, cut in the toothbrush fashion. His bloodstained overcoat lay in an untidy heap on a table beside the slab, beneath a metal bowl containing spectacles, a wallet, and a few coins.

  I recalled Miss Janine’s adoring description. Nice dark hair. Nice dark mustache. Nice dark eyes.

  In an act of mercy, someone had closed both the inspector’s eyelids. I lifted one, and saw the sightless, lifeless brown iris.

  The upper front of his shirt was deeply discolored by dark brown bloodstains.

  The cold electric light of the mortuary illuminated the source of the bloodstains. The man’s throat had been ripped open from his chin down to his thorax. Both the jugular vein and the carotid artery had been severed. Blood loss was clearly the cause of death.

  “He was still alive when they found him outside the Red Dragon Inn, in the Limehouse area of the Docklands,” Lestrade said. “His last words were, ‘For the love of God, get Sherlock Holmes.’”

  Holmes grimaced. “I ought to have spoken with him directly.”

  “You cannot blame yourself, Holmes,” I said.

  “You did all that the law and your profession required of you,” said Lestrade.

  Holmes gave each of us a long, searching look. “That is never enough,” he said.

  He bent down over the body once again. “The wound appears to have been made with a docker’s hook.”

  “Swafford was working undercover, following up on that diamond smuggling case we concluded last November,” Lestrade said. “Yesterday, he reported that he had made a breakthrough. He had an important meeting at the Red Dragon this afternoon. We thought that odd.”

  “The Red Dragon is nowhere near the diamond district,” Holmes said.

  “Nevertheless, we approved the meeting. We had two officers outside.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was a diversion. Deliberately set, it now appears. By the time the two officers returned, Swafford was wounded as you see him now, having been dragged to the edge of the pier, about to be thrown into the water. Our men returned in time to prevent that. The man dragging Swafford dropped him and fled. Our two men chose to provide aid rather than pursuing.”

  Holmes picked up Swafford’s overcoat and sniffed at the pockets. His brow furrowed for a long moment, as though the scent was unpleasant. But he said only, “So Swafford was on the diamond case. And he told his fiancée he was investigating Thomas Newman.”

  “Then Newman’s gang may still be involved in the diamond smuggling affair. We shall pursue that line of inquiry.”

  “As shall I,” Holmes replied. “And I should like to visit Swafford’s residence immediately.”

  “Of course.” Lestrade gazed at the body for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “We would have taken him off this case if we had known he had gone and gotten himself engaged. The department does not allow family men to do undercover work. Too dangerous, and the hours are unpredictable. The wives—”

  Holmes interrupted. “Where is the telephone?”

  Moments later he had called our Baker Street number and was speaking with Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. He wrote on a notepad, thanked her, and rang off. A moment later he was reading a telephone number to the operator.

  We waited.

  “Ring again,” he said, and repeated the number.

  We waited again.

  Holmes set down the receiver and handed the notepaper to Lestrade. “Would you please have a constable sent to this address? It is the home of Swafford’s fiancée. She lives with her mother. She should be notified of Mr. Swafford’s death, and warned that she herself may be in danger.”

  5. A TRIP TO KENSINGTON

  WATSON

  We found Swafford’s lodgings situated within a modest row of brick buildings in Kensington, on Stratford Road. The two constables who had come with us in Lestrade’s police van waited outside as Holmes knocked. Soon Swafford’s landlady appeared. She had been asleep, as was plain from the rumpled condition of her hair and dingy calico dressing gown. After a brief introduction and a long look at Lestrade’s badge, she led us up a gloomy flight of stairs to Swafford’s room. She lighted a cigarette and waited inside the doorway.

  A solitary bed occupied the centre of the room, its sheets and blankets crumpled and tangled. At the side of the room was a shabby bureau, and an uncomfortable-looking canvas cot topped with a gray wool bl
anket and pillow.

  “Madam, if you please,” Holmes said. “Could you describe Mr. Swafford’s most recent visitor for us?”

  “The sailor fella?”

  “His appearance, if you please, and can you give us an idea of what they talked about. If you know, of course.”

  “Why, he were wearin’ a sailor’s cap and navy jacket. Mr. Swafford said he was his brother.”

  “Older, or younger?”

  “Younger, I’m sure. And they looked quite alike, though the younger was all sunburned from the sea voyages he’d been on, I suppose. And had a seaman’s roll to his step. He were clean shaven, not like Mr. Swafford. And a good deal more spry. I didn’t hear their conversations. I’m not that kind of landlady. But the brother did surprise me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I thought he would be staying. But the two of ’em left together about a week ago, and only Mr. Swafford came back.”

  “The exact date that he left, please, if you can recall it.”

  “Why, Christmas Day. He said they were goin’ home for the holiday.”

  “And his return?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “No visitors since?”

  “None at all. I would know. I can hear—”

  “What made you think the younger brother would be staying here?”

  She gestured towards the corner, where a dirty and battered seaman’s trunk reposed, its wooden surface tarnished by pitch. “It took two of ’em to haul it up these two flights of stairs.”

  Holmes nodded. “Thank you, madam. You have been very helpful. You can leave us to it now. We shall see ourselves out.”

  He waited for the door to close behind her. Then, taking a folding knife from his pocket, he bent over the seaman’s chest and pried open the flimsy brass lock. Then he lifted the lid.

  Inside were what appeared to be twelve heavily rusted cannon balls, arranged in rows and placed into individual compartments. The balls were dark brown in colour, and with an irregular surface that appeared to be flaking away, like badly-weathered paint. One of the balls was missing. From the chest emanated a pungent scent reminiscent of charred wood, decay, and heavy perfume.

  “What are those? They look like cannon balls,” said Lestrade.

  Holmes was kneeling above the chest. Then he grasped the frame of the empty compartment and lifted it, briefly and only for a few inches. “There is another tray below the top one,” he said. “Both trays contain balls of raw Indian opium. The characteristic colour and scent are unmistakable.”

  “I thought opium was a white powder,” Lestrade said.

  “This is the most common and reliable form for transport of the raw product,” Holmes said. “The cooked sap from the poppy bulbs is formed into a ball, and petals from the poppy flower are pressed onto the surface, which is clay-like and sticky. The petals act as a protective wrapping, preventing the opium from sticking to the fingers of those who handle it. When dry, the petals create the surface irregularity which we observe here.”

  Holmes had taken out several of the balls and set them down carefully on the shabby carpet. “Each one of these balls weighs nearly three pounds,” he said.

  “How much would it cost?” asked Lestrade.

  “This chest is worth approximately two hundred pounds sterling at auction in Hong Kong.”

  “More than I earn in ten years,” said Lestrade. Then he shook his head, and added, his tone now bitter, “So Swafford was bent. That’s all we need, that getting into the papers. Worse than him being dead.”

  “There may be another explanation,” Holmes said.

  “You think he was innocent because he asked for you?”

  Holmes merely motioned for me to help him remove the upper tray. Kneeling, I grasped the thin, rough wood of one empty compartment, taking the end opposite Holmes. Together we lifted out the tray. Holmes carefully removed the remaining balls—each about the size of a melon—and tilted the tray forward and over.

  Branded into the bottom of the tray was the stamp of the British East India Company, alongside an inscription scratched into the wood: #202 Bengal. 08 March 1894.

  “Lestrade, would you please make a note of the inscription?” Holmes said.

  Holmes and I wrestled the massive chest down the stairs, step by laborious step, and outside to the pavement where the police van waited. The darkness on the street outside was broken only intermittently by a flickering gaslight. We made our way to the police van and set the chest down a few feet from the closed rear doors.

  “Where’s the constable?” Lestrade called to the driver, a shadowy figure, hunched over the reins in his police greatcoat and helmet. “Give us a hand with this chest. We haven’t got all day!”

  “In the back,” the driver said.

  Lestrade opened one of the rear doors.

  Two strange men stood at the back of the van. They were coarse-featured and grimy, though incongruously clad in clean police overcoats and helmets. They were not our constables. Each man held a revolver pointed in our direction.

  Behind the two men were two recumbent figures in just their shirts, trussed up like cattle. I realized that our two constables had been overpowered and their overcoats and helmets taken.

  One of the two gunmen pointed at the chest. “Bring it here and lift it into the van,” he said. “Easy, like.”

  Holmes nodded, silent. He held up one hand in a gesture of peace as he crouched down to the chest. Then he opened the lid.

  “No, you don’t,” said the gunman, and leaped from the van, taking a quick few steps at a run. Before Holmes could respond, he was beside Lestrade, with his revolver held against Lestrade’s temple.

  “Just do as he says,” said the other gunman, now standing beside me, his own revolver at the ready.

  Holmes took hold of one end of the chest, and Lestrade, crouching down, the gun still at his temple, took the other. I supported the middle. Under the watchful eyes of the two gunmen, we soon placed the chest into the van. I then saw that a third gunman had been behind the others and that he now was pushing the two tied constables out of the back of the van, both gagged and wriggling in their ropes, straining to position their bodies to avoid falling onto their heads. As it was, each hit the ground awkwardly and toppled over, landing heavily.

  Moments later, the two gunmen clambered back up into the van, grabbing the bars of the windows and banging the doors shut behind them. I heard two sharp raps from the interior, plainly the signal to the driver to whip up the horse.

  As the van lurched forward, Holmes ran to the rear doors. He grabbed hold of the handles and hauled himself up, bracing his feet against the bottom while keeping his head away from the windows.

  Holmes clung like a shadowy limpet to the back of the van as it gathered speed and drove away.

  I bent to untie the two constables, my fatigue washing over me like a wave of ice water. I heard the chimes of a church clock strike the hour of one.

  6. A CALL TO BAKER STREET

  London

  Friday, January 7, 1898

  WATSON

  It was nearly dawn when I arrived home at 221B Baker Street. As I came into our entry hall, Mrs. Hudson opened her door, looking tired and a bit indignant in her dressing gown and night bonnet. But she gave me a relieved nod. “Someone’s been ringing your telephone for the last hour,” she said. “Every ten minutes. Like clockwork. I do hope you’ll answer it.” She shut the door firmly.

  I climbed our stairs and entered our rooms.

  Our telephone rang.

  A terse voice said, “This is Detective Inspector Paul Plank of the Limehouse Street station. Is this Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  “He is not here at present.”

  “That is what I had hoped you would say. He is with me. I have been attempting to verify his identity. We found him driving a stolen police van.”

  “Mr. Holmes did not steal the van,” I said. “I am Dr. Watson, and I was with him and Inspector Lestrade—”

&nbs
p; “Yes, yes. He said as much. And now that you have confirmed his story, I shall release him.”

  The line went dead.

  I hung up my cape and put away my hat. I sat down heavily on my desk chair and looked down at Baker Street from our bow window. Soon, I hoped, a cab or a police coach would stop in front of our home and Holmes would step out. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done but wait. I was too overwrought for sleep in any event. At least Holmes was safe. Over the past decade we had been bombed, set ablaze, our rear door broken, and Lucy kidnapped—and the decade was not yet done with us—yet we had endured. We had done some good in a world that seemed always to be swirling with new evil.

  But what was the new evil this time? As I waited, I tried to sort out the elements in the case. A police detective is working under cover, possibly for his own profit, but possibly not, since he had wanted to meet with Holmes. That detective is murdered, perhaps for a ball of raw opium. A chest of opium, worth ten years’ salary to a policeman, is stolen. A carriage, with Holmes clinging to the outer surface, vanishes into the January fog.

  In my imagination, I could see the fog swirling around me. Most appropriate for my state of mind, I thought.

  7. A WARNING SHOT

  LUCY

  “So you want me to ask around? See if I can turn anything up about this Alice?” Jack asked.

  I looked at him and smiled.

  Ordinarily, Jack’s whole body radiated a kind of tightly-controlled energy, his expression guarded and alert, his dark eyes watchfully intent with an expression that could turn hard-edged in a blink. The criminals and drunks he encountered as a police sergeant usually took one look at him and decided to either run or cooperate.

  His recent promotion to Scotland Yard, though, meant that he was no longer called in to work night shifts as often, and right now he was sitting next to me on the living room sofa with his posture relaxed and the firelight painting shadows on his lean, handsome face.